New blog

Over here.

Spastic Surgeons

My back operation has been postponed for the third time. I showed up at the hospital yesterday morning, signed the consent form, put on the plastic bracelets, got shown to my bed, unpacked my stuff, and then - after seven hours with no food or drink - was told my MRI scans had been archived somewhere and couldn't be found.

I was furious and relieved in equal measures. Before I signed the consent form a doctor had informed me of the risks involved. Previously I'd been led to believe there was a 1 in 10,000 chance of paralysis and "loss of sexual function", but yesterday the odds had shortened to 1 in 500. I'm seriously reconsidering whether it's worth the gamble. I mean, would you put your gonads into the hands of people who can't even file things properly?

Attention Muslims!

Are you too busy planning Jihad to remember to pray? Do your duties to Allah suffer because you spend every waking hour surfing the internet for things to get offended about? Is your face so obscured by black cloth that you can't see what time it is? Then fear not, those 72 virgins can still be yours, with the help of this handy Firefox plug-in.

"I've Even Sucked An Old Man's Cock"

Some time ago now I was "tagged" by Foot Eater, the blogosphere's answer to a rhetorical question. I'm supposed to come up with eight bits of autobiographical trivia, but you'll have to make do with half that:

I have appeared on television twice, once with Ainsley Harriott.

I used to share a house with Max Beesley, and he hates my guts.

I once sold hashish to Mani from the Stone Roses.

So far, so Z-list. But I saved the best for last:

I have met the lovely Noreen. Now that's quality name-dropping.

I'm not tagging anyone else: the buck stops here.

(A round of applause to anyone who knows where the title of this post is taken from.)

I'm Not A Racist, But...

...if the good people of Lewisham want to dress up in white robes and scare the shit out of this monstrous harridan when she gets evicted from the Big Brother house, they have my blessing.

Spot the Difference

The Matisse Magritte (that's the one on the right) belonged to legendary jazz warbler and jizz gargler George Melly, who died today at the age of 80. Please let it be Dylan's turn next.

Hitch or Titch?

It's all gone quiet chez Hungbunny; even the cockroaches appear to have gone on holiday. But instead of boring you all with yet another diatribe against the smoking ban, I would like to draw your attention to an altercation going on at my friend Fearfink's new blog:

The Hitch: Look at your arsewipe of a blog, and compare it to mine* and you will see that you are just a little snot nose kid with jam around her grimacing fat face. Cunt.

Fearfink: I have come to the fully considered view that The Hitch (anyone who refers to him or her self as "The" anything is pretty close to or already in a crisis) has a very small penis.

Hitch or titch? You decide...

*Sample post title: "Daft Pakis try and attack Glasgow airport."

Deathly Quiet

Some old codger died outside my flat this morning. It was fantastic. Normally the rush hour traffic is deafening, but the police cordoned off the high street for hours and it was so peaceful I could have meditated, had I been the kind of cunt who meditates.

Incidentally, if there are any rich American sports fans reading this, I live less than two miles from Wimbledon and I will happily sub-let my flat, roaches and all, for the very reasonable sum of £1000 a week. The only caveat is that you don't sit on the couch as it isn't reinforced.

Last Legs

There are cockroaches in my new flat. You only tend to see one at a time, and it's usually a dead one, but I know the invasion can't be far off. I'm hoping that my cats are bringing them in from outside, but let's face it - there's more likelihood of me keeping this blog updated regularly.

It's often said that cockroaches can survive a nuclear holocaust. Utter bollocks, although apparently they can live for two weeks with their heads cut off, which is quite impressive. I'd like to see Bono try and do that. I'd really, really like to see that.

Anyway, I conducted an experiment with one of the little fuckers. I captured a live one, sealed it in the smallest Tupperware container I could find, and shook it vigorously half a dozen times a day. I concluded that cockroaches can survive about a week of this treatment, although further experiments are needed to ascertain whether they die from lack of oxygen or from all their legs falling off.

No Excuses

I've had broadband for some time now, I just couldn't be arsed to post anything. Give me one good reason why I should, you cunts.

On The Move (Again)

My days of living in Cunt's Corner are almost at an end. This weekend I'm moving back to my spiritual home, back with the flotsam and chav scum at the lower end of the Northern Line. Within a fifty-foot radius of my new flat there's a pub, a chip shop, a curry house, a newsagent, a chemist and a pet shop. Fags, booze, fast food, condoms and hamsters - now that's what I call a party bag.



