I’m going to be doing some more work on the site soon, and will start accepting guest posts from other writers – so if you (or anyone you know) are interested in getting some of your own writing published, get in touch!

That’ll be all for now!

Halloween. The one day every year we all get to dress up as whatever the hell we want and get ragingly drunk. Well, that’s what I do.

Depending on your age, though, you may partake in ‘trick or treating’ or simply cower behind closed curtains with your lights off pretending no-one is home… shame on you (and you wonder why you get ‘tricked’ by barrages of eggs and flower every year!).

The annual holiday, known to our yankified cousins as Hallowe’en, falls on the 31^st October mainly in the UK, Canada and the USA. The cryptic celebration has its roots in the Celtic festival of Samhain and the Christian holiday of All Saints’ Day. Nowadays, however, no-one is really arsed about where it comes from… all we’re bothered about is scaring each other, cramming copious amounts of sweets down our necks and attending themed ‘social events’.

To me, Halloween has changed A LOT since I was younger. I used to love it, as I’m sure many kids do now. But now… although my lustful feelings towards the celebration remain, I kind of hate it.

As a kid, I used to love nothing more than donning my black bin liner and running around on the witches’ broom my parents bought me from spar, knocking only on the houses of people we know (namely close relatives and neighbours). I used to come home with a Morrison’s bag full of penguin bars, Blue Ribands and ‘double’ lollies.

As I grew older and spread my wings a bit (I don’t really have wings… that’s just a saying), I was allowed to knock on other people’s doors and cheekily ask for some of their food.

One year, in fact, I can remember going to one house near me, and they said “Ooh, we don’t believe in Halloween (cue their lecture on different types of Christianity), but you can have a kitkat anyway for coming round”.

So… that kind of defies what you’ve told me doesn’t it? You don’t want people coming round and asking for food in celebration of Halloween, yet you’ll happily provide them with a kitkat (probably laced with sedatives or something).

Just to make it clear – I completely respect people’s religious views. It’s their choice if they don’t want to celebrate Halloween. But come on, who else did you expect at the door at 7pm on 31^st October? Jesus?

Anyway, as I was saying, heading further out around the streets opened my eyes to what Halloween was really about.

I wasn’t being escorted by my parents anymore, I was walking free, dressed as some sort of monster… and it was then that I discovered what Halloween was actually about: Silly string, eggs, flour and lengthy sessions of ‘knock-a-door-run’. Of course, though… as a good child, I didn’t partake in this non-sense (honest).

But this is one of the reasons why I dislike the celebration. It gives chavs (of all ages) the chance to get out on the streets and cause utter havoc in their cliché ‘Scream’ mask we all know so well. Cars get covered in crap (not literally, because that’s just wrong), houses get sprayed with sticky/eggy flower and kids genuinely get scared – Halloween simply isn’t what it used to be.

It’s a bit of a shame really, chavs do ruin everything. As I said in an earlier post, they’re even responsible for global warming. I was on a night/weekend out in Leeds over Halloween getting horrifically drunk, and on several separate occasions I saw chavs either fighting with each other, or starting a fight with me (the latter happened in broad daylight on Saturday morning – these Yorkshire folk obviously don’t know t’difference between t’night and day).

The main reason, though, why I dislike Halloween (and love it too, strangely), is because it has become so fabricated and commercial over the last few years. I hate the fact that putting hours of effort into making your own ‘costume’ is a dying art… but I love the fact you can go to your local fancy dress shop and pick up a full-bodied ‘Banana man’ suit.

It’s strange really, because most of the reasons why I hate Halloween are the reasons why I love it too – like getting stupidly drunk… I suppose that’s just adults substituting alcohol for sweets though!

We don’t get stupidly drunk for Easter, nor do we get stupidly drunk for St. George’s day… but Halloween, my friends, Halloween is a different kettle of fish.

There’s no stopping the trend of vandalism and drunken revelry, and there’s certainly no chance of people celebrating Halloween for its original purpose/meaning – so I guess we’re just going to have to accept that for one night a year (a few more if you live in places like Burnley), people are going to run riot, throw eggs, set off fireworks in your local park and generally act like tw*ts… because that’s what Halloween is all about.

Every year, without fail, a certain ‘echelon’, shall we say, of society erects their Christmas trees, begins writing cards and completes their festive shopping far earlier than sensible.

This is now becoming a major issue. The ‘attack of the Christmas proles’ has started earlier this year – and we’ve got reason to believe it will continue to edge earlier and earlier every single year.

It starts, as many of you will have noticed, in the hunting and breeding ground of these creatures… The pound shops.

