level completed

Well kids.

Theres been a few laughs, a load of abuse, the odd word of truth, several 'ave offs and Showbiz has even learned a new language out of it.

But dats it from me.

The truth is that there are people now tuning into this shit who it was never intended for.

I'll re-emerge at a later date in another form in another place. The realheads will find me. But for now I'm going back U/G. The people need me out-there.

So do me a favour...

Don't eat any animals, smash the system in boss clobber and keep it fucking scouse.

I'll catch yez on the main game.

*****

End of chat.

L'hipster U.
xxx

THE MIGHTY REDS

Well kids...

Der isn't enough fizzy in Plzen today!

The MIGHTY REDS ***** made manure look as stupid as all the pure bellends who lick Showbiz's arse on his weblag. But I'll deal with dem saps later.

*****

Today was a clash between light and dark.

LFC whose fans and management have made football into such an original and special cultural artifact. And manure who only exist to sell shit to and make money out of proper arsewipes from Somerset, Suffolk, Surrey and Borneo.

1-4
1-4
1-4
1-4
1-4

So dats de so-called '2 biggest teams in de world' beaten in a week by 8 goals to 1.

By THE MIGHTY FUCKIN' REDS*****

*****

But on a serious note (ha)

Der are a few mancs in the mcr who understand footy. They'll tell yez dat The MIGHTY REDS are the benchmark. And they'll be hurting today. I have no gripe with dem.

I have a gripe with all the LFC fans (most of whom are OOT by the way) who've been slating Rafa for yonks whenever we dont get a good result against some shit team.

Its like they dont understand the current situation in footy. We dont have the money of the mancs and chavski, but we have the fans, the manager, the captain and the best striker in the world who loves us.

I fucking love Liverpool FC.
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Get me?

And just after the final whistle I got a text message from mummy and daddy Driscoll back in the 'pool.

It went like dis...

"1<4. sing it long and sing it loud".

So why not...

Manc stabbing time

Time to head off down the M62 to the dirty industrial village of Salford in Cheshire to twat a load of badly dressed beuts.

I'll be back after the game.

But in the meantime.

Anyone with an interest in the erotic fantasies of a 14 year old American schoolboy can get onto this freak... The Nightmare Believer. He's been at it for yonks but has just re-started after he was forced to shut down for a while when a couple of skinny 4 eyed geeks from an A/S shop in Jeollananamdo put the frighteners on him.

He's good for a giggle when hes ripping into the 'kkkoreans'.

Scouse As Yer Like

Rafa is a buddah...


Youz know.

I read a lot of pooetry (the bird in the libo is dead fit like).(No seriously - shes a real swooner).

Well, when I say read, I really mean laugh at. It makes it easier to cope with the fact that that shit is way above my head.

But know dis...

Pooetry does not come near watching THE MIGHTY REDS ***** masch-up the so-called big boys of Europe.

Liverpool 5 Real Madrid 0.

Thats the absolute definition of...

'TOLD'.

The game was over after 15 mins so I flicked around picking up feeds of the game from TV stations around the world.

And Ive gots to tell yez dis...

These foreign yokels love the auld LFC. The concept of The Kop and 'Youll Never Walk Alone' is like football alchemy to dem. Dey revere dat shit. Like the stink of kimchi on some minging frizzy headed trouts exhale...it takes their breath away.

Back in 1989 AC Milan played Real Madrid just a few weeks after the Hillsborough disaster. On 6 minutes into the game the ref stopped all the players for a minutes silence and the Milanese broke out into 'You'll never walk alone'.

Dats footy kids.

Dats footy.

'Fearless'.

Get me?

It was started by The 60's Scousers such as my auld fella, hyped by Shankly, passed on through the generations and spread around the world; and is now sadly ruined by many an out of town bellend day tripper in a jester hat and a replica shirt carrying a plazee bag full of shite from the club shop.

I can't imagine how repulsive Old Toilet must be on dat score (Well I probably can actually).

Cos even at Glasto de Scousers draw the line somewhere on the 'ave off. But not the man ure low-life capitalist cunts. Dey'd sell repro-graphs of slur alex fergussons pace maker beats to the nobheads of Norfolk, Devon, Berkshire and Seoul.

We'll sort dem arsewipes out at de vikend anyway.

*****

I've just measured my hair and its 12.7 cm's high.

Dats high.

Not long.

*****

Youz know dem coupla models I was on about de other week?

Yeah, well today dey requested my paid presence around at their boss pad for an extra hour each week.

Im just fucking good at what I do.

Youz know me.

