| International Tramp Top Trumps | ||||||||
 And so, I have revisted that popular children's game of the 70's and 80's - Top Trumps. A favourite of the playground, where many a break time was spent arguing about the opposing player being "a cheating lying cunt" for giving false answers to the questions and also "a cheating bastard" for bringing the same deck as you and slipping in all the best cards to the hand he was dealt. International Tramp Top Trumps should be pretty self-explanatory. Via an exciting test of your decision making & guesswork skills you must try to gain possession of all of the cards leaving your opponent with none. Or if break time finishes before this then the person with the most is the winner. Allow me to expand a little further on the rules: Each card in the pack shows a list of numerical data about the tramp. All the cards are dealt among the players (minimum of 2, your opponents can be real or imaginary) and the person to go first must select one category from the 4 available. The "best" value wins their opponents' card. Here's how the values are calculated:
*Any card marked with "0*" as the data infers the tramp is not a dog owner. This is a default loss if the category is chosen. **Any carrier bag date from '00 onwards is depicted as from the 21st century and not the 20th. The Top Tramp Trick data is simply there to provide some light-hearted entertainment at the homeless tramps' expense. Enjoy the game!           | ||||||||
| Introducing Benson The Jamboy |
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| Holiday Arguments |
 BEFORE YOU GO Time to make the booking. Your mates' have all told you what an excellent time they had with their girlfriends in a villa on some Greek island. "Excellent" you think. Cheap booze and peace & quiet. However, she's just read Cosmopolitan magazine and has other ideas. Kenya, for two weeks. In August. "In the name of Christ you fucking idiot" you implore. "Al Qaeda will skin us alive and feed us to hyenas. And it's 65 fucking degrees and raining". Her face twists until it resembles a dog's arse. "You can stop bitching, 'cos I've already made the booking. With your credit card". Christ. SATURDAY 7am: Wake Up: As far as this goes, this is prime time for blazing rows. Rows so big they can split the earth open. Predictably, she's on blob week. "so no funny business like last time you filthy animal". Sadly, this is just the beginning. 9am: Packing: Her tongue is sharpening by the minute. You're taking 3 pairs of socks, 3 pair of pants, 1 pair of shorts and 6 t-shirts. "Six shirts?" she rants. "So I suppose I can't take anything can I?" She flips the suitcase over in anger and storms up to the bathroom, crying. You take out 3 t-shirts & repack, to include her hairdryer, 10 pairs of identical shoes, and all the make up she's ever bought. 10am: To The Airport: "We're late, we're late, we're fucking laaate" She's only just remembered you're meant to be boarding at 9am, but she won't check the tickets "In case it's true". You breathe deeply and count to 10. She's never learned to drive because she can't be bothered and she doesn't read maps to get you to the airport quicker. You harbour images of her being sucked out the plane toilet at 20,000 feet. 11am: Airport: You arrive. Six fucking hours early. She's still worried you'll miss the flight. At check-in you bundle the 5 bags you're carrying, stow away the parking tickets and keys, hold the bag full of women's mags and her travel pillow, call your mate who's feeding the cat, check the car booking for when you arrive, and notify the hotel in advance. All she's got to look after are the passports. "Oh, I though you were doing it". She glares at you. She knows she's wrong but she's not budging. Back home in the car, return to the airport with the documents. Still 3 hours to go. 6pm: On The Plane: "I'm not eating this shit. There's no legroom. Can't you move up a bit? Wish I could smoke. Those hostesses are fucking rude. This bloke behind me is winding me up". All the things that were annoying you, now annoy you double, because she's moaning about them. You can't take it, "Look, for fuck's sake. Just shut up will you? Please?" The high altitude leads to more tears. The pilot comes over & informs you that you'll be arrested at the airport if you raise your voice again, while she quivers like you've just smacked shit out of her. 11:30pm: At The Hotel: Her eyes are red like a baboons arse, and she's getting pricklier by the minute. She spies a cobweb in the room and screams. "There's no fucking spiders, love" you try to calm her with. She shakes, "G-e-e-t m-e-ee o-u-u-ut of h-e-e-ere NOW!!!!" Downstairs, you spend an hour explaining that you're saddled with a mad bitch and require alternative accommodation. SUNDAY 7am: Breakfast: Come on, it's a holiday. You need a lie-in, but she's not interested. "Let's have breakfast, we never have breakfast together". You go down and chew on a stale bread roll and a black banana. "You wanted to come here" she retorts. You see red. 10 minutes later you're banned from the dining room for blue language 8pm: Local Nightclub: You go up to the bar to get a couple of drinks. It's a shit nightclub, but for once she looks happy enough. On your return, she's surrounded by 5 massive local lads. The stop talking and stare at you like shit on their shoe. "come on love, let's go" you suggest. "Oh guys, this is my boyfriend" she says. One leans over and whispers "Your woman, I am going to fuck her tonight". He grins and pulls his shirt back to reveal a machete. Once you escape with her, she thinks you're a jealous racist. You wait until inside the taxi before you really let rip. MONDAY 5pm: Hotel Bar: You've been gasping for a proper drink, and finally she makes up her mind that she wouldn't mind one. You buy her a vodka and red bull and a pint of lager for yourself, and watch a veil of madness draw over her face. After 2 hours of lechery, giggling and unfunny innuendo, she gags on her 3rd drink and you spend the rest of the evening keeping her hair out of the toilet as she throws up. "You bastard" she says the next day. "How could you let me get that drunk?" "You only had 3!" you yell back. "Well that's it. We're not drinking until we get back". She leaves it hanging in the air, itching for a row. TUESDAY 12pm: At The Pool: At last, a chance to unwind. You've got the last 2 sunbeds, a cold drink and feel like nodding off for pleasantly for a couple of hours. You don't even flinch when she says "Oh it's too bloody hot. I told you I don't like it too hot" " Why don't you go for a swim & leave me in peace, eh?" you offer. When you wake up an hour later, there's a lad sitting next to you. "Christ mate" he nudges your arm with. "Have you seen that chick over there with her tits out? One minute she was on the Bacardi's, next she's giving it the Stringfellows routine!" She is standing on a table, stripping, with a group of builders egging her on. Later, she blames you. "I told you I dint' like it hot. Why didn't you stop me, you bastard? God, you hate me..." You raise your hand and the boy who was sitting beside you grabs it from behind. "Eh, this bloke giving you shit, love?" Chriiiist. 