You know that feeling that you get AFTER THE INCIDENT where you come up with all the witty shitty remarks that make you the donkey with the biggest dick in the field. Happened to me a couple of nights back.

I popped out to see a mate of mine in a place called Bristol down in the dustbowl of the UK. She lives in a beautiful old Georgian Terrace on a hill. Place is probably worth a million alone. Took me quite a few hours to get there in my bodykitted jet-back Landrover Defender. Pissing down the M5 at all of 60 MPH. Looks good, drives good. Steers like a bitch.

Anyways, I pull up at this million pound house and notice several things: it's dark, it's raining, there's no fucking roadside parking. Can you believe it? All these expensive houses and no fucking parking. So I pull up to a row of garages and park outside of the one that DOESN'T have the DO NOT PARK IN FRONT OF THIS GARAGE I AM A DOCTOR AND NEED 24 HOURS ENTRANCE AND EGRESS and go and see my mate. It's the only space for miles.

'bout 10 minutes later I get a phone call from Rich, my local policeman back home. A good friend in the battle against stupidity, he excels as putting people who ought to know better behind bars in the vain attempt to clear out the gene pool. It's like trying to brush out the tide. Without a brush.

Anyways, he gives me a word about this prick that has rung up the police because MY 4x4 is blocking his drive. He's asked them to trace my registration plate and my details came up. I'm a generally polite person, I thought, I'll move it.

Standing in the road, on his phone to the police [apparently he's refused to hang-up until this issue has been resolved] is this Office Jock.

An office jock is that sort of wet arrogant cunt that thinks he's the biggest fish in the pond. He probably is, but it's a pretty fucking small pond, and he only got there by bullying, delegation and stealing other people's ideas. And he's a total tosser. AND he's going bald. Patronising cunt. This is the conversation:

TOSSER [to phone]: Oh, he's here. Stay on the line. [to me] What number do you live at?

GONZO.ID: None of your business.

TOSSER: Haven't I told you about parking here before?

GONZO.ID: No, I don't live here.

TOSSER: I think I have. Why did you parked in front of my garage?

GONZO.ID: Because there were no parking spaces and your garage was the only garage without a no parking sign.

TOSSER: That's not very logical now, is it?

GONZO.ID: I didn't profess to posessing any form of logic.

TOSSER [to phone]: yes, hold on... I'm just telling him off.

GONZO.ID: Are you going to get out of the way so i can move my fucking car?

TOSSER: Now, I'd really appreciate it if you never parked in front of this garage again.

GONZO.ID gets in big-ass Landrover, slaps reverse lights on, and attempts to reverse into TOSSERS car as it's BLOCKING EGRESS. TOSSER eventually moves it and GONZO.ID parks Landrover 20 yards further away.

The tosser is still trying to talk to me as I'm walking off. About 10 minutes later I'm thinking of all the really cool things I could have said, like "Fuck You, you dappy bastard, my car is bigger than yours and I'm not some sad twat that's overly obsessive about out-superioring every daft bugger on this planet." And other sentences to that effect.

Luckily, revenge was sweet. By the time I'd left my mate's house SOMEBODY ELSE had parked in front of this guy's garage... a van. So I let down the tyres and superglued a sign to the windscreen saying DON'T PARK IN FRONT OF MY FUCKING GARAGE.

Guy who owns the van is gonna beat the cunt to death.

I keep checking the papers...

I'm at home this week. Thank fuck for that, spending my time scrabbling about the country, the world has left its toll on me and so this week, i've done sweet fuck all.

That's not actually true, I've sat in the garden in my special hammock and watched the world go by over the top of a whole swathe of rum and cokes. The grass is growing, the trees are beginning to bud and flower and the sky is going on forever.

A couple of time I had to threaten ramblers that think the footpath that goes ALONG my property actually cuts right across the land to the hills over yonder. Experience has taught me that if you threaten with a shotgun they flee. And since I'm a friend of the local plod, the ramblers ALWAYS get done for trespass.

