Oh no, "sex addiction"

Yeah. Right.

Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I thought Humans were genetically pre-programmed to fuck, and to want to fuck?

That's kind of what keeps us going - the Human race. You have some sex, and generally unless you are careful it ends up in a bawling dependent cash sucking life changing affair - a child. Pretty sure that's how nature intended it to be, and ensuring that generally it's pretty awesome fun makes sure that we keep pumping out those kids.

Traditionally you are supposed to really do this with someone you quite fancy, and want to actually hang around with for quite a bit, sometimes you are even supposed to marry them and live with them, and get a job, buy a house and even purchase food and essential stuff to bring up the child and almost look after them until they are at an age where you can throw them out and go on world cruises or start an adult education course to try and kid yourself that you still have something left to give in your life.

Now it used to be that if you had sexy time with anyone other than your long term partner and got found out, you were a cad and a bounder, and had to do lots of grovelling and apologising and go through that awful stage where you couldn't actually justify what you did, but just had to say things like "it didn't mean anything" and "it was a stupid thing to do, I was drunk". Sometimes you also had to try and expand the excuses to try and justify doing this thing on many different occasions and that got harder: "I was feeling really low and she/he just lavished attention on me, it was stupid, I should never have put what we have at risk" "the affair only lasted while we were going through our bad patch" "I've always loved you but I thought we were going to split up anyway" etc etc.

What it comes down to though really is that people love to have sex with other people. And new people offer a variety of genitalia that is both interesting and different to the usual bits you have seen for the last few years. Initially that's awfully exciting and fun, but don't kid yourself - it'll be just as predictable and samey in a few years also, and it'll complicate your life real quick if you decide to start checking out other peoples bits.

So recently when people have been caught out for poking stuff in other stuff, or having their stuff poked by other stuff, they can pull this "sex addiction" thing to explain why they did it: They didn't actually want to, it's just that their mind told them to. And it's their mind's fault - they don't even like that kind of stuff anyway. Result: expensive therapy and many hours of talking with a bespectacled professional about why they wanted to have so much sex all the time, and being told it was because you were staved of love when you were younger, and that checking out that copy of your Dad's Razzle that was at the back of his wardrobe gave you a warped sense of what was acceptable in a relationship.

I'm pretty sure I can work out why it is that people shag without the shrink: People like it.

People also like attention. And people love knowing that someone wants to have sex with them, unless it is some absolute hound, and even then it'll probably make you at least feel rather good that someone out there actually still wants you.

So if you get someone who has lots of people wanting to have sex with them, and they have periods of time where they can indulge in that sex without their significant other wondering where the hell they are, chances are they will have that sex. And then have some more. The more people that want to have sex with you, generally the more you'll think that you are pretty damn awesome, and start to think that you are some kind of sex deity. This will increase the chances that you'll have that affair. But you can at any time always say "no thanks', even though increasingly there seems to be more and more public people who think that actually it would be much better to just do it anyway.

Why there now has to be some kind of label for this I don't know. Everyone wants to have someone wanting to play about with their bits. The thing that stops most non single people from going ahead with some serious sex when it becomes apparent that there is someone there willing to do stuff is the fact that they can think "hold on a minute, as nice as that would probably be, I really shouldn't because actually, I'm in a relationship, and it would be pretty nasty to my other half (who I kind of love), and I'm sure I wouldn't like it happening to me".

Sometimes if you aren't perhaps that bothered about your other half, or if you simply think that you could probably get away with it, and don't really care too much about what happens if you get caught, you'll probably end up in a situation where you might be having that sex with that person. On occasion it can be a good thing as it can drag you out of a crap hole relationship. But always best to remember that it shouldn't really be done when you are actually with someone you DO want to stay with. That would be dumber than dumb.

Also, some people get a lot of good feelings from feeling wanted. And if they are in a situation where perhaps they feel unwanted or undervalued or are just starved of attention, when someone comes bowling along and makes it clear they are interested in the contents of their pants, it can make them feel rather good.

