As I stood watching a load of poxy fireworks last night, I couldn’t help wondering what life would be like had old Fawkesy and his crew not been thwarted. Also, given the state of our morally and intellectually bankrupt political system, I further mused over whether or not we should really be celebrating it.

And so we drank to absent friends.

The air was alive with endless possibilities again on Friday evening, just as it had always been for that magical period that ended so cruelly 6 years ago. It had been like the horror of being born, being wrenched away from the safety and warmth of a place that felt like it was the only place to be, cast out into the cold world and forced to take on an ever increasing degree of independence and responsibility – only this time we had been completely conscious and able to remember it forever.

But for 1 weekend only, 4 of us were reunited. Able to share tales of our newfound solo adventures and to reminisce about our collective adventures of yesteryear.

The Groover had arrived the previous day to meet up with my proxy father-in-law to discuss the doubtlessly interesting intricacies of website design. The evening that followed was an unmistakeable reflection of our ever developing maturity as we got down to some high class nosh and fine wine. And, although undeniably ratted, our behaviour was almost impeccable. I have to say ‘almost’, because as an elderly citizen passed our table she heard me remarking rather too loudly that the Groover may have left speckles of his white manseed ingrained in the vaginal wall of some young lady he once used to romp with, and that her next conquest may well have unavoidably scraped it out with his warty lovestick. Admittedly the old dear should not have been quite so keen to listen in to our conversation, but I still felt a twinge of guilt that she had looked so shocked by what she had just heard that it may well have cut her remaining lifespan in half.

The following day was largely a write-off for me as I had planned to get a substantial amount of work done at home. The slight exertions of the night before had left me unable to clamber from my pit in good time and when I did finally sit down in front of the PC the most productive thing I could manage was to sort out my fantasy league team for the weekend. I told myself I’d finish that important report on Sunday afternoon after everyone had gone home, taking good care not to listen to the voice in my head telling me I was going to regret it.

As the evening rolled around the anticipation of having 4 of us in the same room for the 1st time since before 9/11 began to grow. There were numerous progress reports by phone, especially from Ramslegs as he was coming from a fair distance away and clearly drives as though possessed by the spirit of a dead snail.

And then Mossop arrived.

He was immediately furnished with beer & pizza, before being given a substantially more polished tour of Nag Towers than the Groover had received only a year earlier.

And then Ramslegs arrived.

He was immediately furnished with beer, but had unfortunately missed the pizza through his own inability to drive like a man. C’est la vie. His tour of Rancho El Naggio was on course to be far more lively and interesting than that given to Mossop just an hour previous, but by this time the beer & the weed had taken hold, and it degenerated into a rambling monologue of why Mein Kampf should be taught in schools.

The remainder of the evening panned out well, consisting of more beer, pizza and weed punctuated by animated discussions about British politics and topped with a couple of episodes of the Boosh. For me the highpoint came when I was able to accuse Ramslegs of being the father of his sister’s unborn child – thus proving that the old ones are always the best.

The next day was spent as almost every Saturday in Lancaster had, with Ramslegs up and about at the crack of dawn and heading off into the wilderness to play with his bike. The rest of us sat around for a few hours, boxing the shit out of each other on the Wii, before finally resolving ourselves to taking the dog for his walk, which he and everyone else seemed to thoroughly enjoy. There followed a couple of hours of comfortable silence as we individually readied ourselves for the impending horror that is Swansea on a Saturday evening.

After spending an hour or so in a tasty Indonesian (and finding time to grab some food), we headed off into the night. We went straight for the belly of the beast – no point messing around I thought, we were inevitably destined for it at some point so why fuck around? We were buried in a cocophony of Welsh mating cries before ducking into ‘Revolution’, which is ironically named as that’s probably the last thing you’d find in there amongst the cliched simpleton shirt boys and on-the-verge-of-pregnancy slappers. Chilli vodkas a-go-go, but the queueing at the bar had clearly not been worth it so we headed off to another ironically named establishment, the No Sign Bar.

Our age was clearly getting the better of us, as this place had a more mature clientele and allowed us the luxury of listening to each other talk.

And so we drank to absent friends.

Back into the melee we went, probably only avoiding trouble through luck as opposed to judgement. It was a short hop to Monkey, where we would spend the remainder of our evening, a safe haven for like minded funk, hip-hop and drum & bass junkies. Or so you’d think.

