November, 2009

Public Apologies / Relationships — 4 Comments
23
Nov 09

Len Fears for his Sexual Health

Apologies for the lack of updates, life, or more in particular, my Prince 2 practitioner studies and the other website I’m developing, slowly, have got in the way.

Len has a tendency to parade around naked and has ZERO shame. He finds it especially funny when he tucks his penis between his legs and pretends to be a woman or a man with no penis. I’ve never really asked him which and I suppose neither is that flattering. This and his farting are his only real skills/party tricks and anyone visiting our house shouldn’t be surprised to find him mid performance in one of the most outrageous and downright degusting drag acts this side of Bangkok. Surprisingly, it still puzzles Len as to why the authorities have reservations about him seeing his own son.

Anyway, the other day he casually wanders into the living room, naked, wearing a mask depicting the devil or certainly a close relation. I momentarily glance up, realise Len is doing nothing out of the ordinary for a Tuesday afternoon and go back to what I’m doing. However, this time Len wanted some attention because he had a sensitive issue to discuss with me. It turned out that he was naked so I could inspect his undercarriage due to a few complications. Now, I’m no doctor but I do know the difference between a healthy penis and an unhealthy one, within reason.

I inspect, from a distance, a few areas of concern when Len asks me ‘Is your dick ok?’ I’m momentarily taken aback with this question and the ramifications of what he’s f*cking suggesting. Is he suggesting that we have shared ANYTHING that might lead to me catching what he has? Has he been wearing my f*cking underpants and putting them back without washing them? He’s certainly despicable enough. Or does he actually think that sharing the same bathroom constitutes a genuine reason how a sexually transmitted disease might spread?  Unfortunately for this particular retard, he knows you can catch AIDS off a toilet seat but doesn’t realise that in order to do so, you have to sit down before the other f*cker stands up.

It transpires, this is nothing more than a hygiene/over usage issue and he has nothing to worry about, which is more than can be said for his future sexual partners/victims.

Michael

Business / Relationships — 1 Comment
19
Nov 09

You know You’ve Lost a Bet When…

I’ve reached a decision on the ex last week and decided that she will remain the ex forever or until I find another girlfriend, who will no doubt become the ex at some stage in the future, whereas the ex will then become the ex ex. It’s all very complicated but you get the gist. The ex continually displays the traits of a psychopath and even this morning after my continued requests for her not to contact me anymore, she sent a text saying due to me not caring, she isn’t going to contact me anymore. The result being what I want but the method somehow going wrong, but right reminds me of the guy that tried to hang himself with his braces but ended up smashing himself to death on the ceiling.

My advice to anyone is…if you find yourself dating someone that attends AA (Alcoholics Anonymous), NA (Narcotics Anonymous) and CA (Cocaine Anonymous) simultaneously, for whatever reason, they’re not f*cking right. Run.

On informing Len of my decision, he bet me £50 that I’d go running back to her before Christmas. When I found myself bartering down the size of the bet, £10, £25, I realised I’d f*cking lost the bet already. My only hope is that I burn the bridge completely or I ask the ex to pay the £50.

Michael

Relationships — 2 Comments
15
Nov 09

A Tale of Woe – I Visit My Family…

Sod it, I really cannot be arsed writing this update but have promised myself a large pizza once finished. I’ll focus on one or two things but on the whole my weekend was:

Thursday: Travelled to Manchester and stayed at the most inhospitable place on earth, my mother’s house. She really is the worst host ever, pretending to be happy to see me and telling me I should visit more often whilst at the same time trying to think of ways she can move house without f*cking telling me. Then you have my sister, who now lives with my mother due to being abducted by aliens 6 months ago and taken to their spaceship before having half of her brain removed. This isn’t actually what happened but her version of events is f*cking unbelievable.

My sister never leaves her room and is on edge constantly, like a coiled rattle snake that’s just detected a rat hovering around its territory. This occurred to me on Thursday evening as I was hovering around her bedroom door, building up the courage to enter her dominion. There is a strict code of conduct in her room, do not make eye contact, do not smile, speak when spoken to and whatever you do, don’t f*cking challenge her. I should point out that by ‘challenge’ I mean anything that is defined in the current code of conduct or the daily amendments of the code of conduct that she keeps to herself. So me being me, I walk in and break every rule before opening my mouth and f*ck me, it was a scene from the exorcist. She was climbing the f*cking walls and I contemplated throwing myself out of the 2nd floor window before bolting for the door.

