‘E ‘eard that Girning Clown wos wantin’ to run the Labour (Kommuno-Fascist) campaign at the next Scottish election.

Mad Mickey finks it’s just a ploy to get the gNats elected ‘cos even Girning Clown coudn’t be fick enuff to fink ‘e wos going to do any good for Labour.

I told Mickey the Clown just doesn’t get ‘ow much folk ‘ate ‘im. But Mickey sez ‘e must be a secret gNat as well as an unreconstructed pinko. First ‘e faccks the pension system, sells the family jewels (our gold) at rock-bottom prices an’ spends all the wonga on diversity divas and quango queens in the biggest financial disaster in British ‘istory. Then ‘e’ll facck off back north and facck up Scotland.

“‘E’s a facckin’ wanker” sez Mickey.
“You’ll get no argument ‘ere,” sez I. “Just get the pints in quick before the Eton bumboys put up the price of a pint.”

Anyway.
Fatchav till the day I die.
(Or get a gastric Band)

ascei8gdu9

So ah sat out the election. No blaggin.
Sorry! Freudian facckin slip. No bloggin’ while it wos on. Only right. Ah’ll leave that to all the rancid politicos.

Let’s just see ‘oo we get now. The monkey, the muppet or the moron?

But at least Mad Mickey MacMental is ‘appy. Stumpie Fishpaste an’ the gNats didn’t pick up any seats so ‘e wos jiggin round the Barking Dog after we packed up at the market.
“Dancin’ bear!” ‘e sed it wos. An’ ‘oo am I to disagree?

Anyway.
Fatchav till the day I die.
(Or get a gastric Band)

ascei8gdu9

Ah’m an old geezer. Ah dahn’t do politics, dahn’t much care for interferin’ councils cahnts an’ ah hate politicians. Ah remember Harold Wilson an’ ‘Managed Decline’, ah remember sunny Jim Callaghan an’ shit on the streets, an’ ah know there hasn’t been a Labour government for 50 years that brought us any longterm good. They’re all self-seeking suckdicks and fuckwads.

Wot’s the alternative you ask? A bunch of Tory bumboys?
Well.
These days there’s more bumboys in the lezzie Labour movement than anywhere else so that’s not the argument it used to be. Nuffin’ against gays but they dahn’t look at the world like wot ah do. They ain’t neva goin’ to ‘ave six ‘ungry sprogs to feed, clothe, educate an’ get jobs. Ah’ll define my time on this earth by me beliefs (surprise, an oik like me can believe), kids an me family not ‘oo or wot ah pork.
So wot’s the alternative?
Well, less government, more space. More space, more cash, more chance for the rest of us to get on with our lives and get it right instead of some facckin minted civil servant screwin’ wiv our livelihoods and facckin’ up all our futures on the whims of some fascist politician.

Wot do ah want? Ah hate Labour for their lies and bringing everything good dahn into the gutter. Ah dahn’t care for the Tories. Ah wouldn’t know wot a LibDem looked like unless it ‘ad a sign on it (’cept for ol’ Simon in Bermondsey ‘oo’s salt of the earth)

Ah want a government, councils and politicians that remember they work for us. That all of this is ours, not theirs. These are our streets, towns, our land. They’ve just been given stewardship for a short while an’ they need to remember that they’re facckin’ public SERVANTS!!

Ah’m workin’ up BarkingMad way at the market three days a week so all ah can says is those Bloody Nob Pansies better not come rahnd my stall with their racist crap.

Anyway.
Fatchav till the day I die.
(Or get a gastric Band)

ascei8gdu9

Then Haridan Hairyman pops up ‘n’ tells us that social mobility ‘asn’t got worse under the communo-fascists and that we’re all really much, much better off. (Or will be once she’s replaced all bastardin’ men in power wiv wimmin).
Now ah don’t know abaht you but all ah know abaht social mobility is that scary Mary’s nan got a Skoda instead of the Reliant Robin me nan ‘ad when ah wos a kid and that seems like progress to me. But ah’m not sure Haridan Hairyman ‘ad anyfing to do wiv that.

Anyway.
Fatchav till the day I die.
(Or get a gastric Band)

ascei8gdu9

Anyway.
Fatchav till the day I die.
(Or get a gastric Band)

ascei8gdu9

I told me old lady this wos wot ‘e wos aimin’ for 10 year back. She wouldn’t ‘ave it. “‘E’s a diamond geezer.” she sez. “‘E’s got such a nice smile.”
Diamond geezer my arse! Slimy facckin’ cockroach sez I. You just know that ‘e doesn’t care wot trouble we get into cos after it’s all over ‘e’ll just crawl aaht from under the nearest rock an’ carry on regardless. If ‘e comes rahnd the manor ‘e’s gettin’ a slap!

“He’s an evil cunt, him an’ that monkey Girning Clown.” sez mad Mickey, an’ that’s not cos Mickey’s a mental weegie an’ hates East Coast Erseholes. It’s cos they are evil facckin’ cahnts. (But Mickey is a wee bit mental all the same. Just dahn’t tell ‘im. ‘E dahn’t like it.)

