Friday, 28 May 2010

Reasons to be Woeful

Bonjour mon ami’s, I hope you are well? Welcome to the 8th episode of the Aldershot Woes, a brand new adventure in to the usual world of poor syntax child like spelling and retard grade grammar… The last Woe was an homage to the goliath of good humour Mr Derek Robson and was met with a positive response, that was until the smoggy bastard served me with court papers, him JK Rowling and the ghost of Charles Dickens have teamed up to sue me for everything I have got… which isn’t very much at all… On a positive note Phil McNulty has been in touch thanking me for putting him in such a positive light for once…

Anyway, on to the new Woe… You know a lot of people have been moaning about how back in the old days the world was nicer place. People were kinder and more emphatic to the human cause, kids were politer and would frequently hold doors open for seniors and help them across roads and bake them cakes and file their bunions for them. Animals never bit people, stinging nettles gave you a gentle massage, houses were made out of candy and everyone walked around singing in harmony, shaking hands and hugging… I for one have never embraced this myth about days of yore, and dismissed the idea that things were ever any better. I was wrong. Yesterday was brilliant and today is rubbish, and if you think any different then you’re on drugs… Today, exclusively in the Aldershot Woes, we put on our nicest trousers, spit on a poor person and have a look at the rapid decline of this and every other country in the god forsaken world… Unless I get stabbed in the face right now by hood wearing scallywags, which is bloody likely, let’s be honest…

Britain 1947, fresh from ridding the world of evil the good people of Britain give them selves a collective pat on the back, and settle down to a slice of cake and pot of tea. All is well again in the world and the values that so many laid their lives down to protect are intact and stronger than ever… For a while at least…
But then something happened across the world that has made today the bloody mess it is. A barrier was removed, this barrier was the supporting wall that kept the world standing up straight, it created natural order, gave people proper direction and put everyone exactly where they should be. Things were neat, and they were organised and everyone was happy… For a while at least…
However when the barrier was removed people began to get all sorts of silly ideas and ambitions and this is when the decay of decency began. For thousands of years the barrier stood, but once it was gone people who had never strived for anything other than a pie or a comfortable seat or to die for their masters began to get very silly ideas and opinions about the world. People who for generations were quite happy plodding along quietly developed a voice, a crass and dirty voice at that. And as this voice bellowed across the world revulsion grew in it reverberations, and decline ate in to this land like a vicious and hungry cancer. People wanted fair pay, equality, a decent standard of living and the right to have choices and make decisions for them selves… even though for hundreds of years people had been making decisions for them and they always seemed very happy with it. Before long industry was collapsing, the most famous case of this was the evil miners of Upnorth. This greedy band of land diggers wanted fair and decent pay just for hitting rocks with chisels and sticks, but the problem was that at the heart of these wicked people beat corruption. Miners were involved heavily in oraganised crime. They were the ones who introduced drugs to the world, they promoted prostitution, and gambling, and all manner of vile activity. Thankfully the heavens sent an angel to put an end to their villainy once and for all. A fiery haired goddess swept across the land and rid us of these monsters forever. For a moment the barrier was stable and there was peace and harmony… For a while at least…
However too much damage had been done to the barrier and though it tried to stay strong in 1993 the last part of this pillar was washed away amid a sea of deprivation… it was the end of decency, all that is now to come is sheer bloody terror.

