Christmas is a big, steaming pile of shit

I know at this time of year that I should be full of cheer and putting aside any petty misgivings I have aside, as did those British and German soldiers during the Armistice in World War 1, where they kicked Franz Ferdinand's pickled head around a muddy field for 90 minutes. That they shot each other to pieces mere days later is insignificant. For Christmas is a special time.

But, reams of fat, spoiled little children will be sitting on their plump arses all day long caressing their latest touchscreen bit of tat which will no doubt be lost under the bed by this time next year. The elderly and mental relative who just will not die will soil 'dad's favourite chair'. Everyone else will be in a drunken stupor for the few days where we annually forced to spend time with relatives that we absolutely hate.

Somewhere, we have lost the true meaning of Christmas. The message has been smeared and distorted by our obsession with buying presents, and the huge commercial machine that keeps trundling along, picking up more money along the way. Sales start on Boxing day now instead of January. And a lot of sales even start before Christmas. We need to look at the meaning of Christmas in its purest form, and not be taken in by all the bright lights and fancy decorations that christmas has come to represent.

So let's reflect now, on the true reason for Christmas - domestic violence. There is nothing like being trapped in a house for several alcohol-fuelled days to inspire a good old fashioned bit of spousal fisticuffs. And the best thing is, the bruises will be healed before you have to go back to work! Rejoice! As you are pushed down the stairs. Laugh! as you are kicked in the groin. Be merry! as your teeth leave your mouth and scatter to the ground like little snowflakes.

To celebrate this fantastic British tradition, I have put a new spin on an old classic. I hope you enjoy it. Perhaps you could sing it while you punch your wife or husband repeatedly in the face. Merry Christmas! And remember, no weapons!

On the first day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
  A mouth full of broken teeth!

On the second day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth!

On the third day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth!

On the fourth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth!

On the fifth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth!

On the sixth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Six broken fingers,
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth!

On the seventh day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Seven pints of bloodloss,
Six broken fingers,
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth! 

On the eighth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Eight flying kneedrops,
Seven pints of bloodloss,
Six broken fingers,
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth! 

On the ninth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Nine roundhouse kicks,
Eight flying kneedrops,
Seven pints of bloodloss,
Six broken fingers,
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth! 

On the tenth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Ten spinning backfists,
Nine roundhouse kicks,
Eight flying kneedrops,
Seven pints of bloodloss,
Six broken fingers,
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth! 

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Eleven flailing elbows,
Ten spinning backfists,
Nine roundhouse kicks,
Eight flying kneedrops,
Seven pints of bloodloss,
Six broken fingers,
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth! 

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Twelve knockout blows,
Eleven flailing elbows,
Ten spinning backfists,
Nine roundhouse kicks,
Eight flying kneedrops,
Seven pints of bloodloss,
Six broken fingers,
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth!

Everyone who has ever presented T4 is an utter twat - Steve Jones Special!

Serial womaniser and walking STI Steve Jones seems to have but one claim to fame, and that is that he had sex with Pemela Anderson one time. Well congratufuckinglations Steve. You can now join the highly exclusive chapter of some 500,000 people who have had the misfortune to lie with the cadaverous, pneumatic-breasted old skank. They should start up a club for people who have nailed Pammy, and have patches like the Hell's Angels, as my hugely impressive rendition demonstrates below.


About the design: The center of the piece is a beautifully-rendered penis, pointing south. This is like an inverted crucifix, insomuch as any association of a penis with Pamela Anderson is evil. The penis is lovingly adorned with 3 condoms; 3 being the bare minimum required to remain disease-free when having a steamy encounter with the former Baywatch beauty. Either side of the shaft are Pamela's lovely breasts, which have been accurately recreated with off-center nipples and surgery scars. Behind the central motif is Pamela's lovely mane of white hair. This is all set on a Baywatch red background. You can order this badge for just £45.99

Steve Jones comes from Wales and is related to the other Joneses who are famous. It's hard to think that from his modest beginnings living under some leaves on a bed of mud in a mountain in Wales Steve now has a flat in London and hosts one of the best programmes on the television that no-one ever watches! Steve's family tree can be seen below where you can see how all of the famous Joneses relate to each other.