Poundland, Poundworld, PoundStretcher, Poundprettymuchanywordyoubloodywellwant… they all stock their Christmas ‘tack’ much earlier than anywhere else – much earlier than the North Pole itself, in fact.

Why do they do this? Well, I’ll tell you why… it’s so they can get them all in one place at the same time, take their dole and benefit money from them and, in return, provide them with a plastic Father Christmas holding a ‘Santa Stop Here’ sign.

Proles: "Santa Stop Here"... Santa: "No".

That’s just how stupid these people are… they actually think ‘Santa’ is going to stop at their house. We all know he’s far too busy for that.

My anger over this issue surfaced last week, when I was watching ‘Channel One’ (previously Virgin one) – before 11pm, of course – and noticed that on every ad break, they would have some company ‘proudly sponsoring Christmas entertainment on Channel One’. I was watching the bloody X-Files… hardly festive if you ask me… people died.

It’s October, and last week was earlier in October… so why on earth would anyone refer to Christmas then? I can understand sofa companies doing it, because they’ve always done it – even before the invention of Christmas in 1988, when I was born.

What really annoys me is when the empire of Pound shops stock their Christmas crap alongside their Halloween hash. The only reason I can think of why it annoys me so much is because it’s, as Father Jack would say, fecking October.

There is simply no need for it. It only encourages the proles to kit their homes (well, they’re technically our homes really… but we won’t go into that) out with stupid Santas pretending to climb the house and fall down… oh haha, bloody hilarious.

There’s one row of houses I pass on the way to work every morning who must use enough electricity powering their lights over Christmas to power Michelle McManus’ stair lift for a full week… and that, my friends, would need a lot of electricity. The houses I pass aren’t inhabited by working people, oh no… working people don’t have time for that, they are – that’s right – inhabited by chavvy proles. Surprise surprise.

On a side note, we could actually go as far as saying chavs cause global warming. Other than polluting the air with their cannabis and stella-tainted breath, over the five months of Christmas (it’s one month for us, we’re more on the ‘normal’ side…), they create so much light pollution it’s unreal.

Anyway, back on the ball… I hate it when people start celebrating Christmas in October. November, I can just about stomach – it gets easier with each day that passes. But October… we’re only just saying goodbye to the idea of summer.

Don’t get me wrong (I seem to say that in every article, just to ‘cover my back’!), I love seeing Christmas lights and people getting in the festive mood – it’s great to see that ‘communities’ still exist. But when I see these celebrations starting as early as they have done this year, I vomit uncontrollably.

Christmas, for me, begins on 1^st December every year. I don’t know about you, but I don’t tend to think about it too much until then. Whether that’s because I’m male… or just because I’m normal – I haven’t got the foggiest.

While I’m on the subject of proles doing things early… have you ever noticed they (along with normal ‘older folk’) cook (sorry, order) their tea hours before anyone else does? The entire council estates of Preston will have already finished their teas by the time I’ve eaten my first Heinz Baked Bean (yeah, that’s right, I eat them one by one…).

So, now you’ve read this, be on the lookout for people who’ve kitted their houses out with tacky reindeers and poorly-created Father Christmas models. Once you find them, kick them over – the decorations and the people, that is.

Actually, don’t… I think that’s illegal.

What you should do, however, is slowly shake your head in disapproval. Of course, if these decorations happen to be outside a ‘normal’ family’s home, just accept this as misguidance and let them be. The proles, however, deserve every slow shake of your head you can muster up.

Happy Holidays, as th’olde yanks would say.

Main image taken from: Metro .co.uk — In-content image taken from: tianyulighting.en. hisupplier. com

For those of you waiting in nail-biting anticipation for my next post, I must extend this apology to you.

I’m in the process of writing a ‘guest article’ for another website. It will be pretty much the same as my other posts (style-wise), but might be a bit longer.

Once it has gone live (if it gets accepted, that is), I will post a link on here, and on the Facebook so you can all have a read.

I’ll give you a little teaser about what the article is about – it’s going to be an offensive one (which some of you will love), and it’s going to be about a certain hopeless celebrity. I will give away no more!

In the meantime, though… just to keep you happy, I’m going to rant on a bit about how stupid one of the Chilean miners is. The man in question is Yonni Barrios.

Yonni Barrios, the man at the hearts of two large women

Yonni has onni gonni and invited both his wife and his mistress to greet him when he surfaced.

His excuse, understandably, is that he loves them both and wants them both ‘to be friends’.

