Big pants.

pants, relationships, love, lust, sex, men, women‘We should be honest with each other’ she said. ‘Over everything’ she said.

This of course, is a blatant lie. Or rather it’s a trap. She doesn’t want honesty, she just wants to know what I’m up to so that she can maintain the relationship high ground whilst at the same time gathering increasing amounts of weaponry with which to beat me back into place whenever the need arises.

It’s a trap I fell into in spectacular style this evening.

With her psycho brothers wedding fast approaching and the search for a suitable dress having taken me to the edge of madness, I returned home to find yet more packages on the bed from the never ending stream of online retailers who have no doubt made millions from the exploitation and suffering of saps like me.

However, among their number was a dress that she actually liked. So much so in fact, that she actually put it on. And to be fair, it didn’t look hard bad. Nice cleavage, shapely arse…. there was just one minor issue.

At this point my inbuilt diplomacy gene stepped in and I stated my approval and told her that she looked awesome. She smiled, I smiled, job jobbed. Or so I thought. Because even as my mind was turning to dinner, she opened the dreaded trap door.

‘What about my tummy?’ she said. Pointing at the bulge around her midriff which, to be fair, was the flaw which had previously caught my attention. It wasn’t that it was big (it isn’t) it’s just that it was, well, there.

Now to be fair, in any normal circumstance a response of ‘it’ll be fine, just wear some big pants’ would be a perfectly reasonable one and more importantly, it fell firmly within the ‘honesty’ criteria she has insisted on from day one. But as her face crumbled and then hardened into that all too familiar hate-fuelled glare, it rapidly became clear that on this occasion she hadn’t wanted honesty. She’d wanted a lie dressed up as flattery. A fact underlined in thick black pen when she told me that she already had some on.

So now, through no fault of my own, not only am I in the proverbial doghouse and facing a weekend traipsing around the hell that is Bluewater for my trouble, but I have to face it all in the knowledge that the only way I could redress the wrong she had dragged me into was to tell her that I’d pay whatever it takes for the right dress. Something I suspect, was a part of the plan all along.

Women, devious bastards all of them.


Follow me on Twitter – @BillysBlogged

This blog is based on the best-selling novel, Billy’s Log, which can be downloaded from Amazon by clicking here!

Sequel is on the way!

A warm welcome to my troll.

twitter, troll, blog, social media, facebookI have a troll!

Yes, that’s right. Less than a week into my blogging career and there’s already someone out there in social media land who has made it their business to climb onto my case.

Whilst normally such a discovery would send normal mortals into a frenzy, it’s safe to say that if anything, I’m actually quite flattered that someone thinks I’m important enough to be bothered with. Although it’s also safe to say that it’s fairly obvious that whoever is involved in this madness doesn’t actually know me personally. After all, I am actually not bothered about being fat nor am I adverse to the odd bout of masturbation so being called a fat wanker isn’t exactly wide of the mark,  nor is it particularly hurtful.

Similarly, the mate I’ve been accused of betraying would willingly pay good money to any sad soul prepared to take his pig of a wife off his hands and anyone who has ever met my sister would know that she is more than capable of giving most blokes a decent kicking. Especially her little brother.

My only real concern involves the motives behind it. After all if the plan is to either worry me or simply piss me off, it’s failing badly. Similarly, the notion of revenge suggests that I’ve actually done something worthy of that and if I have, I can’t think what it might be and surely I’d know! That doesn’t leave much scope for an objective unless it’s someone setting me up for something. The question is what? And why? And who?

Normally, my first thought would be that it’s one of my mates but since they all regard me as a twat anyway (and visa versa) they wouldn’t have any problem going public with that opinion. They certainly haven’t in the past. And to be honest, the only one of our group with both the imagination and mental capacity to initiate a sting of this kind is me and I know I’m desperate, but not even I’m likely to troll myself. Besides, I’d know.

It could of course be something else entirely. What if it’s my mum, or my sister? Finally giving public airing to long harboured thoughts about her only son/brother? Or my dad? Mind you he’s never been too shy when it comes to slagging me off so that at least is unlikely.

