Scousers

I'm in the process of changing my mind about scousers. I think I quite like them.

By way of explanation, let me tell you about "Gordon":

Gordon runs the "Staff Fitness Centre" at the hospital - a small basement hovel stocked with decrepit gym equipment. Gordon is never seen without his Adidas shell-suit, which is not quite big enough to disguise his paunch, which, in turn, is not quite big enough to distract from his horrible greasy moustache. His role is to sit in his tiny office, eating chips, looking at his Liverpool FC posters and regailing me with incomprehensible stories about his humorous scouse existence.

The last time I popped down to use the old treadmill, he spent a good ten minutes outlining one of his favourite anecdotes. I can't share it with you, because most of the time I had no idea what he was saying. I think it involved a small child painting a penis on the wall of the hospital. He seemed to think this was very funny, so I nodded and smiled.

Gordon has a meticulous approach to health and safety in the gym: "Be a bit careful, yeah?" was the sum total of his risk assessment. Brilliant. This was followed by another story about someone getting beaten up in the local pub, or something. Again, the accent made things a little murky.

On the subject of the local pub, my rather serious-looking colleague was cheerfully advised not to set foot inside its doors, "unless you fancy ending up in a pool of blood on your own shoes." Gordon does like his evocative turns of phrase. I think.

Apparently, my haircut and voice would not be too displeasing to the resident drinkers, so I could probably order a pint, as long as I didn't try to talk to anyone. What a friendly, welcoming place Liverpool is!

*Names should have been changed to protect anonymity. But I couldn't be arsed.

Have a wash

Don't these hippies EVER get bored of protesting? First they moan about some new road wiping out an indigenous population of maggots, then they get all upset about scientists rubbing shampoo in the eyes of bunny rabbits...

Listen hippy, this new bypass is going to cut 10 minutes off my daily commute, and for that, I'd shoot every last tiger in existence, never mind some smelly maggot. Furthermore, everyone knows animal testing is just an amusing pastime for scientists, but you hippies don't seem to have a sense of humour. Well, my amusing pastime is testing noxious chemicals on unwashed, pretentious, sanctimonious cunts. Come here you hippy fuck, and let me pour bleach down your throat. Does it hurt? Yes, I thought it would.

If it's not animals, then they're all marching around town wearing T-shirts emblazoned with "Fuck Tesco". Which is kind of ironic when I see them at the "10 items or less" checkout, clutching a wad of "3 for 2" ready meals. If you're so bothered about Tesco and its dominance of the marketplace, why don't YOU start a better supermarket of your own? Oh that's right, because it would be shit, just like your general attitude to life.

And NOW it's the war in Iraq. Again. AGAIN! Come on hippies, everyone is getting bored of this crap now. I don't care how many spam e-mails I get from Tony Benn and the "Stop the War Coalition", I couldn't give a shit. I only signed up so I could get some posters.

How many times do I have to tell you hippies? Tony Blair knows best. Leave it to him - after all, he has God on his side. The Christian God. To all you Muslims out there, I was actually speaking to the prophet Muhammed last night through my Ouija board, and he admitted that all that stuff in the Qu'ran about "death to the infidels!" was just meant to be ironic... And those virgins? Well there's a reason why they're all still virgins - they are fucking pig ugly.

I bet you feel a bit silly now...

***************************************************************************
Do you find yourself disquieted by the sentiments of this post? Then please read: The story of the blog

Approximate percentage that this blog corresponds to reality = 36%

Up North

Medical students get many opportunities to travel. Especially to the third world, where the standard of living is poor, AIDS is rampant, and the peasants clamour for decent healthcare. And so it is that I find myself four days into a four-week humanitarian mission to Liverpool.

Do you see? I am saying that Liverpool is like a third-world country, and its inhabitants are AIDS-ridden peasants. Yes, I think that is an accurate portrayal.

Even if I don't get mugged, stabbed or raped - I don't know how often I will get the chance to post stuff. To be honest I was a bit surprised they even had the Internet up here. Surely there are more important things to worry about? Like educating the illiterate masses.

But I shall endeavour to keep in touch. It beats talking to scousers.

An appeal to our neighbourhood junkie.

My accommodation block provides one old washing-machine and tumble-drier between about 25 residents. To operate either contraption, one must insert a pound coin into a box that sits on an adjacent shelf. Every so often the box is emptied by a representative of the laundry company, or more recently, trashed by a local drug addict.

You see, it appears that my fellow residents find it tricky to shut the door to a house after they have opened it. And if you are going to leave a door open in the vicinity of a drug addict you may as well put up a big neon sign saying: "Please come into my house mr. sicko - I have lots of nice things you could sell down the pub to get your next fix of crack! Whilst you're at it, why not rape my children too? And shit in my bed?" Everybody knows this.

The local constabulary have been most helpful. Although this particular individual is well known to the force, they can't be arsed doing anything about it. They suggest that we might like to try shutting the door.

Perhaps my housemates think the dishevelled, staring man with the growth on his face who loiters around our street is a property surveyor, or the gas man. Well, I'll tell you, he has not come to read our fucking gas meter - since when did gas men do their rounds with their little undernourished dogs? And since when did the fucking property surveyor shout at passing buses?

Some kind of cunning plan was needed. Why attempt to persuade my housemates to shut the door, when I can target the filth-bag directly? I just hope he can read:

This is what they teach us at medical school.

This interesting photo was covertly snapped during a seminar on child growth and development earlier this week.

Lecturer: "So, at stage three the pubic hair is becoming dark, coarser and curlier. At stage four it is filling out towards adult distribution.