*****

Oh Campione
The one and only
We're Liverpool

They say our days are numbered
We're not famous anymore
But scousers rule the country
Like we've always done before

*****

first trip of spring

My L'hipster U senses had picked up some hint of nature in transit. So I threw my camera and notebook into a bag and hit the tracks.

I was headed off to the small town of Cheb in NW Bofuckinhemia, just 10 clicks from the Kraut border, to have a butchers at a very boss and very little known art gallery.

The choo-choo rattled slowly through mellow villages, past tin bus shelters and slid into and out of pine forests whilst The Nubs and Vulpess blasted into my jug ears via mp3.

At Stribro we met 'technical difficulties' and had to transfer to a bus for a short ride to Plana. The bus smelled unhealthily of burning oil but it held its tread as we upped and downed, in and out of tiny river valleys via an endless trail of hairpin bends.

Cheb has an unusual history. It was once the home of a lot of Krauts who were kicked out at the end of WWII and the area is now sparsely populated and has an edgy feel. Maybe the closest place to Cambodias Poipet that you can find in civilised Europe.

Cheb station still displays a huge German eagle sculpture on its tower and the environ surrounding it is what top geographers like me refer to as being 'shit ugly'. Asian bistros, knock off booze and fag shops and sex nightclubs with windows horribly and thickly blacked out with carpet.

The Krauts come here for sex.

Child sex.

Cheb is one of the major stops that the sex traders from The Balkans and beyond make on their fucked-up human freight trade. I'd read a report by a Canadian journalist who was attempting to highlight this shit and get the authorities to put a stop to it.

Inside and outside of the station gangs of grown men drank red wine from plastic bottles and skinned-up rollies from floored ciggy stumps. I eyed every fucker with suspicion and headed for the old town.

The old town is typically Boho-beautiful. And the clock in the square is far-out (see below).

Galerie výtvarného umění v Chebu is the lick. They have one of the best permanent collections of Czech modern art outside of Praha. Works by the likes of the cubist Josef Capek and the dream-like visionary Zdenek Skelnar. Also in situ was a touring exhibition of photographs of New York by Andreas Feininger. There were some nice snaps but I've already seen enough photos of New York to do me. Its been done to death.

After a good wander around I headed back to the station in the hope of finding an excuse to spark some pimp bastards.

Clean out.

I returned to Plzen to be greeted with confirmation that spring is deffo here...the Tesco Punkovac are back supping and smoking and re-manning their sentry outside of the jewish owned multi-national supermarket.

jarg clobber

I speaketh here now tha truth...

I was conducting a group convo class the other night.

The Caf knows 'em cos he had a bash at teaching 'em the other week.

Some czica was complaining about her boyfriend.

(I know yeh. Plated up and on the table like a bowl of me Ma's scouse after footy practice on a Thursday night).

She told me that the problem was the way that he dressed. Apparently he's a scruffy twat who doesn't make any effort in the appereil department.

I asked her to describe his threads.

She was struggling to do it then one other cat who works with the fella piped up "He dresses like Manchester."

"Yeh wah?" says I spitting on the deck and all ready to charge around to this czicas pad to spark the fucker.

Clean out.

The class then debated on how to describe this 'manchester' look.

It turns out that over here in the middle of the worlds greatest continent, corduroy is called manchester and people who wear it are laughed at and regarded as being meffs.

Youz've never and will never catch me in corduroy. Ive always known it was a shit cloth.

So get on it...

Manchester = jarg fuckin' clobber.

And its now official.

The Second Fod Offensive

Its 25 years since the end of the miners strike.

Which reminds me...

Down The Crown one night.

Showbiz and I were discussing Maggie Twatcher and all of dat. I was laying some heavy truth on Show about Thatchers Britain and her treatment of the working class.

Show gets all agitated and aggressive and starts wagging his finger in my face and going on about how Thatcher modernised Britain and how much it needed doing etc. and that he wanks himself off over her most nights and how one day wants to have the same hair style as her and that he is saving up to buy her old handbag.

So what could I do?

Like a bolt from the blue Tha Fod entered the room.

And...

'CRACKKKKK!'

With a mere twitch of the neck muscles I'd sent Show flying backwards across the pool table and slamming into that shit book case that that iron was trying to sell terrible fiction out of.

The barman Craig was first on the scene to congratulate me and offer me free sHite and jagermeister.

And so ended The famous Second Fod Offensive.

I did it for The Great British Working Class.

*****

Let me add that theres no way I'd wanna be a miner but you can't take everything away from people and replace it with nothing.

Unless you're as evil as Thatcher.

Nothing but 3rd generation unemployment, drug addictions, split communities, call centres, the police state and rampantly fucked up capitalism.

But hey...it needed doing.