On my Head Son !

I love football. I love it more than porn, or Wham bars ... or my mom. Actually no, I shouldn’t have said the thing about my mom that wasn’t fair, but it did take 3-4 minutes of debating to put my mom above football as my N0.1 love. Sorry Jayne.

I was a shit footballer at school too. I was one of those proper little Nancy boys who were so preoccupied with seeing a bit of pre-puberty tupance... or too busy picking my nose and eating Monster Munch that football didn’t even register on my Beefy corn-snack riddled brain.

Then I did see a bit of lady garden and at 9 it just weirded me out, looked like something out of the Little Barber shop of Horrors. All ‘orrible and different.

So I decided that was that, and had a kick about instead.

I was hooked instantly. Like a cheap prostitute on crack, with the breaking point of a Kit-Kat. All I wanted to do was play football, I joined teams, I played all the time, I ate and drank and breathed football ...When I wasn’t playing Mario 64 or poking dead pigeons with a stick... But I was still shit. I blame my unfortunate body shape, my centre of gravity is too high and it makes me topple like a crap game of Jenga. It’s heartbreaking to admit your cack at Football; it should be ingrained in your genes. Its kinda like admitting you have a little tallywhacker, Which I don’t obviously, Mines like a baby’s arm holding an apple, But It’s hard to describe to women the appeal of Football, not only cos they have squirrel-like-brains but because it truly is a MAN thing.

The pull of the crowd, the sights, the sounds, the £50 shirts and the oh-so-near games. It gives you something to look forward to if everything around you is falling like the twin towers you know that come rain or shine the football will be kicking off on Saturday at 3. It’s certain, it’s beautiful, and it’s at times heart-wrenching and unrelenting. Searching always in the desire to see grown men cry, but like the aforementioned tuppance “You can’t live without it”

They think it’s all over.... It isn’t there’s an evening Kick Off pal.

No Frills.

Tomorrow I work my first full day/9-5/8 hour shift, since I decided to quit work for the Student ‘Pasta and Beans, No frills Vodka’ lifestyle. Tomorrow I tuck my shirt in, brush my teeth for longer than the time it takes me to Piss in the sink, and make myself presentable in the eyes of society. The last time I did this Justin Bieber was just a wank away from being a stain on his Dad’s bedroom curtains. It’s hurting me to my very soul, nay to my very trimmed ball sack!  That I have to join the working minions (even if it is for only 3 weeks) I can’t stand its rigidity. I’m used to getting up and if I fancy super-noodles for breakfast at 10.14 in the morning then, praise sweet baby Jesus I’m cooking me up some beefy noodily goodness. I’m not a hippy free spirit. I’m just lazy. Unbelievably so. I’m so lazy ill just stop sentenc…

Ill blog tomorrow after my first day of internship and let you know how it went. If I don’t post by this time tomorrow then know for certain I have taken to the Tyne Bridge on my lunch break and done the honourable thing….. Either that or I’m drowning my sorrows with a crate of vodka and Thai lady-boy named Frank.

Click the Link. Follow the Booty-call

My flatmate just woke me up.

It’s 2:22am – The beauty and symmetry of this time would be beautiful to me if I wasn’t still half asleep and sporting a premature Morning-Glory.

He has woke me up to see how far away ‘Wingrove Avenue’ is on my phone. My phone tells me it’s a 57 minute walk away. This information doesn’t appeal to him and he scrunches his face up like a Nan trying to push out a fart.

Using my Inspector Poirot like detective skills i find out the journey is for a booty call to see someone called Stacey; he doesn’t give me her surname. He knows ill search for her on Facebook and make a list of reasons why she resembles a bucket of smashed crabs. I pride myself on annoying my flatmate at least 11 times a day; it’s nice to have a hobby... I think the technical term for someone like me is ‘a cunt’

I try talking him out of the situation. I know that once he’s got her into bed, had a bit of how’s your father and squirted his man fat onto her top lip he’ll be stuck in a random booty callers house 57 minutes away from his own. Wishing he’d had a cold shower and some coco-pops instead.

This all happened an hour ago.

3 minutes ago I received a text from my flatmate saying ‘Instantly regretting this decision’ to which I reply ‘Bust your nut already?’  ..... ‘No’ he says ....’ she looks like a bucket of smashed crabs.....I’ll see you in 57 minutes’

It hurts to be rite all the time. 

http://maps.google.co.uk/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=bayswater+road+newcastle&daddr=Wingrove+Ave,+Newcastle+Upon+Tyne,+Tyne+And+Wear+NE4,+United+Kingdom&hl=en&geocode=FQYmRwMdl3jn_ynJGAYB2HB-SDHrGsk9jdgDQg%3BFWnnRgMdauHm_ykJ0BCZPXd-SDFZzQxzCZjCoA&mra=ltm&dirflg=w&sll=54.98823,-1.628015&sspn=0.023982,0.077162&ie=UTF8&t=h&z=14 

Liberace's Love Child.

