They say that in the kingdom of the blind, the one eyed man is king. Well if that is true then I am assuming the old guy who can just about hear what I say to him must be head of the deaf section. Hold on, does that mean Heather Mills would be in command over Douglas Bader.?? That can’t be right.  Mr gran danced with him your know… after he had the fake ones fitted I believe. Brilliant claim to fame there.

Well it is Wednesday, a day when I go home at three in the afternoon having started at seven, a day when I generally share my bus ride home with students from Weston College (oh… yay… brilliant… a bit like sharing a bus with the workforce of The Sun if you follow me) oh half term saved me this week and a day when I normally like to spend the later hours stuffing shrews into little socks so they can sleep warmly through the winter. This afternoon I have, however, been running a slightly squeaky Class 50 backwards and forwards testing the facing sidings on the new layout. All is well so far, operation testing will follow.

Did you all enjoy the blog from yesterday, was one of those that keeps me giggling despite having written it myself. Does make you wonder when you are around town and get a whiff of something that might not be eggs, I certainly had my eyes open and my nostrils flared for trouser gas in the High Street… all I got was that weird pong as I wandered past Poundland. Lovely.

The Halloween costume has now arrived and I shall be wondering for the next two days how I can adorn it… it isn’t scary, unless you are about 5 and rather religious. Hehe. Oooooh, just had an idea… BRILLIANT Fluffy Bunny… BRILLIIAAANNNNT. Ahem, ignore me, I had a suddenly flash of inspiration. We shall see where this goes.

And finally…

Amy Winehouse. New tits. Polishing a turd.? The photos of her look like someone has taken Scooby Doo and stuck two chocolate bombes (what is the ASCII code for an accent on that letter ‘e’?) on the front of the poor mutt. And $35,000 what the hell was she thinking. I could have got a twelve inch cock for half that price. Actually I could get one for free…

…just need to fold mine in half. Bye all.!

Previously on stitchingbastards….

“No, you don’t know me. You are not my mother”… “YES I AM”. (Thanks to Jordan and her dribbling cunt for that excerpt from history).

Now on stitchingbastards, Jeremy Bloody Kyle. New heights have been hit today as “1000 Million Percent” was a phrase repeatedly bandied about. Words fail me, although the massive daughter like blob on stage in the first ten minutes almost made me retch up my spaghetti and things. Whatever next.!?

The world is a slightly colder place thanks to the clocks going back Sunday morning. Was nice to gain the hour, I needed it after all that dirty beer, but gaining three or four hours would have been nicer. I am getting used to leaving work in the pitch black darkness and wondering why I feel like a hooker whilst I stand waiting for a lift home.! Welcome to our humble Bordello Mr Theakston.

Talking about breaking wind in the palaces of the mighty… How come women can get away with dropping a bad ‘un in public and looking sweet and innocent as a green miasma slowly envelopes the room.? Sometimes it is impossible to “keep it all in”, as the Beautiful South once described in rhyme, and allowing that lovely bubble to escape is all the body needs to relax and continue it’s daily deeds. Trouble is, if I am stood in the bank in a queue and last night’s salami and picalilli sandwich decides it wants to reiterate it’s own existence, well who am I to stand in the way with clenched buttocks and sweating face…

… I want to wink at the smug little cunt in the pricey suit who works a fraction as hard as I do for eight times the pay and then drop a daisy cutter that makes his teeth ache AND smells like someone has gutted a fish using a frozen razor sharp dog turd. I want to be able to watch every customer of the Sandwich Bar start retching into their assorted handbags and lunch plates as my bottom plays a brief tattoo and then issues a smell like Ghandi has died and been sieved through a wet horse.

I could never get away with it though. Sitting on a bus and slipping one out behind the cushion would result in me getting an ear full of shopping from some elderly woman with a face like a jar of mincemeat because I am male and as such “a dirty git”. Not true at all, I try very hard to be polite and mannersome with regard to my fellow customers/workers/passengers/people who are trying to see through a fence into a nudist colony. But if I was pretty of face, long of hair, big of bust… oh and female then I could drop my guts with the force of three H-bombs and then look accusingly at the nearest man before tutting with disgust and rolling my eyes and BINGO instant gas transfer and muttered comments as I sit there wallowing in my self-flatulence and savouring the flavour of an air biscuit that resembles someone walking through a marsh whilst eating pickled spinach.