First myself, and then the Groover, became entangled in a handbags situation with a bunch of muppets who clearly thought they were the bollocks. We were forced to retreat to the terrace for cigarettes, where we had to remind the Groover of his own wise words before leaving the house in order to stop him embarking on a beer bottle toting rampage across the dance floor – “Remember lads, we’re not hard and we’re not fighters. Let’s not get ourselves involved in anything.”

The time flew, and I spent most of the remainder of the evening bombarding Ramslegs with my newly formed pub psychology thesis on life and love, and how it would improve his situation if he would only listen to me.

The lads were treated to the sight of Welsh international rugby starlet James Hook standing behind us in the taxi queue, which wasn’t really such a treat given that he’s so damned ugly and none of them had even heard of him. The taxi driver we got was a kindly man who seemed sympathetic to our cause, and agreed to let us stop for a kebab on the way home. It is important to mention at this point that we were all very fucked, and I’m not really sure what happened next.

I was standing next to Mossop, keeping one eye on the greasy foreign bastard behind the counter and trying to remember how to speak, to avoid the embarrassment of having to grunt and point for a prolonged period of time. The Groover had been served before me and when handed his kebab moved to walk out, at which point the greasy bastard barked savagely at him, demanding payment. The Groover clearly believed he’d already paid and the foreigner clearly believed he hadn’t. It was a tense stand-off. Eventually, realising that possession is nine tenths and all that, the fat grease-fest behind the counter gave way. He was clearly riled but admirably more alive to the fact that a fight in his shop over 3 quid would be worse for business than letting this one go. We were understandably chastised by the Groover for not backing him immediately, but my view at the time, which I still hold, is that if the rest of us had started ranting it could all have kicked off.

We didn’t last long when we got back to the house. The next morning was spent in far less energetic pursuit of Wii glory, and the perparation of a magnificent fry up. After a poignant photoshoot at the front of the house we said our goodbyes and resolved to doing it all again in the near future.

When they were gone I was left on my own to sit down and finish the report I should have done on Friday, with an annoying voice in my head singing the ‘I told you so’ song to the beat of my brain throbbing. What a shitter.

I know that this will prove unpopular, especially to anyone who may not be a regular visitor to this site, but in the interests of objectivity somebody has to say it. God knows the media probably wouldn’t dare, not even the good people at the Sun or NOTW.

A lot was made in the 1st week after the poor girl’s disappearance of the parent’s terribly irresponsible behaviour in leaving their 3 very young children completely unsupervised in a foreign country while they fucked off to the pub. Quite rightly, common sense prevailed and people came together to do all they could to try and find her, leaving the recriminations well alone so they could focus on the task at hand.

I was mildly surprised when, just a few days after her disappearance, her parents were shown on the news casually strolling down a Portugese street, appearing to be quite at ease with themselves and the media circus that surrounded them. Still I thought, ‘I’m not even a parent, what the fuck do I know?’, which remains a valid point, but this event with others since has steadily taken on a growing significance in my somewhat naturally paranoid brain.

When I saw that they were off to Rome to see the Pope I couldn’t help thinking that this was bullshit, I mean what’s he going to do? I can just imagine him saying ‘Father Sanchez, get the Vatmobile, I shan’t say another mass until we’ve found her.’

Then I discovered that they weren’t taking the other 2 kids with them. Now I’m pretty sure that you don’t actually have to be a parent to realise that if you’ve had 1 kid pinched you wouldn’t let the others out of your fucking sight, not even for an instant, and you sure as hell wouldn’t leave them under someone else’s care for a day or two in the same country where you had the last one nicked while you toddled across to the other side of Western Europe for ‘spritual enlightenment’ or whatever the fuck they found there. Also, what if she’d have been found while they were gone? A poor, frightened, half dead, distraught little girl that’s just been pulled out of a 45 year old virgin’s basement and wants to see her mummy and daddy – ‘Er..yeah..sorry love, your mummy and daddy aren’t here right now, they had something more important to do.’

