The News

Good evening.

As a kid I remember we used to do this thing where we'd hook our fingers into our cheeks, pull them apart and then try to say the phrase, 'I'm a banker'. Hilariously 'banker' would always come out as 'wanker', no matter how hard you tried to pronounce it properly and this, I think, is the main difference between being a grown up and being a kid. As a grown up you don't need any physical manipulation of the face to grant people in the banking industry this title. In fact, if wanker is all they get referred to as during their day they should consider themselves lucky.

I'm angry, people. I'm stressed and angry and wound up and a little constipated and it's all down to those colossal money-making machines - or more specifically, to my own bank, HSBC. These crooks have had a sleeper hold on me since I was a student, and before - and what do I get for 15 years of loyal custom? Words you may well recognise: procedure, policy and due process - all said by prodigious penises pissing people off, when they should be presenting us prizes for the planetary profits paid into the pilfering pricks' pockets! What was that? I have no idea. Rage? Possibly.

I haven't felt this stressed since I came to Canada and truth is, it's because I haven't had to deal with the banker-wankers. Some of you may know this about my travels already, but my plan is now to ditch the west of Canada and spend a couple of months avoiding big cigar-shaped insects, dysentery and kidnapping down in South America. The organisation for all of this was going just swimmingly until I realised that my credit card runs out at the beginning of October. Thank goodness I'm with the 'World's Bank', I thought to myself, this should be a doddle. One quick call to England and they'll have a new card sent to one of the local branches round here before you can say, 15.7% APR. Unfortunately this was not to be the case and as the blood pumped furiously through my temple veins I was given the news that it's up to my branch as to whether they send it or not. What? 'But you’re the World's Bank', I repeated to mouse brain. 'Last time I looked, Canada was part of the world - why can't you send it to part of the world, World's Bank?' That's when all the 'P' words began to spill forth like a sliced jugular - made up of P. Do you see? (it’s urine) Mouse brain was reading her script and nothing was gonna get in the way of that - not even loyalty, courtesy or compassion. HSBC you are the chunky shit-flakes that stick to Satan's own boiling bum-hole and I hope you get what the crazy guy from my posting a couple of weeks back says awaits you. Stabby - it's gonna be a long week. Is it me or has every posting for the last few weeks involved the Devil and bottoms? What the hell does that say about me?

In other news...

Tell me if you think this is a odd thing to say to a stranger. I was working in the lunch room earlier today and an old girl came in to get something out of the fridge. I've never met this woman - I've seen her about, but I don't know her name, where she works or anything about her. So this is the first thing she says to me. 'I'm trying to teach myself to eat cottage cheese.' Not for the first time, I was genuinely at a loss to think of an appropriate response. She continued. 'I got the other stuff (what other stuff?) but now I'm adding my own jam because it's cheaper'. That's great news, isn't it? Is it? I really don't know anymore. 'I don't eat cheese', is all I could manage in return, but she didn't care. She'd actually started to dry heave at the sight of the cottage cheese she'd poured into a bowl and was making 'urgh!' noises. Since when did I start working at a day care centre? But in truth, working for the Government in Canada you see people like this all the time. I don't think I've done a list for a little while, so let's do one now. Bizarre behaviour and things I have seen since while working at the Ministry:

Old women cupping and squeezing their breasts in front of me (x2)

Woman breaking down in uncontrollable sobs in front of me for no apparent reason

Statue of a man either wrestling or having sex with a dolphin outside the building (see above)

Somebody putting fresh sage outside the director's office in a plastic bag, labelled 'fresh sage'

Going to a free lunch, which ended up costing me $15

I didn't even bring my wallet to the 'free' lunch, so much was the emphasis on 'free' before we left, so I ended up meekly having to borrow money from someone I barely knew to cover the costs. Red faces abound.

So anyway, back in the lunch room Mrs Havisham had finally made her way out of the kitchen, balking as she went, when another crumbly quickly appeared to take her place. Tentatively she approached me and put her hand on my shoulder. After what looked like a wince of pain she said, 'I saw the service this morning and thought it was very fitting'. What service? 'Of course, I firmly believe in the conspiracy theories'. What theories? Oh God - she's talking about that blonde who used to hang out at Harrods, isn't she? 'I'm not a Royalist', I told her, 'I actually didn't know anything about a service today'. The hand was quickly snatched back from its comforting position on my shoulder. 'Oh', was about all she could muster up after that revelation. My favourite part of that whole exchange was that because I'm English she thought I was probably having a tough time at the moment, what with the anniversary of whatshername's death and everything. I'm not sure she could've got it more wrong though. In respect to Blondie, I felt more sentiments of loss last time I flushed the bog after a particularly satisfying dump. Remind me again why I should care about a vacuous stranger who died 10 years ago? And don't even get me started on conspiracy theories. All you ever need to know about these absurd paranoid notions can be summed up beautifully in the South Park episode entitled: Mystery of The Urinal Deuce. Cartman sums it up nicely when he says, 'I can't base my logic on proof'. Enough said.

Now more on our regular feature…

Unlike England's Rose, it turns out that there is light at the end of my tunnel. Those eager to know about the continuing adventures of me in the company of Penis Features (you're all sick) will no doubt be disappointed to hear that my voluntary imprisonment at His Majesty's Pleasure is soon to come to an end. Last week the insufferable knob-rash informed me that the girl whose room I've been sub-letting is coming home early and I have to get out of the flat by this Friday. The sensations of first bewilderment and then great elation can surely only be comparable to when England and Germany laid down their arms and tentatively crawled out of their respective bunkers to enjoy a quick game of Christmas footy. Life with Affas had begun to become literally unbearable and I was questioning how I would survive a further month, at least, without suffering a full breakdown and embarking on a blood-soaked murdering spree - but at his announcement that the shackles were to be broken early and that my prayers had been answered, I found it hard to keep a straight face. Inside my head the theme music to Superman began to play, followed swiftly by 'Let's Go Fly A Kite', from Mary Poppins. I was delirious, I was jubilant, but most importantly I was free! A little melodramatic, but I must say, it did feel enormously good. He continued on about how he was really sorry and that he still wanted us to remain friends cos we obviously got on so well (eh?) but I was too distracted to listen, flying high in the atmosphere, up where the air is clear - away from the cheesy fug that had descended upon my world little more than a fortnight ago. It's true, moving is a chore, it's a pain certainly, but leaving behind this malignant tumour of a man is to be the most exhilarating experience I've had in Canada yet. And I've been to the Shoe Museum.

This is for you, Affas: Goodbye, Cock Features. Your life will be much like your many, many (many) anecdotes. Long, boring and essentially pointless. You will die alone and unmourned and people will say only this of you, 'who?'.

(PS I used your special moisturizing face soap to clean my cock and bum with every morning and chuckled to myself as I removed the pubic evidence. Hoorah for puerile and juvenile revenge, I say! Hoorah! Plus I flicked a bogey on your precious cat which sat on it for days. Hoorah!)

And finally…

What can I say? A bounty of messages this week - a quite astounding five (count them) comments for last week's posting. Careful now, this'll start going to my head. Thanks to Amanda for making me nervous, Glen for making me laugh (and stealing my thunder with his funnier story - bastard) Mum for actually managing to put a comment on - God bless you, Marge. Anonymous (you know who you are) for backing me up - he really is a twat, eh? And Rob for putting annually instead of analy. Good lad thee. Our next bulletin with subtitles will be during Breakfast tomorrow at 6am. Good night.