In the gracious morning air so politely teasing your shiver
Bobby-Jo wakes up and tucks into liver.
As the Sun King radiates and warms with his love,
Into the Aga Bobby’s darling is shoved.
Now clouds gather for a refreshing spring dousing
And Bobby-Jo’s touring the council housing.
As welcome drops fall on the surface so dry,
Young Bobby-Jo gives the old folk the eye
As drops turn to drizzle, and drizzle to rain
Bobby-Jo’s tunic gets covered in brain.
Clouds draw apart: again Louis shines –
Bobby-Jo tires of the unemployeds’ minds.
The hunger not ended, with skies turning blue,
Bobby-Jo considers pastures anew.
Now Ra rises higher and hotter for all
And into the suburbs, the hungry one crawls.
And with blooming of flowers and frolicking wildlife
Bobby-Jo carefully carves up a housewife.
The mid-day heat turns to mirage and haze
And Jo with her gut full finally pays.
For in the great hurry to de-wife the house,
Bob had neglected the psychotic spouse.
So whip, chain, axe later, as breezes get up,
Our girl’s tainted blood is filling his cup.
So for all you man-eaters, a lesson to learn:
The middle-class couture can leave you with heartburn.
One of my colleagues constant whittering is making me want to cut my ears off. It’s not just the frequency of the babbling, but, as is often the case with your common garden shit talker, it’s also the content. Eg, now she’s pretending to have a deep knowledge of hand writing analysis. Yesterday, she was talking expertly about her boyfriend’s army carreer (one year as a cheese eating surrender monkey – not really a career in my books). She went on to say this “But, you know, the French army’s the biggest in the world,
ay?” Totally serious. When someone said, “ok, what about China?” she held firm. I couldn’t resist poking my head around the corner at this point and saying “The Chinese army could potentially be bigger than the entire population of France – are you sure you’ve got your facts straight?”. She still wouldn’t admit any mistake, but went on about the fact that she used to work in a French military hospital, and heard this from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. I asked her if it was a mental hospital, she admitted that yes it was, but my wide grin didn’t seem to invoke any kind of realisation…..I’m starting to think she’s a robot, planted her to test us. I expect her and a team of her ilk will soon be uniting, Power Ranger style, into a huge shit talking doll, trotting from town to town exploding heads with very loud, inaccurate sermons on the speed of light being attainable by
French GIs.
About to head off for a meeting with one of my clients to talk about some final changes to their website. Not too worried about that as the website looks super good and the changes should be ok. More worried about the fact that behind the scenes, my chief database man has gone totally AWOL, can’t track him down for love nor money. Am due to deliver the project in about one week and he’s disappeared off the face of this earth. Needless to say, I can’t finish the project without him and my stress levels are rising……So Rick (name changed for legal reasons), you animal. If you are out there give me a call.
On other matters, went to a gig last night where there were a number of up and coming bands. Some good tunes in there amidst the dross, posing and current obsession with suit wearing in your leisure time, and the chandelier clad venue added to the effect. So just wanted to put out a shout to the Veils and My Latest Novel, who both rocked in their respective way.
The clocks went back this weekend and as a result I feel fully justified in rocking up late to work today blaming trains and jet lag. The weekend spiralled off kaleidoscopically again and I was left searching for good websites, viewing satellite maps of mine and my mates’ houses and carrying out essential database maintenance. Nothing like a bit of late night tomfoolery to force you to sleep in late then get up on a retail frenzy. Quick, buy something for mothers day and wow, those trainers are nice. Look, they have interchangeable colours for the 3-stripe. Essential to buy them. A must have.
Meanwhile, I guess down the road, Kember, newly rescued by the SAS, was chilling back into his Pinner lifestyle. Putting on the god-robes and up early on a Sunday to church and then off to film Wogan. Open a few hospitals on the way home. Early morning press calls must beat piss baths and threats of beheading. Still, they don’t beat sleeping and that’s what I was doing.
#97 Never believe your brain when it tells you your arse itches. This is an evolutionary practical joke which only humans fall victim to. Our ape ancestors could scratch at will but one suspects they knew that when we got civilised we couldn’t, and so would live in torture.