This might be my last post for a while, depending on whether or not I can steal wireless broadband from the pub. Not that you'll notice any difference.

The Lavender Hill Mob

Let there be no doubt about it: Battersea is chock-full of thick rich cunts. Today the local butcher charged the woman in front of me £35.52 for a leg of lamb. She looked like every other bint around here - blonde, baby buggy, using her sunglasses as an alice band - and she could probably have afforded the whole of Wales, but £35.52? It must have been one of those endangered one-legged Tibetan Hopping Sheep. Either that or the butcher's been watching Harry Enfield.

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm getting nostalgic for the chavs of Tooting.

Forgive Me, Readers...

...for I have sinned. It has been nine days since my last post. That's slack, even for me. Living in an affluent area is not conducive to blogging, I've found. There's no time, what with all the air-kissing and braying in wine bars.

Is anyone still visiting this page? And if so, why? I'm far too upmarket for you now - in fact I'm considering introducing a dress code. A well-pressed shirt and smart shoes for the gents, and for the ladies - anything you like as long as you have shapely breasts. Otherwise, a niqab.

Attention Arseholes!

Stick your iPod where it belongs.

Floored

If you're wondering why I haven't posted anything about my new life as a resident of Nappy Valley, it's because the only bit of it I've seen so far is my bedroom floor. I fucked up my back while moving house, and the only position I've found that takes the pressure off my sciatic nerve is on all fours. Anyone who looks through my window must think I'm waiting to get buggered, although since everyone around here looks like an estate agent they probably won't bat an eyelid.

Pork News

The morepork is an antipodean owl, so called because that's what it says. "More pork! More pork!" It must have been saying that for thousands of years, yet its diet still consists of moths and mice. The poor fucker. Has no one ever slipped it a chipolata?



In other pork-related news, this thing of beauty is one of those incredible, innovative, world-changing ideas you wish you'd thought of yourself. If Apple had invented it they'd have called it the iPork.

Farewell, Sweet Tooting

I love Tooting. I was born here and I've lived here for half of my life. Tooting's got everything the urban gentleman requires - street crime, terror suspects, and the best curry houses in Britain.

But now the dream is coming to an end. As of this Sunday I will be a resident of Battersea (pronounced Bat-ter-see-ah). It's in the same borough as Tooting, but it's on a different planet. Battersea's got a dog's home, a power station, and thousands of women pushing children called Hugo and Cressida around in prams that look like 4x4s.

I feel a killing spree coming on.

Update: was this thing tailor-made for me?

Scatfest

Went to the Gilbert & George retrospective at Tate Modern yesterday. If you think you might be offended by photos of old men's cocks and crucifixes made from shit, don't go. I would also warn against taking very young children along, unless you want them to grow up to become bedwetting coprophiles.



One room is filled with the Dirty Words Pictures - pictures with names like Fuck, Cunt, Queer and Communism. A woman pointed one out to her daughter, who may or may not have been a retard - sometimes it's hard to tell where ugliness ends and Downs Syndrome begins - and said, "That one's called Are You Angry Or Are You Boring? Which one do you think mummy is?"

I would have shouted "Cunt!", but I didn't want to offend anyone.

Don't Make Me Laugh

According to The 100 Greatest Stand-Ups on Channel 4 last night, Harry Hill is a funnier man than Bill Hicks was. Well I never. I'd always assumed that, as a comedic genre, radical satire was superior to pulling stupid faces. And is Peter Kay really funnier than Bill Bailey or Dylan Moran? Only if you're a pie-eating northern bastard.

Most shocking of all was the news that Billy Connolly is the greatest comedian of all time. The man laughs at his own jokes, for fuck's sake. I'm not surprised his father abused him - if he was here right now I'd like to see how much of his banjo I could fit up his arse.

The best stand-up I've ever seen was Jerry Sadowitz at the Comedy Store:

"If I'd known Jill Dando was going to be shot on the Saturday, I'd have raped her on the Friday. As it happened I had to make do with the Sunday."

Tell me that's not funnier than some Weegie welder talking about jobbies.

All Broke Up

And that's that. After three years off the market I am now officially single again.



Form an orderly line, ladies.