If you do get caught, just be honest - tell them that you like sex, and the person you had that sex with also seemed to like it. And also probably that the reason you had that sex is because it seemed like a great idea. Don't tell them you have a "sex addiction". You more than likely just have an addiction to adulation and attention from others.

Stay at home and have a wank instead. That way you can keep out of the papers and save yourself thousands of pounds in therapy while you are told that the key to your happiness and well being isn't found in your cock, or alternatively loose half of everything you have in the divorce courts.

"Sex addiction" - a modern take on just being a cunt.

Shopping. Fucking shopping.

It's not a new thing to write about, far from it in fact.

Everything about shopping eats shit. Unless I was shopping on my own in a post apocalyptic world (minus zombies or plague victims or anything) when it would be perfect.

The main thing about shopping that eats shit is other shoppers - horrible ghouls who insist on doing everything I want to do, but at 50x slower and with zero consideration for me or my feelings.

I like lists and bullet points, so I'll use them again. And if you don't like that then I can understand your feelings and the like, but, well, that's tough isn't it because this is my blog isn't it shit tits?

1. The doors
On the way in there should be rules. Clear rules. Like when you go to enter the shop, you enter via the left hand side of the doors, and people coming out come out via their left hand side as well. That way you don't get random pricks trying to edge in past 30 people coming out with trolleys and vice versa - trolley nobs trying to smash their way out.

2. Parking out the front
Just park in a fucking space you lazy prick. Just because Auntie Ethel is going to struggle dragging her bulk buy of Birds Eye Platter for One across the car park doesn't mean that you can park your Megane right in front of the store - that's why they give you trolleys, so you can roll your shit out to your car. When you park there you fuck it all up for those people who are lucky enough to have finished their shopping and want to go home. MOVE CUNTS.

3. Abandoned trolleys
I will make you a promise right here - if you leave your trolley randomly in the middle of the fucking isle while you go to look at seed bread or hot dogs then I WILL move it out of my way, and not with any sense of tidiness or order - it will just get rammed the fuck out of my way. This drives my wife mental with a sense of severe embarrassment. So I ram her the fuck out of the way too. I don't take prisoners in this game.

4. Reduced goods vultures
Funny how when crossing the road or looking for a suitably-close-to-the-doors parking space you old bastards are so infirm and fragile, yet when a spotty oik puts some crumbed ham or 200 sardines in a plain white bag for 12p less that the normal price, you turn into a scavenging warrior. Woe betide anyone who tries to get near the reduced counter. Grannies operate a NO GO area around that little fridge of despair when anything worth having is around. Just pay full price and get the good stuff, then you don't have to eat it all when you get home as it's going off that night. Pikeys.

5. Beady eyed security dudes
Get a real job. Just because the Army (both normal and Territorial) didn't want you doesn't mean you are some kind of super sleuth. Don't give me the beady eye as I walk into your poxy shop, there is fuck all worth nicking anyway. Just get back to your weird little TV mounted in some fiberglass plinth with an Atari joystick on the front to direct your horrible little cameras around your kingdom.

6. Single file only
Don't walk 2 or 3 abreast you fucking idiots - you're in a shop not a parade. If you walk 2 abreast and I'm headed towards you, guess what? I'm not going to move and I couldn't give a fuck whether you are 85 years old or not, you're getting bashed out of the way.

7. "Oooh, hiya Irene"
Listen up - the corner of the frozen goods isle is NOT the place to hold that impromptu catch up with some old cunt you haven't spoken to for months. You are already with your husband and so are they, and you both have trolleys so guess what? you all standing in the same fucking place not moving anywhere means that you are creating a big fucking jam, that I have to try and get around (usually at this point with a trolley so fucking heavy that you have to go faster than it around corners to make it steer) and I'm not going to be happy about that. MOVE CUNTS.

8. Tills (a)
When you get to the till then as far as I'm concerned you have finished your shopping and now want to pay. This means that you know that denture glue you forgot? that tin of peas? THEY ARE GONE NOW - a distant memory. You forgot them, you are now at the tills, so let it go. Either get the FUCK out of the queue and go get them, or forget them. You fucking off to go look for them while I wait behind your trolley with nothing going on is going to mean one thing only - I will punch your loaf of nice fresh bread until it is misshapen and horrible. And while I am doing that I'm pretending that it's your face.