Of course, Mr. Barrios, your wife is going to LOVE the idea of palling-up with the women you’ve being doing the dirty with behind her back for five years. Are you insane?!

First of all, she’s not going to ‘understand’ and ‘be ok with it’, and you can’t just play the ‘I’ve been trapped underground for a while’ card… that’s just not going to cut it Yonni, not going to cut it at all.

So, as the other 32 miners were greeted with tears of joy and applause, Monsieur Barrios was greeted by… his mistress (who kind of looks a bit like his wife anyway… she was just wearing a different top).

That’s right, his wife refused to turn up. And bloody good for her. She’s given him the old-age ultimatum – “it’s her or me”.

Now then, I’m happy Yonni got out of the mine un-scathed, I really am – in fact, I think it really is a miracle that all of the miners made it out. Very heart-warming indeed. But it’s not a bloody episode of EastEnders.

Perhaps, Barrios, you should have considered that the story of 33 trapped miners about to be rescued from the depths of the Atacama desert would escalate into one of the biggest news stories of the year – which means EVERY form of media will be there… and on that note, perhaps you should have just asked your wife to be there – and dealt with your mistress privately, as you have been doing for five years.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but this guy has either inhaled something down there… or he’s just bloody stupid.

ANYWAY, I will leave it at that, and wish Mr. Barrios all the very best in his future life as a bigamist and ‘miner’ (ha-ha) celebrity.

One final note though, if any of you are planning on revealing a mistress to your wife, just like Yonni did, – please don’t ask them both to ‘be friends’… we’ll just laugh at you if you do!

Note: I just want to take this final opportunity to say how great it is that all of the miners have been rescued – it’s a credit to the Chilean Government as well as the mining minister.

While you’re here… why not add a comment saying who you think should be sent down the mine in replacement of the rescued miners. Just a bit of fun – nothing too personal please!

Main image taken from icnewsonline. com, in-content image taken from blog.zap2it. com.

If you’ve read anything in the news over the past two weeks, you’ll have probably seen how much of a shambles the Commonwealth Games have become this year.

Ever since Delhi was appointed host of the games, criticism has roared all over the world: “They won’t be able to cope with the influx of people”… “They won’t have enough money to stay stable throughout the games”… “Crime will increase to a level the police won’t be able to handle”… “The conditions for athletes will be too poor” – ALL of these were mentioned before the games began, and guess what… ALL of them have come true.

My thoughts on this, as you may be able to gather already, are pretty negative.

Why give the event to a city that obviously won’t be able to cope with the event? Before I hear some of you shout about ‘equality’ – that doesn’t even come into it… it’s a matter of competence. And this is exactly what Delhi doesn’t have.

Let’s break it down to a really basic level. It’s like a kid’s party… you’ll need to have musical chairs, pass the parcel and a whole host of other popular games.

What you shouldn’t be doing is building the chairs while the game of musical chairs is in process… nor should you be wrapping the ‘parcel’ as the children pass it round.

Unfortunately for Delhi, this is what’s happening at their Commonwealth Games. Stadia are still being constructed, tracks are still being laid – it’s an utter shambles.

They’ve even been using children to fix chairs into seating areas of poorly built stadia – that’s bloody desperate, considering the World’s media are all over the city at the moment!

This long (but entirely necessary) introduction eventually brings me to my next gripe; the next thing that really winds me up is…

People (/countries) who say they’ll do things, but either can’t or don’t.

The following conversation is a transcript of a conference call that took place some time ago:

Commonwealth Committee: “Delhi, would you like to host the 2010 Commonwealth Games?”

Delhi: “Ooh, yes please, that would be grand.”

Commonwealth Committee: “Excellent, you’ll need to have everything ready before the start of the games, obviously.”

Delhi: “No problem sir, we’ve already started and have our fine child labourers on the job.”

Nick Boyle: “I bet you don’t have it done in time…”

That conversation, which is 100% genuine, took place when Delhi was appointed host for this year’s ceremony. I’m not entirely sure why they asked me to be there, but I was more than happy to contribute at the time.

So – Delhi made a promise, a promise that they failed to keep. Their simple task was to get everything ready in time. They failed, with disastrous effects.

A footbridge collapsed, injuring 23… the roof of a stadium (obviously made out of pond reed or something equally as weak) collapsed… things didn’t get off to a good start.

Good handywork. However, I could have built a stronger bridge out of shreddies.

What’s more, the Chief Minister of Delhi is called ‘Sheila Dikshit’ – no offence, love, but do you even know what your name means?

Having said that, in her defence, she’s doing her job – and she’s doing it well… sort of.