So here we find ourselves today, 17 years since the barrier fell and the world could not be any worse, that is until tomorrow when it gets even worse than it is right now. As I type this there are several fist fights going on around me. On my way to work I saw a child of 6 smoking a bong whilst his mother was having sex with 3 men in an alley way, the boy asked if I was his father… I was so heart broken by this I could hardly bring myself to tell him to “f*ck off”, but I did, and for his own good too. Right now in every town in every country in the world, the streets are littered with broken glass and broken dreams, men beat their wives who beat their children who beat their friends who then go home and beat their parents. This vicious cycle spins daily. Everyone is on drugs, and if people can’t get drugs they roll up old people in large Rizlas and smoke them. Education has fallen so hard that most children can’t even speak properly, those that can speak become rappers and write songs about stabbing their mums and kicking guide dogs. The Media has become instrumental in the decline of the world and TV programmes are either sick reality shows where people are given respect for shagging the most people or fighting the most people or fighting the most people whilst shagging them or vice versa. Or they are so dumbed down if you watch them for too long you get brain damage. The most popular show on TV at the moment is “look at the shiny thing – with Andrew Marr” Where Andrew Marr looks at shiny things and says “oooh, shiny”. Health care is a joke if you have cancer and go to hospital you are given a plaster and by a nine year old foreign doctor who hasn’t slept since he was seven. And by the time you get see him again, he will be 21 and you will both be dead, you of cancer and him of tiredness. If you are going to get sick these days you better hope you die quickly, otherwise hospitals will kill you. Another reason it is wise to prey for quick death these days is that old people are terrorised by young people, if you are not lucky enough to be smoked in a giant Rizla, then you could be in for an even worse fate as the young of today think of deprived and demonic games to play with the grey generation. “Old Lady Conkers” is popular amongst younger kids, old ladies are literally strung up and swung at each other, till one shatters. Another torment that the elderly suffer on a daily basis is Nan-Fighting. Nans are starved and angered then when at their most angry dropped in to pits to fight other nans to the death… meanwhile the youth sit around and bet money and drugs on the outcome. The modern man of today is a complete shower of shite he is a drunken, fighting, bollocks of a creature. But in today’s broken world it is he who has become the fairer sex as women run amok… amok I tell you! I will bet you a thousand pounds that the next woman you see is drunk and fighting another woman whist having sex with a man and vomiting on her shoes. They are a complete shambles. Once upon a time a woman was a pretty and caring motherly creature that was delicate and fragile. But now they are bare fist fighters, who down vodka by the bottle load, and then pass out on the street in a puddle of there own, and other women’s, vomit. They pop out kids by the dozen never two with the same dad, or even the same colour. They all smoke cigars and crack are covered in tattoos and some have even started watching football and attempting to play it… The world is truly a broken place.
As I mentioned before if your view of Britain is any different to this then you are either on drugs or you are a bitter sick soul who believes that the day the barrier was removed was a good day and that we should never have even had a barrier in the first place. Or you are a simple liar…. All we can do is prey and moan about it…. We’re all fu*ked.

Oh my god…. That was a bit heavy wasn’t it but by using the word FACT, it makes the above FACTS very real. So we should all be scared for ourselves and our families… I have just put my family in metal security box, I’ll take them out once the world is saved…
Anyway that raps up the 8th woe, I hope you have enjoyed it but I suspect you were too high on drugs or busy fighting or too stupid to fully understand it… I certainly was. I hope you all have a good weekend…and good luck out there, you’ll need it.

You can’t follow me on twitter as I have been banned from using by the wife, apparently “21:32: Oh yes, she f*cking loves it, dirty cow” wasn’t a good thing to post… Sorry dear.


Wednesday, 26 May 2010

The Philosophers Woes- The Robbo Story

Welcome one and all to the latest instalment of Woe, live and direct (as live and direct as a writing can be) from the mean streets of my desk in Aldershot… The last woe looked at nature and it is being turned in to a BBC 12 part special filmed in 3D-HD Touch-n-Smell-ovision… should be proper cack.

Today though were taking the Woes in a new direction as we tell a simple story, of a simple man who by simple means achieved simple things that were simply great, this is the story of Harry Blogger….

On a cold night outside a furnace, in the smog of Teeside, an abandoned baby cries from a basket. Slowly an elderly lady drunkenly stumbles to her doorstep to see what the commotion is. “Whose that outside me door like? If yus is from the provy yus can go fuckk ya’sef” The old lady looked down in disbelief. “How’ay man, Bill ya fat drunk bastard, how’a look a’ this”. “Wor is it ya woman, if it’s the provy I aint in”. Bill drunkenly bellowed to his inebriated wife. “It’s wee one!”.

The drunken lady and old Bill decided to raise the child as their own, but as they were hopelessly poor and alcoholics he did not have the beat of upbringings. He spent his days cleaning the brushers for the lad who cleaned the boots of steel miners for a penny a dozen and his evenings perched under a table in the local public house… It was here that the young man honed his comedic talents and learnt in great detail about the finer things in life, of football and darts, of pies, of parmos… of women.

His knowledge grew, as did his ability to tell jokes, and soon he had hoards of people longing to hear his takings on the weeks football matches. The boy started publishing his musings on the back of old napkins and sold them at 2 pence a pop. Although he was happy in his life he longed for more, his dream was to go to the school for gifted writers, Blogwarts, but being a poor orphan raised by drunks, he knew he could not ever afford such a life style.
One day as he was writing a particularly funny bit about Kevin Keegans hair-do getting mistaken for a magpies bird-nest, when a man came running past being chased by policemen. The boy seeing the man needed help quickly started telling jokes, and soon drew a crowd. The man on the run was able to lose his chasers in the crowd, but before he made his exit he came up to the young boy and said “I saw wot you did for me squire, I wont forget that, not never in me blinking loife, I’ll see your looked after”.
The next day their came a knock at the furnace, when the boy answered he saw no one, but below he saw a package with his name on. Inside the box was a wad of cash the likes of which he had never seen along with a note that read “I said I wouldn’t forget yous squire, take this deniro and live your dream, good luck mate, just beware of those jealous of your gifts”. So the boy packed his bags and bid his adopted drunken parents a fond farewell, as left to follow his dreams at Blogwarts…