That corpulent, slobbering, perma-perspiring, imminently-dead-on-his-arse-from heart disease wreck of an MM02 fat cat and the new mega-money head of HM Revenue & Custard David ‘Reg’ Varney has in what appears to be a masterstroke of motivational therapy transformed the attitude of the entire working population of this country. If you didn’t know it already you are now ‘customers’ of the Revenue – implying of course that you are now willing participants in the trade between yourselves and us scumbags in bowler hats (you bring your custom in the form of a percentage of your hard-earned cash and in return we happily give you crap public services and botched trials of badly-made weapons in deserts). In your previous incarnation as ‘taxpayers’, apparently, all you did was pay tax. Expect all your lives to be that bit brighter, however, as one edict from the twenty-cake-a-day hole tells his employees (to be renamed meet-and-greet shop assistants) to aim to ‘delight the customer’. Hands up who is delighted to pay tax…….
Yes indeed and this time it’s on the way back from a day of harsh accusations mixed with light banter mixed with warm compliments over a table in yet another blue carpeted office. A strange mix of sensations, but not one that was unexpected given my client’s well known proclivity for schizophrenic reaction to minor issues and blase demeanour to the serious. Seems like this time we were mainly in the good books though.
Now just feeling knackered and contemplating the long journey home on the GNER super bullet train. Actually scratch that, lets call it a supper bullet train given that a dude with a chef’s hat just popped round and ran through the gourmet fish fare available from the restaurant car today. “and of course sir” he said, “people in first class are offered the first sitting to ensure that they get the freshest and most choice cuts”. First class travel again eh and the Groover feels like he is going up in the world. Delusions of grandeur, and maybe could get used to this. Even the dude clicking your ticket says thank you sir and wishes you a good trip. On the way up here the train had to stop for a bit to correct a minor fault. When we asked the guard what time the train would now be getting in as we had a connecting train at Newcastle he phoned ahead and got them to delay that train by a couple of minutes and went off to tell the driver to go a bit faster. Something tells me this wouldn’t happen to the plebeians. Ah well fuck the polo shirted pricks sitting around me. I had to get up at half five in the morning and surely that deserves a chance to see how the other half lives?
I note with sadness that my cousin Corey has been hurt in connection with the Clemson chapter of Bolo. Ah well, such is life.
On other matters fellow boloists, for ease of use I have put a little button in at the foot of this page that takes you directly to the posting sections. No more need to remember those pesky words. Bolosoft click and type….
You know – the kind that allow miniature rude boys to play the latest offering of one of a million possible talentless granny-touchers to everyone on the bus. Who invented them? The cunts who came up with this concept obviously don’t take public transport.
Even good tunes sound awful when piped through those little half watt speakers. And why the hell do the phone toters assume that everyone within a 10m radius wants to hear the latest MC Utah Plumbait track?
I reckon they just might drain the insular out of some commuter geezers. SMASH. STOMP. HA HA!
This is the sort of email an extemely bored mind produces, and I thought I’d throw it on the table for general inspection….names may have been changed for privacy or (Greek) comedy reasons.
Yes yes people !
Midweek uptown and we’re all screwed to our desks like so many pieces of
immovable McDonald’s furniture. Damn those Indians and their freakish
smoke signals, mine’s a Chicken Bhuna and a tin of elephant nad chutney
please govenor. Oh, and yes I want another pint every ten minutes and extra
rice to boot, even when I obviously still have plenty of both. We are good
lads mate.
I hate to harp on with an old tune, but I am, I’m afraid to say, bored out
of my increasingly mediocre tin pot of a mind. Still, comedy relief, in the
form of a certain Boy Mogley is arriving shortly, and we can both look
forward to a weekend of hard labour as, unbeknownst to him, we’re going to
be doing DIY 24/7. I’ve bought some cheap tools, a floodlight and enough
cheap whizz to animate a full home of geriatrics. It’s my plan to turn the Moguester
into a DIY crazed garage MC by next tuesday. Slice Busy and Blight, that’s
the sound of the Mogue on the mic, Hype!
Oh yes, shadow boxing with my own chod. Big up all the clagons in the house
! Shout outs going to the brown trout massive !
By the way Mogue, we have an unexpected +1 for Friday night. Pippa intended
to call a senior colleague by the name of Mike, but instead called a much
younger ex-colleague named Mike. She didn’t know what to say to him, so she
ended up inviting him round for beers on Friday, along with two other people
who I’d actually invited. Why run your own life when you can let your wife
do it for you ? Because then you’d choose what the feck happens, I suppose.
Stevo – it’s a special occasion, so if you could Fedex over a few of those
swan napkins you’re so fond of that would be appreciated.
(I can only rhyme the next line with checklist)
Begin with butter on toast for my breakfast
On top of the butter, I thickly spread Marmite
And elevate toast slice up mouthwards to bite.