Anyway, we’re well into the games now, and despite breakouts of dengue fever and paltry accommodation for our nation’s finest athletes… things are going ok.

Oh, by the way, I’ve altered the definition of ‘ok’ from ‘satisfactory’ to ‘swimmingly poor and pathetic.’

Delhi, get your act together – this was your chance to shine and you didn’t do it.

There aren’t many solutions I can suggest to deal with people who promise things they can’t deliver. I could say trust no-one, but then you’ll all get paranoid… so the only advice I’m going to offer is don’t become one of these people yourself. You’d be the worst kind of person, and you’d have columns like this written about you.

That’s about it for this gripe, but I’d just like to thank those of you who have commented on my articles so far. Your feedback is very much appreciated, and I enjoy reading your views on the topics I cover.

Anyone who comments from now on gets £10.

Just to cover my back… if you believe that last statement, you’ve obviously not been paying attention to my article!

Main image and in-content image taken from The Guardian.

I’m going to try something a little different over the course of my next few articles – just to mix things up a bit.

What I’m planning to do is write about things that really wind me up, things that summon rage from the depths within…

Come to think of it, when I say ‘over the course of my next few articles’ – this could mean three, it could mean five… or it could just continue (I get annoyed at a lot of things, you see, but I’m not an angry person – honest).

Anyway, let’s not waste time – let’s get this started.

My very first ‘official’ rant (the last few have been going off in all sorts of directions) is going to be about mopeds.

Are you with me…? I’m guessing a great deal of you are, so let’s continue.

Mopeds are, for those of you who don’t know, bloody stupid.

They’re half-way between a push bike and a small motorbike – which is great for people who have a genuine interest in motorbikes and have to gain experience riding something less powerful before moving onto a sportier model.

However, according to official figures from my own research, 97.65% of moped drivers are utter idiots and only ride them as a status symbol – this status is unknown to me (other than conveying that they are council-estate dwelling, unemployed and – here’s that word again – chavs).

It’s not just the fact that the riders of most mopeds have a lower IQ than the number of wheels on the vehicle… it’s the bloody noise they make too.

I’m not even going to try and visually represent the hum mopeds make, because I’m pretty sure you already know. It sounds a little like a bee trapped in a wheelie bin.

On a slightly random note… I once heard of a game – and illegal game, that is – where the aim was to drive round and kick mopeds over. Now then, this is pretty awful for the innocent moped riders out there… but let’s face it, you’ve got a 9 in 10 chance of kicking a chav’s moped over, so the odds are incredibly in your favour. I’m not (in any way) condoning this game, so please don’t go out there and do it!

This picture isn't at all relevant to my post - it's just hilarious

Anyway, we can’t exactly get rid of mopeds – because they are useful for some people. They’re economic and they can nip around city centres with great ease.

What we can do, though, is pray on our hands and knees before we sleep for a new licensing system that will prevent chavs (or – to be more politically correct… youngsters with a criminal record – i.e. all chavs) from riding these things around. Following that, the roads will be left open to people who enjoy riding motorbikes/mopeds (and those who genuinely appreciate the convenience of them) – and maybe then I won’t hate them as much!

I don’t want to hate mopeds, but I just do. I completely appreciate how great and handy they can be – but sometimes, the heart is stronger than the head!

Mopeds, my dear friends, are heading (well, incessantly squealing actually) into my proverbial Room 101.

Main image taken from: hsinjurylaw. com – In-content images taken from kansas. inetgiant. com

You might have read in the news this week about a ‘man’ named Keith Macdonald.

Keith, a 25-year-old unemployed chav, is now expecting his 10th child. Some of you may be thinking at this point, “so what… if he can support them under one roof it doesn’t really matter” – but… the twist in the plot unravels… Mr. Macdonald’s 10th child is coming from a different mother than the rest of his sprogs.

In fact, all 10 of Keith’s children come from different mothers – and they are all set to have been ‘produced’ in less than 10 years.

There have even been claims from two former flings that Keith is responsible for a further four baby chavs.

Living on a £44-a-week income support package, Mr. Macdonald is, to put it simply, pretty damn normal. He wakes up every morning with a can of lager (who doesn’t), and contributes a massive £5 a week to the lives of his 8 (soon to be 10) offspring – very responsible, if you ask me.

What I do like about our loose-panted friend is that he met most of his ‘victims’ at a bus stop or bus station (a bit like a sexual predator really) – and you’ve got to commend him for ‘pulling’ so many girls in this anti-social environment. That, and failing to use condoms make Mr. Macdonald a great role model to all of his kids.

