My own intestines

You bastards. You utter, utter bastards.

I am on holiday from work at the moment, but agreed to go in this morning for a meeting with some external clients. This was a bit of a clash with a lads night out last night, watching trollops in walkabout, but I'm the kind of guy that can do that kind of thing.

Only I'm not.

As soon as I sat down for this meeting, every inch of my asshole was screaming that it needed to release a build-up of noxious gas that had been busy accumulating overnight from the guinness/snakebite/kebab fiasco that was my evening.

I started to sweat and strain. I couldn't concentrate on what anyone was saying, I was concentrating too hard on containing the trouser shout that was desperate to be heard. Eventually, I managed to shuffle sideways and using muscles I never knew I had, I managed to release the fart without making a sound. I settled back into my chair feeling pleased with myself, and ready to continue the meeting.

Then the smell hit. MY GOD. The smell. It was an anal holocaust, and everybody knew it was me. The last five minutes of the meeting were wrapped up in record time as everyone tried not to gag, and no-one dared point out that it was clearly me who had done the crime.

And to top it all off, after the meeting, my boss said 'Thanks for coming in on your day off. But you really smell.'

Job done.

People who use Tesco Express to do the weekly big shop

Look you fucking great big pile of minge, I have popped in to buy a bag of sugar/bottle of wine/sandwich/some other equally small item of shopping. Whatever I am purchasing, you can bet your fat ass that I am either in a rush to get back somewhere, or I am double parked on yellow lines outside. In either case I have no fucking desire to stand behind you for three hours while you unload approximately 9 baskets of convenience food and crisps you slovenly, lazy, useless fat failure. Asda is for the big shop, and is but yards away. Now get out the fucking way before I take it in turns with the rest of the queue to hold you down while the poor cow behind the checkout kicks you in the twat.

Mobileworld phones

"Your credit limit is low. You can top up your credit by calling our hotline, or visiting our website."

Thanks for the text to remind me that I need to top up my phone, Mobileworld. DID YOU HAVE TO SEND IT AT FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE CUNTING MORNING THOUGH?

wankers.

My iPod and it's 'alarm' function

You cunty little sleek bit of arty farty design. Having left my mobile in the office last night, I was bereft of a morning alarm and, finishing an Xbox 360 session at 2.30am, realised an 8am start was not going to happen without one. Now, admittedly I had polished off a bottle of wine so might not have been thinking as clearly as normally, but I remembered my iPod has a clock on it. lovely news, thinks I. I'll set the alarm on that bad boy, which I duly did before falling asleep.

However, the alarm on an iPod is only going to work IF YOU SLEEP WITH THE FUCKING EARPHONES IN. Otherwise, you will hear fuck all and wake up at five to nine in a total panic and looking like shit. Brilliant. Abso-fucking-lutely brilliant. Still, it did have a cheery little message on the screen telling me I had missed my alarm. Fucking smashing.

Me

Updaye your fucking blog more often you fucking cunt. Call yourself angry? Fucking twat.

Facebook

Okay, I've moaned about it before and yes, I am on it and yes, I do use it to keep in touch with people. I've tracked down old mates and all the rest of it.

However:
I do not want to be a pirate.
I do not want to be a ninja.
I do not want to do a movie quiz.
I do not want to take a compatibility test.
I do not want to tickle anyone.
I do not want to play poker.
I do not want to play blackjack.
I do not want to send fish to your aquarium.
I do not want to stroke someone's pet.
I do not want to give someone a gift.

I DO want to use it to see what my mates are up to. Now fuck off and let me get on with it.

Bournemouth town centre promotions/charity/godbothering cunts

FUCK THE FUCK OFF!
I've just walked through the centre of Bournemouth in my lunchbreak - what should be a relatively straightforward exercise. Only it isn't, is it?

No, I don't want a flyer advertising your comedy club. No thanks, I'm not interested in donating to Save The Children. It's okay, I don;t want to buy a Big Issue. No, it's okay, I don't want a flier about a new club night at Dusk Till Dawn. Sorry, I'm not interested in a leaflet about scientology. No, excuse me, I don't want to hear you talking about how God saved us all either. No, I don't want a subway sub for lunch, I've already eaten thanks. No, fuck off Greenpeace I don't want to give you my credit card details to save the world either. And no, I don;t want a new mobile phone contract either.

FUCK OFF YOU BUNCH OF FUCKING CUNTS. GET A PROPER FUCKING JOB AND STOP BOTHERING ME WITH YOUR SHITTY FUCKING LEAFLETS.

I'm off to leave the telly on overnight just to piss off the tree-hugging cunt from Greenpeace who wouldn;t take no for an answer.