The evening couldn’t get any worse, or so I thought. My mother and her new husband, Fred, tell me about their latest acquisition in their world of hospitality, a top of the range (their words), expensive (their words) air bed that will be sure to guarantee me a good night’s sleep. They’ve bought this f*cking contraption from the shopping channel, you know the script, the advert features a couple looking for a suitable bed for the guest room and they stumble across a conveniently placed demonstration of the new air bed from this manufacturer or that. They’re so made up with the demo they can’t wait to part with their cash. Anyway, there is a flaw with this particular bed and the manufactures f*cking know it. I can imagine the conversation between the manufacturer and the actors prior to filming the advert – (Manufacturer) ‘Now then John (actor), we’ve got one shot at this. You and the wife are walking around looking at beds and you stumble upon our presentation. We go through all the features and you’re really impressed and want to buy one, BUT JOHN, whatever you do, do NOT attempt to lie on the bed, you’ll f*cking ruin us’.

I kid you not, this new bed was a cross between a bouncy castle and a rodeo bull. The f*cking thing threw me off three times and I’ve never had to MOUNT a f*cking bed before, either. It had all the characteristics of a cheap hammock, whereas at any given moment you could land on your f*cking face. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep a wink.

Friday: Travelled back from Manchester, sleep deprived, very f*cking tired, M6 closed, lost in Birmingham area, traffic – bitch, seriously thought about digging out ‘Condor Man’ video to help rectify travel issues. Then realised, even if I did fabricate a working bird man suit and then find tall enough buildings in Southend and Manchester to launch from, how would I get the bird suit complete with ‘condor’ wings in any of the buildings’ elevators? I hate it when one of my ideas fails for no other reason than other peoples design flaws.

Pizza time,

Michael

Public Apologies — 34 Comments
15
Nov 09

Im Testing a Wordpress Iphone Application and an Apology

Technology eh? Never before has it been so easy to write an update from just about anywhere. I’m actually testing an iPhone application and it’s integration with my blog, whilst on the bog. I won’t be doing this regular for obvious reasons, but mainly because I can already feel the onset of cramp. I’m now frantically tapping away trying to finish the post. Apologies to my brother, sister, and the ex, my only readers, two through sympathy and the other through malice, as I’ve not posted an update since Thursday but intend to write one today.

Michael
On iPhone

Home Security / How to Heat Your Home this Winter / Just For Fun / Security / Self Defence — 4 Comments
12
Nov 09

Advice for the Elderly this Winter…

Today I’m going to address a serious issue. It’s been brought about as a result of a tweet I received yesterday from @JimmyBoi69, who wrote:

‘Morning, my heating has packed up, now what?’

My response was:

‘@JimmyBoi69 Take all of your clothes out of the wardrobe and set them on fire. Tomorrow, I’ll advise on what to do with no heating and no clothes.’

I didn’t hear from @JimmyBoi69 again. Now that’s f*cking gratitude for you.

So later on that morning, I’m going about my businesses when I realise that in my very hand is the answer to domestic heating problems all over the world, and unbelievably it isn’t even the cold fusion device I’ve been feverishly working on, enabled not by my own brilliance in the fields of chemistry and particle physics but the work of Dr Emma Russell, dramatised in the 1997 film ‘The Saint’ starring Val Kilmer. Through the tedious process of freeze framing every section of film where parts of the code were revealed, I’ve been able to piece together the secret to cold fusion and now believe that I’m only weeks away from global stardom and billionaire status.

The people that made ‘The Saint’ are obviously f*cking idiots, because in a straight toss up between making cold fusion and thus enough power to sustain this planet for future generations and making a shit film starring Val Kilmer, they chose the latter.