The rain was coming down fierce as the boy arrived at the train station, eagerly he searched for his train, the vehicle that would take him to his new home. He climbed on board and looked for a seat. All the seats were taken but one, next to a grubby little boy in a QPR shirt who drew an uncanny resemblance to Danny Dyer. The boy sat next him and said “can I sit here like, lad?” “yeah course you can guvnor, my names Ron Charlsie, pleasure to meet cha, chim chim cheroo” said the little boy… “I’m awf to become wroiter at the Blogwarts school for good writing and grammar and stuff” The little boy was taken aback as he cried “Me n’all man, we ought to be best pals, yous wanna a tab?”.
As the boys smoked a regal a friendship was born, one that would be very important as there were those eager to see the little lad from tees fail. It was late when they arrived at Blogwarts and the two new best buds made it up to their dorm together, to start their education in good writing and grammar and stuff. The next day they made their way to the class room and were introduced to their new class mates. Everyone was very kind to the 2 new pupils, that is everyone except for one nasty, bitter little boy… Ruthless Mouthnoise! “Oh my god, look at your clothes, you two look like a rustic gay couple” The little boy did not take kindly to that at all “Shut your mouth or I’ll bottle yous, cuntlips!” he retorted… “listen, BOY” Mouthnoise sneered, “my dad is the current chief sports writer on the B B fucking C, that means I will be too one day, so show some respect for your superiors”.
Then as quick as the friendship had formed between the boy and Ron Charlsie, a rivalry and hatred formed between himself and Mouthnoise. As the year progressed the boy became top in all of his classes and was even made captain of the footy team and the writing about footy team, he had grade A dart score achieving 3 9DFs in his first season. His success grew as did the rivalry with Ruthless Mouthnoise, and it became intense as they approached the big end of year “good writing and stuff competition”. Mouthnoise wrote a piece that contradicted all he ever written before, but also managed to state the obvious and borrow playground analysis for his conclusions. It was sloppy at best. The boy however wrote a flowing article filled with wit and clever observation, everyone loved it. Except for one person who thought it relied too much on northern stereotypes and colloquial humour, and that the pub in which most of it was set was fictional. But apart from him everyone loved it. Well except for the handful of people who didn’t really have a problem with the writing, but thought that the same old people commenting about it afterwards ruined it. But everyone else loved it, and the boy won the competition and Ron Charlsie finished second. But unfortunately for him, Mouthnoise came last, and the teachers took it in turns guffing on his article, then it was set on fire and the ashes of it were sprinkled over cats wee.
However as usual in life, what is fair and what is just have very little to do with how reality unfolds. Both the boy and his friend Ron Charlsie got jobs writing blogs for the prestigious BBC which were brilliant and enjoyable and followed loyally by literally dozens of people. But the evil and talentless Ruthless Mouthnoise, was as good as his word and when he brutally killed his father by repeatedly reading one of his articles to him, he took his place as chief sports writer. And as a dawn of darkness swept over the BBCs online content, he swore vengeance upon the boy from tees and his grubby mate who had shown him up and ridiculed him back at Blogwarts school for good writing and grammar and stuff…

The above story and its characters are all based on real people, and ideas from other books, its plagiarism from start to finish. The boy is Robbo, Ron Charlsie is Chris Charles and Ruthless Mouthnoise is that cunt Phil McNulty.

Well here we are then, episode numero seven-tose of the Aldershot Woes, and it is a literary shit box of poor story telling, bad grammar, shabby structure and 2 dimensional characters. All in all, another Woefull effort. I hope you enjoyed it though I sincerely doubt you did unless you have some sort of brain trouble or you’re a literary masochist (How is McNulty’s new blog?). But I’ll keep banging this sh!t out regardless of how crap it is, and you never know one day I may be Chief Sports Writer…

Were dropping the ho/woes running gag, as it was limited at best…

You can’t follow me on twitter as I am invisible, you would be wasting your time even trying.


Monday, 24 May 2010


Easynow… well if you have not melted in the sun but you have gone partially deranged due to sun-stroke I welcome you back to the 6th Woe, in what is fast becoming a cackfest, the likes of which has not been seen since Nick Griffin was allowed to be one of the contributors on the second series of Grumpy old Men… It really is shit.

With the arrival of this premature and slightly jaundice summer, the weekend has brought out some of natures greatest marvels… So this week we go all Bill Oddy on the Woes, as we take a look at the Estate in full bloom…

That’s right, its “Chav Watch”.