What I don’t like, however, about this chap… is that his moments of chavvy passion are costing the taxpayer around £1.5million. So – up until the age of 16, all of chavvy Macdonald’s kids are going to be receiving our money to grow up.

Now then, I’m not saying they don’t deserve that money, but Keith has actually abandoned all of his kids – so if he had been responsible and thought things through before pulling his Lacoste trackies off, it’s an expense the taxpayer might not have had to cough up.

So – if you’re planning on raising a child yourself at any time in the future – you don’t need to, because you’ll have more or less had his for him. You’ll be paying for their food, their clothes… even their holidays to Blackpool. The good thing is, however, you won’t have to deal with the ups and downs of raising a child – as one of his ‘victims’ is doing this for you.

You’ll never actually see your surrogate children, you’ll never know all of their names – but they’re still 0.000001% yours. Congratulations!

I’m sounding a bit ‘anti-children’ here – and that’s not the case. I’d like to make that clear now. I’m all for people having children, and I’ll be raising a family one day too… but before you put the train in the tunnel, so to speak, have a think about whether you’ll really be able to offer your child the very best support in life – are 10 children not that little bit too much for one person to provide for?

The decision is yours, but please be sure to make the right one!

You might think I’m being harsh on the guy… but what has Mr. Keith Macdonald actually done for society? He’s not exactly keeping the ‘human race’ running – it’s like he’s putting his chavved-up Renault Clio of a life into reverse and is actually regressing the human race back into hunch-backed, violent anti-social beasts that we once were – you could even go as far as saying his only reason for existence is to breed. I know we’re all essentially here to do that, but we’ve got other purposes too…

I’m sure he’s a very nice guy, no really, I am positive – but let’s get to the bottom line… he’s gormless, he’s lazy and he’s costing the tax payer millions.

Surely, there’s something he can do to help his own country – the country that gives so much to him…

Surely, Macdonald could do something useful like join the army?

Anyway, there’s no point me ranting on about daft chavs if I don’t have a solution for the problem at hand. And just out of pure coincidence, I’ve got one!

Because we’re paying tax to support his children, we should be able to claim a ‘sponge benefit’ – which basically gives us back all the money we’ve painstakingly given away to spongers like this in the past.

He can’t be arsed to get a job (or at least deal some drugs) to get money to pay for his children – so the money we’ve had to give away for this specific cause should be given back to us. Problem solved.

While I’m on the subject of chavs…

I’ve mentioned chavs in pretty much every post I’ve written… but I’ve never actually gone into detail about these misunderstood (almost) humans.

First of all, the term ‘chav’ (associated with someone having little or no education, a general aggressive nature and as much fashion sense as a tea bag), shouldn’t be confused with the slightly-retro term of ‘townie’ (which refers to the chav hybrid – someone who dresses a little smarter to stand outside your local convenience store – they can more or less co-ordinate colours in what they are wearing, but still lack the ability to count to 100).

The problem is, and I’m sorry to break this to you, but society wouldn’t ‘operate’ (if that’s the right word…) without chavs.

You’ve got to think of it like this, society is like earth itself. There are several different layers, each differing in value, weight/mass and importance. Chavs, whichever way you look at it, represent the least important part of the spherical matter at hand (sorry Mr. Tim Westwood, but it’s true). However, without their existence, other parts of society/the earth, wouldn’t be as they are today – they wouldn’t have the structural support of the ‘substance’ below them and they would simply crumble away (hope I haven’t lost you there!).

If we simply eradicated all chavs – yes, society would be a safer, calmer and less in-debted place… but things would change too much for our world to cope with. There would be no crime to fight, so the Police force would become redundant; there would be no benefits to pay to people who don’t deserve them, so a fair few million people would lose their jobs… and brands such as Lacoste, Gola, Kangol, Teddy Smith and Lambert and Butler would lose immeasurable amounts of business.

Unfortunately, chavs are essential. As much as I (we, sorry) hate them, they do actually contribute something to society. They aren’t aware of this, because they can’t think that hard, but without chavs we wouldn’t be where we are today… come to think of it, though, that’s a mess anyway!

In-content images taken from khairul-today. blogspot.com and The Sun. Main image taken from shof.msrcsites. co.uk.

High street shops are boarded up, once-booming town centres stand derelict, echoes of hustling shoppers ring deafeningly through the empty streets – this, ladies and gentlemen, is Third World Britain.

Ok, so it’s a little different to the ‘Third World’ we know of, but for Britain, this is as bad as it gets – I mean, we’ve lost Woolworths guys… things have gotten real bad.