So let’s return to this issue of them leaving their 3 kids alone in a room in a foreign country. The more I think about it, the more I realise that I don’t see it as irresponsible at all. I see it as downright unbelievable. At least 1 of the parents, or maybe both I’m not sure, is a doctor – a consultant no less. That means he’s earning more than £100k p/y. They’re on what must be a pretty cheap holiday in Portugal and they want to go out for dinner or a drink and leave the kids – I don’t have a problem with that. The complex they were staying on, like nearly all of its type, understands this and offers an in-house baby-sitting service. Now even if you’re paying some extortionate amount for a couple of hours, say £50, is this too much to ask for the peace of mind of leaving 3 children under the age of 5 alone, especially for someone who earns more in a year than I probably do in 4??

The police say that there was no sign of forced entry – so they didn’t lock the door perhaps? How did that conversation go?

Dad: ‘Shall we lock the door?’
Mum: ‘No, if there’s a fire they won’t be able to get out.’
Dad: ‘I suppose you’re right. Shall we just ignore the fact that our kids are probably too small to cope with a fire and get out safely on their own anyway?’
Mum: ‘Well, we wouldn’t want to spoil a nice evening with such negative thoughts would we?’
Dad: ‘Excellent point dear. What about burglars? If we leave the door open surely anyone could get in.’
Mum: ‘Yeah, perhaps, but I’m sure there’s even less chance of that happening than a fire.’
Dad: ‘You don’t think that the local chavs would see British tourists as an easy target?
Mum: ‘No, especially not in the evening when our national stereotype suggests that we’ll all be out getting too pissed to realise we’ve been robbed until we arrive back at Gatwick.’

I also read somewhere that her parents wer ‘disappointed’ that she had not been found. Disappointed? No, no, no. I’m disappointed when Hull City lose, when I don’t win the lottery, or when my girlfriend catches me having a crafty one. If my own flesh and blood was missing I’d be suicidal.

A close friend of mine said to me that his first reaction was that it was the parents, as 80% of all serious crime involving small children is committed by the parents. That’s a staggering statistic if true.

However, what I’m not saying is that they definitely did it or had something to do with it, whatever ‘it’ may be. What I am saying is that their behaviour at the time she was kidnapped and afterwards doesn’t appear to make sense. It’s almost as if they’re playing through a sequence of events whilst already fully aware that there will be no positive outcome. The media and public kneejerk reaction when something like this happens always begins from the point that the parent’s grief is an issue that is so sensitive that it is beyond reproach, and therein lies the problem.

All I’m saying is that an open mind doesn’t rule anything out without good reason, and just assuming that the parents definitely don’t have anything to do with it because they’re her parents isn’t a particularly good reason.

I notice that Comic Relief breezed through here again on Friday, complete with an army of bandwagon jumping, self-congratulatory, overpaid and over-inflated ego types.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not against the thing in principle, but big public events of this nature really do seem to attract a very special calibre of cunt.

For example, Lenny Fucking Henry. I don’t think that this particular ‘comedian’ has ever made me laugh, not a snigger or even a flickered smirk across my flobby little chops. In fact the one and only reason that anybody knows who the fuck he is, is because he attached his pathetic, withering career to the fortunes of a load of starvers in Ethiopia in the late eighties.

Then there’s TV’s answer to the village idiot, Fern Cotton. The woman is a fucking simpleton. What I don’t understand is how in fuck’s name she manages to land all these top presenting gigs. She’s completely vaccuous. Some presenters (well most actually) I don’t like for one reason or another, but at least they bring a bit of personality to what they’re doing. With her it’s like watching a nodding dog eat it’s own virtual shit and then open its mouth, allowing the gooey brown drivel to just fall out.

So here’s the crack. If any TV bosses just happen to have stumbled on in here I hope you take note of these 2 things:

1. I’d rather watch a naked fat man drink a pint of his own cum and belch the various introductions and links than watch Fern Cotton.

2. Wankers like Fern Cotton and Lenny Henry make me less likely to donate to charity – in fact they make me want to do really bad, unspeakable things. What you should do is strap them to the rear end of a rickshaw and film them being dragged, face down, through the streets of every town and city in the UK, before setting fire to them and then extinguishing them in a giant vat of finely matured sheep’s piss. Then, on Comic Relief night itself they should be eaten alive by a rabid ethiopian boy who found a golden ticket in a box of snack-a-jacks in Addis Abbaba. Now I’d pay good fucking money to see that.