One of the greatest spectacles of modern society has been un-folding before my very eyes this weekend. I speak about the majestic emergence of the Junkie (scumus-shitirectum) from his dark and dank den to the green of open parks and to shade and amusement of children’s playgrounds. The Junkie (dirtus-cuntum) is by its very nature one the most timid creatures of the estate and during the colder months it is a rarity to see him in his full splendour during daylight hours. If you are lucky, you may see him scurrying over a garden fence to attempt a break-in, or maybe shifting back from the shops if he has run out of tabs or needs to pick up his giro…
But never are you allowed to fully delve in to his hovel and see him going about his every day business, (shivering, being sick and staring vaguely in to space)… But as the sun comes out and dances across the balconies of the flats and starts to warm the tarmac of the streets below, the Junkie (filthi-bastardous) cautiously joins him for a day of heat fuelled fun.

The Junkie (grubbi-fuckwitiki) thrives upon these sunny days as it enables him to store enough vitamin D in his depleted carcasses to keep him free from rickets for the coming year, but it is far more than just a means of survival that brings the Junkie (drainapon-societum) out today. First they find a suitable location for their outing, park benches are surprisingly left wanting as the Junkies (completus-wasticus) pass then up for the shade and support of a reliable tree. The first port of call before any crack or heroin is smoked is the off licence for a four pack of super strength lager, once the first can is drunk, work can begin on making the empty in to a pipe to smoke their precious, precious drugs through. It is after this has happened the Junkie (wotacunticus) settles in to enjoy his day in the sun… As the hours pass more Junkies (moralless-wankadium) arrive and soon a pack is established. Though it can be a daunting experience seeing a full huddle of Junkies (dirtriddle-leechicus) the experience is a true wonder to behold. Sitting in their circles passing around junk in a ritualistic manner, vomiting blood, laughing at breezes, often one or two of the females will be partaking in fellatio with the alpha fiends, and all without any sense of decency or recognition of their open surroundings… it is enough to bring a tear to the eye… and then as the day passes the sun baked warped minds of the Junkies tell them that trouble is coming, and with a military like precision they stumble back to their holes, leaving behind a trail of needles, blood, torn-up beer cans and excrement in their wake. Never to be seen again until late winter when he will poke his head out of his hovel, and as we all know if he casts a shadow their will be 2 weeks more of winter.

However the humble drug-fiends are not the only group affected by the sun, another set whom are out and about today with an unusual glint of merriment in their eyes are the alcoholics… Though this group of rum soaked wasters are seen far more often than the junkies (running-jokus) seeing the mischief and debauchery the heat brings out is still, for myself at least, just as magical… The rummies unlike the junkies tend to take residence in a ground-floor flat garden, given that their addiction is legal and encouraged they are free to set them selves up in their own abodes… Once a suitable base is established the drinking can start, and as every soak knows the hotter it is, the louder you must be in conversation… and hearing these narrow minded bellows of mind bending ignorance really hits home the true majesty of these liver-needing toothless legends of the estate. They pass comment and judgement on all whom pass by, be it to heckle and insult or to endow some great wisdom, all within ear shot are lambasted with the twisted logic and cringe inducing encouragement of these stalwarts of the estate. The relentless dedication they give to being repulsive and offensive is beautiful… Ladies are sexually harassed and requested they “get them out” blacks, Asians and anyone remotely off set from the blue-print of council estate form are hailed with abuse, which manages to encompass ignorance with offensiveness in such a manner that the over whelming sadness is replaced with ironic glee. Unlike the Junkies (makeup-yourownum) the ‘holics will drink late in to the night, with no respite from their fun, until the fight breaks out (fights are obligatory amongst soaks on sunny days) and the police request they turn it in for the night…

And violence is another staple of the sunny day on the estate, and one that is impossible to escape from, regardless of how hard you try. And the reason for the trouble is the great catalyst to summer time anger and violence… the Barbeque.
BBQs are such fine magnets for trouble as they have all the elements you could possibly want for a war to break out; weapons, alcohol, drugs, a gross level of stupidity, heat, women and of course that most common of creatures on the estate… the Dickhead.
Dickheads are littered through out the estate and are unbearable and fascinatingly entertaining in equal measure. And though their actions are consistent through out the year it makes their behaviour in the sun no less amazing to witness. The hot sun frustrates these simple creatures and leaves them ill tempered and quick to turn to violence. This is due to the following contributing factors, firstly sun-stroke, at an early age dickheads are taught to remove their shirts at the faintest glimpse of sunshine (it is considered poofy amongst the tribes if you do not) with their bodies left baking in the sun their small and simple minds are easily frazzled, which leads to an increased sense of the familiar confusion these beautiful beasts suffer daily. The fire is then further fanned by the addition of alcohol and recreational drugs, which add a sense of paranoia and a feeling of invincibility. A deadly cocktail. These volatile creatures, confused, angry and sure the world is against them, then get introduced to the trigger to all feuds known to man (be them chavy or not), the opposite sex… and as the slags of the estate compete to show off as much tubby acne scared skin as possible, the Dickheads in an effort to get to the top of their social group, ready themselves for war.
This is what’s really great about this weather if you watch a group of scum for long enough you see a fight, even if you do your best to stay away from scum, you see a fight, even if you lock your self in a darkened room, you will at the very least here a fight. The dickheads and their BBQs tend to fade out not too long after night fall, the fighters have been arrested or have scurried of to claim their prize slag, and the ones that were battered are checking themselves out of AandE and returning home for a well earned kip.

