Tuesday, 25 November 2008

The X-Man.

Why can't I just admit that I like X-Factor? I openly complain about how shit it is all the time yet watch it every week and I don't even fast forward to get through the awful, awful singing bits. Originally I just watched it for the crying. The crying is brilliant. There's no better form of entertainment than watching some ugly, talentless, ex-drug addict, orphan, got-five-kids, mentally ill blob of useless crying their bones out because they didn't win a sing-song game. It's brilliant. Their faces are priceless when they hear the news, it's like it never crossed their minds once that maybe, JUST MAYBE, they might not win. And the type of music they perform, although varied (you can hear anything from spine-vomiting pop ballads to just plain balls), is beyond dull. And yet I watch it. And yet I love it. And yet I can never admit it. I don't really even admit it to myself, sometimes telling myself that it's just so pathetic you have to watch. So how come I'm quite upset that granny-punching, crack-drinking sprog-machine Rachel has been booted out? She was really good. Imagine going on X-Factor and being able to sing? Well, that's what she did, the mad bastard. In the end she was beaten by JLS, London's loveliest street gang. Are there nicer youths in the whole of the UK? Christ, they're awful and souless. Why can't they mug old money for drug women like Rachel does? At least she has a bit of depth to her. The cunts. Anyway, I'll be looking forward to the next few weeks but telling people that I never watch it. All we have left is Mad Hippy Teenager, Irish Child, Nice Lads, Spanish Tits and Woman left. My money is on Irish Child, he's definitely terrible enough to win. I suppose. I don't really watch it, to be honest.

I've been spending a lot of time with my in-laws. Obviously, I haven't killed them yet mainly because I've been busy. My father-in-law seems to have made a brand new kind of bond with me, though. To be honest, it started last month in Seattle when he boldly claimed that Vice-President Elect Joe Biden thought I was a cocksucker. I have little to no idea what Joe Biden thinks of me but I do know that my Father-In-Law doesn't swear. He's actually a very clean-cut, small town, All-American boy, so you can imagine my surprise when Cocksucker came out of his gentle, down-to-earth mouth. I now realise that he might be a little starved of male companionship and has chosen me to be his bud. His bud he can drink with, laugh with and swear with. Unfortunately, I don't deal well with grown-ups who swear. I know that as a 40-year old that I too, in a way, could be considered a grown up but I'm so staggeringly immature that I don't think you could ever consider me as such. Therefore when a REAL grown-up swears I revert to being 10 and I'm totally shocked by it. My gut reaction is to tell a teacher. Since his arrival in the UK he has sworn a fair bit but ONLY in front of me. Never any other member of his family and yesterday his swearing and my lack of comfort with it hit a peak. Not only did he say that when he used to work in a power plant it was "20% hard work and the rest of the time I sat around stroking myself" while doing the Wank hand gesture he then told me that he saw a car almost collide with another car and, apparently, there was nothing but a RCH in it. When I asked what an RCH was he smiled, winked and said "Red Cunt Hair". After I swallowed all my own sick I laughed, wiped away a tear and said "What are you like?", then immediately booked an appointment with a counsellor. I'll be traumatised for a very long time. I sincerely hope he hasn't ruined the word cunt for me. He'd be a cunt if he has. Oh, there we go. Back to normal.

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