So, back to the revelation, I’m stood in my bedroom, naked, the heating isn’t on and I’m cold. My hair is wet and I reach for the only domestic appliance I know can deal with the problem, my Babyliss Type S187a hair dryer. As I’m using the Babyliss Type S187a in the capacity set out by the manufacturers booklet, I realise something that hits me like a fast moving locomotive – the technique used by this magical drying machine, is nothing more than the process of heating air. I also realise at this point, that because of my northern dialect and therefore involuntary dropping of the letter ‘h’, my future seminars on this subject will need subtitles, because ‘heating air’ and ‘eating air’ are two very different things altogether. I would also hate to be responsible for elderly people ‘eating hair’ to keep warm.

The heat produced by the Babyliss Type S187a is quite amazing considering its compact size. At one point I tested its prowess on my bare skin at close range and I’m now genuinely considering a trip to the burns unit at Southend Hospital. It was like a f*cking blow torch, albeit turned down a couple of notches, and without the flame.

It occurs to me that we are in the midst of a government conspiracy. This Babyliss Type S187a machine could easily be called a ‘mobile personal heating device/hair dryer/domestic blow torch’, and in my opinion could also be used for a number of other uses i.e. self defence instrument. I can’t imagine many home intruders would want to feel the heat of a domestic blow torch in their face and I feel just as confident about its capability to ward off large dogs. The only downside to this application is the strategic placement of electricity outlets throughout the home. I’m sure common sense will prevail here and you’re not such a f*cking idiot to need me to tell you to place an outlet near any items of value, next to your bed (both sides – the intruder may spot the domestic blow torch on one side and attack from the other), and, one outlet every cable length from one end of the home to the other. The last point is a no brainer, as you have to be able to chase the intruder out of your home. I suggest the use of two domestic blow torches at this point, because the time delay between unplugging from one outlet and plugging into the next one along may be your undoing.

Anyway, the conspiracy being that the Government don’t want to pay pensions forever to old people and want them to die.

I’d really like to explore this further, but I was meant to post this last night but struggled to make a hair dryer interesting (I admit it), and I’m late for setting off to Manchester, a 5/6/7/15 hour journey depending on traffic. Why am I going to Manchester? Mind your own f*cking business.

Michael

Unemployment — 16 Comments
10
Nov 09

Unreasonable Zombies and the Southend Job Centre

It occurred to me this afternoon that people in general, not just zombies, are unreasonable most of the time. No matter what their circumstances, the fact is, people moan and whine on and blame other people for just about everything.

Today is my fortnightly appointment at the Southend job centre, an appointment god only knows why I keep considering I don’t receive anything in return.

So I’m sat there, waiting for my turn to be interrogated by the Gestapo when I suddenly realise that either 1. The world has come to an abrupt end 2. I’ve just happened across the entire cast of a Michael Jackson ‘Thriller’ tribute group or 3. The interplanetary time continuum device I’ve been working on for some time, is now working and I’ve just landed on f*cking Mars.

It really is a f*cking disgrace down there on a Tuesday afternoon. At one point, a fairly pleasant but unfairly reeking of stale fags and alcohol person sat next to me. Now it occurs to me at that moment in time that I’ve got hold of the shitty end of the stick, because while I’m having to endure his horrendous stench, he’s breathing in my f*cking expensive aftershave. That last statement pretty much sums up my time in the Southend job centre, because unless you smell horrendous and look like shit, you will never get to experience the sweet smell of a benefit cheque.

My attention is then drawn to one particular zombie because she feels as though she’s been hard done to and the staff are being unreasonable, and she wants everyone to know about it. Now, back to my point, this woman turns up looking like she’s just been f*cking dug up, is obviously high on one thing or another, and is stumbling about the place moaning and f*cking whining as if to say ‘I’m doing my best here to get a job and no-one is helping’. She’s acting like the Alzheimer’s patient that’s just left the house, gone shopping and dropped into the post office to pay some bills and hasn’t yet realised his f*cking pants are at home.

In all honesty, the only jobs befitting her current state would be that of a human riot shield or better still, a British infantrywoman serving in Afghanistan. If only the Taliban were to think for a second that the entire British infantry had been zombified as part of some military experiment, I can’t imagine they’d be f*cking stupid enough to carry on with their antics. It’s perfect – spread the rumour of the zombie army, commandeer the cinemas in Kabul and then play back to back the films ’28 Days Later’, ‘Day of the Dead’, ‘Dawn of the Living Dead’ and ‘Shaun of the Dead’. I’ve included ‘Shaun of the Dead’ to F*ck with the Taliban’s heads because they wouldn’t know whether to laugh or f*cking cry at that point. Win the War.