Other than relaxing in the sun, I've scoured the world news for unusual UFO sightings, child deaths and the slow steady collapse of democracy around the world. Just in case. Trust me.

Also, continued my writing of the book Fuck You and All You Stand For: My Experiences In A World Grown Up Wrong. Doubleday are interested, except they think I should change the title to: Living Under the New World Order.

On Friday I had the privilige of being backstage [sorry, 'off floor' in BBC lingo] at this year's Comic Relief.

For those that don't know: Comic Relief is the UK's way of saying thank you to all those starving foreigners and underpriviliged children the world over for keeping hippies / lesbian housewives / chronic lefties / men in sandals in business as unusually specific charitable organisations. [you know the sort: Blind left-handed children from Lemuria Foundation, February 29th Survivors Group, Sudanese Nazi Liberation Front--Jewish Chapter, etc.]

It's a time for humour, with a serious message. It's a time to laugh and donate to charity. It's a time when Robbie Williams dresses up as the dame to appear on England's Funniest Show^[tm] , Little Britain. And, it's a time when they pull out all the old shows they cancelled years back to do a Comic Relief Special.

It was really exciting, for the limited amount of time that I was there. Y'see, I had a little bit of a disagreement with Richard Curtis.

Richard Curtis wrote Blackadder, Mr Bean, Not the Nine O'Clock News, and Spitting Image. All of which are hillarious, genius cutting edge humour. He's a good man, funny, articulate, witty, and a good friend of a good friend.

He also did 4 Weddings and A Funeral and Notting Hill, which are acceptable. They're ok-ay.

I cannot forgive him for that sugary, drippy, shitly-written, unfunny abortion called Love, Actually. That fucker. It even takes place at Christmas so the fucking networks can't get enough of the snow.  So when I was introduced to him I asked him why he was such a cunt for making Love, Actually. He took offence to this and tried to remove the bottle of Wild Turkey I had snuck in to 'pep-up' the watered-down drinks the BBC favours. To which I replied, in kind, by attempting to remove his nose with my fingers.

Ejection followed shortly afterwards.

Richard, if you're reading this, apologies about the nose, but if I even smell a Love, Actually 2 on the horizon it ain't gonna be your nose I'll try and rip off.

It's about 2.30am and I'm totally shattered. I've been playing Monster Magnet as loud as my brand spanking new Sony SupaSexyMp3DVD-ROMBass KingCD-RW_AM/FM/DABTunerS tereo HiFiSoundSystem can play it. I used to have it on Vinyl but not even my new Sony can handle that. It can handle a decibel level that could raze entire forests with a sub-subsonic woofer that the US millitary would die for. But with the likes of Space Lord and Look to your Orb for the Warning it is only succeeding in pissing the neighbours off. 2KM away.

I'm up this late because I'm trying to fix my fucking computer. One of the other treats I bought myself was a brand spanking new HP colour printer. It worked for two days, then bit the fat one. While it was still light outside I rang up their helpdesk and after a wonderful 23 minute rendition of In the Air Tonight [Phil Collins] the monkey that was on the end of the phone told me that error message #324b23c2dee123412.124134b was because my brand spanking new printer was out of blue ink.

I haven't yes used any blue to print, so how can it be out of blue? Bloke down pub had the answer. My local brewhouse is filled with the ne'er-do-wells of ALL strata's of society; lawyers swap tricks with lockpicks whilst the poacher in the corner it flogging dead pheasants to the worst reformed gambler in the world. so bloke down pub will know. And he did.

"Fucking HP have written a code to their paint pots you get w/ the printer. it's a perfect fucking scam. Swish Dave apparently came up with the idea."

Swish Dave hasn't been seen round these parts since he was caught flogging laptop casings filled with potatoes to gullible students.

"They put this code in their printers and then flog 'em off really cheap so that loads of people buy them, but their sensors tell you that you've run out of ink even when you haven't. And so HP rake it in on the flogging of new ink cartridges. Genius really."