Steve Jones gets his suave sophistication from His Grandfather Tom Jones. He briefly married his sister, Catherine Zeta the Jones, and they sired a whole cricket team together. Then Catherine went to America to assist the elderly. Grampa Tom was a legendary swordsman, as was his Great Grampa, Indiana Jones senior (Also known as Sean O'Connory). Steve Jones has slept with every woman in the British Isles, at least once. His appendage is over 2 feet long when fully unravelled and he has been known to impregnate women by just looking at them. You go, Steve!

Everyone who has ever presented T4 is an utter twat

T4 is shown on Saturday and Sunday mornings on Channel 4. It really only exists to host the Hollyoaks Omnibus, a bit of Friends (worst show ever to grace television) and a collection of terrible live musical performances. Although not needed at all, there are normally 2 really cool presenters who introduce the programmes in as laid back and irritating a manner as possible. I have highlighted the most objectionable of these - a motley crew of reprobates who should be publicly flayed to death while being doused in grit and vinegar.

Alexa Chung

If her surname were 'Chang' then how much more fitting it would be. The girl never eats yet somehow seems to keep alive on vast quantities of Columbian marching powder and unicorn's tears. Labelled a fashionista because even model's clothes swamp her skeletal frame. Her head looks like it could snap off at any moment (If only)! Did some terrible shows in the USA which were summarily cancelled as they were even worse than the utter bilge that is T4.

Steve Jones

See The Steve Jones Special!

Simon Amstell

A horrible little vicious queen who is not, and never will be funny. Has the distinction of actually making Preston from big brother seem likeable, if only for the space of around 2 minutes. Type 'Cock' into google (with safe search on of course) and the first thing that should greet you ought to be a picture of Amstell's smirking gob with a fist rammed in it. An arse who will hopefully disappear from whence he came (somewhere posh and far too nurturing to his ego) soon.

June Sarpong

Owner of the must punchable face in human history, twinned with the worst voice ever. I have never managed to stay awake through a June Sarpong sentence. The CIA should sack off that warterboarding crap and get sarpong to chair the interrogations. A total non-entity, she fitted into the T4 family perfectly. Last seen playing herself in the dreadful Extras Christmas special. A fitting end to her ill-deserved career.

Miquita Oliver

How anyone can be so smug and overconfident while also being pudding-faced, chunky and ugly is beyond me. Oliver looks like a bag of mouldy spuds spattered in makeup yet still squeezes her generous frame into leggings and other ill-fitting clothes that only succeed in emphasising her ample bulk. Plus, she is an utter, utter, utter twat.

Vernon Kaye

What is it about Bolton and its ability to produce such utter bellends? Amir Khan, Peter Kay, Sarah Cockface, the list goes on. Vernon has never said anything funny, and that is a fact. The most interesting thing he ever did was allegedly cheat on his equally bland wife. An Oxygen thief with an accent that makes you want to ram a kipper down his gob. A lego-haired moron of the highest order.

Jameeelia Jameeelah

Or whatever she's called. Even more arrogant than Miquita, just where do C4 keep finding these arseholes?

The X-Factor is finally over. Woman Eaten by Shark - hilarity ensues

The marketing behemoth known as the X-Factor finally ground to a shuddering halt yesterday, as yet another instantly forgettable male vocalist got his grubby little hands on the coveted prize. Simon Cowell has a new bitch for the next couple of months before he disappears to LA via his own arse for the spring, like a camp migratory Walrus. A thoroughly unremarkable series full of contrived and paper thin caricatures masqueraded as 'artists' is now over, and we must all rebuild the shattered voids that have become our lives.

