Malingering Bastards.

You're fooling nobody but your bloody selves.

I might be straying into controversial territory here but I've got to say this lest I burst like a blood and pus filled balloon. You know those people you see trundling around on those plastic mobility scooters, taking up the whole pavement and blocking the aisles in supermarkets? Well I reckon that about 80% of them are putting it on. They're fakers. They just can't be arsed to walk.

If you're in a wheelchair and you're wheeling yourself about, using the only limbs available to you to mobilise yourself, then fair enough. Good on you, in fact. Equally, if you're paralysed from the neck down and have to use your chin to press the go button then you get a pass (how generous of me!) But whenever I see some fat bastard tooling about on one of those things I have a sudden urge to push them into oncoming traffic. 'Oh, but I'm too heavy to walk and I get so tiiiired', they might say, to which I would reply: well, you ain't gonna lose any weight rolling around on that thing, are you? Eh? EH?

In Las Vegas they rent mobility scooters out to the deserving, the only problem being that fat idle fuckers keep bagging them all so they don't have to heave their bloated, doughnut-stuffed carcasses between casinos. Shameful. But here's my solution: a little device of my own invention called the bee-zooka. It's a gun that fires laser guided, exploding bees. One blast from that baby and we'll see who can walk and who can't.

Remember that you're an individual... just like everybody else.

Go out now and buy a copy of Bizarre magazine. Actually, don't; it's a bit of a waste of money. Just take my word for it that there's a regular section where people (women) send in a sexy picture of themselves and a brief description of their preferred sex practice/fetish. There's a bit for men as well, only smaller. Every month, dozens of them. Probably hundreds by now. And they're all pretty much identical.

'Demonika wants to be tied up and eaten out by a naughty nurse and to have a threesome with Alan Rickman and Marilyn Manson. The strangest place she ever had sex was in a shopping trolley behind the Tunbridge Wells branch of Costcutter.'

Accompanied by a picture of a girl with the same pink hair, same pseudo-goth rubber get-up and same tattoos as all the others who thought that their fiercely boring sexual peccadilloes somehow merited inclusion in a nationally circulated magazine. What winds me up is that Bizarre caters for the 'alternative' crowd, who look down their pierced noses at normal, everyday people; people who dress conservatively and just have sex without feeling the need to honk on about it all the fucking time... and yet here they are, all exactly alike within their carefully described boundaries - the same clothes, the same opinions, the same tawdry little fantasies. Read one and you've read them all.

(And before you say anything: yes, I know I have tattoos, and used to have a piercing or two. I'm including myself in this rant. Why do you think I'm so pissed off?)

But it's the same all over. Derren Brown, the famous television hypnotist/mind control guy, has a book called 'Tricks of the Mind'. It's a cracking read and I heartily recommend it. There's a bit where he gives a group of students an envelope each and tells them that it contains a personal 'psychic' reading that will describe their personality and innermost thoughts in great detail. Upon opening it (surprise surprise) they're all shocked and amazed at the reading's accuracy. One stupid bitch even accused him of looking at her diary, such was the eerie precision of what he'd put down.

The thing is, there was only the one reading. All the envelopes were exactly the same. The trick worked because people are, basically, quite unoriginal creatures. We all go through similar stages in our lives, where we worry about similar things at similar times, and have similar experiences and similar wants and needs and goals. All Mr Brown had to do was play the percentages, and it didn't steer him far wrong. I'm desperately trying find this comforting, like we're all in the same boat or some such fucking thing, because it depresses the hell out of me if I dwell on it too long.

So thank God, says I, for the internet, where you can stake out your own little piece on Facebook and do it up how you like, or amass reams of personal information on strangers and make out like they're your 'friends', or maybe even start your own blog where you rant to a world that's not listening about things people already know as if you were a real person who actually exists.

Ahem. Anyway, that's how life is. Your ideas are meaningless, your dreams are ridiculous and you are an idiot. And that's fine, I suppose - we're all in the same boat, after all. But please, Bizarre women: don't make out like you're some spirited free thinker because you own a rubber basque and have maybe thought about having a woman eat your snatch. I mean, it's your life, so do what you like and good luck to you. I, however, am not fucking interested. I've got my own tedious non-life to be getting on with, thanks all the same. Just take your nipple clamps and your Hello Kitty butt plug and fuck off.