The article OF DOOM! - by Liam R
Fucking cocksucking useless Winamp piece of cumbucket shite! Well I had to get a head-start on the copious swearing so why not use it in the opening sentence? Before I was so rudely interrupted my malfunctioning computer software… actually before we really start this frankly awful article I have to let you all know about my computer troubles I’ve been experiencing recently. About three months ago, I installed an extra 512 megabytes of RAM into my system and ever since, I’ve been plagued with a multitude of errors: corrupted graphics on start up, my monitor receiving no signal from the computer, random hang ups, countless “your system has recovered from a graphics failure”, you name it. Now this sounds like it could be a problem with my graphics card, but I haven’t tinkered with that since I bought the computer which leads me to believe that it might be a power supply. If anyone can shed any light on why my computer has seemingly turned into an adolescent teenager, please email me and don’t be shy, you loveable nerds.
Back to the article and even though I seem to say this all the time but I had no idea what to write about until, of all things, going to grab some frozen processed Bird’s Eye chicken stuff from the freezer in my garage (it’s Mexican chicken tonight – mmm spicy!) when it hit me, much like a silicon filled bosom. But first, some back story. My Monday to Thursday routine consists of the following: wake up, work, come home, watch TV for 4 hours, wank, sleep. This routine is occasionally punctured by football of the either playing or watching variety. Saturday is spent nursing a hangover, pub, football, more drinking and then sleep. Sunday is invariably my day of rest. This is not interesting, and seeing as I’m now earning more than I can ever hope to spend (and also, I’m on course to earn nearly twice what working full time as a shift manager at McDonalds five days a week without holiday paid me) I should be going out, fucking bitches like nobodies business, doing drugs that would even shame the useless cumbucket that is Pete Doherty and even buying some clothes that some people might even call fashionable. I don’t however. However, the quite boring and frankly terrifying depths my life has reached were laid out to me at work last week.
Well I say work, but it was really our typical ‘two hours down the pub’ session that we always seem to have on a Friday. But again, I have to backtrack to a little earlier in the week. As everyone else was discussing what they did for New Years, my answer was a little more Liam-ish. “I spent New Years with eight cans of lager, a kebab and a hoover in my computer” was the reply, and goddamn if it wasn’t the truth. So to Friday we go and my work colleagues were discussing their weekend plans, like going down the pub, out clubbing. I was asked and my exact words were:
“Same as every week, beer and TV.”
Jesus Christ you would have fought that I had beaten a 90 year old woman to death before giving her a good skull fucking judging by their reactions. One of my workmates even told me that I can’t live like that and I should be going out more to which I replied:
“I prefer it actually.”
Boy did that go down well. The awkward silence told me everything I needed to know, and all that they wanted to know. Not only was I already a borderline weirdo, but now I was a full blown nutter. Even worse, I am now officially a geek. So this is why I am writing this article as I present every reason why I hate going out on Fridays. Saturdays are tolerable as I am usually not quite as tired and am generally more up for it, but ever since I dropped out of university I’ve loathed Friday nights. Enough with the self pity and on to the list.
The Local Boozer
My local is a quaint little pub called The Huntercombe. And by quaint I mean ‘populated by the worst excuses of chav scum in the entire universe’. There is a very good reason as to why the curtains are always drawn in that place, and the younger chav scum elements loitering in the car park while their older ‘bwedwen’ sneak out bottles of lukewarm alcopiss just puts me right off. The other choice is the local working mens club, which is full of old men. I’ll have to look further afield for boozing choices.
High Street Boozers
And it gets worse. Most high street pubs won’t even soil themselves by call themselves a pub. They’re now bars, with the pubs relegated to the side streets and dingy alleyways. The problem with the chain pubs that loiter this shite hole country’s main thoroughfares is two-fold: they all look alike, and they all desperately want to be clubs. The music is shite for starters, all chart house (DJ Sammy, 80s hair metal fused with disco, talent show losers – you know the drill) and nowt else. The blokes are there for one reason, and one reason only and that’s to (ideally) not get too wasted so they can get laid and if you even cast a look at a girl they want, it’s on like the electric chair in Texas . As for the women, I’ve come up with a theory: the more they wear and weigh, the less chance you have of either contracting an STD or getting killed by their boyfriend. This you can trust me on. Of course these leave the back street boozers, which are full of psycho nutters who just don’t like outsiders. Best look elsewhere for my entertainment.
Strip Clubs
The last two times I went to strip clubs the following happened: Second to last time I spent £250, and the last time I threw up all over myself (and the walls, sink, toilet and cistern). To be honest, strip clubs are very much proof of that old saying that you get what you pay for. Spearmint Rhino and Stringfellows will quite frankly murder you’re credit card over half a bitter shandy, while dumps like the Honeypot employ dodgy looking Eastern Europeans who have beards. I may now be a fairly high earner, but not even I earn that much….
Clubbing
Again two types of clubs: Proper ones like Fabric in London , The Fez in Reading and The Dome in Tufnell Park or shite ones (sort of like the one I visited in Norwich) which are all, or at least were, what I called First Leisure clubs. How can you tell a First Leisure club? Well they’re almost universally full of people you would find inhabiting all the ‘trendy’ bars on the high street. They never, ever have a name DJ playing, just some random bloke who will come over all Dave Lee Travis on the microphone giving shout outs and birthdays mentions over chart and dance ‘classics’. The dress code is almost always no trainers or t-shirts. They invariably all suck. Clubs that are a little of the beaten track (the one I visited in Brighton which seemingly only played 80s electro and hip hop) might have a ‘I feel like I’m not going to get a kicking’ atmosphere, but are filled with muso snobs and fairly attractive women who find me reprehensibly ugly (which, alas, is true). And as the whole point of going out to get wasted is to try and snare a long time fuck, I’m shit out of luck?
So what have we learned? That I’m a fucking fussy fucker for starters, and that I hate going out with a passion. Most drinking establishments are full of tossers and I will never find a girlfriend. And do you know what? I wouldn’t change it for the world.