Does anyone know what comes after stage four?"

Me: "A brazilian?"

Never underestimate the benefits of flesh...

An enterprising doctor has conceived of an innovative scheme to improve the nutrition and wellbeing of his patients - a prescription that can be exchanged at the local butcher for a nice hunk of red meat.

I hope his venture proves to be a sight more successful than one of my own health initiatives. You see, for several years now I have been running a "meat-injection service" out of my bedroom - as part of the flagship NHS "get-fucked-in-a-disappointing-manner" scheme.

Inexplicably, demand has been low. Take-up has been poor. Furthermore, of the patients who do sign up for a course of "medication", many seem to drop out after their first session... baffling.

I think I need to get Patricia Hewitt on the case.
****************************************************************************
Do you find yourself disquieted by the sentiments of this post? Then please read: The story of the blog

Approximate percentage that this blog corresponds to reality = 52%

I'm gonna' patent this idea so don't steal it...

I really must protest in the strongest possible terms about the atrocious weather afflicting us here in the UK right now. I have been in a state of perpetual moist-ness for the past two days. And I'm not happy about it.

If I were a diabolical genius with a weather-control machine, like on one of those bad films off the telly, I would not bother destroying New York with a terrible hurricane. Oh no. Such aggression is the last resort of the weak and unimaginative. And Muslims. Rather, I would create a "sunshine subscription service" to guarantee a warm and pleasant atmosphere.

Yes, that's right, for as every good diabolical genius knows: it's capitalism which is the true evil. Do you see?

And here is a water-related tune by the great saxophonist Gary Bartz:

Gary Bartz - I've Known Rivers

Gonzo!

This week, I have been a little confused. See, I have been looking up a lot of "gonzo porn" on the world wide interweb, but I am yet to encounter the famous muppet in any of the movies that I have watched. And believe me, I have watched a lot, just make sure. Yes, if there's one thing I like, it's naked muppets - that's what I always say.

This is odd, because you would think that Gonzo's protruding nose would make him a shoe-in for almost any role in muppet-on-muppet porn action. Even if it is a bit wonky. But in fact, I haven't seen any of the muppets, not even Miss Piggy, who everybody knows is a complete slut.

However, thanks to the magic of Wikipedia, my misunderstanding has been clarified. Although if there's definitely not going to be any muppet action, I'm not so interested, to be honest.

In other news, the government advises that men should make certain that a woman has consented to sex, in order to avoid being accused of rape.

Plainly, this is ridiculous. If I find myself in bed with a woman, I don't want anything like "consent" to stand in the way of my meticulous foreplay. I've already gone to the trouble of watching her apartment to make sure she's all alone, forced a window open, squeezed inside, given her a sharp blow to the head to "relax" her... and NOW you want me to wake her up again just to make sure if she's "ok" with the course of events? Unlikely.

Or have I got the wrong end of the stick?
****************************************************************************
Do you find yourself disquieted by the sentiments of this post? Then please read: The story of the blog

Approximate percentage that this blog corresponds to reality = 4%

I have frostbite on my cock

I went to the gym last night. I like going to the gym on a Friday night. You can be pretty sure that everyone who chooses to work out at 10pm on a Friday probably doesn't have any friends. And there's kind of a tacit understanding between us - a brief smile here, a nod there - that we're all losers in this together. Our lack of social skills has forced us deep into enemy territory, and we can only escape by doing an hour on the cross-trainer. Or something.

But hey, what else is there to do on a Friday? Society says the best way to pass an evening is to down 10 pints of Stella and then be sick on somebody else's face. No thanks, when I want to be sick on somebody's face, I shall do it in my own time, and probably whilst wearing a PVC catsuit. But that's another story...

Running back it was so cold I ended up with frostbite in ALL my extremities. When I say "ALL" my extremities, I am actually referring to my cock. On reflection, perhaps I should not have left it dangling outside my running shorts, but I find I run faster when I am chasing traumatised women around the park at night. Before you get all shocked, remember that they clearly enjoy this game, otherwise why would they be out in the park at night? It makes sense.

In an evolutionary arms race the prey must run faster than its predator. As Richard Dawkins pointed out, the hare is running for its life, whilst the fox is only running for its dinner. Alas, this rule also seems to apply to perverts and their victims. But at least I get a good workout.

Proof that horoscopes are a bag of shite

Back at the turn of the year I came across this horoscope in a copy of "Marie Claire" magazine, which claims to predict not only the course of my career in 2006, but also my love life.

Firstly, let's clear a couple of things up: I found the magazine in my kitchen - I certainly did not buy it myself, and anyone who says I did is lying. I am not the kind of moron who regularly devours women's magazines in the expectation that he will eventually understand what part of his abject persona renders him so unappealing to their kind. That is definitely not me.

Also, I am not the kind of cretinous fuckwit who ever takes any notice of what "psychic sandra" has to say about the movement of "Saturn (the planet of stability)", just as I do not believe that the moon is made of cheese. But for some reason I cut this out and kept it in my room, pinned to my noticeboard. I wonder why?

I couldn't give a shit about the career, money and success bullshit: we all know I'm practically already a millionaire. But if you notice, the 28th February is my "LUCKY LOVE DAY". That's interesting, because that's tomorrow. That's also unfortunate, because the girl who I am currently somewhat besotted with no longer wants to see me. How are you going to get out of that one horoscope? I'm waiting...

You never know, it is Shrove Tuesday tomorrow. Perhaps I shall fall in love with a pancake, we shall marry, and have lots of sticky, sugary babies that I shall probably eat.