But the one beacon of light peering through the interminable soup of diarrhoea was the Xtra Factor, where Konnie Huq has been doing her level best to get sacked by Simon Cowell for some months now. Whether it be her wooden delivery, incredibly rude questions or bad taste jokes Huq has at least made one aspect of the X Factor experience entertaining this year. A walking car crash, Huq said on Saturday that the show "had more bite than an Egyptian shark". Cue groans from around the studio as various runners scarpered from the ensuing shitstorm like poorly-paid rats escaping the sinking ship.

Now I guess the shark thing was unfortunate, and when I was in that sea I emerged unscathed (with the exception of a 3rd degree burn across my entire back) but if you have to die (which I understand that you do) then being mashed up by a giant fish with a thousand teeth is as good way to die as any I can think Of. Especially if you are elderly - it is infinitely better than dying in your own piss and shit, slowly slipping away as your brain turns into cheese and all your faculties go the same way as Lindsay Lohan's career. Much better to have your limbs ripped off and tossed into the air like people used to do with their mortarboards when they could afford university, ha ha ha!

As something of an aside, regarding the student 'protesters' who keep smashing up London, I hope the Police kick the shit out of all of you. If you spent less time commuting into London from your ivory towers in the suburbs - defiling war heroes and jabbing stupid members of the royal family with pointy sticks - and more time actually researching what and when you may actually have to pay after your degree is finished then perhaps these ugly scenes could be avoided. But as it stands, I hope that those silver spoons are knocked out of your mouths along with all of your teeth, you weak chinned 6th form politicians. The police should start using rubber bullets and boiling oil on you, you utter cretins.

Back to the point. While I do feel marginally sorry for a woman who probably only had 10 years left at best being eaten, there is still a positive to be taken from her death. How refreshing is it to have someone going to a middle eastern country and not meeting their maker by being robbed, Blown up, beheaded, kidnapped or flogged to death for the cardinal sin of consuming a moderate amount of alcohol, taking a photo or, worst of all, wearing sandals with socks. There's a message in there somewhere. A good old-skool mauling, with none of this political or religious bollocks.

Angry businessmen with broadsheet newspapers

The barrel-chested angry businessman (complexus superioritis) can be commonly seen on any suburban rail route heading out of London during a weekday evening. He is easily identified by the following characteristics:

A stern expression
A briefcase/Laptop
Middle-age spread
A broadsheet newspaper
An ill-fitting and careworn but expensive suit
An antiquated mobile phone or 1st generation Blackberry

Now that you know how to identify said specimen, it is probably prudent to develop an understanding of their behavioural patterns, so that you can avoid contact with them. He will invariably behave in the following fashion, and in fact, there is a little-known code of conduct, which I will reveal here:

If there is a spare seat next to you, always make it as uninhabitable as possible, by:
(i) Puffing up your chest, and sitting with legs akimbo.
(ii) Using your vast newspaper as a 'scum shield', open said newspaper to it's maximum length, and turn the pages at least once per minute.
(iii) Make at least one phone conversation to your downtrodden, rotund wife; blustering about tonight's dinner and your expected time of arrival, with a 5 minute interval of moaning/shouting about the trains for the benefit of your fellow commuters.

If someone does dare to sit next to you, make them as uncomfortable as possible, by:
(i) Using your fat, stubby legs to dig into theirs with as much force as your cholesterol-addled frame can muster
(ii) Adapting the aforementioned newspaper technique, thrust your elbow onto your opponent's solar plexus and leave it there for the duration of your journey
(iii) Mutter curses under your breath, sigh at least twice per minute

If you have the indignity of having to sit between 2 passengers on a row of 3 seats, make them as uncomfortable as possible, by:

(i) Navigate into the optimal landing position by using your knees to bat any inconveniently-placed legs aside
(ii) For bonus points, use your trailing leg to grind your heel into the top of someone's foot
(iii) Now that navigation is complete, drop to a sitting position, utilising as much of your dead weight as possible. The force of your descent will crush the person occupying the window seat (bastards) into the corner, and propel the person occupying the aisle seat into the aisle.


You big twat.