BoldBelvoir's Grumpy Owd Twat Blog

Mission-critical.

• Calling it a ‘near miss’ when two aeroplanes nearly hit each other. No, they did miss. It should be called a ‘near hit’.
• Any twat that wears a baseball cap. Especially back-to-front. And with tracky bottoms on.
• Posers that wear sunglasses indoors. Or wear them on the top of their heads. Cunts!
• Pricks who say ‘my bad’. What kind of English is that? Oh no, sorry… It’s American.
• Drivers who stop at traffic lights in that red bit with a three foot high bicycle painted on it – big fuckin’ clue what it’s there for – and then give you the dead eye when you go up the inside of them on your bike.
• Politicians. Blah blah blah blah…
• Tourettes Syndrome. Or any other fucking shit wank condition that doesn’t really fuck wank stain bastard exist but shit bastard fuck cunt is used as an excuse for bollock tossers to behave in a big nob unacceptable piss flaps manner.
• Smokers that say they are ‘trying to give up’. You’ve got one in your gob – You’re not actually trying, are you?

So, after his miraculous recovery from being stabbed in the stomach last week (which in 24 time is about 15 minutes ago), Jack finds himself in the hands of the Russian arms dealers.

They hang him up by his wrists to a water pipe and start torturing him by repeatedly sticking electrodes in the knife wound he sustained a few minutes ago. He remains conscious, of course, and after about the tenth shock he obviously gets pissed off with it and, using only his legs, overpowers the bloke with the electrodes and sees how he likes some of his own onions.

After just one shock, the bad guy is unconscious and without being heard Jack kicks the water pipes down with his bare feet, frees himself and is able to keep on shooting people.

I half expected him to break out into the Black Sabbath song… “I am Iron Man“… Daaaa Daaaa da da da, da da da da da da daa, daa daa daa!

Have you noticed how many shops now offer you ‘extras’ when you take your goods to the till?

For example, today I went into WH Smiths for the Beano, March’s edition of Razzle, the Chronicle of the 20th Century and a copy of the latest Janet & John adventure. I piled my purchases on the checkout counter, the lady takes my money and what does she ask? “Do you want a Creme Egg?”

No, I don’t want a sodding creme egg. If I’d wanted a creme egg I would have picked one up. Now fuck off bugging me and stop trying to sell me stuff I don’t want. Presumptuous twat.

• Folk singers who stick their fingers in their ears. Get a proper P.A. system with foldback speakers, for fuck’s sake.
• People who wear trainers and tracky bottoms whilst having no intentions of visiting a gym or doing anything remotely sporty. Ever.
• Pool and snooker players that wiggle their middle fingers whilst queueing up. That’s all of ‘em, basically.
• All Facebook members who refuse to put their picture on their profiles (excepting the Invisible Man, of course). It’s called Facebook because…?
• Inconsiderate shits who think it’s OK to keep on revving a stationary motorbike up, then riding it up and down the street without a helmet on to ‘make sure it’s working’. The engine’s on – it’s fucking working! OK?
• People who talk to dogs like they’re humans.
• People who talk to humans like they’re dogs.
• The cunt who wrote the Eastenders theme.

Well, Jack was right, as usual. That psycho bird who he said was unstable did in fact flip and stabbed the baddy – the only lead they had, by the way (what’s the chances of that happening on 24?) – about twenty times with a six-inch blade. When good ol’ Jack tried to stop her, she gave him some too, right in the stomach. Now I’ve never been stabbed before, but I bet that shit really wokkas and of course he fell to the floor. You would, wouldn’t you?

Another baddy comes in the room to see what the fuss is all about and less than ten, yes TEN, seconds after he has been stabbed Jack has knifed one baddy in the throat and shot at least a couple more. He patches up the wound with a bit of cotton wool and plaster and two minutes later he’s walking round like new. What a fucking soldier.

I was walking past a bookshop in Wales last week and spotted this mannequin sitting outside on the street.

We all know that the Taffs are renowned for their sheep-shagging abilities, but it seems as though this fellow was being used to advertise some other form of sexual gratification.

Strange race, the Welsh!

Pah!

I got one, so I felt obliged to give one back. I hope she appreciates it. It cost me 50p.