It means I miss things like this little insufferable cunt.

Now obviously given the mood in the country this week, I will not condone abuse of any kind upon a child.

But I reckon if you put his hand in enough bowls of warm water while he slept so that he’d wet the bed more than Heather Mills having her stump tickled.  Before long he’d develop a complex and have to sleep on a rubber mattress.  But he’s probably allergic to rubber.  He looks the sort.  He’d have to go through school as the smelly kid, and we all had one of them in our class.  He’d never get a girlfriend and the only job he’d ever get would be that of a clock repair man.  Because no one uses clocks anymore on account of the magnificentness of the time being displayed on the screens of our mobile phones.  Oh, and don’t forget the talking clock that you call up on the phone.  He’ll end up ringing that just to see if it’s still working to make it feel as though he has a purpose, in between calls to the Samaritans.

Stop me if I’m being too mean.

Far too articulate (no I’m not jealous) for a kid that age.  Wouldn’t surprise me if he had to memorise his review so that his 4×4 driving, salon bothering, ugg boot wearing mother could feel vicariously insightful.

Now there are Facebook fan groups set up for him.

I’m not on Facebook, so this is just hearsay as far as I’m concerned.

A “I want JohnJoe to fix my clocks” group has more followers than Jesus at this point I’m sure.

Bollocks to it.

I might just set up a Facebook account and set up a “Make this little turd wet the bed” group.  Or a “I think abuse against kids is awful, but I’ve a spare canvas sack of oranges if anyone wants a swing” group.

Maybe I need a catchier title.

Or maybe I’m just bitter about the fact that the 7 year old daughter of one of the owners of the hotel I work in told me that I would be working for her when she “gets this hotel when I’m older and you’re still just my servant”.

“Is that right?” I asked while her mother beamed with a smug pride that made me want to walk in dog shit and then kick her in the teeth.

“Yes it is”

“How did you figure that out?”

“Well Daddy never has to work, and he says that all this will be mine so I’ll never have to work”

“That’s nice”

“Yeah, you can go now servant man”

Well sweetheart, business is down, I haven’t been paid in three weeks and one by one the suppliers are refusing to supply us because daddy owes them so much.  Maybe he should put down the €200 bottle of red wine he always has to have because he won’t drink “the house muck”, and try working towards his promise, or paying me.  Because this is one servant man who is getting severely pissed off with your spoiled behaviour while I beat off the landlord with a shitty stick.

I give it a year and your very own personal country house hotel will be closedski.

And then you’ll have to give up things like servants and nannies and slum it back to Ailesbury Road and the only thing you’ll inherit is daddy’s bad credit because he wasn’t clever enough to trade as a limited company.  What a shame that would be.

I still hate that clock fucker though.

Entertain me.

Just got this email:-

“Mate, you’re not going to believe this, I’ve just won a competition on the radio for a holiday to Greece!
Got €2000 spending money and I can take 5 mates.
I know it’s short notice but if you’re free from 1st to 15th December, can you put my bin out?”

CUNT!

Jennifer Tilly.

Nuff said.

I’d love to go to Austria, visit yer man Fritzl and pick his brains about basement and holding tips.  Obviously up to the point that he got caught, but the logistical experience he’d have in managing a project like that could prove useful.  Then I’d built a basement, kidnap Jennifer Tilly, and make it her new home.

Then I’d give her a butt plug in the shape of Charlotte Church and tell her she had better make it fit by the time I got home.  Then I’d go out, locking the basement door behind me, and go about my business.  I’d go to the post office and do some stuff, with a horn.  Then I’d go to the bank and do some stuff, with a horn.  Then I’d go to the shops and buy some stuff, with a horn.  Then I’d park outside the local girls school during rainy basket ball practice, with a massive horn.  Why would I have a horn all this time?

Because at home, in my basement with a bottle of Don Carlos for lube and a near collapsed sphincter would be my little sperm receptacle, Jennifer Tilly.

Each time I’d enter her, she’d squeal in that cartoon like voice that nothing fills her like my four inch golliath.  If I closed my eyes it’d be like fucking an autistic Betty Boop.  And you’ve no idea how much that turns me on, it shouldn’t, but it does.