Michael

Business / Freelancers — No Comments
9
Nov 09

Don’t Trust the Indians…or Asians in General

…or Eastern Europeans for that matter. To make such a sweeping statement, I’m either an advocate for ethnic cleansing or I’m a victim of what is the newest scam on the block – IT Freelancers.

It seems to me that the latest and easiest method of lifting someone’s leg up is the act of advertising services via the internet that you have no hope of ever delivering, at a more than reasonable price, to be paid for up front by unsuspecting f*cking idiots, like me. It’s quite simply genius and unless I’m prepared to fly to Kathmandu for the return of my £100, I’m f*cked. The only satisfaction I’ve ever had as a result of these scams is my eventual email to the perpetrator, Subject: You B*stard.

The problem is that we in the west have much higher expectations than our friends in the east. In India, you only have to read the first page of dummy’s guide to HTML and you’re classed as a Web Designer. This is evident if you’ve ever had anything developed in India and it comes back looking like a dog’s dinner. They just don’t GET requirements in western terms and it’s no wonder half the time because they can’t speak English, and yet as though part of some cruel f*cking joke, insist on communicating in ENGLISH. Needless to say, communication is awful but consistently awful, which remains the only thing they do consistently.

Disclaimer: I am only referencing every Asian or Eastern European person that works in the IT industry in Asia and Eastern Europe. I am not making a sweeping statement unless ‘sweeping statement’ could be interpreted by the words ‘every Asian or Eastern European person’. In any case, I make no apologies and only yesterday I insulted the monster that is Nikolai Valuev and if I’m not scared of him, so I’m certainly not scared of you.

Note to Nikolai Valuev: Should you ever read my review of your physical attributes, please email me at Michael@selfmademichael.com to arrange a suitable time for you to break my body in two. I promise I’ll wait in for you and won’t consider for one moment, leaving the country.

Michael

Sport — No Comments
8
Nov 09

The Beast from the East

Nikolai Valuevarticle-0-03AE79260000044D-449_224x222David-Haye-Nikolai-Valuev-001

Last night I watched the long awaited fight between David Haye and Nikolai Valuev for the WBA Heavyweight world championship. Both fighters are remarkable in different ways, either way resulting in neither of them being that likeable.

Haye invokes emotions not seen since the hay(e)day (forgive the pun) of Prince Naseem Hamed, whereas you want him to win because he’s British but if he loses its just as satisfying because he’s a f*cking prick.

I thought this to be the best opportunity to use images with my post and went about looking for some gruesome pictures of Nikolai Valuev, only to realise they’re all f*cking gruesome. Nikolai Valuev is quite simply a freak of nature, if indeed he was conceived naturally and not a result of some experiment. His appearance is so hideous it reminds me of the man eating mythological beasts the Greek gods inflicted onto the earth for the sins of all humans. I keep imagining him with a pair of legs hanging out of his mouth. Without over egging the custard, this is a f*cking ugly man and I’m left wondering whether his own mother would own up to being responsible for him or try to claim he was adopted. I bet he gives his own kids nightmares.

His head appears to be sculptured from solid rock by a being with little or no previous sculpting experience, a blunt chisel, and only the hint of what a human should look like.

His body deserves a special mention in itself for being quite animal like, with thick hair and a stomach that wouldn’t look out of place in a post natal check-up. At 7’ 2”, If he was to trip up, he’d be half way home and he must be the only boxer in the world to skip using a f*cking washing line. Combine the animal like body, its 23 stone weight and the kind of sweat a man of 23 stone would dispel and you have something that would put you off your dinner for years. I’m genuinely surprised more boxers don’t request he keeps his f*cking shirt on.

Anyway, Haye being Haye, he gives it big bollocks for weeks before the fight, I’m going to do this and I’m going to do that and actually doing neither. He appeared to shit himself from the first bell and if points were given out for running away from someone, Haye won it hands down. Any time Valuev did catch up with him, I could clearly see him looking outside of the ring for somewhere soft to throw himself.

Why aren’t boxers more honest? If I were a boxer and was interviewed prior to fighting a f*cking monster like Valuev, Id be saying, ‘he’s a really nice man’, ‘I can’t imagine him hurting anyone’, ‘I hope we can become friends’, ‘I consider him one of my closest friends already’… etc..