There are many other groups that come out make the most of the sun in the estate, we touched on the slags briefly (Chlamydia tests pending) but we also have the sleeping old people, the die hard goth kid (he ain’t taking that leather coat off, so don’t ask him) and the many other characters that make being hot sticky and uncomfortable in a shitty estate worth it…

OK, alright, check it out… Episode 6 in the Aldershot Woes, it was overly long, not very funny, poorly written and can only be a hindrance to the life of any one who reads it… so at least I’m consistent. This Woe comes in the last week of Blogsparational blogger Robbo “I wanna blog you up” Robson at the BBC, and in the first week to not have ROTW and QOTW by Chris “Danny Dyer and Dave Lister” Charles on the BBC. So I am dedicating its woefulness to these giants of the blogmunity, how the BBC can commit blogacide in this manner is a crime, and I am glad it has been met with universal blogdemnation. To Charlsie and Robbo…. FUCK THE BBC.

Ok, for those looking for a blog on ladies of the night in the Aldershot area and have accidentally stumbled upon this blog… thanks for reading this far, though after the first couple of poorly written paragraphs, you should have twigged…. “Aldershot Woes”. Simples….

You’re already following me on Twitter, you just don’t know it yet…


Friday, 21 May 2010

Woe-mans Own

Ah, there you are. Pull up a pew, get your self comfy, relax, unwind… can I get you anything? No? You’re sure now?... Good, good, ok then let’s begin…

In the last Woe I discussed the fine art of Bitching About Shit, and how I felt it was staple to the dietary characteristic of the British people, I have now learned that many people all over the world are also knee deep in bitching and elbow deep in shit… its a universal trait of man. So my apologies if my ignorance filled shit tirade left anyone feeling excluded… my bad.

In my ever expanding search for content and direction for the Woes I have been looking at even more popular journalists, current event programming and top selling magazines to find the formula for popular writing… and through a series of calculated experiments, rigorous study, dedicated and arduous research, spending night and day at the library, watching 24 hour rolling news channels and flicking through magazines in the Co-Op I have found the forum of media which encompasses the right amount of each element to create the long searched for “perfect read”… I realised that you need, drama, heart ache, giggles, tips, competitions, real-life, celebrity tittle tattle and star signs all delivered in a comfortable and relaxed way. I give it you that the best form of any publication is…. Women’s Magazines.

So in order to create the greatest blog ever, today I shall condense the 70 odd pages of “Take a Break” “Womens Own” “That’s Life”… and my personal favorite “Pick me Up” (it has friend of Aldershot Jeremy “jezza” Kyle in it) in to one blog… oh sweet fuck yes.

Real Life: Girl Born With No Face…

Most little girls have a face, they can wear make up, look at stuff, pluck eyebrows, have eye brows, but one very special little girl was born without a face, here in her own words, is her story…

“Hmph mph mphhh hmmmm hmm mumph herrrrmmm mmmmph”

Tragic…. If you or some one you know doesn’t have a face or has been affected by facelessness, well that’s just horrible, really horrible, I’m sorry.

Heart Ache: He Left Me for Meself:
Cheating cunt… Crazy bitch… Wankers… here Debbie 43 explains in her own words…

I met Darren Oates, unemployed 32, last summer and I thought he was cracking, he bought me a drink once and give me twos on his tabs, he weren’t like other men, but trouble was I weren’t like other lasses… I have multiple personality disorder, no I don’t, yes I do. And Darren always said he was fine with that, and that he loved me, in my original and primary persona. But one day I come home to find him in bed with meself… I was gutted. Darren of Chavscum Road, Donny and meself moved in together the next day I sometimes see them around but I’m moving on, I met someone else and hopefully he can love us for who we are…

Celebs: Dripping in Hot Gos
John Terry has been caught in a new dogging scandal, Roy Keane is furious and poor Triggs may never play fetch again.

Find the missing words to solve the phrase…
_ _ _ _ _ Britain?
_ _ _ 80s classic movie with Tom Hanks as a boy turned man?
Blue, Great and Yellow Browed _ _ _ _ all garden favorites?

I am sensing that regardless of your star sign if you are reading this you are deluded and gullible, I sense that Wednesday people on the doll will be coming in to money, and I see a break for most starting Friday night and ending Monday morning…

Tips: Ten Uses for… Pencil Shavings.

