Danny Dyer and His Deadly Men

I watched Danny Dyer's deadliest men last night just to see him mincing about with a uffer in Scotland and Belfast. Danny was in a sensitive mood. He was glad that the deadly man hadn't tried to bum him, but when he invited him to Belfast for the weekend Danny got scared, probably because he thought they'd gotten past the prospect of sex. So what did Danny do, Danny said yes and went down the arcade to think about it. He must have been reading my blog, and thinking a bit of bum sex might make him come across as sensitive.

Danny fucks off to Belfast, but he goes without the uffer because Danny gets recognised by the fans, and he doesn't want to get his head blown off because of this particular hard man.

In fairness to Danny he does try to get his head round the subject matter, even though you get a sense that deep down he's pissing his pants, but loving the reflected notoriety of hanging out with someone way harder than himself, gay or not (the terrorist, not Danny, of course.)

Here's Danny being scared and fucking about down the arcade (about 2 mins in), wielding a toy gun and dreaming of being hard.



I was pissed off at seeing Danny so scared and feeble that I had to go and watch Football Factory just to reconvince myself that Danny is a rough tough cockney wide boy with minerals and a desire to kick people down a flight of apples and pears.

What To Do When Called By Debt Collection Agencies

Since moving from my old life to my new gritty city one in London I've been plagued by mysterious phonecalls every day. No, not from an angry Danny Dyer, from debt collection agencies grasping on to the one method they have of finding me since I left a lot of unpaid bills at my last address.

I've put the number into my phone as Do Not Answer but sometimes I answer my phone without looking in the hope that it'll be some hot babe, or maybe a non-soul-destroying job offer.

No such luck.

What I tend to do when faced with having to talk to these people is simple. I don't talk. I heavy breathe, like a stalking, thus reversing the harassment back onto them. I hope it traumatises them. I really do.

More about Danny Dyer sucking cock

Aside from listening to the lovely Kate McGill and thinking about how great it would be to watch films where Danny Dyer sucks cock, or tries to suck his own cock for two whole hours (or wears a nappy) I'm sometimes confused going through videos on youtube:



Take this for example: what they fuck is it about? Great song, great character, but what was the motivation in making it?

Anyway back to Danny Dyer sucking cock.

Danny Dyer could be a convincing Ponce

I've been laid low with the cold. I've been keeping London indoors with me by watching lots of Danny Dyer movies. No harm to Danny but he always seems to play the same character. I think he has more range than he gives himself credit for. I think it'd be great to see him play a character that's a bit of a stretch for him. Like a gay, I could really imagine Danny Dyer just sucking cock after cock for two hours.

Anyway while not thinking about Danny Dyer sucking loads of cock, or watching his films I've been on the look out for some good tunes on youtube and the lick and I came across this song:



Isn't it great. Really relaxed and melodic. I'd like to hear more from Kate McGill. I first heard her in a Cafe Nero behind Oxford Street, where I hang out and can be found most Tuesdays from 10:00am to 2:00pm if Danny Dyer wants to meet and discuss my opinion that a film with him sucking cock the whole way through would really suit him.

Let Me Take Your Hands I'm Shaking Like Milk

I was in Jamie's Italian in White City with a hot lady the other day. I'll cut to the chase and tell you I was disappointed. Now I know there are people out there who like to knock Jamie, for his fat tongue, his made up mockney words and his activism. Not me, I don't have a problem with those things and think he seems like a nice guy.

So I managed to get a lady to agree to dinner with me (using no mockney Danny Dyer-isms from the East London ghetto, I'm proud to say). We both agreed on Jamie's because we're fans of the guy, and I've tried a few recipe's of his from the net and I have to say they taste great.

So we started off with some wine, we were told we'd have to wait about twenty minutes but we could have a drink at the bar. No problem here, it's bound to be popular given the profile of the owner. We got some wine and sat at the bar. We were given a table in ten.

Next we had a cheery waiter who cracked witty asides, all good so far. We ordered our food: The game pipe for me, the meatball carbonara for the lady. The meals were served at the same time but unfortunately the meatball carbonara came with no meatballs. We had to send it back to get that sorted. A waitress came and took it, and was very polite and apologetic about the whole thing.

It took ages for her meal to come back, so long that if I hadn't ate mine it would have went cold. When the meatball carbonara came back (this time with meatballs) they weren't the nice hearty chunky meatballs that you'd expect. They were instead, measly like garden pea sized things that looked like they were picked off an Iceland Meat-Feast pizza. The carbonara itself tasted stinking.