I worked it out on the back of a napkin as bloke down pub got in another round of wifebeater [read: Stella Artois]. it's about £40 for a colour printer and if the chip tells you x much, y often then we're looking at...

...

...almost £1,800 a year to run the fucker. Cheapest printer in the world my arse. Luckily for me my new stereo can print stuff on it. So I'm using that. My vinyl? That's been delegated to target practice... Y'see, I also bought an old Winchester .303...

I've got to write fast today, so apologies for being scrappy in my grammar and eloquence. That and the Dancehall I've got blaring on my RumblePackmp3RecordoAmpoP ersonalisator^[TM] is so fucking cool sounding, I've not got the concentration. Oh, and the Yardies are after me.

I've had to sneak into an internet cafe in Bristol, UK to gibber at you. It's a good a place as any... I've been down here seeing a mate of mine: Becky Price, Jordan's sister.

Becks is lovely, total opposite of her whorish, giant-breasted sibling: not a glamour [read sex] model like her sister in any way. And she's clever too... also not like here sister...and she's not engaged to Peter Andre. In fact, you can barely tell they're related except maybe in those big beautiful eyes.

Anyways, she's a mate and I've been hanging out in Bristol with her because she has an enourmous capacity to consume vodka, and she's been telling me about the Eurovision Song Contest.

"...and so these countries big themseves up ever year by playing crap pop ditties in some godawful backwater capital in Latvia and then vote utterly politically. Norway never gives points to Sweden, Israel and Turkey don't even piss in the same building, and all the Baltic States slap each other on the back. The music's second place... the amount of money that changes hands..." She's got a mouth on her.

Y'see, her sister is one of the nominees to sing the UK Eurovision song. Along with 3 failed pop idols and a gang of metrosexuals that would allow themselves to be buggered by you as long as you voted for them so that in three years time they have their own camp daytime TV show about designing pet hospitals or something.

"She's only doing it 'coz Pete's a singer and she's got this 'I've gotta prove myself' in her. It's gonna be terrible, no matter what, but she'll have fun, and thats good..."

Anyway, Yardies. What I didn't know is that Bristol has the largest number of Jamaican gangsters outside of Kingstown. Kingstown, Jamaica. And every single one of those homophobic, psychopathic, drug dealing, mentalists is currently scouring Bristol looking for the WhiteMan. Me.

The reason? Awkward questions at a Dancehall. There I was at a Dancehall lesson being taught how to 'brush the flies' and 'stroke them down' and numerous other dancehall moves, possibly invented to fleece the money from respectable [but fucking annoying] middle-cla ss students who have suddenly decided that black is back and are heading towards the ghettos in droves to be part of this weeks In Crowd.

First guy I spoke to was some relative of Beenie Man, I believe. His accent was so rich that it was difficult to understand, but warm and mellow and made me think of beaches, rum and vast amounts of 'erb.

I will not attempt dialogue, just to say that he was pissed that the dancehall stars [Elephant Man, Sizzla, Bounty Killer and suchlike] were checked at immigration control, regularly refused work permits and deported more often that the drug-mules on the same flight. The government have been denying any involvement.

Gay rights groups have come out [pun totally intended] against the homophobic lyrics of these artists and have been boycotting gigs under the banner of 'Stop Murder Music' of those ghetto stars that haven't been refused entry and complaining to the part of the music industry that seems to have control over this. And what have these record companies done? gone along w/ the gay rights campaigners. Suppressing their own artists.

2pac never had this trouble. But then 2pac never sounded like this:

"A yah mi born, a yah mi live an mi a stay 
An from mi little bit a yasso mi dey play 
An mi nuh see nuh bwoi fi mek mi run away 
Caw mi nuh punk bo yah an man nuh gay"

[Silent Violence, Beenie Man]

Quite.

Better be off back to my farmstead across the country, my £5 for 30 minutes is nearly up and there's a couple of dreads across the street who have suddenly taken an interest in net caffs.

If this new anti-Terror bill comes in here in the good old US of K, I'm fucked. Totally.