Of course it could have quite the opposite meaning and instead of being a troll, be some love-struck female who is too shy to actually come out and admit to having lustful thoughts about me. Then again, if that were the case it’s highly likely that their apparent shyness is a result of their looks and/or personality and who would want that?

No, the most likely truth is that I simply have a crap troll. But whatever it is, sure as eggs is eggs it’s going to run and run.

Welcome @IYF84.


Follow me on Twitter – @BillysBlogged

This blog is based on the best-selling novel, Billy’s Log, which can be downloaded from Amazon by clicking here!

Sequel is on the way!

comedy, humour, brimson, writing, author, screenwriting, greenstreet, bridget jones, revenge, sperm, hate crime, troll, trolling

The battle of the sexes. Again.

sex, relationships, romance, love, life, womenOne of the 5/10’s at work came in this morning and after an hour or two of solitary blubbing, finally revealed that the reason for her angst was that her bloke had left her for another bird.

Inevitably, the news spread like wildfire and within minutes, the coven had convened which meant that not only did all work cease, but the males amongt us were subjected to Adele’s entire back catalogue. Apparently she has perfectly captured the essence of how it feels for a woman to go through the emotional trauma of a relationship breakdown and has managed to encapsulate every fibre tearing, gut wrenching second of it into her music. Or as I like to put it, she sings about being dumped.

Of course the fact that this 5/10 loved this bloke with all of her heart whilst he apparently regarded her as little more than a sperm receptacle meant that the rule of collective responsibility was applied thus meaning that all males, myself included, were to blame for her despair. However, given that none of us even know this geezers name let along know anything about him, being labelled an arsehole because of his actions did not sit well with us males.

However, as usual our complaints relating to this unfairness fell on deaf ears and so we rallied and staged a pro-lad rebellion which quickly escalated into yet another episode in the ongoing skirmish of the sexes.

Our opening shot was the simple truth that if he ran off with another woman, one of their own is equally guilty. More so in fact, because she would almost certainly have known that he was attached. The second salvo we fired off involved us pointing out that the 5/10 involved is hardly a paragon of virtue and indeed, has a reputation for putting it about. Hence, if you live by the (pork) sword, you die by the (pork) sword.

Inevitably this was met with the bog standard ignoring of the basic facts and the usual volley of ‘sexist-pigs’ and ‘you don’t understand’ style abuse which merely served to reinforce my belief that when it comes to relationships, women as a sex are incapable of accepting either blame or logic when things go wrong.

Sensing blood, the more sensitive (and for that read ‘attached’) among us were about to play the ‘we don’t understand why women go for scum bags anyway’ card when all of our good work was undone by one of the single lads who suggested that the main reason why she got dumped was probably because she’s a crap shag. And having -to coin a phrase- been there and done that, he should know.

In terms of defeat being snatched from the jaws of victory, this was as epic a case as you will ever see for the subsequent vitriol aimed at us from the enemy had even those of us hardened to such things diving for the trenches.

How can you ever hope to win an argument with women when you’re faced with the kind of hypocrisy which makes it unacceptable for a male to question a female’s sexual prowess but perfectly acceptable for them to slaughter ours?

Oh yes….. you can’t.

Follow me on Twitter – @BillysBlogged

The best-selling novel, Billy’s Log, can be downloaded from Amazon by clicking here!

sex, politics, drinking, hangover, work, life, alone, romance, love, single life,


hangover, drinking, sick, work, sex, life, romanceYou would think that as someone who has an intense dislike of both drunks and hangovers, I would have realised by now that drinking excessive amounts of vodka is not going to end well. Yet not for the first time I have spent much of the last 24 hours suffering alcohol induced torment.

This would be bad enough were it a Friday or Saturday evening but we are talking a Tuesday which meant that my post-piss-up pain had to be endured whilst undergoing the combined nightmares of both working and worst of all, commuting.

Leaving aside the small matter of my own stupidity, the thing that baffles me most about hangovers is that if alcohol is supposed to batter the senses into submission, why do mine seem to be enhanced the morning after a night on the lash? My sense of smell for example, takes on an almost bloodhound like quality which is particularly horrific when faced with the horror of a commuter train.