9. Tills (b)
Get your money ready BEFORE you need to pay.
That's right - mental idea, but how about you actually get that fucking great big purse out of your handbag BEFORE the cashier has finished scanning and told you how much it is? then instead of standing around wasting my life, you would save valuable time for everyone else. No? Of course not - much better idea to not even think about bothering trying to get it ready until you decide that you are. I mean, why rush? Maybe, just maybe you would consider getting your purse out while you are in the queue waiting to be served? Oh no of course not because you are off around the store again looking for denture glue and a tin of peas. Prick.

10. Tills (c) - Self Service
WOW, the future is here - these tills allow you to scan your own stuff, BRILLIANT! there's a novelty! apart from it's not though is it - it's essentially the same as the other tills but without the till person doing it for you. Now it's not hard - you just scan the shit, put it in a bag and then pay for it. No, that's too hard for you isn't it. You handle each item like it's refined weapons grade Uranium and then jump every time the scanner beeps in encouragement to try and get to you HURRY THE FUCK UP. Then, you look back at the rest of the queue and smile in a "I'm so useless with these modern gizmos" way. I'm not smiling back at you - I'm thinking of ways to kill you with your shopping.

All in all, shopping is designed by cunts, attended by cunts and for cunts.

It's not the X Factor, it's another talent show (Just like the X Factor).

Watching the latest TV vomit offered up (usually by ITV) where we are subjected to a troupe of hopeless council estate knife wielding little cunts who think they can escape their poverty doomed lives through the medium of street dancing, singing, magic tricks or whatever the fuck else they think will give them a change makes me want to attack my own torso until it bleeds sense into my eyes. And that would be really hard, for a start I would probably have to be upside down for the blood to trickle into my peepers.

I occasionally look up from my laptop while the wife watches the latest lurid shit fest and observe seconds of the latest pricks trying to escape their parents loosing streak by showing off.

Problem is, most of them are fucking shit. And the ones that aren't are...no actually they are all shit. I'll start with some examples shall I?

Diversity.
Oh. My. God. A load of young men not selling drugs or merking each other on the streets, instead they are DANCING, to MUSIC!! This is brilliant! I mean here they are, an example to all young men - instead of fist fights and Lambert & Butlers smoked under a Nike hooded top, they get their aggression out through crazy fast moves and pre 1990 Janet Jackson stage wear. It makes you dream of a modern Britain where rival gangs fight it out via the medium of dance rather than bazookas. It's like West Side Story for the 21st century, apart from that bit in West Side Story where one of them gets proper stabbed up - that's bad.

So these fellows - here they are. No formal training, and they encompass all ages (if you are under 25) and all races (not actually all races). And what they do is amazing - they take popular tunes, edit them into bite size sausage roll style little segments and then do a little skit while the music plays. They will twizzle around this way and that, jerk their limbs to the beats as is the style these days, and then usually take the smaller one (with the ironic hairdo and surgically attached glasses) and throw him up in the air or make him to a rolly polly right at the end. Sometimes he even does BACKFLIPS over the rest of them while they lie in a heap on the floor.

Now the first time you see that shit, it actually looks kind of good - the "picking up change" arm movements up and down at the floor and the modern interpretation of jazz hands making you feel all happy for approximately 0.2 seconds.

But the important thing to remember, and you must never forget this is that this is the one and only time that being honest, they are any good. And they are only any good because you have never seen them before. Now it becomes like an episode of Eastenders - like the omnibus on Sundays - you would never EVER watch the same episode again because you have already seen it. You never watch the same episode of Eastenders twice. No way.

Shame no one actually exercises this control after the very first time they saw Diversity. Instead they were encouraged to do it again. And again. And again. And again. So much so in fact, that I now wish that they were out on the streets and selling crack to toothless hookers and shanking each other outside mediocre nightclubs. Just like any other kids their age.

