Babies: not to be trusted.

I've never been a great fan of kids. They're smelly, they're noisy and they require far more attention than I'm prepared to give out. People who have them witter on about them at great and wearying length, to the exclusion of everything else, and you're not allowed to say that you don't give one flying toss about the drooling, slap-headed little bastard or how close it is to saying its first word. Having children leads to ugly, frenzied competitive parenting, a desire to own a monster truck sized SUV and sore nipples. I daresay I'll change my tune once I've settled down and got married and shit but right now the attraction really is beyond me. But that's the thing; once you've had a kid your brain rewires itself, flips you over into Parent Mode and you are literally not the same person that you were before. That alone is enough to put me off, and I reserve a special dislike for babies. Have a look at this one:
You know who that is? That's right: it's HITLER. Who knew that this harmless little bundle of joy would turn into the twentieth century's most expansively insane genocidal madman, the biggest bastard in a century of bastards? No-one, and that's the problem. You just can't tell. These days when I see a baby all I can think of are the countless nightmarish futures that spin around this little person, the horrors that they could grow up to perpetrate on the world. Fair enough, not every baby is going to grow up to be Hitler but there are a myriad of other ways it could all go tits up. What about that bloke who invented the Crazy Frog? He was a baby once. Now you tell me I don't have at least half a point.

And yes, I do realise that it's just as likely that a baby might grow up and find the cure for cancer, or write the most brilliant symphony ever devised by a human brain, or maybe just become a normal, decent, caring person. But if you're late to the party I should point out that I'm not an optimist and my gaze stays firmly fixed on the inevitable downside. One of these days I'm going to tell you all about how I reckon my own future will pan out and you're going to need a stiff drink after that one; I know I will. But that's another story - for now we'll just say that babies can fuck off because, quite frankly, they're making me nervous.

Serial Killer

Racist Bigot

Criminal Lunatic

Prick of the Week - Special Update.

Get in the van, you workshy cunt.

Nothing against Pat himself - this is general cussing of all the posties in Britain who have felt it necessary to down tools for a whole fuckin' week, thus depriving me of the Deadwood series 3 box set I ordered off Amazon. I've been jiggling from one foot to the other like a child trying to hold in a wee for what seems like forever, such is the terrifying force of the Deadwood craving that has taken me over. And that's just my own personal tale of woe; this special Prick of the Week is for every delayed passport application, every late credit card payment, every vital-but-absent benefit cheque, every office and every business and every birthday that has passed with no cards whatever. Posties and Royal Mail bigwigs, please, on behalf of the people of Britain, I beg of you; work your problems the fuck out. Why can't we all just be friends?

Pic of the Week.

This one's probably not for the faint hearted, so I've put a dummy pic up first to give you chance to back out now.


Ahhhhh. Bless his tiny nose. Now scroll down for this week's real winner.


Man, if I could do that I'd never have to buy my own drinks again. They'd be giving me pints just to get me to go away. Enjoy your Sunday!

Prick of the Week: Philip Solomon

Phil, the seventies called - they want their hair back. Zing!

Most of you won't know who this guy is, so let me enlighten you. His name is Philip Solomon and he's a noted West Midlands psychic; so noted, in fact, that he gets his own column in the Express and Star, the local Black Country rag. It's a pseudo agony uncle bit where needy yet gullible people write in asking whether their dead relatives are enjoying the good afterlife over there on the other side; Phil here claims that he's in touch with these deceased folks and that - yes, you guessed it - they're fine, dandy and having a fine old time themselves up there in the ether. Who'd have thunk it? Here's a sample; I've edited it down for brevity's sake.

Dear Philip, last year I lost my mother-in-law and then my mother a few weeks apart... This year I have been diagnosed with an illness but I would like to think that my mum and mother-in-law are watching over me. Elaine, Netherton.

Hi Elaine, I am inspired to say that your two special ladies are of course watching over you...I feel you often speak to photos and make no mistake, the words you speak are always heard, especially by these two people who have helped you so much. The names of Ann, Sheila, John, David, Peter, Jack, Stan, Lily and Mary or Marianne may be of significance to you. Be assured you will be joyfully reunited with those you love one day. Kind regards, Philip.

