Flashback to memories of the public toilets outside New Delhi Railway Station earlier this week when the offices went without water for the day. It makes you realise just how much people go to the loo everyday. A lot. It’s the sort of thing I ponder while eating my cheese sandwiches.


I can’t imagine this tattoo would go down well in Iraq.


Dagenham in east London takes some beating for urban despair. It has more shaved heads, tattoos and no necks than the rest of the country put togther.

You can’t tell the dogs from the owners, its parks are featureless municipal expanses of grass with no trees and cavern-like pubs designed for mass brawling and chair throwing. It’s one of those ‘what the fuck are you looking at’ places.┬áThe attached photo is one of its more picturesque sights.

A living embodiment of Mordor on earth. I’m never coming back here again. Ever.





So, our glorious leader is coming back early from his summer holidays to get to grips with the rioters who’ve been making the most of the free weekend sales? Well, I’ll be sleeping safer in my bed knowing that the Big C is back on the case with his foot firmly on the public jugular.

I thought we might have got at least one more week’s peace from his bleating ‘big society’ speak. We’ll all be wearing sackcloth and grubbing for potatoes by winter.





My downstairs neighbour is pushing hard for the World Git of the Year Award. A couple of school kids sat on his wall yesterday to smoke a fag and have a chat. His nibs is out the next morning covering the wall with anti-climb paint. Miserable bastard.




Got puked over again in the bus by mini me. A bit better than a couple of weeks ago when some of it went over a passenger’s head. Staggered off the No. 55 into the brightness of another day smelling like a wino.


A conveniently located undertaker’s has set up shop opposite an old people’s home. It must be really heartening to pull the curtains back each morning and see Harry Hurry’s funeral parlor waiting patiently for your custom.

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