Peter's third rant to the Internetians

Right, i've decided to form a collective Bible of hatred, anger and vicious seething loathing, with which I can attack all those who utterly piss me off and drive subliminal homicidal tendencies. And don't worry, this isn't all about politics ;)


The sad thing is though, it's about something just as bad. Brown nosing. The glorious act of sucking up insincerely to people, with gifts, praise and general loyalty. I always get frustrated because like most decent hard-working individuals- I am decent and hardworking, therefor do my job. I do it well, I get it all done and that's it. I'm nice, I'm friendly I do all you ask and if I want praise, promotion or raise, I let my competence and eptitude lead the way.

Only for some Kniving Shit with a box of Ferrero Roche to go and play smarmy.

The sad truth with brown nosing, is not only that it's incredibly annoying, but that people fall for it. Unfortuneately, we all do as humans- compliments are easy to fall for, especially if your a concerned person. Take me for example, my hair looks like that of a tramp who's been washing his locks in a mixture of cider and flower, and then gone for a centre parting for panache. I can't help but worry about how bad my hair is. But I over exaggerate it, and when people comment on it being cool, I go excessively happy- wildly joyous, like a Nazi with a camera outside a blazing Riechstag. I can't even feel irritated at those who fall for it, as I'm almost certain I must do. Else that or my worries of inferiority have caused an endemic mental paranoia causing me to think so. Which is just as bad!


So, here's a big fuck you to shallowness in the pursuit of cold-calculated progression at the expense of all human decency. Go and blast your tonsils out with shotguns, you festering fungal growths of the worst nature.

Oh, I'll finish this post later! Just managed to weasel £30!

Power Horse

The demand for high quality energy drinks has never been higher, and originally in search for a can of everyone's favourite, I came across the dark horse of the pack, or rather, the “Power horse!” Served in a distinctively shaped can, like a normal coke can which didn't quite grow tall enough, you know it has it's own uniqueness already in mind, not copying “Red bull's” can shape like many other clones. Containing 250ml it was already ahead of “Red bull” on quantity and was a few pence cheaper from the fine boutique of purchase I chose. An excellent start, but could it live up to it's promise?
Upon opening it, it had the same loving smell of red bull, that sugary, fruity smell, but of a fruit that doesn't exist. Ah. Familiar territory. So, with one last look over the reassuring black equine I had a swig. Fuck me and call me Isabella, what do they put in this! One gulp and my pupils are dilating at a rate of knots and I'm immediately transversing from this spiritual plane into one of taurine induced zen and frequent caffiene blackouts. This stuff is dynamite, but packs more of a punch than the afforementioned nitroglycerine soaked clay, helped by the fact it's roughly as viscous as original lucozade! Those Austrians know how to brew an energy drink! After this initial gulp my brain and body soon started to feel some good vibes, and with each subsequent chug of this electrifying amber syrup I was thouroughly getting absolutely boosted. If Red bull gives you wings, this thing gives you a pair of jet engines and breaks you through the sound barrier. I checked the can once again, looking for possible warnings of side effects, or that excessive consumption may make you speak too fast to be understood by any human being. There were no warnings, either that or I scanned too quickly to notice, and was too busy doing random gorilla poses and smiling inanely to be objective anymore. Walking down the street post beverage the world was a brighter place, and I was ready to carry on going.
However, the real test in an boost juice is how long you spend rolling in bed. Normally a few hours are spent headbanging to my MP3 player. Nothing unusual there, except this particular evening I was headbanging to folk. Not folk metal, or folk rock, but folk. 5 hours I spent sandwiched between a mattress and duvet, my head either engaged in permanent linear motion, or spinning cyclically like something being sucked into a vortex. Sometime after dawn started to break and I'd exhausted every position bar sticking my head up my arse, I finally got some sleep.
Overall, a wonderful drink for those extra special moments, but it's limited availability here in cornershops for the time being mean it can only be given an
8/10

The Run up to Christmas...

...and the fun never ends.

People are shopping in Clarks and Waterstones,
Northern Rock customers will soon have no loans,
The pretentious upper classes offset thier carbon,
whilst I swear and curse, downing my bourbon.

Trees stand illuminated, glaring white,
council houses too, in the night,
And Nasa delays another shuttle mission,
as the sensors are broken, by thier own admission

A small child is missing from a portugese holiday,
thier parents use charity to make the mortgage repay,
Robert Mugabe runs a nation into the depths of turmoil,
we'll just ignore him, only take action for oil.