All I want is a little parity. Frequently at work I am on a till and serving a lady who then walks away and leaves behind something that cannot be seen, only smelt (and tasted alarmingly). Now I know who dealt it (despite having smelt it, etc) but the next person who wanders up to my counter and wonders if I have been rebuilding a minature model of a German gas chamber underneath the till, I GET THE BLAME. I cannot then say “sorry, that thing you smell is neither me, nor that wildly haired, trampy chap by the door, it is the feculance of the charming 18 year old currently wandering over to the collection point with the short skirt and bikini top on”. Imagine the looks I would get.!

Besides, the female of the species only admits to farting when they are either drunk or in a long term relationship, the latter being the worst time of course as you find your darling missus turns into the human equivalent of a jet engine fuelled by cows as she sleeps. Having been with a girl who once woke me up as she slept (and woke herself up as well) simply by parping like the horn of a 44tonne truck (and then getting that fruity waft moving in a northerly direction too) I am well used to a sudden change as sleep takes hold.

Ok, enough of the chuffing gags, I am just watching Come Dine With Me (series 4 episode 17) and having an Indian woman whinging about soup on screen at me saying “I like things to be done properly”, apparently it didn’t refer to her learning to talk English properly, I shall leave you there and no she wasn’t Red Indian.

See you all Saturday for the final flourish.!?!

(and thanks to Miss Rogers for today’s title).

Welcome to my day off. Thursday. Just two weekends of Hobbits left. I have to admit I am looking forward to Saturday night, should be interesting and fun, camera at the ready of course.

Despite the rumours I shall not be appearing on Question Time tonight, that is in fact BNP leader, Nick Griffin. Good on the guy, getting on television with his diatribes and ducking eggs, I just think he would be more at home on the Radio. How about as a guest presenter on Radio One Extra… or appearing live on stage with ex 1994 hit makers China Black.

I saw a photo of Mr Gately’s funeral. Obviously Ronan was carrying that coffin on his own, the other three of Boyzone just propping him up as usual. Ahem.

A HUGE well done to a Mr J. Button of Frome, Somerset for his greatly deserved win in a very exciting Brazilian Grand Prix on Sunday. Second Brit F1 champion in two years, a feat last performed in 1965 when Jim Clark took over from John Surtees (actually in the years 1962 to 1965 it was British guys all the way, Graham Hill joining in the fun as well). Compared to last year and the final 35 seconds of the season deciding it all it seemed a little staid and boring, even though it certainly wasn’t. Thanks to a great tussle with Rubino and The Ham it was settled earlier in the race as the Brazilian gained a puncture from an end plate and went from second to eighth in a pit stop.

Can you imagine how annoyed the Brazilians are with Hamilton now.??? He took the championship off a Brazilian in the last half minute of 2008 and then assists another Englander to the championship by accidentally removing ANOTHER Brazilian from a good position in a Brazilian race. Cripes, I wouldn’t have liked to have been driving him to Sao Paulo airport without a bullet proof car. Not Lewis’s fault at all though, great racing all round and a great drive from him to grab third from EIGHTEENTH on that wet qualifying grid.

I am bitterly swallowing the pill from my blog at the start of the year saying just how bad Button was. Bugger, but oh well, this time I am happy to have been so very, very wrong.

On the subject of cars, a new survey shows that kids in deprived areas get run over by vehicles more. I could have told you that without spending a single quid on research. The ones who generally get run over more are the ones with bad parents who are stupid and have passed on those stupid genes to their offspring or who are swaggering chavs who have produced children who are so arrogant that they believe laws don’t apply to them. Unfortunately it is generally the laws of physics which do apply as they are mown down by a passing Ford Fiesta with big plastic bumpers. It’s a bit like that woman and her very lucky baby on that Australian railway station. Too dopey to even concentrate and put the brake on her buggy and he rolled onto the tracks. Well there is natural selection again, doing it’s work.