Then some minutes later I run for a bus
I miss it by seconds and begin to cuss
I walk thus/ergo to the station quite quickly
But something intestinal makes me feel sickly.
So some moments later I seek out a toilet,
The toast seeks to commence my day and then spoil it
Alas! Fuck-Cazart! Cunt-Yegads! Train is leaving!
I take leave of basin with contents still steaming.
Now running of sorts for the third time already
Trousers round ankles make my progress unsteady.
I leap for the train as the doors they are shutting
I slam into closed doors while window head-butting
Through concussive haze I notice the train move
And as if the thirteenth had its manhood to prove
I find myself moving along with said train
And notice an unbelievable pain!
A look to the south would confirm the cause
A limb, not my leg, is trapped in the doors.
I plead with the standees – please release me at once!
But they all stare ahead, the blind insular cunts.
So it went then, my day, oh that fateful last train ride
When sod’s law and Transport for London did collide.
I think it was Finchley when consciousness left me
Then Death’s blunt-edged scythe was applied oh-so deftly.
Forgive me, dear reader, if you are quite app-alled
By my story ’bout how from life’s lodge I was blackballed.
My lesson is simple: eat hearty, enjoy life
Just remember, for Pete’s sake your small, sharpened steak knife.
Now, I’m not into internet snooping or checking out where people have been on the web, perhaps because I’m afraid of finding something particularly repugnant. Fortunately though, an ex-colleague of mine does not share the same scruples. Whilst using another colleague’s pc, a brief click of the ‘historique’ icon revealed a hudred weight of smut (nieve pc-wise). Nothing sinister, quite innocent searches really “sex”, “girls”, “hot-plating skeets” etc. As this guy is very much an upstanding gent, and quite high up, we did find it funny. Handshakes also became an issue.
Anyway, I was using said PC today and had a problem with the mouse. When I lifted it up to see what was wrong, I noticed the brand of the mouse – it’s a Disney “THRASHER” ! Could it have taken control of him, forced him into his thrashtastic ways? Like a Herbie for wankers ?
I was looking around the tube today, uncharacteristically awake after having to get up early to show the roofer the leak in my room and then figuring on staying awake to try to shake off the last dregs of the night before. Seemed to me that there was the potential that the people in front of me were a) very dull, beaten down by years of cancelled trains, stalled promotions and failed relationships, or that b) they were fiends, living for the chance to act inappropriately, existing to put a spanner in the works.
Option b) appealed to me. Was the man opposite flicking through tunes on his ipod actually flicking through nudie pics? Was the lady with the ham sandwich and the light reek of kerosene planning her next arson attack. Was the old lady to my right planning to chain herself to Alan Sugar while screaming “you’re hired, you’re hired, you’re hired”? And what of me? was I just going in to work, to type a thousand words about community safety or was I secretly planning to spend the day with one eye on bolo and one hand idly sketching a picture of the man I wanted to be? I was not sure, but I was hoping for the latter.
One of my colleagues constant whittering is making me want to cut my ears off. It’s not just the frequency of the babbling, but, as is often the case with your common garden shit talker, it’s also the content. Eg, now she’s pretending to have a deep knowledge of hand writing analysis. Yesterday, she was talking expertly about her boyfriend’s army carreer (one year as a cheese eating surrender monkey – not really a career in my books). She went on to say this “But, you know, the French army’s the biggest in the world,
The clocks went back this weekend and as a result I feel fully justified in rocking up late to work today blaming trains and jet lag. The weekend spiralled off kaleidoscopically again and I was left searching for good websites, viewing satellite maps of mine and my mates’ houses and carrying out essential database maintenance. Nothing like a bit of late night tomfoolery to force you to sleep in late then get up on a retail frenzy. Quick, buy something for mothers day and wow, those trainers are nice. Look, they have interchangeable colours for the 3-stripe. Essential to buy them. A must have.
#97 Never believe your brain when it tells you your arse itches. This is an evolutionary practical joke which only humans fall victim to. Our ape ancestors could scratch at will but one suspects they knew that when we got civilised we couldn’t, and so would live in torture.
I note with sadness that my cousin Corey has been hurt in connection with the 
You know – the kind that allow miniature rude boys to play the latest offering of one of a million possible talentless granny-touchers to everyone on the bus. Who invented them? The cunts who came up with this concept obviously don’t take public transport.
This is the sort of email an extemely bored mind produces, and I thought I’d throw it on the table for general inspection….names may have been changed for privacy or (Greek) comedy reasons.
#36 Always wash your hands after using another man’s mouse.