One of our finest - lost in the field

Thousands upon thousands of shops lay empty, mail piling up behind their dust-laden doors. It’s a real sorry sight, and for now, it’s not going to improve. Post-recession Britain is a grim place to be.

But where did it all go wrong?

Well, to start with, a recession (in general) occurs when a nation’s economic growth falls for two consecutive quarters – which is exactly what happened here. The final quarter of 2008 through to the second quarter of 2009 was an economic nightmare – this, my friends, is where it all went wrong. Horribly wrong.

Different recessions are triggered by different things, but our most recent recession (the one we have recently come out of but are in danger of dipping back into) was caused by a mixture of the following things:

• A credit crunch. This is basically a shortage in key finance for lending (and often occurs suddenly). A credit crunch can start if interest rates increase or if funds start drying up in the capital markets. A credit crunch often leads to local sandwich shops displaying highly irritating marketing material such as – “Credit Crunch Busting Lunch”… which is exactly the same price as it was before the crisis, yet you feel compelled to ‘check it out’.

• A fall in house prices. This is related to the previous point in that there was a distinct lack of mortgages before the recession was made official – and a lack of mortgages meant people couldn’t afford to buy, which meant the market ‘dried up’.

• Inflation hit home. Rising inflation squeezed household incomes and left people with very low levels of disposable income (the money people have available to spend on non-essential items such as drugs, prostitutes and alcohol – some people, not mentioning any names, were obviously left with disposable incomes of over £1,200 per night).

• Consumer confidence plummeted. This was a result of confidence falling in the finance sector. People started to see that something was wrong, chavs weren’t able to borrow £6,000 for a holiday and trainers for their trackie-clad offspring… people started to ‘back off’ spending – and this had a huge impact on the economy.

That isn’t a comprehensive list of the causes, but it’s close enough – and I’m sure you get the picture… it was pretty much all downhill from there.

So where has this left us?

To put it simply, in Third World Britain, our Government is going to have to reduce spending and increase tax in order to tackle the national debt and budget deficit.

“Tax?!”, I hear you cry, “I pay enough of that already!” Yes, my friend, you do.

As it stands, while I’m writing this article, ¼ of our salaries are tied up in polka dot wrapping paper, sealed with a ribbon, and handed to the Government. And it’s not just our basic salary that suffers… last year alone, the Government raked in £22,000,000,000 in fuel duty.

So, when we look at it, the Government taxes our salary – then, just to kick a man while he’s down, charges us more for fuel so it can have some of our disposable income too.

Just so you know, Mr. Government, it’s not just you who is struggling after the recession. A good 90% of the British population is struggling to make ends meet thanks to your failures.

We don’t mind paying tax for things that are worthwhile, like the NHS, for example, or education (both of which cost the taxpayer £102,000,000,000 and £79,000,000,000 respectively last year).

What we don’t want to pay tax for, however, is to clean up your mess and to pay for dole-man’s house and food.

While I’m briefly on the subject of society’s scroungers, did you know that £21bn is handed out every single year to house your local chavs? The vast majority of this £21bn comes from us – the UK tax payers, punished for working.

Of course, some people require housing benefit for genuine reasons – but when lazy, useless, pain-in-the-arse chavs (99.6% of the chav population) just rely on us to provide their living… there’s something very very wrong.

Oh, and if you’re wondering where the other 0.4% of the chav population are… they’re in prison. And guess what…? We’re paying for them, too!

Anyway… I digress – time to move on.

What does the future hold for Third World Britain?

I’m not going to beat around the bush here, I’ll tell it to you straight…

“This is it” (as the late Michael Jackson screamed in 2009)… this is pretty much the end of Britain as we know it.

Our rubbish hasn’t been collected for two weeks, the streets smell, road works dominate our once smooth roads and our country is in debt – big debt. We no longer know the meaning of summer, Nissan have released a Micra Sport (the biggest contradiction known to man)… and one in five newborns has severely webbed feet (I’m not sure about that one, but it just sounds fitting right now).

We can, however, put a stop to this – but it’s going to involve some highly evasive and controversial tactics.

Bringing Britain out of national poverty

North Korea (I can hear you gasping for breath now… but hold on for one minute) back at the end of 2009 revalued its currency – the North Korean won. This move destroyed the personal savings of many of its residents – but what on earth were they going to spend those savings on anyway? They’re very rarely allowed out of the place!

So, as I was saying, Kim Jong Il (anyone else automatically think of ‘Team America’?) revalued the country’s currency in a move to crack down on private markets and prevent the country falling into terrible debt.