In the same vein it appears we could save 80 lives a year by not putting the clocks back (oh yes, extra hour of clubbing on Saturday).! I don’t want to save 80 lives a year if they all tend to be cyclists too dumb to apply two small lights to their bikes and obey traffic lights. Fuck ‘em. All of ‘em.

And that is it for today, I am off to reiterate to Weston that shouting PILE ON near a mental home is never a good thing. See you all Saturday one hopes.!

Good evening mein little stoats. What’s going on here then.? Not much I hear you cry.?? Well allow me to change all that and have a good read of my bumblings and fumblings about the world and all it’s contents.

First off.. Mr Gately… awww. Oh well. (Oh come on… a dead, Irish,  gay singer, it just isn’t worth even bothering).

Secondly… Hobbits. My favourite night club and haunt for the best part of 15 years is to close on the 31st of October. Well that is NO good at all. Where in hell can we go now.? The choices are… Cabot (full most Saturdays with the underclass and tossers), Seven (way too pricey and far too mainstream), Density (sic) (oh come on… no way Pedro) and DBs (errr much as I like the idea of Hobbits four years ago in another building, the music is usually awful, it is the nightclub equivalent of Facebook and I detest some of the skanks that visit that corridor of a club). So it would appear, with the loss of Phoenix as well, that there is now no where to go. Bugger. It’s going to be such a sad occasion.!!! So many memories in there. Sigh.

Thirdly, I started writing this about two weeks ago and didn’t get round to it so now read on….

Sat here listening to “This is a Low” from the Blur “Girls and Boys” album has made me wonder something… actually it isn’t just that it was something a mate said at work whilst listening to Genesis bawling out “Invisible Touch”. We both agreed that music no longer has the quality it once did. No longer do you hear songs that blow you away and cause you to leave this world for another… let me explain.

Name a song written in the last decade that has all the elements of a classic bit of music. The nearest I can get is Umbrella by Rihanna (it’s catchy, it has a certain ’soul’ to it, it had the longevity on the chart and still hasn’t pissed me off). Actually throw in Dare by the Gorillaz instead, that is even better, not totally proving my point am I but that is just two songs in the past ten years (well since the end of 1999 as from that year I can think of so many great tracks and from any year before that but it just seems like 2000 was a cut off point where the good music had to relent and the bad stuff floated to the top and just wouldn’t flush).

People are instantly going to read this and go “Ooooh that Fluffy Bunny is getting old, music isn’t the same anymore” but I like to think I am in context here. I can look back at music from 1940 to now and in those 65 years why has the passion disappeared so suddenly from our music. Yes there are plenty of decent bands out there but it seems like no one gives a toss how awful an artist can be and still reside in a career within music when their calling is more obviously in fellating hippos, cleaning the sludge out of sewage pipes or shaving Kerry Katona’s massively fat, cocaine riddled anus.

Oh it is all just bloody awful.  Makes me want to repeatedly bang my head against my desk but I would worry someone from Simon Cowell’s production company would hear it and pop in to offer me a ten album deal and a chance to bum Louis Walsh. Tch.

Oh and the two girls on Monday’s Jeremy Kyle show were possibly two of the UGLIEST slags I have ever clapped eyes on. Imagine if you got a pig… and threw it at great speed into another pig, then set the bleeding, bacon flavoured mess on fire and placed a couple of wigs on the inferno. No, actually picture in your mind a wall. Now picture my good self flinging assorted offal and dog shit at the brickwork whilst constantly projectile vomiting a mixture of Milk of  Magnesia and Danish Blue cheese sauce over it. Now draw a face in it with a stick coated in the daily drippings of Chris Moyles’ pants. There we go.

Well I am off for dinner. Yummy… oooh blue cheese and dogshit on toast. Lovely.

Oh… and the other day I was merrily looking out of my work window down at the street below when two smartly dressed police officers wandered along the pavement towards the High Street. As they happily yabbered between themselves I noticed a mobile phone appeared in one of their hands. Luckily my view included the webpage currently loaded on that phone… Facebook. Brilliant. Imagine the status updates… “PC Brewster is currently shagging a vulnerable woman without telling the Sarge and WPC Latimer is holding his helmet”.