3pm: On The Beach: "If that's what you want, my sweet." is all you can say when she demands her sand time. It's absolutely roasting down there and she cooks herself like a lamb shank. "Right, I'm going topless" is all she says. "If you get your fun bags out, it's all over" you say. Moments later your face is wrapped in her bikini and she's offered ice creams, bracelets and foot-rubs. "They're sooo friendly here" she says. "You daft, blind slag" is all you can manage. 3 hours later, she tells you you've been using oil instead of protection cream. You now glow hotter than the sun and have melted the sand beneath you into glass. WEDNESDAY 7am: Shopping: She gets it into her head that she wants to visit the 'local' flea market on the day you're recovering from 3rd degree burns and sunstroke. It's 4 and a half hours' journey on an unventilated coach, every pothole is bringing uncontrollable outbursts of agony and nausea. You're too weak to argue at this point, despite her looking over and tutting every 30 seconds. You need sympathy. You get 6 hours in a slum, with con-men selling hooky watches and driftwood 'sculptures'. "Come on pet" you plead. "This stuff is half the price on the resort, let's get to a cafe". "You ignorant pig" she replies, slapping your arm and making you gag. You estimate the national sentence for murder and weigh up your options. 6pm: Restaurant: "Eh, I'll have the Ethethethes Methethetheses, grassy arse" she shouts as you shake your head with ingrained bitterness. You order egg and chips. There's only 2 days left of this hell and you're not spending it on porcelain. When her dinner arrives, it's 2 bulls testicles, a goat's eye with a horse's dick through it and blue stallion sauce. "I can't eat this, You'll have to have it". And with that she deftly swaps plates. The nausea returns as you battle to eat this car accident of a meal. You spend the next 2 days on the toilet squeezing out a drizzle of blood from your anus, while she complains about you being 'unadventurous. Too weak to argue, you reach for her toothbrush and dip it in. SATURDAY The Flight Back: "I've never been so embarrassed in my life. That's the last time I go on holiday with you. I knew I should've gone to Magaluf with the girls. You actually enjoyed wasting my time and money, didn't you?" It's all or nothing now, and you let rip with a huge, primal scream. 20,000 feet below, chimpanzees return the cry. Lions wake up and roar at the sky. Birds leave their roosts and trees are split open. Oxygen masks fall from above. "Ooh, get you!" she replies. "I hope YOU'VE enjoyed yourself, you PRICK!" 3 DAYS LATER You realise that you've been using the wrong toothbrush. |
| Beat The Credit Crunch |
 "How safe are my savings?" people with not a lot of savings are asking. "I'm liquidating my investments and keeping it all under my mattress" say people who are unwittingly giving burglars huge erections right now. "Fuck, have you seen the price of Bradford & Bingley shares? I'm putting all my money into them" gibbered a whole heap of the general spastic population of Great Britain. Sure, Russia and China will be cackling their communist heads off at the western world right now. But fuck them with their cheap plastic toys, underage Olympic gymnastics, internet brides and puppet Prime Ministers. Their is a way to make money during these tough economical times. You just need to employ a little "out of the box" style of thinking.  Use your savings to start an undertaker business. Due to heating and food prices going up and state pensions going down it's going to be a really bad year for OAP's. Make it a good one for you! Invest in Amy Winehouse's drug dealer. Go on do it, think of the returns on any capital given to that man. Just as night follows day you can be sure that little Amy will be a loyal and constant customer. Start buying up safes. At the speed banks are closing down people are soon going to have nowhere to keep their money. You may even want to consider a sideline in loansharking. Take all your savings and head to the nearest bookies. Bet that if Obama Barrack get's into the Whitehouse that he will be shot by some southern racist redneck. It's a guarantee. Begin your own rickshaw taxi business. Engine-powered taxi's will be far too expensive to both run and afford. Now you'll be able to fleece customers AND stay fit at the same time!The information above does not constitute advice and you should not rely on any material in this website to make any decision. If you do decide to do any of the above please contact me and we'll come to a financial arrangement. Unless it failed. |
| The Internet Theory Test | ||||
 OK, so perhaps there is no government-funded Department for Faster Porn (although there fucking should be), and as such, no Internet Licensing Agency (there most definitely fucking should be). People over a certain age are simply unable to grasp even the most basics of the internet and as such, I propose that an internet licence be introduced. Just like procuring a driving licence people would have to pass a theory test first before being able to sit a practical test. "Internet Instructors" could fit a dual-keypad and mouse to their computers, attach a large magnetic-based cone on the top of their monitors, stick advertising stickers with their name and mobile number on their tower and then fleece keen-to-learn people at £20 an hour for their services. Seriously, if someone can't spot a phishing email or website then they deserve to lose all their money. Likewise, if someone is so old they can't find their own piss-bag then why are they allowed the freedom to clog up the internet with their diddering (yes I just said "diddering")? I swear my gran once asked me if I could watch what she was doing through her television as I was "on that webernet thing". AND she actually has a laptop with a broadband connection! And so, I have felt compelled to create the world's very first Internet Theory Test:
Please feel free to try this out on your own grandparents and let me know how they got on. | ||||
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