Ah’m off to BarkingMad to do a job for Magik in the morning. Taking a loada dodgy fruit up the market there. Fell off the back of a lorry it did - and it looks like it was run over by the truck behind.

And thanks to all you diamond geezers oo’ve got FatChav Fundamental in the top 10 British blogs as ranked by Blogged.com. ‘Ave you lot nuffin better to do wiv your time than read this crap.

Anyway.
Fatchav till the day I die.
(Or get a gastric Band)

ascei8gdu9

Nah, I dahn’t just mean cos you can get mad-dogged on a can of Tennents Special at 8:30 in the morning while you’re waiting for the Market Porter up the Borough to reopen. The quacks and science geeks have finally discovered wot Mad MIckey ‘n’ me ‘eve known since birth.

Beer is good for you!

If can reduce strokes, heart disease and even the incidence of cataracts.

So, can Mad Mickey ‘n’ me hope to liver forever. Well, we can hope, but even if mad Mickey manages not to kill ‘imself on one of ‘is mental antics and the old lady doesn’t kill me for crimes against fashion, beer ‘as still got it’s dahn side so you got to avoid too much of a good thing. Still, wot’s to beat a good pint of ale. Nothing much, except maybe two pints. 

So, pop quiz. 

True or false?

Beer is good for your heart.

True: (nah ‘ere’s the science) A Dutch study found that a known reference for predicting future cardiovascular disease, blood C-reactive protein (CRP), declined by 35 percent after three weeks of regular beer consumption compared with levels after three weeks of drinking non-alcoholic beer.  Ya beauty. Always knew those cloggies were good for something more than a wild weekend in Amsterdam.

The same study found that levels of HDL or “good” cholesterol rose by 11 percent during the same period. Beer also contains vitamin B6, which prevents the build-up of an amino acid called homocysteine that has been linked to heart disease.

Three for three, I’d say. We’re on a roll ‘ere.

And … younger women who drink two or three alcoholic bevvies a week have a lower risk of developing high blood pressure than women who don’t drink alcohol. The women in the group who drank two or three a week had a 14 percent lower risk of developing high blood pressure than those who abstained. Now 2 or 3 a week isn’t really drinking, but let’s not quibble.

Beer will reduce the chance of stroke.

True: One drink a day for women or up to two drinks a day for men will reduce your chances of strokes, heart and vascular disease. Stroke is the third biggest cause of death in the UK and the largest single cause of severe disability. It is said that light to moderate drinkers will decrease their chances of suffering a stroke by 20 percent.

Give your nan a beer. It’s good for her.

True: Maybe you dahn’t take ‘er dahn the Rancid Raspberry for Happy Hour (Monday to Friday, 11:00 to 19:00, 3 drinks for the price of 1 and the potcheen is free) but in moderation, beer has been proven to have positive effects on elderly people. And I dahn’t just mean gettin’ them crumblies up an’ dancin’ dahn the social an’ flappin’ their bingo wings. You got to be careful though. Where do you think that smell of piss in old folk’s gaffs comes from.

Beer makes you funnier and more attractive to the opposite sex.

False: Oh no! Is that where I’ve bin goin’ wrong all these years? Beer doesn’t make you funnier, but you will laugh at your own bad jokes more. And so will your drunken mates. And for men - BUT UNFORTUNATELY NOT FOR WOMEN - your beer-goggles can take over and make that 3 at the end of the bar seem like a ten. And unless you’ve got an overnight alcohol IV, you’ll see clearly in the morning. AAAGGGHH!.

Beer is fat and cholesterol-free.

True: Look at the label. Nutritionally, a beer is like a soft drink in its calories and carbs, but does  your blahdy Dr Pepper curb cancer? I daahn’t think so!

Beer is good for breasts.

True: Research by scientists at the Universidade do Porto in Portugal found that polyphenols in wine and beer appeared to decrease breast cancer cells significantly. Numerous other experiments have shown that certain polyphenols, mainly flavonoids, can protect against heart disease and have anticancer, antiviral and antiallergic properties.

The Portuguese study concluded that xanthohumol, which is found in beer, was the most potent polyphenol over breast cancer cell growth; it showed its effect more rapidly and at a lower concentration than the others.

Now there’a a job. Why can’t I get paid to study tits? Hell, I’d do if for free.

So all in all, as Ben Franklin said dahn Ye Olde Scars and Swipes, “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”

And thanks to all you diamond geezers oo’ve got FatChav Fundamental in the top 10 British blogs as ranked by Blogged.com. ‘Ave you lot nuffin better to do wiv your time than read this crap.

Anyway.
Fatchav till the day I die.
(Or get a gastric Band)

ascei8gdu9

It would explain a load if Girnin’ ‘as been powderin’ ‘is nose a bit too much, or tripping on the LS&D. Maybe it’s not that ‘e’s fick. Could be ‘e’s just wasted all the time.
Wonder if that’s why ‘e’s got the Old Navy chasin’ Saff American smugglers rather than the Old Bill chasin’ Saff Lahndahn gansters. I was finkin’ that ‘e could probably shift that £200 mil of charlie up the West End over a couple of weekends.