We sent the dish back and said we weren't happy with it. The waiter send down the manager, who was nice about everything, she said the chef had tasted the carbonara and all the flavours were there. This was the same chef though, who sent out meatball carbonara with no meatballs.

The manager gave us free deserts which were really nice, considering the other problem of us not being able to eat our main courses together. I don't like to make a fuss but if you read my previous post about having to do crap jobs to scrape a few pennies together you'll know that I don't have the cash to take someone out on a date very often so when I do, I want it to go well.

At this stage we had a nice enough experience. I'd been a gentleman and gave my good lady some of my food while she waited on hers, we'd got free deserts and the whole disappointment had been largely averted. That was until we asked for our bill. Now, I was prepared to give a tip, because the mistakes had been no fault of the waiter, and the service had been good. Up until the previously friendly funny waiter stomped over with a sour face and our bill and didn't even stop to see if he was getting a tip or not. He just dumped the card machine sulkily on the table and walked off.

Fuck him, I thought, you've just grumped your way out of a tip.

Basically his asshole attitude made me and my date feel very uncomfortable as we left. I think Jamie should get down to the restaurant and kick a smile out of the dickhead waiter's arse.

I've worked as a waiter too, and I've had to put up with all sorts of asshole customers. I've also worked for a tip and watched people walk out without giving it. So I think I'm justified in saying that I would definitely go for again to a Jamie's restaurant, maybe even that one, as long as that sourfaced ballbag wasn't working there.

Laura Marling, Me and The Imperial College London

Finding work isn't easy. At least, finding the sort of work I want isn't easy. If I want to temp for minimum wage for the next few years getting up at half past 4am to get in on time to work my arse off and die of drowning from crying in my sleep, then there's plenty of work. If I want to sit in an office and surf facebook and photocopy my arse using office equipment then I'm out of luck.

I'd settle for something in between (closer to the office end of the scale of course).

I read an article with Laura Marling recently where she said that writing A Creature I Don't Know involved lots of sitting in cafes and doing crossword puzzles. Lucky her. And I don't resent her for it, because If I could get a job that involved doing that I'd totally not give a fuck who didn't like it (unless it was the people paying me). It also makes me not really give a fuck about downloading all her hard work for free (and having sex to it).

The other day I did one of the more easy and pleasant types of temp work. I waitered at the graduations for the Imperial College London. It was fucking freezing in the big marquee on the Queen's Lawn, the thinking was that when all the people piled in it would heat up. It did a bit, but by then I was too cold for it to have any benefit.

A Creature I Don't Have Any Money For
It was hard to stay pissed off though because graduation is a nice day for people. Even wee rich kids (which most of them were, who will do more with their BA/Bsc than I've done with my two degrees). It's nice to see the mums and dads all proud of them and their teenage brothers and sisters trying to get some champagne instead of orange juice (I turned a blind eye), and it was hilarious to see some drunk dad throw up all over the bogs. Ha ha ha ha ha

Racism? Me? Really?

I've had to change my profile photo, because like I said in an earlier post it isn't a photo of me and I don't want the poor sap actually in the photo getting hung by the balls for what I'm about to say.

I never would have thought of myself as a racist but that's starting to change.

I live in a part of London with a lot of black people in it. Now black people don't bother me, from the sporadic token black people in the place I used to live to the huge numbers I see everyday in an area where my white skin makes me the token white monority. This doesn't bother me.

What does bother me is the house full of French people I live with. They're all white by the way. (You may argue that this isn't racism it's xenophobia but it's all different branches of the same tree so let's call it racism because it's the biggest, ugliest stick we can beat someone with).

So what have I got against the french? The fact that they're always around speaking in French, even when me, who doesn't speak French is in the fucking room. Now you might say that it's their native language and why should I want to stop them speaking in it. The answer is because it's fucking rude. When I'm not there, they can speak it if they want, but when I am there it's just excluding me. They all say they came to England to learn English, but they're all incredibly fucking bad at it: because they never fucking practice.

I tried to tell one of them about the guy who tried to break in a few weeks ago and after half an hour of talking slow, talking simply and charades his reaction to everything was:

'I dunno, me I work, I work.'

If you want to speak French so bad then fuck off back to France and speak it there.

Am I a racist? I hope not, but I've went from being someone who likes French music, and film to being someone who balls his fist everytime someone gargles an R.