Look, I don't know whether there's an afterlife or not. I cannot say for a mortal (hah) certainty that this person's dead relatives aren't watching over them with concern and approval; my gut instinct says no, but I'm happy to be proved wrong. Really. In the video on this page I unearthed Phil claims that Spiritualism is a scientifically proven fact - if that's so then I want to see this proof. That's right Phil, I'm calling you out. Me versus you; let's go.

Claiming to have powers that you don't really have is wrong. Preying on the misery and weakness of other people is wrong. Life is hard enough without lying shysters using your personal trauma to make a quick buck; really I'm pissed off with the paper for giving this fucknut print space, but bullshit psychics in general also get my back up. I'm conscious of the fact that I should be cracking a few jokes at this point but honestly... I just don't feel like it. Phil, and people like him, depress me too much. And that's why he's my Prick of the week.

Video Game Review: Black, PS2

Black is a video game where the player adopts the guise of Mimsy Fandango, ass-kicking transsexual hairdresser and professional counter terrorist, in a tale that bears many similarities to popular children's classic The Neverending Story, except without all the sex.

Taste my salty man juices, terrorist bitches.

The plot, however, is irrelevant. What is relevant, and is in fact the whole selling point of the game, is the Freudian connection between guns and your cock. It is gun porn; nine hours of running around disused foundries spunking bullets into the gaping mouths of pliant Russian terrorists, who presumably all look like Anna Kournikova under those fruity balaclavas they seem to favour. This game brings the fetishisation of weaponry to a pumping, spurting climax, and very enjoyable it is too. You play, you become aroused, musty things happen in your pants and then thirty seconds after the game is completed you fall asleep. Job done.

4/5

Hey Kids!

Are you lonely? Girlfriend left you? Short on mates? Do you spend your Friday nights alone, browsing the interweb for pictures of boobs, the knowledge that this is the closest you'll get to a real pair lying heavy in your gut like cold tripe? Perhaps you're having trouble sleeping. Maybe you're angry all the time. For no reason! If that' s the case then why not try...

Turps!

Turps is a revolutionary new beverage that will make all your pain go away... only to be replaced by a new, more physical pain as your digestive tract slowly rots from the inside! This searing, prolonged agony will go hand in hand with incipient brain damage and eventual death, so even an isolated piece of social wreckage like you will have something else to worry about. Whatever your problem, turps will make it all OK... for about three weeks. Then you go blind and die. So drink turps and wash all the bitterness right out of your life, because hey - it's not like anyone will miss you!

Please note: drinking turps is really bad for you. Don't do it, I was having you on. I Hate It Here takes no responsibility for you or any of your moron ilk, you dumb, dumb fuckwit.

Read your Sale of Goods Act, people. Learn that shit!

I started temping in a new office last week. I'll be keeping the company name secret because I don't want to get sacked, or sued, or sacked then sued then sacked again. They don't sell coffins, but let's just say that they do. So imagine you've bought a coffin from us; it arrives at your house and (bugger!) the varnish is chipped, or the satin lining is torn. Maybe there's a body already in there. Whatever the problem, you're not a happy consumer. You want reparations.

So you call the office and demand your money back, and we do everything within our power to stop you. Firstly, we'll try and convince you to get your coffin repaired, or maybe replaced with a new one. If that doesn't work (and it often doesn't; there are people out there who have had four or five coffins dispatched to them, each one more bickered than the last) we'll grudgingly allow you to swap it for another from our coffin emporium. But maybe that's not enough either. You're sick of our shit, you want a full refund, you are perfectly within your rights to have one and we know it just as well as you do - but the only refund you will receive will come in the form of one extended middle finger. Occasionally someone will call up spitting feathers, quoting chapter and verse from the Sale of Goods Act and invoking the wrath of the Citizen's Advice Bureau. That'll usually do the trick, but they really need to know what they're talking about. There are little old ladies out there who, having shelled out serious fucking cash, are being dicked more thoroughly than a teenage groupie on a Led Zeppelin charter flight.

When the agency was signing me up for this gig they made big noises about how it's 'a small, family owned company', like that somehow ensured that these people were going to be paragons of virtue. Unfortunately, being small and family owned isn't much good when the family is made up of gouging, Bentley-driving shitbirds. Know your right, kids, because no other bugger is going to tell them to you. Personally I can't wait to get back to the warm, comforting bosom of local government, where profit doesn't matter and all you need to worry about is good old fashioned incompetence.