I think they should create a new word for me. Adjectives just don’t cut it and I can’t put myself into any style or social genre. I’m overly metro sexual and this is a problem. I look like a caricature of Shaun off of Coronation Street but with a limper wrist and less bumming. Nights out habitually end up with me trying to convince ‘a girl’ that I’m not actually gay and that she really should try my Appletini – It’s to die for. In the hope she might get so pissed she’ll have a go at ridin’ the Ol’bony Pony.

But 86% of the time ends in me coming home vagina-less with a kebab in one hand and my ‘bald headed yoghurt slinger’*  in the other. Confused as to whether I asked for Mayo on my Kebab or if I willy-sicked onto my tray of horse meat. While the taxi driver tells me to put it away ‘cos it’s putting him off driving’ (sorry Habib)

But just for the record I really do love fanny. I want to make that clear early on.

I can see your metaphorical brain cogs working to cement a picture of me in your mind, complete with pouted lips and chiffon scarf, and if I’m rite then please take out your brain and spank it over your knee because the thought is depressing me. And it’s making my hangover feel like I’m re-enacting Jill Dando’s last moments.
This blog will serve as a tool to teach your (future) Kids how not to live their life, like I’m the manifestation of that dodgy looking stain on the sofa, the one you hide with a Primark cushion. Is it jizz or just dried on yoghurt?

This Blog will be the rambling of a 22 year old with many undefined issues OCD (but without the much needed cleaning obsession), questionable hygiene, sociable smoking, gambling, drinking and chauvinistic tendencies, bred from a poor Northern upbringing. And it will be shit. I suggest using the internet for its real purpose and surfing for porn instead (Kebab optional)
Hi my names Tim: PR Student, bar bitch, Uncle, Brother, Son, Friend, Micro-Blogger, Twittererer, Cake eater, Shower singer.
Stick with me as I stumble like a drunken Cat on a washing line through my life.

*AKA My Nob /100% Beef thermometer/Ding Dong/Alabama Snake/Cock/The D Train/Hog/Johnson/Joystick/Love Muscle/Long Dong Silver/Main Vein/Ol’ One Eye/Purple Headed Soldier/Pud.

Losing Muscle on my Wrist ...

My internet is doing my chuffing head in…

It. Is. slow….

No! Fuck that, slow is an understatement. Saying my Internet is ‘slow’ is like saying Hitler killed a ‘few’ Jews or saying Louis Spence is a ‘little’ camp. When we all know Hitler killed whenever the telly was shit and Louis Spence gets more cock than a Geordie on a Hen do.

Ironic then that I’m getting my internet (or not as is the case 87% of the time) from Virgin. Virgin Media. Richard Branson – The goateed Anti Christ. I should have known better than to choose a company that couldn’t even make profit from selling Cola. I have the brain power of an Amoeba and even I could sell Cola, Its liquid crack. Even Netto’s child-slavery produced, 18% badgers piss Cola makes a profit, and that’s no small fete considering it carries’ more risk than a weekend break in Chernobyl.

SO I rang Virgin’s Customer Service number – Spoke to ‘Dave’ who was about as much use as a cock flavoured lollipop ‘Have you tried turning the Modem off and on?’ ooooooh thanks Dave, you genius, I didn’t think of that !! You really are a headset-clad wizard of the inter-web; I bet Bill Gates is shitting himself.

Did this work? You decide, Please choose your option from the 3 below:

•  Well actually yes it did. Which made me feel instantly like a xenophobic angry Yorkshire-man; hating posh English Billionaires just because they have nice accents and well groomed facial-hair … I wish I had nice facial-hair. I just look like a young Zach Dingle from Emmerdale, And the thought of me dying alone, adorned with a shit flat-cap and my own tankard in the Woolpack – surrounded by the fatter one from Birds of a Feather and him who used to be a rite little twat in shameless, forces me to drink so much Kestrel Super-Strength lager I go beyond ‘Jeremy Kyle DNA test’ and end up in the realms of George Best, drinking at his best session rate.  So I die there, at the bar, and collapse face first into a batch of Marlon’s homemade ham and pickle toasties. Never to be seen of again. Until I turn up 3 months later on a random Tuesday episode of Doctors. Or as a denim clad truck driver who ‘had one too many’ and caused an 83 car pileup in Holby City.

•  Did it feck work, there was more chance of me slipping Kathryn Brady from ‘The Apprentice’ one in her shitpipe. So I pluck up all my courage, mainly because of the 3 cans of out of date Tesco Organic Cider I downed. And I go see Ol’ Richard Branston Pickle Dick and I tell him straight. I says ‘Ere Ricky! Sort out my internet so I can start streaming Lesbian porn again, cos at the moment I’m having Wanks in Instalments!’ at which point he shits in his plaid Golf shorts, puts down his Fois Gras Panini and rectifies the problem. Cheers Branson!  

• It doesn’t work. The Internet grinds to a full-fucking halt like the Chilean Mining Industry in the summer, and I decide to sit down and write a really sarcastic and pointless Blog.

I don’t think anyone needs to ‘phone a friend or ask the audience’ on this one now do we.

TTYL.