Unfortunately this doesn't happen. And we are forced to endure more jaunts with them all doing their thing. And it never changes. Oh, the music changes - there are now more edits, more samples of random robotic chatter and less actual music, but they still do the same flurry of jerky moves followed by a bit where they stand still, and then throw the little one up in the air much to the whooping of the crowd.

Now they did variate the show just once, which was actually very entertaining - instead of the usual jumping of the little one they chose to "accidentally" drop him so that he landed on his face. That was worth watching.

Usually in these mixed "talent" shows that lead up to one group of clowns winning there are some other generic groups you can always rely on:

1. Youngish multiple fat dancing girls
10+ girls from youth centre project in council sink estate dressed up as the cast of Thriller. Mentored by a failed dancer/Mum

2. "Comedy" act.
Looser dad, thinks he's funny - does it at family parties so why not on national TV?

3. Really young kid.
Young. Really young. Sometimes still with the umbilical cord left on. Pushy parents and doting grandmother standard.

4. Ugly beast - good singer.
You know the drill.

5. Ventriloquist
Once you are over 2 years old and you realise it isn't the fucking puppet talking, it's the cunt holding him, there is no need for this "talent" to exist. Being able to hold a weird half-smile and talk out of a tiny crack of your mouth, sorry, make your puppet friend talk, isn't impressive. Shooting yourself right in the face with a massive shotgun and THEN making it talk would be.

Now apart from the X Factor and Britain Has Got Very Much Talent there are also copious other fuckfest cuntogrames that infect the goggle box with no sign of let up. So far I have witnessed at least the following:

• Celebrity Ice Dancing - mediocre barely known cunts, cunting about on ice skates. ALL ice skating/ice dancing is just shit with no exceptions so why bother with this?
• I Want To Be In A Lloyd-Webber Musical - load of cunts trying to sing their way to happiness with the worlds ugliest rich cunt judging. Oh and he gets richer from you watching and voting you idiots
• Come Dancing (you cunt) - give it up Bruce. You aren't funny, people are laughing at you out of 50 years of conditioning. I bet he pisses himself on stage next season. Again this is a collection of random TV types ballroom dancing. Ballroom fucking dancing. Please
• That Other One on Sky 1 with Davina - more cunts with no discernible talent and pushy parents trying to get in the local paper. From what I saw all the really really terrible shit that was so bad it couldn't even get into the Britain/Talent thing

That's the last I'll say on talent shows, as it appears that this blog is obsessed by them.

Thumbers. Office pests.

I work in an office. A run of the mill office complete with pens, desks, seats, monitors and things that you would and could find in any office you cared to perhaps break into.

I have worked in offices since around 1999, and I daresay I shall probably be working in one when I finally have to retire on medical grounds (I'm hoping for a gammy leg rather than something cancerous).

Now there are things that make office work grand - air conditioning when it's hot, the ability to legitimately require internet access at all times, and the requirement to purchase new "smart" shoes every 6 months that otherwise you would not have.

Drawbacks; there are many. And these are usually centred around my inability to deal with people on a basic human level. People tend to annoy me. In fact I would go so far as to say the only person who doesn't annoy me at some level and at some point is me. I accept my foibles and failings without question and never tell myself off. I get around bad decisions and foolhardy choices by describing them to myself as part of a "learning curve". Therefore I never fall out with myself or have to secretly harbor a grudge against me. I'll never leave me.

Now I can deal with people annoying me - I know I am inpatient and have a feeling that I could always do everything better, however there are traits that are averages in office colleagues that make me want to purchase a hunting rifle and climb onto the roof of the house opposite to methodically pick them off.