Mad Mickey MacMental tells me that geezer John Smeaton is standing for parliament in the seat that old Lord Gorbals of the Gutter screwed over for years. That’s wot we need. A mad weegie squaring up to Haridan Hairyman, the Rubberbands and the Eton Bumboys at the same time. There would be blood.
Dahn’t tell me it won’t ‘appen. This is a guy that swung the lead at a suicide bomber in flames wiv a motor fulla blowin’ up stuff behind ‘im. (You got to ask yourself. With all the airports in the country to choose from, ‘oo in their right mind would choose Glasgow to bomb. Only thing that surprised me wos that some ned didn’t jack the motor before they got near the airport).

.
Anyway.
Fatchav till the day I die.
(Or get a gastric Band)

ascei8gdu9

Finally, Magik steps up an’ sez “Mickey, you are not right. What is the problem.”

Normally, tellin’ Mickey he is ‘not right’ would have a profound effect but this time ‘e just goes, “Nae offence, Magik” sez Mickey.
(well when Mickey sez ‘nae offence intended’ you know somebody is goin’ to feel pretty offended),
“It’s aw this keech oan the telly wi’ Stumpie Fishpaste and the fuckin’ gNats letting that mass murderer oot o’ the jail. It’s no right. That stumpie little wanker is a disgrace. It gets mair fuckin embarassin’ bein’ a Scotsman every fuckin’ day what wi’ ToniBlah and Girning Clown having fucked over the whole country an’ noo we huv Stumpie fuckin’ Fishpaste an’ those fuckin’ tossers that call themselves the Scottish Government gie’in’ the biggest mass murderer in UK history a ’get oot o’ jail free’ card.

If the man wisnae guilty we need an appeal tae find oot wot the fuck happened. If the man wis guilty - then ‘e murdered 272 people an’ shouldnae be let oot o’ jail fur ‘compassionate reasons’. Or if ‘e wis, ‘e should be under hoos arrest, no headin hame tae a hero’s fuckin’ welcome. Naeboady who murdered 270 innocent people by hidin’ a bomb in a bag is any kind o’ hero. Cowardly fuckin’ lassie is what any bomber is. Cannae man up and gie it a sqwerr go wi’ whoever. Huv tae sneak aroon like a rat. Therr no even human.”

We let this go on for a bit, then once Magik had lost any hope of understandin’ wot Mickey wos sayin’ ‘e nodded over an’ we dragged Mickey into the Market Porter to put the world to rights. Well we were gettin’ no work done anyway.

 
And to keep Mickey happy we started wiv that tosspot Stumpie Fishpaste - a man wiv an ego bigger than Scotland an’ a face like a pie that wos sat on by fat frankie wiv no keks on.

So we had a few to to celebrate our good fortune in being alive, able to live free and along the way we raised a glass to the victims of Flight 103.

Well, it wos Friday morning so you got to start the weekend the right way. Got a job up BarkingMad way on Monday morning so let’s see if we make it there.

.
Anyway.
Fatchav till the day I die.
(Or get a gastric Band)

ascei8gdu9

“Ain’t that a bit racist, Mickey?” sez I.

“No at aw, Topman.” sez ‘e. “Irish. Scottish. Wir aw Jock Tamson’s bairns. Even you English, although you lot ur definitely from the wrang side o’ the sheets. So ah cannae be racist, cos ah’m really just slagging aff meself, See?”

Ah didn’t see at all. But ’ere goes …  

Artery…………………….. The study of paintings.
Bacteria…………………… Back door to cafeteria.
Barium……………………… What doctors do when patients die.
Benign……………………. What you be, after you be eight.
Caesarean Section……..A neighbourhood in Rome.
Catscan…………………….. Searching for Kitty.
Cauterize…………………… Made eye contact with her.
Colic………………………. A sheep dog.
Coma……………………… A punctuation mark.
Dilate…………………….. To live long.
Enema………………………. Not a friend.
Fester……………………… Quicker than someone else.
(Or Topman’s Uncle shouts some chancin’ geezer)
Fibula…………………….. A small lie.
Impotent…………………… Distinguished, well known.
Labour Pain………………….Getting hurt at work.
(Our facckin’ government choruses the bar)
Medical Staff………………… A Doctor’s cane.
Morbid………………………. A higher offer.
Nitrates…………………… Cheaper than day rates.
Node………………………. I knew it.
Outpatient…………………. A person who has fainted.
Pelvis…………………….. Second cousin to Elvis.
Post Operative…………….. A letter carrier.
Recovery Room……………..Place to do upholstery.
Rectum…………………….. Nearly killed him.
Secretion………………….. Hiding something.
Seizure……………………. Roman emperor.
Tablet………………………. A small table.
Terminal Illness…………… Getting sick at the airport.
Tumour………………………One plus one more.
Urine……………………… Opposite of you’re out.

.
Anyway.
Fatchav till the day I die.
(Or get a gastric Band)

ascei8gdu9