I know North Korea isn’t the most appealing of places, but in the face of an economic crisis, they’ve got this one bob on.

What they have done, in essence, is ‘start again’. They’ve treated their currency like monopoly money and completely revalued it. It’s like being told that golden 500 note you’ve worked so hard for is now worth nothing – pretty painful if you ask me.

Imagine working hard for this, only to find out it's worth nothing

What we could do, here and elsewhere, is revalue our currency – but in a more ethical manner than the North Koreans did.

The savings people have already accumulated won’t lose their value – they’ll simply get exchanged for the equivalent amount after the change.

The national debt will be wiped out, and we can all (controversially) start again from square one.

No more borrowing to pay off never-ending national debts, no more tax rises to pay for the Government’s party-fund and no more spending cuts.

Other countries are bound to follow suit – they always do… so our imports/exports won’t be harmed.

I’m not saying this is the best solution (well, actually, I am)… but I don’t see any of the highly-paid think tanks coming up with anything better!

Who’s with me?!

Main image taken from telegraph.co.uk, in-content images taken from bbc.co.uk and worldofmonopoly.co.uk.

We all love a good summer holiday, but recent research has suggested that summer breaks can leave us more miserable in the long run (post-holiday blues and all that). Come to think of it, I’ve recently returned from my summer getaway and I’m feeling particularly blue. Not to mention stressed, angry and short-fused!

So what is it about our travels that causes this? Why do we get so angry, why do we come back feeling deflated and bemused?

I’ll start where we all do – the airport.

Airports are wonderfully smooth and succinct places, or so they want you to think. The reality is, airports are an absolute nightmare – no matter when/where you are travelling to/from.

I’m going to take you on a little journey now, so just imagine you’re at the airport.

Everyone is being polite to each other, you’re all in ‘the holiday mood’, a rough-looking gent even moves his case out of your way and apologises for obstructing your path. Then, all of a sudden, as soon as the check-in desk opens for business a grainy cloud of red mist descends above all passengers.

Kids running wild, people pushing their cases into your heels… every little thing annoys you and you can’t wait to get through to the departure lounge.

You should be happy, relaxed in fact, that you’re about to embark on your over-priced summer getaway, but as every minute goes by, your fuse burns shorter.

Eventually, after putting your passport away and getting it out another five times for ‘standard’ security checks, you make it to the departure lounge. It is here, while trying to relax, that you learn those annoying children that were darting round the check-in area are going to be on your 4-hour flight… bloody wonderful.

Your flight number is called, and those seated at the back of the plane are ushered on first. Although they have all pre-booked their seats, they seem to fight to get to the front of the queue like school children desperate to be the first at the back of the bus.

You finally get on the plane and get up in the air, and asides from one of those kids kicking the footrest up and down and unnecessarily using their tray on the back of your seat, everything goes pretty smoothly. Things are looking up… well, that is until you land…

The joys of baggage collection – or the human watering hole, as I like to call it – await you as you disembark from the cramped plane.

Baggage Carousel at airport

Baggage collection is where we fight and mark our territory without words and without contact. If there’s any place where you can physically feel a tense atmosphere, it’s here.

Kids unnecessarily arch forward and block your view, and everyone seems to get their case before you.

In an attempt to stand your ground and mark your temporary territory, you sharpen your shoulders and lean forward – just enough so you can see the plastic curtains. You cross your arms just to make sure people know you mean business.

You stare enviously at those who have received their cases before you – jealous that their holiday has just started, while yours is still on hold. You tut and shake your head when children sit on the baggage carousel like it’s some sort of a game, cursing their parents for the actions off their offspring.

Then without warning, your case breaks through the plastic curtain. The start of your holiday is approaching you on dirty flaps of black plastic.

If anyone so much as glances at your case before you get to it you snarl, cursing their existence. Out of fear that you won’t get your case, you indirectly send a message to those around you by edging forward without regard, even knocking kids out of the way… letting them know that you’ve spotted your case and they better not obstruct your path.

You finally get your hands on to it and hoist it off the carousel, grazing your shins in the process. A sigh of relief can be breathed as you move on from the watering hole. Your holiday has now begun.

Of course, you may enjoy the experience of rubbing shoulders with fellow feisty holidaymakers – but for me, it would be much more enjoyable and less stressful if the baggage carousels were planned out a little better – perhaps a little bigger. In fact, they should just have a baggage collection desk. You get given a ticket when you check in at one end – and you use this ticket at the other end to collect your bags. No pushing, no shoving… no more stress!

