The thing I always forget about the world, is that the world is not representative of Me. When I hear some lady badmouthing Men, I’ll jump in there and get all defendy and bitchslappy, before I remember that I kind of hate men; I resent being in their demographic, and all this woman’s points are valid. She should still shave the hair on her legs, though; it paints a terrifying picture of What Her Minge Might Look Like.
In a similar way, I assume everyone on the internet is clever, and speaks in an Irish accent. Well, not really clever; not Stephen Fry/Hawking clever. More Stephen King/Merchant clever. Like me, I mean. I don’t are no booksmart, but I done am good crossword noises sure like. I also don’t really speak with an Irish accent, because I’ve lived in the UK for more than a decade, and I’ve had my voice diluted by proxy. So I’m sorry, American friends; there’s no real brogue to be found on my tongue. Mainly because that’s a fucking shoe. You eejits.
What was my point again? Oh right, that I forget that 99% of the world are fucktards. They really are; I’m not just pulling statistics out of my arse. So, when I rather hilariously titled my last blog ‘Worst.Blog.Ever.’ I really shouldn’t have been surprised that people skipped it, and read older blogs instead when they were linked here from whichever God-awful corner of the internet I’d been prostituting myself. Well done, idiots. Worst views ever, for any post I have made on this blog. You missed an Absolute Classic. 
Remember that bit where I said I was about a week away from publishing my novel? You don’t? It was about two weeks ago… Oh, you’re new. Most people are new. They come and have a look around, then they decide it’s not for them. I think it’s mainly the puerile swearing thing that puts them off. I mean, you don’t even have to be prudish, or religious. There’s something sort of pathetic about a grown man swearing for shock value. It’s like that time The Sex Pistols were on Bill Grundy’s TV show, and he was asking them to ‘say something shocking’ and they were all like ‘Erm, you shit? You dirty bugger!’ They thought they were so awesome, but really they were getting played by one of the squarest squares on TV.
That’s Punk in a nutshell, really. A bunch of middle class boys wearing designer safety pins in their noses, and Fighting Against The Man by playing instruments paid for with Daddy’s gold card. Integrity, ethics… A Punk Rocker needs not these things. The Clash Bon Jovi-ed their way to the bank at Shea Stadium, the Pistols reformed for a tour called ‘Filthy Lucre’, and the lead singer of The Stooges ‘Pops’ up on my TV, selling insurance alongside an Iggy mannequin that looks like it was made from discarded foreskins.
Wait, I was talking about the novel, wasn’t I? I’ve lost my train of thought, now. Erm. Novels! They’re very good. You should definitely write one. It’s easy, as long as you don’t expect it to be good, or expect anyone to read it. Put lots of angry sex in it. That’s the big thing, now. Angry sex, for Mums. Mums love angry sex. My mum does, anyway. 
What I’m trying to say here, people, is: CHOOSE YOUR BLOG POST TITLE CAREFULLY!
97.4%* of wordpess users never do.
*(source: my arse)