I do wonder if some of the bastards I am forced to travel with ever actually shower at all and who the bloody hell eats an egg sandwich on their way to work? Do they not understand how vomit inducing a smell that is? And I don’t even want to think about what had caused the stench in the carriage toilet which genuinely felt like it was reaching out and punching me in the face every time the door slid open.

Of course thanks to my inbred fear of train toilets and whatever diseases/filth they harbour I had absolutely no intention of venturing inside to find out but with my stomach doing its usual trick of trying to eject its contents via whatever exit was available, I was forced to undergo the entire journey whilst alternately clenching my throat and my sphincter. A totally unpleasant experience but a necessary one judging by the Relief of Mafeking style fart and subsequent pebble-dashing which occurred the second I planted my slightly moist buttocks onto the works Karzi.

Inevitably, the acidity in said ejection resulted in a ring of fire, relief from which could only be found by either squirming in my seat or sitting on the toilet and flushing repeatedly. The latter actually proving quite handy as my stomach seemed to be producing a never ending stream of brown liquid.

Thankfully, by the time it came to head for home even my bowels had given up which for some bizarre reason made my brain think that eating a cheeseburger would be a good idea.

And having spent most of last night squitting for England for a second time in a day and with my head still banging, I have called in sick. Thus ensuring that I will be accused of being a lightweight when I venture back to my place of employment.

Hangovers….. fabulous.

sex, politics, drinking, hangover, work, life, alone, single life,


revenge, men, drinking, life, sex, masturbationI found myself dragged into a lunchtime session yesterday. Admittedly, I wasn’t exactly a reluctant participant but reflecting on it now, it has already become clear that my participation is going to prove to be a huge mistake.

 For like most Sunday lunchtime sessions that take place when football is lying dormant on our calendars, we ended up fixated on a particular subject. Yesterday, that subject was revenge.

As a natural born coward and a firm believer in the concept that revenge, whilst obviously best served cold, should also be accompanied by a side order of smug self-satisfaction, I tend to fulfill my desire for retribution in ways which are so childish that I really wouldn’t want the details made public anyway. For me, simply knowing I have done something is usually enough.

However, if you think about it this does kind of miss the point. After all, if someone has wronged you enough to make you want to extract some kind of justice, surely it is far more effective if they actually know what you have done and why. And if everyone else also knows, it would surely send the message that you are not someone to be trifled with.

Sadly, imparting this opinion after a few Budweiser’s was clearly a mistake as in our alcohol induced state, everyone seemed to agree. As a consequence, we spent an afternoon filled with tales involving clingfilm, laxatives, superglue and porn sites which eventually deteriorated into the abuse of social media etiquette which in some instances bordered on illegal and inevitably, the use of bodily fluids.

Ironically, in spite there being six of us involved in this conversation all of whom have known each other for years, not one of us had the balls to admit to extracting revenge on each other. That was until someone let slip that some years ago, they’d had occasion to repay a debt to one of our number. A revelation which resulted in an instant change of mood as each of us considered the idea that it might be us whilst hoping to god that it wasn’t.

Of course, not for the first time it turned out that I had been the victim. News which clearly came as a huge relief to the others who then insisted that the guilty party divulge the nature of that revenge.

As a consequence, I discovered that some years ago, for the crime of drinking the last can of lager in the fridge –in spite of the fact that I had paid for it!- my ex-flat mate once wanked into my bath whilst I was on the phone to my mum. Hence, I now have a new nickname; Spunky.



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The best-selling novel, Billy’s Log, can be downloaded from Amazon by clicking here!

comedy, humour, brimson, writing, author, screenwriting, greenstreet, bridget jones, revenge, sperm, hate crime,

Men are from mars.

men,women,love,romance,sexThe Adele debate of yesterday continues apace.

In the pub last night, as the subject of the Tottenham Warbler received further dissection, one of the women who inevitably get involved in such things used the immortal phrase ‘men are from Mars, women are from Venus’.

Now if I know one thing about women, it’s that I know very little about women. But one thing I do know is that when a woman says ‘MAFMWAFV’ you are at the point of entrenchment. Right or wrong, she has dug her heels in and has no intention of changing her mind.