There’s this bird at work, bit of a loon, but generally I used to think she was ok. The other day we had some confusion over whether or not she’d put something on my desk and after 5 minutes of circular discussion where she claimed not to have done, it transpired that I was right and she had.

I chuckled and called her a ‘crazy bastard’ in a genuinely affectionate sort of way, at which point she flew into some sort of super-razzy and stormed off. Despite being assured by anyone who knew me that I’d only said it because I considered her to be a mate, she refused point-blank to speak to me.

Today, the moronic bitch finally warmed a little, and as I stood in her corner of the office indulging in a bit of post-argument awkward chit-chat, she couldn’t resist dragging the whole thing back out.

‘But you don’t understand’ I pleaded, ‘It was said as banter, you know, if I really meant it I wouldn’t have said it.’ (There was logic in there somewhere).

‘You should never talk like that to a lady.’ she decreed in reply, and that was it, the classic ‘speak first, think later’ sub-routine was already executing itself -

‘Yeah of course, but you’re no lady.’

The ripple of stifled laughter in our vicinity was swiftly followed by a menacing glare and her purposeful exit from the room. Some things will never change.

Having recently been overcome by my annual post-Christmas wallowing, I’ve found myself to be mainly devoid of anything worth sharing and, on the few occasions that I have been blessed with some thought more interesting than ‘Can I get away with not shaving for work again tomorrow?’, I’ve severely lacked the tiniest amount of motivation required to drag it out of me.

But today is different, today something happened to spur me into action – and as you’ve probably already guessed, the event in question was not something to send my soul cartwheeling out of its self-pitying attitude.

Now, I have been a member of Blockbuster video, on and off, in various parts of the country since I was 18. That’s nearly 9 years of video, DVD and computer game rentals, as well as the obligatory over-priced confectionery that prevents easy access to any given Blockbuster front desk. Also, due to my ridiculous temper that only seems to rear its deformed little head when I lose at computer games, I have been responsible for a large proportion of Blockbuster’s sales of Playstation & Playstation 2 controllers (Bennie & Soapbox especially can vouch for that).

During that time I’ve had a fair few fines, all of which have been paid the next time I venture in there. But hey, that’s part and parcel of DVD rental if you’re as laid back about that sort of thing as I am. About 2 weeks ago we had 3 films out for 2 nights, 3 being more than we’d usually rent at once, but I think we got talked into ‘taking advantage’ some kind of promotion by the twat behind the counter. As usual, they were returned a day late, but as usual I just assumed they’d sting me for it the next time I went in there.

However, this morning a letter arrived from Blockbuster head office. At first the tone was fairly polite and it lulled me into a false sense of security as I assumed that they were probably about to offer me some other kind of rental promotion. The letter went on to draw my attention to the fact that I had fines of £5.85 outstanding on my account from as long ago as 15 January 2007, and requested that I pay up. No real problem there, though I do find it a little forthright, especially given the size of the debt, the length of time it had been outstanding and my previous account history. But what came next did truly fuck me off.

The final paragraph basically said, ‘If you don’t pay us within 21 days we’re going to employ debt collection agents to stick jagged edged DVD cases up your cunting jap’s eye until you do.’.

Let me get this straight. I’ve been a relatively good customer of yours for some time, I’ve always paid fines in the past, and you’re threatening me with fucking debt collectors for a fucking debt of 5 fucking quid that’s been outstanding for 3 fucking weeks?

Well they can just fuck off, that’s what I say. I’ve paid the twatting fine but that’s the last ounce of cash they’ll get out of my belligerant Northern money sac. Blockbuster are a bunch of gaping arseholes, cream-pied gaping arseholes. I’m never going there again and I hope that, in a show of outraged consumer solidarity you choose to do the same.

For my own amusement and personal satisfaction, I’ve cut my card into many many tiny pieces that are currently atop my cistern. When the time comes at around 8-8:30 tomorrow morning I’ll sprinkle them gayly in the pan, before physically shitting all over them. Cunts.

A few days have passed since the departure of the Groover and I feel sufficiently rested to impose myself on all those who are prepared to read. I won’t go into the details of his stay here, suffice to say that good crack was had by all, but its his tour and I’ll save the story telling for him.

