Search This Blog

Monday, 14 February 2011

C-Bombs, Rants and Car Interferers

I was going to write a blog about the C-word. You know, Cee yoU Next Tuesday? The C-Bomb? The MacBeth of cursing? About how it can, for some reason, cause the utmost offence to some and how those people who automatically proclaim how much they “hate that word” cause an equal, proportionate amount of annoyance to those to whom they proclaim it. I, for one, am a fan. Whilst I agree with my mum, and most mothers no doubt, that you don’t have to swear to be funny I must add this caveat – it does help!

A well timed c-bomb, my new preferred suggestion of the unmentionable, can add such weight to one of my favourite things. A good old rant. It was this situation that I found myself in this morning but before I tell you about that I will paraphrase the would-be blog. The c-word has been demonised thanks to two opposing groups of utter idiots. One group, the Danny Dyer would be gangsters of this world (they pronounce it “caaaant”) who were no doubt bullied at school and have severe inadequacy issues and therefore must act the ‘ard man to anyone half their body weight or size but would really relieve their bladder at the first sign of trouble and end up working in Accounts. The second group a generation of banner waving protest-at-mis-matched-sock-for-the-sake-of-having-something-to-do-with-their-lives types who need to find a reason for living because they think no-one will ever love them for being themselves and therefore they need to have a cause. Like hoodies, Ug-boots, iPhones and Audis, perfectly usable in their one rights and well designed for their given purpose but soiled by misuse by mindless thugs, wannabe “it” girls, pretentious faux yuppies and men with small genitalia.  I personally believe that everything in moderation is the best approach. This particular word should be used sparingly as part of a calorie controlled verbal diet of delightfully verbose passages punctuated by the occasional monosyllabic four letter word infused tirade. It’s the wordy equivalent of feel good food. A Ginsters for the irate, a Big Mac for the put upon and at times it deliciously hits the spot.

The reason that I curtail by musings over the c-word is because of this. Last night some low-life broke into my cursed car. Nothing was taken, they had a good look around, tossed things this way and that. Papers and content as opposed to.......anyway. Despite the fact that I never intended to use my blog as a ranting post I need to vent. So. To whatever scumbag that broke into my cursed car last night I have 3 things to say:

1 - What's wrong with Ben Folds Five and Adele? I ought to fill up on N-Dubz tat and Cheryl Cole so you’ve something for the Mrs next time you musically illiterate vermin.

2 – Speaking of which, next time look behind the passenger seat where my bag with anything valuable was aside from the £300+ of cricket kit in the boot. Moron.

3 - I hope you die of internal rupturing from a showery encounter with a large anything-but-gentleman in the next remand institution that you happen to find yourself in. You are a waste of skin, no matter how much you claim to love your mother, and no doubt in fact fall in to one of the two categories listed above. In fact no only do I wish a pox upon you but I hope your entire family wake up tomorrow and find that the Sky dish doesn’t work, Jeremy Kyle has been cancelled, all of their sports clothing based wardrobes have vanished and been turned into things from Marks and Spencers smart-casual knitware range AND that they can pronounce the letter “T” making them outcasts and an embarrassment to you.

I do feel a little better now. Just a little mind. Try it yourself sometime and let me know how you get on. Oh and if any none regular reader want to buy a, ahem, pristine Peugeot 206, very little wrong with it.......

No comments:

Post a Comment