1. Thumbers.

Thumbers cause me distress, mental anguish and they make me want to invent lasers for my eyes so that I can burn them with bespectacled stares. Thumbers insist on transporting that cup of hot office beverage to you that they have just (kindly) made by holding the cup handle in the traditional and pre-approved way, but to steady the delivery of multiple brews to the different desks they must visit, they subconsciously decide to use the thumb of their hand to steady the rim of your cup as it is placed on your ironic/old fashioned/dirty desk place mat thing. Part of their body - the same body that at some point that day has wiped their poo bum or washed their genitalia in the bath has just been at best rubbed and on a few occasions dumped either in my brew or around the rim of your cup. Perfectly usable cup of scorchy hot juice is now useless.

2. Flatulence.

When I fart at work it's funny and cute, and the smell is amusing to me. When you fart it's disgusting and foul and I'm reminded that the smell in my nostril must be some kind of stink particle that has originally emanated from inside your body and ultimately from your shit. In addition the actual smell has undertones of food that I haven't been party to eating, and that makes me kind of jealous.

3. Eye contact.

Everyone tells you that eye contact is of maximum importance and that you should do it all the time - never blink or look away even in a force 10 gale when someone empties a bag of flour face level in front of you.

Problem is, as soon as I am locked in conversation with someone I start thinking about eye contact and how I must maintain it, then this starts to freak me out and I begin worrying that I'm only looking at one of their eyes and that it's impossible for me to look at both at once without looking mental, then I worry that I'm looking at the wrong one or that the other person is wondering why I am staring at only one of their eyes. At this point I usually switch attention to the other eye, but then wonder if they detected my subtle change and are wondering why I broke gaze. At this point I'm not concentrating on what they are saying so I start to worry that at the precise moment I switched eyes they probably said something slightly contentious that they wanted to gauge my feedback on, and have taken my eye gaze switch as a prompt of hatred or disagreement. All in all, eyes are trouble, and I now realise why David Blunkett made it so far up the political ladder - no one fucked with his eyes.

4. Where is my pen?

My pen, I know for a FACT, never gets moved by me. It's never more than 3 metres away from me at any one time during a working day yet on occasion it goes AWOL only to be found 15 minutes later under my keyboard or tray or something. I know for sure that this is another member of staff trying to screw with my mind. DON'T TOUCH MY PEN. If you ever see another member of staff with your pen, even months after it originally went missing, then you feel a primal urge to maim them and reclaim your bounty (the pen I mean, not a sickly sweet coconut chocolate bar that leaves coconut shrapnel betwixt gums and teeth for hours afterwards).

Oooooh, X Factor

17million viewers, sofas agog with excitement and trepidation across the UK, everyone positively moist in anticipation of who will win the coveted prize.

Why.

After the initial 'look at the freaks try and sing, LOOK AT THEM, LOOK AT HIS UGLY FACE' amusement of the first few rounds, I can barely bring myself to be in the same room as it being on TV.

It's honestly not an issue of snobbery or "I used to be in a band, this is bollocks this - proper corporate bollocks, it's not proper ART", it's just the whole wrapped up stinking shit parcel of a program that makes me want to throw up in my cupped hands and then splash it back into my face to keep myself focused and awake.

I'll tell you what I have issue with shall I? it's alright, you need not respond as I know you want to hear what I have to say on the matter.

• The fake electronic light show. Like Walter Peck in Ghostbusters, I know that the stage show, the lurid LED and neon retina fest that greats you, complete with booming authoritarian voice and 1000watts of Carl Orff blasting out are designed to trick your tiny brain - a virtual lobe tickling, to prepare you for the onslaught of ENTERTAINMENT. The Ghostbusters had Ghosts, this has Ghouls. ENTERTAINMENT GHOULS.
  

• The premise that this is a talent show - It's not. It's a visual representation of media manipulation to ensure you think that you have decided and paid for the winner to have a wildly successful career from this point onwards. That's mental talk that. Any potential "winner" has a 50/50 chance of jacking up in an alley to mute the pain of failure in less than a year. Case in point: Steve Brookstein. Clearly now a herion addict (probably isn't actually a herion addict).

• Talent/Impressionists show. "Ok, well done, you're in the final 27, now what I want you to do is stop singing the way you sing, and sing like this fella instead. Urrrgh, that sounds terrible, ok, try to sing like Robbie Williams, or Michael "sings-like-William-Shatner-speaks" Buble" You've got a great voice. So great, they will change it, and make you sing like someone else...who had a better voice than yours. Usually someone the public already likes, and buys records of. Not you. You jumped up little shit. You don't know NUFFIN.
  