1.Ideal as make shift sawdust
2.If you can gather enough it makes an original alternative to gravel on your drive
3.Stick back together around a thin piece of carbon to make your own pencils
4.A great wig, from a distance
5.Cheap insulation for a dolls house
6.Use as decoration on a home made birthday card
7.Great for mopping up tiny sicks
8.Mix with PVA glue and spread on a wall for woodchip effect
9.Cheap confetti for a wedding
10.Use to make fake beards for undercover action men

Right then, I think that about sums up E5 of the Woes, and woeful it was as ever… I was gonna do a problems page but “Pick Me Up” Has Jeremy Kyle, and I just can’t compete with him, brothers got mad problem skills get me?, I would be a fool to try… I hope that the above was an enjoyable Woe, and raised a brief moment of joy for this sunny Friday where we really should be sent home or aloud to do our work outside like you could at school. Footy is dead now till the world cup, so I’ll be watching ESPN classic till then… All the best to you all… I leave you with the obligatory running jokes.

For those readers looking for Aldershot Hoes, I’ll soon be employing a meerkat to point out the difference to avoid this trouble in the future.

And as ever you can’t follow me on Twitter, as company execs at MySpace are holding my family hostage and have said they will kill them if I open a Twitter account… please MySpace, I just wanna know they’re OK, I love you darling… I’ll get you home soon.


Wednesday, 19 May 2010

Bitching..... about shit

Greetings travelers, (that’s a metaphor as you have traveled through the internet to get to this blog, I’m not calling you all gypo’s or pikeys so please don’t take offence…yet).

Well in an attempt to scrape some level of coherentness and completication to my work, I have been doing two things this week, making up words to use to importify my selfnessishness in my writing and studying other popular columnists and opinionators of our time, and seeing what the secret is to a successful career in blog-type writing…. The results were astounding.

Astoundingly predictable that is… I looked at the most popular writers of our generation (well the last 3-4 months) and after intense cross referencing, deciphering, and studying I have found the common ground that links these stalwarts of British media… And it is a doozy. The answer is plain and simple, its what the English, nay the British are better at than almost any other peoples of the world, it’s the thing that makes us who we are and controls what we do. It is the insignia of Blightyness, without this overriding sense, this behemoth of an emotion, this nation wide ethos, this single characteristic which has acted as a giant magnet pulling people of a like mind to these shores for best part of 3 millennia, this one trait that makes us, us. It is of course the noblest of all writing styles, conversation, verse and prose… I talk of: Bitching About Shit.

Yes Bitching About Shit, we do it all the time, about sports, politics, religion, telly, music, people we know, people we’ve seen, people we might see, people other people have seen and we have just heard about, you name it we bitch about it. We do it in groups, at work, at home, with friends, with strangers, even on our own… I have been known, as I suspect we all have at times, to mutter under my breath when I see something truly repulsive. For example, morbidly obese people in MacDonalds who, not content with their own type 2 diabetes, feel the need to force their chubby affliction on to their ever round faced children. I was there one Saturday with my 2 girls (were not fat, so its ok) and I heard a woman scream at her child for not finishing all of his (large) meal as he wanted go and run around in the indoor climbing play area (you know, most MacDs have them, they smell like urine, fries and bleach… ideal for your kids). And this was a really fat kid, it looked like he hadn’t run around anywhere, ever in his entire chubby little life… he had one of those fat kid faces that looks like its being squeezed out a tube, you know the ones that are funny and desperately sad in equal measure….. Anyway what was I saying, oh yeah I uttered under my breath “stupid lazy bitch hurry up and lose a leg” .

Well the tangent above proves the point, bitching is a force more powerful than any of us can really, truly comprehend and it is the cement which holds together this rag-tag little island I call home. So why do we bitch so much? How long have we been bitching, and what would we ever do if one day we woke up and there was nothing to bitch about? God help us…

I have been hitting the history books pretty hard this week looking for the first instances of bitching in modern man, as well as researching I have been speaking to many noted historians and asking their opinions on what was the dawn of bitching, and what makes it so ingrained in to the DNA of your average Brittainese. (Ok I haven’t, I just made some stuff up, you know like a real journalist would).

The earliest recorded bitch was in 300BC when the Romans arrived and chased all the native gingers up north and to Ireland, and in true Brittania style, it was about the weather… One centurion was punished by death for calling the British weather “a great shower of shite” (Showerdium Crapshiticus). For his disdain he was fed to the wolves and as they did with most things, the old Romans made a note of it. However acclaimed BBC history man and posh old fruit Simon Schama believes that Bitching was around long before then he claims that “When the dawn of man arose in Africa, two camps were set up, those that were happy and content at their ever evolving brains and new found abilities, and those that thought that both the wheel and the fire needed proper regulations and health and safety checks. The content tribe spread out to sunny lands and enjoyed and embraced life, the other built a boat and sailed to a grey/green lump, they called it Britain and invented awesome sports that the happy tribes could beat them at just so they would have extra things to moan about”. So bitching has been part of us for a very long time, and the triumphs of British history are littered with examples of it. As Nelson was beating foreigners in boats, people were moaning about the weight of cannon balls, and asking “who does that Nelson think he is”. As Shakespeare wrote plays and sonnets, people were moaning about the uncomfortable seats at the Globe theatre and asking themselves “who does that Shakespeare think he is”…

