Tuesday, 22 June 2010


small town minds

Wait, wait, wait, no, what? I don’t get it.

"Small town life, innit comfortable? You know where you are, ‘cos it’s pretty hard to get lost, s’only 300 metres across. I only got lost twice.

Same old

I don’t trust Politician’s, there all posh fuckin’ barmpots. One came up to me last week and asked me what I want? What I want? I said you don’t know what I want.

If I could ask ‘em a question, d‘you know what I’d ask 'em, d’you? If I could ask them one question I’d say, how much is a can of special brew? Wouldn’ av a clue.

Nothing’ll change, it never does, other than everything getting worse and more expensive. I remember when a pack of fags were a quid and you could smoke anywhere you wanted, everyone’s a health div. I think it’s a government conspiracy to sell more organic carrots and nicorette plasters.

I’m voting BNP next time, 'cos at least they’re British, it’s in their letters. Our friends, they said they’ll vote BNP as well, they said; ‘pack 'em back off to where they came from,’ and I said, ‘on economy flights, without no in-flight meals or duty free.’ We laughed so hard I shat myself.


But what of it, our Tomo and our Matty, they’ve got no jobs 'cos of them, them Polish, not cos ‘em crap NVQ grades, they did try to wake up on exam day. Too pissed.

Y’know what, they’ve even got a Polish shop now, it doesn’t sell microwave chips or pizza like normal shops, nooo, everything’s pickled and jarred n looks right ‘orrible. A feel sorry for them cos I don’t think they know what real foods like 'cos they’re soo poor. Why, they need go back to their poor country ‘n make it as great as our Great British Empire. Our Tomo’s scraping by on’t benefits, having to make pirated DVDs while’s he’s not watching Jeremy Kyle just to make ends meat, I mean, it’s not a life is it?

Noooo, a hot vindaloo.

But there’s no community now is there? And they blame us for chucking eggs and shouting names, but I just claim the freedom of speech like they did in that Ally Mc Beal that one time, it soon shuts ‘em up.

They don’t fit in, with their bright multicolour silks and Gold spangles. You don’t wear that in the street, you wear a full length tracksuit or joggers and a low cut top, bloody fools.

The can’t even speak us English tongue, can they ay? I wouldn’ even mind if they learned our language, I wouldn’t, but they don’t even try. Living in their slums, where housings all cheap and make it look like a low price area. It’s bringing all the house prices down 'cos people like me don’t want to buy an house next to 'em.


And those bleeding burkahs! My sister Shell, she’s free as a bird, ask anyone. She wears owt she wants, boob tubes, naughty nurse outfits. Last week it looked like she had on this see through nighty int' club. But if she lived there, yeah there, in Iraq n all that. She’d be banned and hanged like Sadam Hussein 'cos they’re all mad. That’s why they wanna' bomb us, heat stroke, no it’s true, I read it on one o them conspiracy websites. They’re crackers from it and that Islang don’t help. I tell ya I’ll Jihad 'em if I see one and then I’ll jihad them all, whatever that means. I won’t really, they’ll lock me up. It’s just the women, they look so unhappy in those burkahs. You can tell it in their eyes, no smeyes, I watch ‘Next Top Model.’


And those mosks, in our town we got a bloody great big one, like a Mr Whippy. They all go and pray to halal and get their bombs. But you don’t know, the next bombers could live round ‘corner, I’ve had my suspicions, I tell you. They seem to buy a lot of baking powder them lot and baking powder (I learned from school) makes bombs.

The police don’t even bother, they say, “thanks for your input , All the information is invaluable” It’s always the same woman as well, very well spoken, I think it might even be one of those recorded conversations, if it was I must take up a whole wall of tapes by now, I reckon I’ll be getting some medal soonish.

Fat lot of good they did in September when we had them race riots. Locked up the wrong sort I think, I don’t care if they caused all of the problems, have a history of violent assaults, attacked unarmed minorities causing thousands of pounds worth of damage in SS uniforms screaming; ‘cleanse them, cleanse!’ brandishing burning stakes.

They’ve always got time for a chat and a cup of tea.


I love holidays, but what really gets on mah tits is the natives. Greasy, slimy bastards they are, hanging about like they own the place. They always wanna' rip you off or charge you this and serve you poisoned shite. They bother you while you’re bronzing on the beach, all tatty like, wanting change or offering sewer soaked oysters. I wouldn’t eat an oyster it they paid me! God’s honest truth. It’s always fish, every night fish this, fish that, I hate fish. No mushy peas either.

That’s why we go to the sports bar, 24 hour English TV. Steak, chips, all day breakfast, all day and night. And the bar staff are English, I wish we could take it back to our town, my mates‘d love it.


Bloody kids, all they do is join gangs and do drugs. The other day I caught Matty smoking a joint and I made him smoke it all to teach him a lesson, you know what he did, he laughed in my face. No respect.

Them dangerous dogs, they should ban 'em all, well, except for our neighbour’s pitbull that’s for security and the odd bet, he’d never bite my face off, he fears me, I have to kick good n proper to keep him friendly.

Willy woofters

Did you hear about Ricky Martin, did you? Well, I don’t like him anymore. I can’t believe he’s a gay, he danced so manly with those flamenco twists and that open shirt. I don’t think he is, he’s probably just confused, he’ll be in the rehab soon, they all go there, the rehab. Posh hospital.

Our Tomo went to rehab. He said it weren’t too posh then, but he did go a few months after Britney and it was some miles from LA, Swindon I think. Said it smelt of piss and vom but good chips. I was a bit jealous cos our chip shop’s not up ta much.

Fit as

I like a real man, not one of those floppy haired, neat and polite pansy’s. One that’ll have a fight if they need to cos someone disrespected me. A man that’ll take me and fuck me even if I resist. One that drinks stout or Stella and smokes BnH, wears Nike, supports England and has a tattoo of me and his other kids on his cock. I like a big man preferably a skinhead and called summing like Dug or Fill. So they can romance me in the rear and curl up with a film and some brown.

Pencil pushers

That’s not a real job, sitting in some fancy office typing and answering calls in a shirt. That’s a women’s job, men need to graft a hard days work. If my lover wanted to stay home and take care of the bairns while I get off my jobseekers and work in Asda for minimum money I’d pack him in, right off.

I don’t need to work. Just like the homo cavemen. Proper women clean, men hunt and moan about the house not been clean, the giant phone bill and eating spuds, beans, and sausages every night while he’s watching on't box some todd ‘eating filet gugons a la fuck.’

Movers and wigglers

I mean nowt changes in a small town. We don’t get owt here, nothing much happens, so well, we still want to change like them city folk. So we just; get old, get kids, marriage, steady job, reliable car, mortgage all before we’re 25, preparing for our next change, middle age, then its old age, then death. Our kids‘ll hopefully do the same and us whole human race can keep surviving.

Sometime in 3000BD they might be a future me, in silver hot pants looking fit and definitely gagging for it.”

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