Oh, my eyes! Oh, my poor pulsating baubles of orbital sight-spaff! Kraken-lovers, if there was ever a time to gird yourself against festive horrors this, by fuck, is it. For I am about to show you something so spleen-achingly bleak that I’m offering you and everyone else reading this blog post a nip of brandy. No, not just to quell your tremulous nerves but to revive you once you’ve realised that what you are about to see can be found on coffee-tables nationwide, much like a toddler’s snot overshooting a hanky. That’s because this Christmas the killer headline on That’s Life magazine’s cover is Sick dad dressed as Santa then raped us.
Readers, I’d give my left love-flap to tell you that I am making this up but I am not. It’s as if the barrel scraping word-muggers of That’s Life have mistaken child abuse for yuletide joy and decked their halls with the stuff. Hey! Who need’s Christmas champagne when you can swig tears instead? Thing is, Sick dad dressed as Santa then raped us isn’t all the cover offers us. That’s Life also tempts us in with Hubby bonked our teen lodger at Xmas dinner, I found mum murdered under my Christmas tree and, bewilderingly, Mum’s Xmas miracle: a ghost gave me triplets.
For fuck sake spare me, will you? You see, thanks to last week’s demise of the fist-curlingly glorious Nelson Mandela the world has witnessed one of the most heinous practises this side of Harold Shipman agreeing to grace grandma with a home visit. No, I’m not talking about the obvious media carnage that ensued following the bleak news and no, I’m not wittering about the fact that even news presenters here in Wales were dressed in black as a result. That’s because what made me want to take a shit in a toddler’s hat instead was how, thanks to Twitter, the world embarked upon an unprecedented and stomach-twisting display of competitive grieving.
Yup, competitive grieving otherwise known as the race for Tweeters to tell the world that Mandela meant more to them than anyone else. If you’ve clicked on the trending Mandela hashtags at any point since his death you’ll know exactly what I mean, not least because you get to witness anyone from David Cameron to Paris Hilton trying to turn a 140-character turd into a heart-rendering message of verbal gold. Go on, check it out if you can stand their determination to be the most heartbroken/ touched/ bereft.
I know, I know, I said this blog would rage again come mid November but here’s the thing: there’s been a medical balls-up of such proportions since my original hospital stay that I have spent November strapped to a hospital bed. Forgive me, for fuck sake.
If you want details, you might remember that I had a muscle grafted from my chest and into my face back on November 4th. And yeah, that started well. Thing is that five days after leaving hospital I had such staggering chest pains that I thought my heart really was forming a black hole of fury by collapsing in on itself. The upshot was that the new muscle in my face had died and had to be removed, not just because it was now fuck-all use to me but because it was infecting me from the inside out. CT scans, X-rays and a blood transfusion led to more surgery on my face and chest and a significant meltdown by the nurses’ station also kept the mental health team honourably employed at my bedside. I am now home, although my face looks like it’s been stuffed with Lego.
So I will soon start raging the days away on this blog again, at least when I’m able to peel myself off the sofa. Just give it a few days, OK?
Listen-up, kraken lovers! I have news that may make some of you tear at your breasts and wail at the moon: I’m disappearing for a few weeks. I know, I know, calm yourselves. You see, not only am I taking a half-term break (otherwise known as the same old fucking shouting about teeth cleaning but in a sunnier country) but upon my return I’ll be back in hospital to have my face/ rage rearranged. The upshit (or should that be upshot?) is that I’ll be away from my blog until at least mid November.
For those of you who are interested here are the details of said surgical intrusion. For those of you who are not you can skip this paragraph: You know I have Bells Palsy, right? That means one side of my face is paralysed. So the latest surgery will involve removing muscle from my chest and inserting into the paralysed side of my chops to eventually make my entire phizzog more symmetrical. It’ll all link up to the nerve graft I had back in May and, hopefully, in six months’ time I’ll be back on the cover of Hot Kraken Babes. No really. I have my slot booked, as it were.
Anyway, in my absence feel free to rummage about on the site. The tabs are all up there at the top and every post is guaranteed to enrage/ distress/ reassure/ teach you new terms of sweary abuse. My latest favourite is ‘conurbation of fuck’ but there have been many others in recent months. Oh, and you have your own arse in your hand tell the world about it on the Your Turn page.
Thanks for reading, thanks for raging and I’ll see you on the other side.
Please forgive my direct opening line but what in the conurbation of fuck is wrong with you? I only ask because, somehow, in the run up to Halloween you’ve managed to fall in a bathroom and crack your head on a sink, losing the part of your collective consciousness that regulates tact, sensitivity and the ability to stop yourself looking like Jim Davidson.
You see, in recent weeks I’ve seen so many piss-takes of one of the most vulnerable groups in modern society that I’ve had to check my meds in case the problem lies in my brain and not yours. There’s been the ‘mental patient’ costume sold in Asda, Tesco and Amazon, The Asylum ‘experience’ in Thorpe Park and The Sun’s headline about murderous ‘mental patients’. And now Amazon has been forced to withdraw from sale a Halloween costume celebrating the nation’s most prolific child sex abuser, Jimmy Saville. Yet for all the outrage at these festive aberrations, there’s always someone who’ll claim that they are ‘just for fun’.