Inevitably, the poor sap on the receiving end of this remark took it as a sign to give up and change the subject rather than risk getting us all dragged into the world of female angst which was clearly looming on the horizon.

However, as I reflected on this later it struck me that by backing away from this we males are making a massive mistake. For what a woman actually means when she says ‘men are from Mars, women are from Venus’ is that she is right and you are wrong but are too stupid to admit it. Or more accurately, ‘I’m right and you’re thick.’

Therefore by walking away, even for what we would consider to be a very sound reason, we not only compound this way of thinking but we undermine our position in the ongoing battle of the sexes.

Women of course, are well aware of this. They also know full well that as lads we rarely play the ‘difference’ card because to us it has come to signify an admission of defeat. The exact opposite of how they perceive it.

Therefore, given that the alternative is to accept that we might actually be right on something, they are happy to use the difference card at every opportunity.

I’m not having that any more. And since I have a number of meetings looming, if it gets to the point where I can hear the heels being sharpened, I’ll play the MAFMWAFV card just to see what happens.

Who knows, maybe it’ll confuse the shit out of them and they’ll burst into tears! But if nothing else, it will be a moral victory!

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The best-selling novel, Billy’s Log, can be downloaded from Amazon by clicking here!

comedy, humour, brimson, writing, author, screenwriting, greenstreet, bridget jones

And so it begins… Adele.

lads, romance, love, sex, life, humour, bridgetjonesI learned something new about women today.

It wasn’t that they are different from us (obvious) are mental (also obvious) and have no idea what makes the average lad tick (basic fact), it’s that they routinely use an attack on a lad to excuse their own bitchiness.

I stumbled across this by accident having once again become the object of ridicule by allowing a perfectly reasonable observation to leave my brain in the form of actual sound. Or, in other words, I opened my mouth before thinking.

On this occasion, the subject was Adele. Nothing to do with her songs of course because all lads know that they are little more than fuel for the bitterness powered engine which fuels most single women, but her fitness rating. For whilst discussing the age old subject of munters, someone mentioned Adele and even though I knew the in-house lad rating committee had her down as at a 4/10 (bordering on 5/10), I foolishly and without thinking said ‘I would.’

Even as the words left my mouth I knew I was lining myself up for all kinds of crap but for some inexplicable reason, I then added ‘well, she’s got something about her.’ I might as well have switched off the safety catch and pulled the trigger myself.

As a consequence of my own stupidity much of my day involved the receipt of various Adele/chubby chaser related jokes and photo-shopped pictures of the Tottenham warbler and myself indulging in various acts of depravity. Inevitably these pictures were discovered by one of the coven who also inevitably, felt the need to share these with her fellow witches. Given that my rating with the women at work is already at rock bottom, what passes for female logic immediately tagged me as the guilty party.

So to recap, I say a female is attractive and I’m subsequently accused of being a pig.

However, pondering the unfairness of this whilst enjoying my mid afternoon skive/dump it suddenly struck me that not one woman had considered the possibility that I might actually be telling the truth. And instead of agreeing with me that Adele might actually be worthy of a higher lad rating than the one she currently enjoys or acknowledging the fact that I haven’t fallen for the fake tits, pouting TOWIE look so beloved of my male workmates, they had instead attacked me. The question was why?

The answer, when it finally dawned on me, was obvious. It’s jealousy pure and simple. Deep down the average female not only fiercely resents any woman who is seemingly happy enough in her own skin to say she doesn’t really give a fuck what anyone else thinks but they begrudge the idea that any male might actually find that same woman attractive. Primarily because if they acknowledge the notion that a lad is attracted to someone who should by ‘normal’ thinking be regarded as less than desirable, what does it actually say about the rest of them and their drive to be ‘perfect’?

By wrapping this up and disguising it under the cloak of female solidarity, what they are actually doing is allowing themselves to attack one of their own in an effort to bring them back under the cloud of what is really self-imposed suppression. The added benefit being that they get to slaughter one of the male enemy. In this case, me.

Devious bastards all of them.

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The best-selling novel, Billy’s Log, can be downloaded from Amazon by clicking here!