Anyway… you might think that it’s all plain sailing from here, but you’d be horrifically mistaken if you did. You’ve now got to get a transfer to your hotel.

Personally, I like to book my transfers in advance, making sure I’m on a private shuttle (it’s a bus guys, not a shuttle… shuttles are what we send into space). The one time I was on a coach transfer, it was utter hell. It was like being back at school, but this time, everyone was drunk, obese and reeked of chip fat. Never, ever again.

Regardless of how you choose to travel, you’ll eventually get there – and this is where it begins… this is where your holiday ‘officially’ starts. No more stress, no more kids darting around, just relaxation – and plenty of it.

Wrong again, I’m afraid.

You see, being British, we’ve got a moral obligation to be stuck up when we’re abroad. We are better than everyone else, so if something is done a way we don’t like it, it’s wrong.

The myth regarding Germans getting the sun beds early is false – as far as my experiences go. What I do know however, is that German holidaymakers fall short on their manners.

The majority of Britons may have difficulties spelling the word queue, but it seems our world cup foes have difficulty grasping the concept of the word. It’s really not that difficult.

Of course, we would think that though, wouldn’t we… we are British after all!

Alas, no matter where you go, or when you decide to travel, holidays are always going to be the most enjoyable stressful experiences of the year.

Where else are you going to get stressed, tanned (burnt), bitten by flies… while at the same time relax, have fun and re-charge?

Not in this country – so book your tickets and Bon Voyage!

Britain – you can’t help loving her, she’s ‘home’. But for some reason (many reasons, actually), we find ourselves hating this ‘fine’ country, too.

It’s not her fault, the poor old dear, she’s merely a mass of soil, rocks and grass. So, in reality, she’s got nothing to do with it.

It’s actually our fault. That’s right, we are responsible for the hatred towards our home nation.

Here’s why:

“The weather in this country is crap”

Look outside, what do you see? The chances are, you probably see dark, grey clouds (if you don’t, stop reading this now and come back tomorrow).

Your first thought when you see these menacing clouds is “The bloody weather in this country…”. You don’t reason with Mother Nature and think about what’s actually causing the clouds to descend over our country, you just turn on Britain and tell her that her weather is, to put it simply, utterly crap.

You probably do a similar thing when it’s sunny, too. You beg for sun, but when it finally comes, it’s always “too hot”, or “too bright”. And what about snow? Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a white Christmas? Nope, not here, because all poor Britain gets is abuse. “I’m sick of this snow now.”

The weather in this country is never perfect, is it? There’s always something to have a moan about.

Sorry Britain, love, but you need to sort this out.

Moving on…

“Look at the state of them”

“OMG”, you say (in your colloquial tongue), “What on earth has she done with her hair/face/makeup/clothes/life/(insert anything here)?” or… “Look at the state of them” *While pointing patronisingly at the proletariat.

There is a common belief (a stereotype, if you will) that certain people in society make this country ‘what it is today’ – i.e. a mess.

These people often walk around in tracksuits, push their seven kids (four of which had their ears pierced at 6-months old) to the shop, leave them outside and head in for some fags’n'booze.

Upon seeing these people, we scorn and we feel physically sick (harsh, I know, but undeniably true) – and we blame ‘this country’ for their pitiful existence.

Proles, as George Orwell would call them, ‘pad out’ the very bottom level of society. They don’t add ‘variety’, they don’t ‘make the world go round’… in fact, they do absolutely nothing but spend our money.

It’s not Britain’s fault, so please don’t blame her. It’s more to do with the Government, and the way these people were brought up.

OK, I’m giving some of these gutter dwellers a hard time here, and I genuinely do apologise to the people who have been screwed over by the state – you don’t deserve to be where you are.

However, those of you who walk, no not walk, swagger around ‘keeping your hand warm’ on your crotch while shouting “Candice! Get back here you little @#*/” (to your three-year-old daughter, who you wholeheartedly deny is yours) – you are the reason people hate this country.

If we think about it, Britain hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s the people in power who control what goes on who are to blame – and we seem to forget that we’ve got the power to change that.

We actually live in a fine country, and we’re very privileged to have the opportunities and support we do get, but the thing is, we just can’t help but moan.

And to be quite honest with you, my friends, I’m just the same as the rest of ‘em. I moan when it’s too hot or too cold, I moan regardless of which political party is in power – after all…

I’m British.

God Save the Queen.

And turn the heating down while you’re at it, it’s bloody boiling in here.

Main image taken from starskins.co.uk. In-content image taken from: phys.soton.ac.uk