Although the overriding context of bitching is one of negativity, the underlying result is truly one of marvel and positivity, it helped shape a nation of handlers of ballsy get up and goers of, well you know, people with a good work ethic and stuff. The popular myth of the “Blitz Spirit” is one of jollyness and crap songs in the face of adversity, but that is a fallacy, the truth is we bitched our way through it, as we do any great ordeal or dilemma, and we will the next time a problem arises.

Bitchyness and Bitching about shit are now so popular that they have their own dedicated mediums and now we have bitching aficionados, connoisseurs of bitching about shit. Now in the 21st century there is a wealth of styles of bitching and a multitude of types of shit to bitch about… and now thanks to the internet more people are bitching about shit than ever before. We live in bitchy Britain, and it is truly a wonder to behold, and then moan about… So a big thank you to the pioneers of modern bitchyness, to those who are there to make us raise a narky smile, to the ones who help us raise a sadistic chuckle about just how crap life is… to the Clarksons, who remind how change is evil and foreigners aren’t to be trusted, to the Brookers who put in to words far better than our own, our dislike for celebrities and television and people, to all the daily newspapers who have married together bitching about shit with their own selfish agendas, and even used the powers of bitching about shit to divide and partially destroy all forms of harmony left in the country… To you noble misery-merchants, you publishers of pestilence, you writers and commentators of crapiness, I salute you and offer this bitch as a token of gratitude for your good work… Long may you inspire me to moan, and to put any sunny dispositions to the sword.

Life is all great pile of dirty mucky shit any way, we may as well moan about it and get some sort of satisfaction from it all.

Ok then, that was it, episode four of the Woes, and a truly woeful episode it was too, if you have read this far, well done… you’re a glutton for poor grammar with a thirst for ignorance that has hopefully been quenched upon this diatribe of shite. I hope you enjoyed it, but only enough to go and bitch about it to some else, and then in turn I hope that they go and bitch about your bitchyness to someone else, who then goes fourth to bitch about that bitchyness and so and so fourth till the bitch circle is complete and someone tells me about some gobshite on the intyspace running his gums about bitching, that has everyone else bitching… that’s the dream people…

You can’t follow me on twitter, as I am too damn fast for you!

Woeing me Woeing you… Ahhhhaaaaaa! (thanks blogers me old china)

Monday, 17 May 2010

Weekends.... whats the point?


Ok then number three from the Woes, and after this weekend the WOES is definitely a fitting title for this little blog… well after a season of ups and downs, of hopes, of glories, of defeats and dashed dreams… We made it! The gateway to the promised land, the reception room to the world of dreams, the doormat of destiny, the stoop of greener pastures the garden path to a brighter tomorrow… yes ladies and gentleman the first leg of the first round of the play offs for the 2009/2010 fizzy pop league two… the winner of the these two arduous rounds gets a day out in north west London (Yessssssss), and the chance to play for a spot in the mighty league one (cowabunga)… I’ve goose-pimples just writing it down.

The excitement around town in the mawning was actually pretty impressive, a lot of people were drunk early, and I mean early even by Aldershot standards. The crowds were a sea of red and blue (and Burberry)… people were buzzing, their was a strange euphoria surrounding the town centre, one that has not been seen since the introduction of the £30 quarter back in 2004… as a town we were up for it… and considering the collective lethargic ethos of the Shot, it really was something to behold. Even the crazies (and Shot has a lot of them) were getting involved, the usual under breath mutterings of profanity and biblical apocalyptic predicictions were interspersed with football chants, one elderly woman even proclaiming that Marvin Morgan was the second coming of Christ and that Kevin Dillon was superman… Neither claim has yet been certified either way.