However, there is something that spilled out of his journey to Nag Towers that both pleases and unsettles me. It was on the Saturday night, the last of his stay here, and we were still feeling somewhat delicate after the indulgences of the previous evening. It was a blustery evening and we’d made the short hop down the hill to the Railway Inn, possibly the best pub in the universe. Idle chitchat followed, and the conversation eventually made its way to the Bolo website.

Now, some or all of you may be aware of this already, but this is not something that has ever flittered its merry little way across my withered grey cells in the short time I’ve been coming here. The Groover informs me that he has all manner of magic at his disposal when it comes to this site, including the power to know how many people view the site and how they got here. Apparently, Bolo is averaging about 50 hits per day and even if all who post on here were to come every day – sometimes multiple times – that would not account for half that figure.

This begs several questions: Who are these people? What the hell do they want? Friend or foe? Do any of them like cheese? and, Why don’t they communicate with us? (Groover informs me that anyone can use the ‘comments’ facility).

On the one hand, perhaps we’ve achieved some small degree of notoriety, but on the other I suddenly feel violated. I mean, some of these people drift in by accident, searching for words or phrases that have cropped up in recent posts, such as ‘Toby Anstis’ or ‘have a wank’, but then there are others who must purposely drop in from time to time, satisfying their voyeuristic tendencies in a nameless, faceless way.

But I’ve quickly come to the conclusion that these folks should be given the benefit of the doubt, and I want to extend our warmest greetings to them. If you’re reading this, you know who you are. I urge you to make yourselves known to us, step out of the shadows and leave your comments freely all over this article like a young Eskimo boy pissing in the snow for the very first time. Tell us who you are, what you’re doing here and, most importantly, what your favourite kind of cheese is.

This applies in the unlikely event that any of you ever find yourselves in a dingy Welsh pub chatting to a drunken and overtly English-hating Irishman, accompanied by his 15 year old pregnant girlfriend, and it comes out during casual conversation that he’s recently been released from prison for GBH.

When events reach that inevitable climax where he threatens to bite your finger off, whatever you do, DON’T stick your fucking finger in his fucking mouth. Trust me, even if though you feel proud and empowered at the time, you’ll regret it in the morning.

I don’t wish to scare you all, but, yesterday I saw a documentary about H5n1. We’re all going to die. If that doesn’t get us then global warming will cook us like ducks in an oven. Or it will melt the ice caps and we’ll drown. Or it will melt the ice caps and dump fresh water into the North Atlantic, diluting the salinity of the sea water, which will in turn switch off the North Atlantic ‘conveyor belt’ that brings warmth from the mid Atlantic to Britain and we’ll all freeze to death.

Alternatively, the terrorists will poison us on the underground. Or they’ll blow us up. Or the over-zealous Metropolitan Police and their shoot-to-kill policy will put a couple of bullets in our heads for reading the Independent. Or they’ll just arrest us for wearing hoodies and we’ll be extradited to the US in an abuse of anti-terrorist laws, where we’ll be tortured to death in a secret CIA prison, shouting: “Yes…oh god yes…my real name is Susan and I did think about throwing strawberries at the President.”

However, there is equal chance that we will be savagely murdered in the street by gangs of yobs wearing hoodies, or gangs of black yobs, or gangs of Asian yobs, or, worse yet, gangs of black and Asian yobs wearing hoodies.

What could also happen is that we may accidentally turn on ITV and then uncontrollably slit our wrists on the realisation that the human race is capable of producing such soulless, dour, unimaginitive and unchallenging bullshit, and that so many of us are prepared to watch it. Or we could listen to too much Judas Priest and embark on a gun toting rampage before killing ourselves. Or we could watch too many violent films and embark on a gun toting rampage before killing ourselves. Or we could be in the wrong place in the wrong time when the local loner flips his troubled lid and embarks on a gun toting rampage – before killing himself.

Hell, we may even piss God off so much that we die painful and merciless apocolyptic deaths amid torrents of fire & brimstone.

Our houses could burn down because we don’t have smoke alarms. We may poison ourselves with carbon monoxide because we don’t have carbon monoxide detectors. We may drown in Morecambe Bay after having been forced to collect cockles for 10p a day by armies of Polish immigrants.