Gordon Brown think's he king and will run a new britain,
Crisis after crisis though, he's no longer so smitten
with a vain and romantic view of politics,
in reality run by a shower of dicks.

Dunno why I wrote a poem, but it pretty much sums up my mindset right now.

Snack Sized Portions

Once upon a time, a bunch of not very bright people in a room had a meeting.

Hang on, let me rephrase that. All meetings are a bunch of not very bright people in a room. I need to specify.

Once upon a time, some morons who worked in catering for supermarkets had a meeting to design new cakes. They also decided to consider the size of such foods, in order to encourage beeter efficency, and eating habits.

So, these genii went and made "micro cakes", with the seeming intention of causing RSI in the motion of moving arm to cake box continuously to take lots of small cakes because THEY'RE TOO FUCKING SMALL FOR ONE TO SATISFY!

Now, normal cakes and mince pies or scone etc are fine. They have thier purpose. What I'm moaning about is cakes which are deliberately "mini" to sound "cute" when in fact it means you have more filling, less icing, more wasted packaging holding the space between cakes and I think they actually encourage worse eating habits. If I'm eating small cakes, it's harder to judge how much I've had than if I have a huge great big "fuck off" slab of cake in front of me (preferably with a little Nandos-esque flag sticking out of the top with "cake" written on it.) which is why I find the fiddly bastards so annoying! I want cake, not "micro cakes", which are just sold to stupid fat people who think they'll loose weight by eating more of something smaller!

I may be fat, but I ain't thick- unlike the layer of pastry on a mini- mince pie. WHERE'S THE FILLING? HELLO? ARE YOU THERE? No, because the laws of volume and surface area mean smaller pie= less filling, more pastry en masse. Which means your eating paper with the heaviness of butter and less rum soaked shrivelled fruit (get any images of alcoholics and prostitution out of your mind immediately) which is never a good thing (unless in the instance of the aforementioned image I just told to you get rid of.)

Alas, I doubt my message of sanity will get through, mainly as cake manufacturers will never read this, and my ramblings are always pointless and inconsequential.

I'll just have to add "Non-minicakes" to the wikipedia "Superfood" list :D

Subway Substandard

This week, I was banned from Subway in Harrow.

I kid you not. I committed an act so heinous that the only punishment fit for me was outright banning from my local branch of this purveyor of sandwich like edible comestibles.

Why? For using a voucher.

On Tuesday morning, I strolled into Subway looking to buy a bacon sub and coffee with a voucher, letting me have them for £1.50. The troglodyte working there had other ideas of course, as it would obviously nudge down his centralised sales record.

We had a conversation, it went something like this:

Me: Bacon Breakfast sub and coffee please.

Twat: Sure.

(Sub and coffe made, paying at counter.

Twat: That'll be £3.20.

Me: Ah, I have a voucher.

Twat: Nah, you bought the bacon lettuce and tomato, not the bacon breakfast sub.

Me: I asked for a bacon sub, which is on the breakfast menu, I have NO lettuce and tomato in my sub, ergo it is more similar to what I asked for than that which you are trying to convince me it in fact is!

Twat: But I ain't allowed to sell it you yeah, cos I have no eggs or sausages in today.

Me: (Pause. Stares at eggs and sausages.) Well, what are those then?

Twat: The last I have. Sorry, bro.

Me: Ok, nevermind, I'll just use this voucher and have a medium sub, lets see, a bacon breakfast sub, maybe?

Twat: (Realising it's better to just take the first voucher, angry) Sheesh! Fine, have your fucking cheap sub (I pay) Fuck you pal, your fucking banned, do you fucking hear me? Now leave!

Of course, by the time that last bit was yelled out I had indeed left, bemused at the attitude I got.

Subway definately ain't going on my Superfood reclassification campaign. I've been told I ought to appeal as this guy is nuts, but even if I was allowed in, he was such a dodgy individual that I don't trust him to make food for me. How do I know the mayonaise ain't from him, if you get my rather disgusting drift?

Although, as Subway were advertising for part time staff, I was tempted to apply, get the job, and see him ban his co-worker :D

Nevermind, I'm eating at Quiznos from now on :P

Glaswegian Pride; a fate worse than death.

Well, despite my preference that this news appear in the obituary section as "triumph of hope over sanity", the success of the Glaswegian bid to host the commonwealth games has appeared on the front page of the BBC News website.