Anyway, the town was buzzing which is a good thing… however like most times of ecstasy, what goes up, usually has a comedown… and after a tight, nervy, edge of seat, nail biting, fist chomping, hide-behind-seat and prey 90 minutes of football, we come out with a one nil deficit and a trip to deepest darkest Rotherham ahead of us on Wednesday…. I’m not going Wednesday, mainly because I have a wife ready to give birth any day now but also because ever since I was lad I had an irrational fear of the Chuckle Brothers, and I understand that Paul and Barry are season ticket holders… Bullet dodged me thinks…

Speaking of which, if the situation did arise, just how do you kill a chuckle brother? I have researched this and according to the ancient texts written in a long since forgotten Rotherham tongue (I had Derrick Ancorah channel the spirit of a 3rd century Miller and translate the text) you need to first kill the head Chuckle in order to make the others mortal… BBC executives have been trying for the last 20 years since Paul and Barry entered in to a blood-deal with CBBC’s head of programming and that time Broom Closet aficionado Philip Schofield… They used their black magic to save the life of kids favorite Gorden The Gopher… From then on they have commanded the wills of the CBBC execs… in a deal which lasts till the demise of the Chuckles… thankfully this all plays out with hilarious consequences and Paul usually gets hit by a ladder or summat… anyway… what was I saying…

Oh yeah this weekend… unfortunately proving that better is actually better and better always wins… Pompey took the hopes of the nation to Wembley to put the giants to the sword and refill faith to under-dogs everywhere. And it all played out with sickening predictability, fair play to the blues I suppose… A well earned double that only came at the cost of hope for everyone everywhere forever… When does the world cup start???

So then, there it is KABLAM episode three, in the hizouse… on road, in the web, on net, part of the bogosphere, on line, and I am getting the hang of it just about… I type words about bollocks whilst trying to look busy at work go off on tangents and then publish this cack, in the faint hope that someone will read it and for just a split second of time, I will be more important than someone else somewhere, kind of, just a little bit…

As ever I’d like to thank you all for reading and apologise for wasting your time, just think in the 2 minutes or so you’ve just spent reading this tripe you could have, cooked minute rice (twice), run around the block (twice) eaten a Curly Wurly (twice) made love to your wife (thrice) or done some work….

Twitter is forbidden in my religion but if you want to follow me please let me know in advance so I can speak to the authorities and have restraining orders put in place.

Its been nice WOEing you….. (too cheesy yeah?)

(The writer would like to assure you all that no Chuckles were harmed or raised in the writing of this blog).

Friday, 14 May 2010

Chapter 2a: The Bloggening

It’s a funny old thing this blogging lark, still getting the hang of it to be honest… I find it hard to write one cohesive sentence on one subject let alone a series of them working together to form paragraphs, then all coming together like a spritely team of ninjas getting in to formation and creating a whole body of work… I’m just not good at it… See even that last lot went off on tangent about ninjas… although when I were at school (and I weren’t their that often) I thought that was one aspect of English Lit that was lacking… Ninjas… I’m yet to imagine a scenario where they wouldn't instantly improve everything around them. Unless of course you were up to something intimate with the Mrs, you probably wouldn’t want a bunch of ninjas there, although the cool thing about ninjas is this…. How do you know they’re not already there??? Be honest, how many people looked behind their shoulders then? Nah me neither….

Anyway what was I saying, oh yeah this blog writing lark… I have done research and apparently I need a focus, a central aim an objective an agenda, something of substance, the blog needs to be about something... However I am deciding to go against the grain… I want to just churn out a great fecking mix of the thick layer of cack that lines my fragile mind… Then hopefully for each one, mould that cack in to some sort of recogniseable collective of things… Stop me if I am going to quick for you here….

So though these are early days of the Woes, I think I am forming what may be the beginning stages of what some may consider the shape of something that vaguely resembles an idea… A first of its kind, a bringing together of sports, politics, current affairs (and raison news), celebrity tittle tattle, religion, drama, dance cartoon, and of course ninjas (look slowly behind you… ah too late he gone!), I give you the blogsketch…

Ok so it’s a thinly veiled excuse for the mish mash of ideas pouring out my thought box and it to this blog, but hopefully over the coming years and decades I will one day have something could be considered by someone to be something, sort of. And isn’t that all any of us really want out of life….

So then that was the story of how a half assed idea was formulated and put in to actions by one Aldershot’s greatest minds and tax payers (there are 5 of us all together that pay tax in Shot, I used to pay the most but since the titty bar went legit and got their VAT number, I’m a long way off)…..

You cant follow me on twitter but i finsh work at around 5... meet you at the gates?

Chapter 2: The beginning

Welcome, my name is, well not important… but the things I have to say are, well, also not important… Ok truth be told your gonna be wasting your time reading any further than this… But if you are still here let me break the ice and give you the low down of Aldershot Woes….

I live in the gutter of the South east (just metaphor I don’t live in a big gutter) a garrison town called aldershot we have a great football team, great hordes of scum and about for billion squaddies… mix it all up and you have a big mixy thing full of scum and squaddies… I said you’d be wasting your time. Any way in the ever likely even that the mix of angry pikeys and moron squaddies results in Alsdershot being blown up and completely forgotten about… I would like to share some things with you… I’ll do however many I can a week, your welcome to comment, but nothing too blue!

Some ground rules:
I will use their, they’re and there incorrectly
Don’t take anything too serious, its just a joke

That’s about it…

The Journey begins…