• 'The Judges' standing ovations. Reserved for sycophantic celebrity guest act (matters not if they were shithouse or not) and performances from their own championed acts. Everyone else - fuck off.
  

• Corridor commentary from Judges between acts shown on Sunday's episode - do they really walk to and from imaginary locations between every Saturday act? on a live show? where you can see that they don't? Giving you a load of voice wank about how "Simon is scared" "Joe was awesome tonight" "Louis is a big fat arsecandle" etc. It's bollocks. Really.
  

• Heart string yanking - dead Mum/Wife/Dad "they always told me to pursue my dream, without question, even though I'm shit and they hated my singing while they were alive" "This is for them - it's all for them". Bollocks it is - they hated you when they were alive for wasting your life warbling your way through the Carpenters back catalogue and ruining the last days they did have. If they were alive now they would punch you in the face. On TV.
  

• The "going back home" featurettes as you near the final. They've not been in a trench in the fucking Somme dodging mustard gas and picklehaubs for 4 weeks - they've been holed up in a crystal and polished steel London flat attending the premiere of the latest Disney porno and being prescribed leather hooded waistcoats by the appointed stylist to allow them to appear "edgy" for the rock special this week. A hero's welcome not required, bunting OTT. Banners and fancy Marks & Sparks biscuits with the good china for Mr Cowell will make him loathe your pitiful lives no less. As soon as he gets back into his Rolls Royce he'll make himself throw up those morsels you know.
  

• Visit back to contestants old school - vox pops with old teacher. Fuck off if they can remember you from 7 years ago - you were just another little turd fucking about in their lessons. How many losers do you think they actually saw who said they were "going to make it"? Them prattling on now about how much of a star you were - THEY DON'T KNOW WHO YOU ARE, it's all about the OFSTED inspection next year- you attending means that technically the kids are staying for extra curricular activities which looks good on the books. "Cultural exhibition" it'll be noted down as, not "That dippy bird from X Factor came to visit"
  

• The "MILLION POUND RECORD CONTRACT". You don't get a million pounds. Seriously. You get someone who is introduced as your PA, but who's actual job is to tell you what to do say and think for every second you are awake. The million pounds will pay their wages, studio time for your "album", promotional works and Cowell's scrotum shaving sessions for the next week. You will be fed (Soylent Green style food cakes formed from the carcasses of previous "winners", calorie controlled because you're already too fat) and given clothes that you WILL wear. You don't need money anyway as you won't have time or permission to spend it.

• The "winners song". Recorded and ready to go before you win: "Oh, and we did one for that other fella who didn't win, just in case he did. But he didn't, you did. Just sing it into that, and look at the camera while we shoot the video with images of your "journey" projected onto a giant cock in the background....... Ok, we'll leave the cock out. No, not your cock. Put that away. In fact, can we get that removed? He won't be needing that, we'll provide a stand in - Bernie, see if you can get Ann Summers to do a corporate tie in will you? tell them there's £100k in it for them......yeah, exclusive coverage of their branded strap on for any kiss and tell stories that we publish......thanks babe"

• The year long hiatus after the winner, wins. So they put one single out, then they disappear for a whole year? then they put out another single and album as long as they have complied with Cowell Co for that year. Guaranteed thinner, less articulate and more robotic. Clearly the drugs. Given to them. By the PA. To stop them trying to escape. Their record deal.
  

I hear the arguments. But clearly as I know I am 100% correct in all things, and that anyone with an opposing view is 100% wrong and a conformist fool, I need not go into them. Anyway, I have to go and download Rage Against The Machine in an effort to keep X Factor from being Christmas number 1. I got told that if enough people do it, it might work. So I'm spending my money to download a track I already own so I can run with the heard to end mindless mass conformity by all doing the same thing together for no good reason.

Hold on a minute.......