The Temple of the Mighty Bague

“Don’t Panic!” the newspapers scream.

“Meeeeeeehhhhhhh!” bleats the population of Midlothian. “Meeeeh? What are we not supposed to panic about? Fuel? Protests? Fuel protests? MeeeeeeEEEAAH! Look! A petrol pump with one person waiting!”

“THE SKY IS FALLING IN”

And so the newspapers create a fuel shortage where none existed.

None existed because there are no protests planned for Scotland. None. Not one.

Plenitude Action Liposomes. Nutrigrain. Ambi-pur Liquifresh. Excuse me? It’s the new black! Somewhere, some advertising nob-end decided “Hey, I know! Let’s advertise all our products by making up new words! We could just chop up bits of existing words and stick em together to make new ones!”

So, I have a quest - I’m sitting here in my little room at work and I’m going to walk around downstairs and see how many stupid things I can find on product packaging.

Oooo I didn’t do badly at all. So, here we have - in no particular order - the results.

Toilet Duck, apparently, uses Neutrafresh Technology. Now then. What the fuck is that, eh? Now, I am an admittedly simple person, but I’d have thought that Toilet Duck was a thick green liquid that you squirted down the bog to make it smell nice. I didn’t really think it was particularly advanced, technology wise, and I most definitely didn’t expect it to be so advanced it’d required making up a sodding word to describe it. I could maybe understand if you squirted it down the bog and it swam off to the sea, retrieved some exotic herbs and spices from a faraway land, and filled the bowl with a deeply scented herbal infusion but - and let’s be realistic here - it really doesn’t do anything that complex, does it? It also, apparently, has a thick formula. That’s kinda like H2NO4, but written as H2NO4 presumably. Or maybe it’s not the representation of the formula that’s thick - maybe it uses special thick atoms or something. Or maybe the people who write the blurb are twats. Next Please!

A brief one now - Haze Professional. Eh? “hi, can I have a can of Haze, please. Oh no, not the domestic one - I only use professional.” Get a grip.

Carex soap. For washing shitex of your handex, presumably.

Shockwaves “Volumising” Spray. Well, really. Volumising? Is that actually a real word? I don’t think so. It’s like they say in america - “Oh no! You’ve been burglarized” - I’ve been what? Oh! Burgled! Mined ewe, Voluming doesn’t sound much better - in fact it sounds vaguely rude, really. Anyway, this delightful product also boasts a “micro diffuse formula” which I can only believe means that, unlike the extra thick atoms used above, these little tykes are teensy little with huge fucking gaps between them. But they do ensure you have manageable hair, and that’s what’s important. God knows what kind of state the world would be in if hair didn’t have anyone to manage it. So, leaving the George Martin of the stylist industry aside, we move on.

Saxa Table Salt. The Prince of the Land of What the Fuck. You know what salt is, right? It’s a white powder that can be dangerous in large amounts. No, not that one,the one they used to pay roman soldiers with (were they thick, or what?). You put it on your chips. With brown sauce, I hasten to add. Anyway, there’s a tube of Saxa salt in our kitchen at the moment and on the back there is, god help me, a serving suggestion. Just in case you didn’t fucking know you were supposed to put it on your fucking chips they draw you a fucking picture. Except they don’t draw you a picture of a plate of chips with salt on. Oh no. They draw you a picture of Spaghetti Bolognese. HELLO? Yes, I daresay that, with the addition of a few minor ingredients such as, er, bolognese and spaghetti, salt could be turned into spaghetti bolognese, but it’s really not the top of the shopping list is it? “Right, what am I having for dinner? Spaghetti Bolognese! I’d better check I have enough salt!” I don’t fucking think so.

So, that’s the stupid things I found after looking for two seconds. I shall leave further investigation as an exercise for someone who gives a shit.

Dear oh fecking dear.

I bought a plastic bottle of “Channel Islands Milk” from Tesco. That’s the creamy, slightly golden, milk from Jersey Cows. I was pouring a glass of it when a small flash of colour caught my eye.

There, on the side of the bottle, was an allergy warning.

ALLERGY WARNING!

it proclaimed.

CONTAINS MILK!

Contains. Fecking. Milk.

I’m too fecking sickened by the stupidity of society and the lawyer-cowed wankers of big business to comment any further. I hate you all.

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells Jingle all the fucking way. Oh what bastard fun it is to have PIPED FUCKING CHRISTMAS MUSIC PLAYING EVERY BLOODY PLACE YOU BASTARDING GO.

It’s christmas time. According to Woolworth’s shelf-stockers, it’s been christmas time since fucking SEPTEMBER. It was christmas before it was bloody halloween this year.

“But it’s nice,” someone might whine. “But it’s the season of giving.”

It’s the season of fucking GREED, you apologist fuck, I would undoubtedly answer. It’s the season of charging around Tescos stuffing your trolly with all the food in the fucking world just in case there’s a bastarding FAMINE, despite the fact that the larger shops close for TWO DAYS and the corner shops……. don’t bloody well close at all. JUST FUCKING STOP IT!

People are being driven to this crazed panic-buying like the pathetic lemmings they are by a media which constantly screams CONSUME at them. Why do you NEED to buy a month’s worth of shopping on the 23rd of December? Why do you NEED to have four palettes of Tennent’s fucking Lager (undrinkable yak-piss that it is) sticking out the top of your trolley? The answer? You bloody well don’t. There are places in the world where people live on the equivalent of a single christmas shopping trolley for the whole fucking YEAR if they’re lucky.

And what’s all this bollocks about Christmas cards? “Here’s a piece of paper to say that despite the fact that I haven’t spoken to you since the last christmas card, you’re still my bestest friend.” It’s only a matter of bloody time before Hallmark start printing boxing day cards, 17th of January cards and day-with-a-fucking-y-in-the-name cards.

Get this - a shop near my house sells a box of 100 cards for 69p. That’s less than a penny per card. It costs thirty times as much to post the fucker! If you really must send them, why not take the opportunity to actually visit one of these so called friends and drop the bloody thing off yourself. That way you might be able to avoid being a complete hypocritical loser.

On that note, it’s only fair to point out that anyone trying to hand deliver a card to me will be immediately stabbed in the bastard.

One of my children was stung by a wasp at the weekend.

That sentence, on its own, paints quite a vivid picture, doesn’t it? Sort of. You see, the thing is this: a sting exists in nature as a defense mechanism, allowing small delicate insects to defend themselves against much larger predators.

So, how does this explain the wasp? Because, let’s face it, the wasp could never be accused of being the victim could it? In this particular instance, the stripy yellow fuck actually held on with its legs and with its arse going like a fiddler’s elbow, stinging over and over again.

Why is this? Because wasps, my friends, are mutant scumfuck BASTARDS. They are nature’s way of saying “Ah’m pure mental, me”; they are a natural chib. They serve no other purpose but to zip around like evolutionary neds “malkying” anything or anyone that crosses their paths.

Like all other types of ned, the wasp should be sought out and destroyed on sight. We must not shirk from this unpleasant duty, but strive to make the world a better (if slightly wasp-splattered) place for our children.