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A brain the size of a planet



Yep, HitchHikers Guide to the Galaxy is arriving to the large screen. Cracking TV series, rib tickler of a book and hopefully a film adaptation worthy of my time.

Talking of my time, it's been wasted a lot recently due to that frigging shambles of a football club I support. After a stunning performance against Liverpool, Blues first chop me in the windpipe and kick me in the balls at Palace, then tell me I've won the lottery but lost my ticket at West Brom. I could rant about how shite Cunningham was, how Horsfield bullied Upson and Cunningham out of the game, spew bile about our inability to find a Blues player each time we passed (for pass read punted high into the air in a Hail Mary fashion) the ball, gibber in the Michael Foot fashion regarding our lack of heart, passion and basic footballing skills or mutter to myself in the "nutter on the bus who has spotted the spare seat next to you" style of later year about paying good money to watch such shite.

But I won't.

Talking of bus nutters, what has happened to them? It's rare for me to use public transport but when I do I expect to see/smell a follower of Ike in a badly stained shell suit pushing a tartan clad shopping trolley whilst sporting a nicotine yellow quiff.

Care in the community isn't what it used to be. We need nutters in public. It reminds us slaves to the working system that there's a way out that offers peace and quiet as well as our names on the trial drugs guest list.

Beinga bus ntter must be great. You can talk to anyone. You can go anywhere, you can do anything. They get served first in the shop. No one confronts the bus nutter. Everyone is shit scared of the bus nutter. They are the pissed stained, white lightning fuelled, modern society version of Jedi Knights. It's more than just a way out, it's a life style.

Strange thing is, you don't see trainee bus nutters do you? No one with a new shopping trolley, or slightly ruffled but still not matted hair. Only a hint of amber staining on the finger tips or a slightly stained pair of tracksuit bottoms but no hint of stale cat piss. I reckon they train them in specialist temples. You have to get a licence before you're let out. You can imagine the test.

You called the copper a cunt, you kicked the old ladies dog but you forgot to piss through the post office letter box and that school child left without crying. Better luck next time.
posted by kwacky at 10:18 pm