Do I think I’m going to knock him out? ‘No, I wouldn’t want us to hurt each other as I have far too much respect for him’

Do I have any special requirements? ‘Yes, could we use a bigger boxing ring?’

How big do you wish the boxing ring to be? ‘Well, normally there are two people in the boxing ring and several thousand people occupying the space around it. Can we change that around, please?’

Michael

Nightlife — No Comments
7
Nov 09

The Worst Night Out Ever…

Its late, 2.10am, Saturday morning and while most people are partying or sleeping, I’m doing neither.

Never before have I experienced the very worst bits of a night out without also experiencing some nice bits, you know, the warmth of a bar or a club, a drink, a conversation with somebody, anybody. Not tonight.

This disastrous night started two weeks ago when I dropped in to see a friend of mine and Len’s, Kenny, a wheeler dealer in the world of janitorial supplies with a side line in sportswear and sports equipment. It isn’t important how we know Kenny considering his random occupation but needless to say, he’s squarely to blame for ruining my f*cking night.

On that fateful day, two weeks ago, Kenny tells me of a nightclub he’s started to frequent on the first Friday of each month – Lords Nightclub, Hullbridge. He bangs on about this place as though he’s its f*cking marketing manager, making out it’s a total meat market, get in before 8.30pm because their queuing around the block…..and so on. Anyway, Kenny, although a thoroughly decent guy is also a bit of a bullshitter. He’s famous for it and never fails to bullshit at least once a week. Usually, his once a week bullshit story is his arranging to go out with Len and I on Friday night and then at the eleventh hour, contacting me to explain he can’t make it because some bird or other has asked him to take her out. He can’t miss this opportunity because she’s a sort and won’t ask him again. You’d think he’d change his story once in a while but the f*cking idiot doesn’t and leaves himself wide open to mockery.

So Kenny has put into motion a sequence of events that will inevitably lead to me writing about what a f*cking terrible night I had and here it is…

Len and I don’t believe for one second this place is going to be rammed at 8.30pm and arrive late. Only 20 minutes late but f*uck me, I thought Peter Andre had just turned up because the queue was around the block and I MEAN around the f*cking block. To make matters much worse it’s raining hard, cold, and windy. At one point I think I saw Ray Mears walking up and down the queue giving out survival tips. Anyway, neither Len or I have a coat, Kenny arrives later than us and is therefore no help in jumping the queue and we have to wait it out. To give Kenny his dues though, it was f*cking heaving. We daren’t leave because the potential was amazing. However, it takes an hour to get to the entrance and I look like I’ve been through a f*cking car wash, when the bouncer says ‘Sorry mate, no ripped jeans’. I protest and broker a deal whereas I go home and change and he lets me straight in. Len and Kenny, miserable, cold and wet go into the club and as far as I’m concerned are waiting for me to return. I get home, change and I’m about to leave the house when Len arrives back citing illness as his main reason and wants to call it a night. I just cannot f*cking believe it.

I reluctantly call it a night also.

Michael

Business — No Comments
6
Nov 09

The Edinburgh Conman and His Wife

So, I’ve just finished a conference call with a well known liquidation company in London. Since the September 2008 realisation that I’d had my pants well and truly pulled down by an accomplished conman, I’ve taken it upon myself to make him pay. By this, I mean I’ve dedicated my life to collecting evidence and passing it onto the authorities, whilst also intimidating him by any means necessary within the confines of the law…..most of the time. The conference call also hosted a number of individuals that have been stupid enough to re-invest with this man on the basis of setting up another business venture with the objective of earning enough money to repay the original victims. Thankfully they have now seen the light (because every penny has disappeared mysteriously)  – it looks like this arsehole and his wife will be doing bird sooner rather than later. I can only hope his future cell mate is a 6’ 4” raging homosexual with a huge tool and a dose of the clap during a time that will be forever remembered in history as the great Vaseline famine of the 21st century.

Thinking about it, it would put an even bigger smile on my face if he (the raging homosexual) were to specialise in not taking no for an answer and thinks of physical rejection as nothing more than playful foreplay.

Michael

← Older Entries