We may drive too fast and crash. We may be killed by others driving too fast. We may be driving at a reasonable speed but just a little too close to the old man in front when he sees a speed camera, breaks in fear (shitting himself), and we slam into the back of him, again dying.

One day, God forbid, we may push it too far or too hard and drink ourselves to death. If we don’t give up the green we’ll smoke ourselves to death. We may take the wrong pill and die in a dirty hospital bed with tubes sticking out of a number of orifices, natural and otherwise, riddled with MRSA for good measure and totally oblivious to our picture appearing on page 4 of the Daily Mail as some 2 bit hack spouts off about how wonderful we were, and how the nasty pill cruelly took our innocent little lives, and how they were right all along that all drugs are bad. In the corner of page 5 will be an advert for Laithwaites.

The sun could go super nova, the universe could experience the big bang reverse and collapse in on itself. Statistically speaking, the Earth is long overdue getting smacked by an asteroid, and historically speaking, we are long overdue an ice age. There is also a Caldera (or super volcano) bubbling away beneath the surface of the entire area of Yellowstone park, which, if it goes off, will cover the entire Northern hemisphere in thick ash. The Earth’s weather system will be fucked, we’ll have no sun, we’ll all die and, yes, you’ve guessed it, it’s overdue to shoot its load.

If that’s not enough we may have to end it all ourselves because we’ve got no pension to look forward to, or because we have to wait 15 years for an emergency blood transfusion on the NHS, or because none of us can find jobs anymore because Eastern European immigrants are working them for £3 a month and a packet of Fisherman’s Friend.

An army of Microsoft robots could turn bad and wipe us out, or genetic engineering could create a horde of mutants that kill us. Scientists could accidentally create a new cross between a cauliflower and a banana, which actually turns out to be quite nice, but in fact contains a deadly toxin. Before you know it Tesco & Asda are giving them away free with every pack of incontinence pads.

Did I forget to mention BSE/CJD, SARS, the HIV mutation, or being sued by our next door neighbours for having a type of grass that doesn’t match with their tastes, being ordered to pay £3m in compo and then being clubbed to death by an angry middle class mob because we can’t afford to pay it?

And if you escape all that, one day you’ll die of old age. Happy trails Boloites!

Oh how they make me laugh, 2 cats flying about my living room attempting to kill each other. Proper going for it. Claws out, tails swinging uncontrollably from side to side, they spring for one another before breaking and lining up to do it all over again. In between times they tear away at my decrepit sofas and cast me a look so choc full of attitude that a lesser man would wet himself in fear. And all the time I watch intently, chuckling away like the village idiot, willing them not to stop.

But of course, I shouldn’t encourage it. Sooner or later it always ends in tears as I have to spend yet more time and, more painfully for the son of a Yorkshire accountant, money at my local vet, as 1 of them inevitably deals enough damage to the other that I need to get it fixed. Such are the concerns of the day for a man who dwells in the foothills of South Wales, the distended and thoroughly unneccesary pot belly of Britain.

I don’t mind the place so much, but these bastards who live here just don’t seem to get it. At a time when people are attempting to break down the boundaries between civilisations, these fuckers are attempting to put them up.

The Welsh language for example – the damn thing is practically dead, but the minority insist that god knows how much time and public funding needs to be wasted attempting to keep it alive. For a start, everything – road markings, street signs, leaflets, standard government notices & literature – has to be written bi-lingually. The hospitals are failing, schools are closing, pensioners are getting locked up for not paying their extortionate council tax bills. ‘Where is the money going?’ cry the masses. I’ll tell you where, you backwater pigeon fuckers, its paying for all those things you have that cost double what they do in the rest of the UK because you insist on printing them bi-lingually.

Then there’s S4C. For those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s an all Welsh speaking TV channel. Now I’m not set against this in principle, if you’re going to insist on having a 2 bit national language it makes sense to broadcast some TV programmes in it. What really bugs me however, is that this doesn’t exist as a channel in its own right – no, it takes the place of cunting Ch4. I mean, if you’re going to replace 1, why not replace ITV, it’s absolute dogshit. Don’t replace the best channel on terrestrial TV, anyone would think that they want the rest of the world to think that they’re genetically retarded.

I’ve succeeded in getting myself all gnarled up inside now, I may have to wank.