Not just content with losing olympic bids for several years, the Scots decided to try and win a bid for something. So, naturally, they went for the olympic's shit English dominated cousin (Which serves as a great platform for Britain to actually win some medals!) and have procured the commonwealth games above Nigeria.

Personally, I would have preffered Nigeria to get the games. It would have been bigger and more signifcant for them, and they were held but a few years in Manchester, so surely this part of the world (was gonna type "we" there, but then I realised just how wrong it is to associate us with the Scots) shouldn't hold them for a while, in the sake of fairness? Besides, a Nigerian Commonwealth games would help to dispell thoughts that the Commonwealth is too British biased.

Way to go selection commitee to get rid of that myth!

Secondly, envision any major event being held in Glasgow. Just imagine the current 2012 London Olympic fiasco, transposed to an area of this isle with even more heroin usage. They'll have to test athletes for use of the stuff, and I pity the poor runners trying to get a salad that isn't deep fried. Besides, where are they going to compete? The marathon going through the heart of Glasgow will be more of a sick Gauntlet of death, as ginger haired pissants hurl whatever empty receptical they can lay their hands on to attack any athlete they see who isn't called "Hamish.". (If the athletes are unlucky, the recepticals won't be empty; they'll be lukewarm with fresh, alcoholic piss. May even be some kidney stone in there too if it's a good vintage.) Other such sports would include the discuss (Frisbe, due to health and safety officials and budget cuts), javelins being replaced with khiebers (the log things the highland games thrive on for those of you not familiar with Scottish sporting "glory") and swimming in the Clyde (another gauntlet that as the industrial pollutants wipe out all but the die hard Scots.)

Worst of all, Scottish pride will soar. But they have the shit cousin to the Olympics we have the real thing.

Sad thing is, after 2012 they will probably have every right to laugh at us.

"Yo boss, you want chilli sauce, salad?"

"It sat there, it's saturated fat glistening in the palid white light of the electric fly zapper. There was no one else there to spoil the moment- except the Turkish guy with a colourful waistecoat. But aside from that, we were alone. The kebab and I, it's soft scent causing my heart to flutter, as..."

Okay, spoof romantic fiction aside, lately I have been living off Kebab's. In the last 7 days, i've notched up an impressive 6 Kebabs or similar, and it's really not that bad for my diet.

That's right. Undercooked donner meat aside, they are a great meal.

Most people slag off the kebab, as nothing more than a late night alka seltzer that requires no water and that will help give one the shits the following morning. Yet, this is a bad press for the wonderful meal, which serves me well even when i'm sober.

The taste of the meat feast is also a wonderous thing to behold. A good kebab salad (thouroughly shredded, with some pickled chilis and a dollop of red cabbage, as well as cucummber thicker than most of the population (and that's an analogy that I'm willing to create a second set of brackets inside this one for)) is absolutely delicious, and the chili sauce brings out the best in the kebab meat. Further more, pita bread is great for mopping up "juices", and scraps of meat or lettuce. Eating it with your hands is also a plus, less washing up!

Furthermore, kebab's combine most main food groups: Fat (just look at it shine!), Protien (Plenty in the placenta and spinal cord surely found in a donner), carbohydrates (pita bread), fibre (salad) and hot (chili sauce. I forget if hot is a group. Is to me!). It's a balanced diet in one meal! One which actually contains all you need- although it may be badly proportioned (too much meat, a little more bread or salad?) it does contain everything you need almost. It's a superfood, it's rich in all we need.

And this brings me to the crux terminatus of this rambling polemic: The utter stupidity of the term "Superfood." WHAT THE FLYING FUCK DOES THAT QUANTIFY!?!?!?! It's not an official term, it's just strapped on something containing a fair few vitamins by a bunch of hippiesque tarts who claimed Madonna has changed there lives and who can't tell thier own kids from the next door neighbours. These bimbo's would be dumb enough to employ Michael Jackson to babysit, and get Ian huntley to help him with the bathing!

But I digress, Superfoods are an absolutely irrational term. They quantify nothing, and are stuck on the dullest foods. Spinach. Watercress. Oh, I'm just overwhelmed with glee and delight. No, I'm not for those of you with no sarachasm. If something is going to be labelled, it should be for a measureable reason- not merely "it's healthy!"

This is why I aim to fight moronic stupidity, with attention seeking advocation of the nature employed by Satanic entities. That's right, I want Kebab's classified as a Superfood, and shall seek to get them declared as such.

I know not what I have to do, how i shall do it, or what evidence I will use, but watch this Space. And comment your support/condesending disbelief- together, we can do this.