You know what it does? New amendments to the Prevention of Terrorism Bill means that the government are trying to force through more laws that mean they can put "British and foreign terrorism suspects under house arrest, under curfew, tagged or even ban telephone and internet use" even if they think you're a terrorist.  If they suspect that we're thinking bad thoughts against the moral strength of this Fair Isle^{[sponsored by Orange]} and its majoritively stupid inhabitants, their goon squads are gonna come crashing in through your windows waving british-made advanced weaponry and fix you up so tight you ain't gonna be able to count to 2 + 2 = 5.

And all this to be delivered, not by the voice of justice--our wonderful judges, but by ministers of our Parliment.

Yes, the same people that have decided that we're not eating enough fruit. Brilliant. We can fend off the Scourge of Allah^{[sponsored by Mecca Bingo]} by chronic diarrhieoaia [ahem] bought on by consuming over 3000 different type of fruit a day.

But we don't listen to those in charge do we? If we did, more people would buy double glazing, or blinds. Or chart singles.

I digress. Now, I'm no terrorist, but I'd be fucked. I think dark thoughts, I know how to make pipe bombs. Not that I would. And even if I did, I'd blow them on my own land because I like that bangs. But I also know that, one day, hopefully far, far in the future in a galaxy far, far, away we'll be looking back on these days and be calling it the Era of Freedom^{[sponsored by The Mamas and the Papas].}

Why? Because of entropy; things never get better, they get worse. And one day, writing what I'm writing now will be a crime and that's when I'll be fucked.

I know you're not suppose to have your mobile on when crossing from Heathrow to pretty much anywhere, but as I was just hopping across to Prague I thought, "Fuck it. If my Siemens Nixdorf AK47-Bs [beta] third generation CellPhone WalkTalk^[TM] stuffs the electrics of an Airbus 330x then man was never destined to fly."

I was late and had to meet Jacque Kowalski, poet and art terorist. He'd fled to the Diamond of Eastern Europe after he was caught testing sub sonic sounds on the foundations of Big Ben. With the Houses of Parliment in close proximity it was regarded as an act of terrorism and promptly arrest his entire family w/out trial and locked them up for an indefinite period of time within Eltham Detention Centre. Not a bad reception for what Kowalski, writing in SoundMachine, called "a good gig."

There's a passenger in the seat opposite who takes offence at me shouting down the mobile trying to locate Kowalski. "You let him out of your site? What do i pay you for?" Time to take a cattle prod to that bastard and feed him to the hounds. I wave my arms wildly flinging Grant's Whiskey over the passanger whose now trying to summon a stewardess.

The phone rings again and I glare and the upset passenger. He's next... one more fucking glance my way and I'm pulling the door open. I'd like to se him complain at 30,000 fucking feet. Belt me in and watch him soil himself. I click the little green button on the handset.

crossed line. Fuck it. "He's in contempt of court. Because he's not answering questions means he's in contempt. We know he's been bad but we've got the jury fixed for you."

"No chance, it'll never hold. I mean, he thinks that sharing a bed with a 10 year old is fine. The Freak's nuts. And all Bashir was doing was protecting sources, apparently in CA that's cool to do."

Sometimes the crossed lines are the best. "Jackson's going down like a fucked clock and no amount of star witnesses is gonna save him," I scream down the phone.

What follows is the silence of the cosmos, and then a, "I'll call you right back. Deny everything."

I'm thinking about this as the plane sinks towards Prague and my next destination. Man, Jackson has led an unique life; he's been to the top and he's certainly been in the bottom, but does the guy need to get fucked up the ass by murders called 'Bubba' for the next 21 years? Probably not, I mean... the cunt's ill. he needs to be put in a hospital and checked regularly for wayward thought and mutilations. Not in a prison; perhaps some sort of rehab-farm, where they toil the land, clear the forests and get beaten unconscious at lights out.

Kowalski was gone by the time I got there. He'd been arrested for spraypainting "why bother?" across St. Stephen's Bridge to scare off tourist photographs.