Her slutty grin that screams: “Squirt it here”.

That glint in her eye that says all she wants to do to please me is gargle my balls until I paint her face.

That movie she did where she was a lesbian movie with some other chick and they play an awesome game of Find the Bean.  It’s called Bound and made my the Matrix people before they made the Matrix.  It’s just spurterific.

Anyway, by the time I’d be finished with her she’d have a vag like a parachute, an ass like buttermilk, toes like dehydrated chupa chups and tits like over inflated, then deflated balloons.  All of this in exchange for fresh uncirculated air and genuine sun light.

Ok, now nuff said.

We was in the supermarket yesterday.

I noticed a female who happened to be dressed in a way that was not fitting for the supermarket, me thinks.

She was wearing a pair of black leggings that left nothing to the imagination, especially her nappy arse and camel toe.

She was wearing a pair of white patent stilettos, that really showed off her botched fake tan.

She was wearing a leather jacket that would have made any member of Bros cringe.

She had bleach blond hair with brown streaks that complimented her neglected black roots.

She had more face cake on than Jim Carrey in The Grinch.

She had more bright red lipstick on than a Grand Canal late night bank walker.

She couldn’t have been any older than 21.

We potted about and picked up random things, as you do in a supermarket.  Bread, butter, milk, cake, fizzy drinks, biscuits, chips and a diet book that we’ll decide at the checkout we can do without.

We happened to cross paths with yer one a few times.  She was pushing a full size trolley and the first time we passed her the only thing in it was a 12 pack of ribbed Durex.  She looked at me and I swear she nearly threw up.  Ego boost for me.  The next time we passed her she had the following in her trolley:

• A case of Miller
• A litre bottle of Smirnoff
• A bottle of cheap rum
• Three bottles of Blue Nun
• A bottle of Powers whiskey
• A six pack of Tennants lager cans
• A bottle of Buckfast (so that’s who buys it)
• The condoms from before

She spotted me again and looked me up and down.

We trundled off to the check out a few minutes later and found ourselves behind little miss.  As we loaded our basket on to the belt, she turned and looked at us again utterly disgusted and said, none too softly:

“Jaysis, that makes me sick”

Now, I’m not one to be confrontational or aggressive, as you well know dear reader, but I had to enquire:

“You have a problem?”

“Yeah, I do actually.  People like you”

“Excuse me?”

“Look at what you’re buying, all fat and carbs.  I bet you lie in bed all day and wonder why you’re so fat”

“I don’t actually but I wonder about people like you”

“What?”

“That check out lady is going to be a lot less surprised by the contents of your trolley than she will be about mine”

“Er”

“I’ll bet that booze just gives you the excuse that you didn’t know what you were doing when you’re at the doctor’s asking for another morning after pill and a cream to stop the burning when you take a piss…”

“Who…”

“The condoms are fooling nobody love, I mean you probably mean well but if we’re all being honest about what we think about total strangers I reckon that they’ll stay unopened in the box while you cry yourself to sleep on a constant wet patch…”

“I don’t…”

“I’m betting you have a couple of tattoos too, but none of them are functional.  Maybe the next one you get should be over your crusty minge that reads “Sperm bank”….”

“How dare…”

“At least that way it’d serve as a warning, or at least a second thought to the next poor soul who looks into your dead eyes and sees a past of a sweaty, heaving Uncle who put this whole charade into motion, don’t you think?”

“I….I….I….”

“Yeah, jog on”

And she did.

I had to help the stunned check out lady clear the conveyor belt of alcohol and johnnies after yer one had run out with her lip a trembling, but it was worth it.  And the check out lady told me it was too.  Apparently yer one comes in twice a week and insults other people all the time, but no one ever speaks back to her.

She caught me on a bad day.  On my bad days, my mouth seems to spout the things that my mind usually keeps locked up.  Pity about her.

Tomorrow I’ll be in a good mood again and I’ll just sigh to myself when a little old lady queue jumps me in the post office.

Ah well, can’t win them all.

The missus was none too impressed though.