Sunday, 22 May 2011

The End Is Not Nigh!

The gorgeous Harold Camping: Tricked you!
 Oh look everyone. The world failed to end last night. Funny that. Just as well really because I've not paid my council tax this month yet. The last thing I want in the netherworld is to be chased around and threatened by baliff angels demanding £95.00 from me.

One person who I bet wishes he was dead this morning is Harold Camping, the 89 year old nutjob preacher who was the complete and utter spaz bloke behind the doomsday prediction that neglected to occur. It turns out that he's done this thing before (ie. attention seeking). Yup, back in September 1994, he wrongly predicted that the end was coming, a process he rather sinisterly refers to as Rapture. (Actually, didn't Blondie have an album of the same name?) Anyway, it seems that Harold's a bit obsessed with God taking taking vengeance on humanity. Through his religious huffing and puffing he points his gnarled, arthritic, unbendable finger of blame at 'sexual perversion', spearheaded by the 'gay pride movement. It was sent by God as a sign of the end.' Really?

He must feel a right twat at the minute. He's probably not the only one. Mr Camping's ridiculous argument managed to convince red neck half wit Adam Larsen, 32, from Kansas. He is among scores of mongoles "ambassadors" who have quit their jobs to drive around America in Family Radio vehicles warning of the impending apocalypse. 'My favourite pastime is raccoon hunting," Mr Larsen told CNN. "I've had to give that up. But this task is far more important.'

Oh dear.

The End Is Nigh!

Oooh, brace yourselves people: the end of the world is nigh. Again! Apparently, at 11pm tonight, we're all going to die as the world goes past it's use by date. Humph.

I'm not very happy about my imminent demise because: a) I'm not ready to pop my clogs yet; b) I have milk in the fridge that is not due to go off until next week which makes me feel as though I've been conned a little bit and c) I've not started on my New Years Resolutions yet - ie. stop being such a fat knacker. Although that said, if I do slip off the dish this evening, then in about six days time, I'll probably be at my target weight so I suppose you win some, you lose some.

Between me and you, I think there's more chance of being noshed off by the pope than there is of the world ending. However, this is where I hedge my bets. What if the prophercy is right and this time tomorrow we're all toast? Hmmmm... JUST supposing that the end really is a couple of hours away, I should really atone for the sins I have committed in this life.

In retrospect, I've not really behaved as well as I ought to have been. I have a funny feeling I could find myself in the lift going down to the lake that burns with fire and brimstone. Knowing my luck, I'll probably find myself sandwiched between Mariah Carey (boo!) and Thatcher (hiss, spit and masturbatory gestures!) With this in mind, I am going to regretfully self disclose the following in the hope that my sincere-ish apology will bump me up to the God queue. Yay Jesus, etc.

1. I let the dogs out. Woof, woof, woof. It was me. Soz.

2. When I was doing my A-Levels, there was a lad in my politics class who I didn't like very much. We were talking in the 'refectory' (why they didn't call it the caff, I'll never know, perhaps they weren't as common as me. Or summat)... Where was I? Oh yes, me and this bloke - let's call him Dave because that was his name after all - were talking one day (when I liked him) and he randomly asked me if I would like to go to Nigeria, the place of his birth. I thought about it for a bit whilst I inhaled my dry muffin before saying, 'No, not really.' It was true: I didn't really want to go to Nigeria. I didn't have anything against the place, I'd just never really thought about it. I wanted to go to America to stalk Madonna (in a nice, non-freaky way) and go to Japan, which always seemed exotic and mysterious. But as far as my travelling ambitions went, Nigeria never got a look-in. My soon to be ex-friend was unimpressed to say the least. His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. 'Is because you is IGNORANT,' he screamed in an accent that he didn't normally speak with. Seconds later, he stormed out of the caff. I mean, refectory. He then blanked me for the rest of the year. I tried to talk to him but he wasn't having any of it. From that point onwards, he was horrible to me. He'd give me horrible looks; he'd open the door for everyone but as soon as I tried to go through, he'd slam it in my face. He was often asked to gather everyone's assignments up, but rather than pick mine up he'd make a spitting gesture or just ignore mine altogether. And why? Because I didn't want to go to Nigeria.

Anyyyyyyyyyyyyyway, I took his shit for the whole year. Exam time was upon us. We had two exams, each a week apart, but whereas the first exam was on a Monday afternoon, the second one was in the morning. The first exam came and went without incident. I was quietly confident. I was also the last person to leave the hall. However, the door was being held open for me. By Dave. Who was smiling at me. Taken aback, I smiled and asked him how he thought the exam went. A sneer crept across his face. 'Hmmm, yeah, whatever. Listen, the next exam - is it in the morning or the afternoon. I thought it was the afternoon but Ray just said it was in the morning. Which is it?' Aaaah, so you're being nice to me because you want something, I thought. My thought process was interrupted by Dave, who was getting impatient. 'So? Which one? Morning or afternoon? It's in the afternoon isn't it? I'm right aren't I?' I thought for a second. 'Yeah, you're right, it's in the afternoon,' I lied. And sure enough, he wasn't there the following week. And you know what? Thinking about it, I'm actually not sorry. Not even a little bit. Besides, as God himself says in the Bible, 'Vengeance will be mine!'

3. When I was a kid, my Mam used to do the weekly big shop on a Wednesday when Jim (my big bro) and I would look forward to our weekly treat: a single ski yoghurt. Kids these days don't know they're born, etc. Anyway, one week, Jim couldn't find his yoghurt. Dad summoned me to the kitchen immediately. He put two and two together and made four and a bit. Fat kid (me) + missing food = fat child thief. I protested my innocence but Dad wasn't having any of it. In desperation, I opened the fridge door and started to rummage through the chilled food in front of me in order to prove I was right. Next thing you know, Dad's foot connected squarely with my arse, sending me headfirst into the fridge. I remember bursting into tears at the injustice that this kangaroo court had dispensed. I remember Dad saying, 'Yes, you can cry, but that'll serve you right for eating our Jim's yoghurt!' I remember Dad walking out of the kitchen leaving me sitting in a pile of displaced food. As I tearfully put it back, I came across the yoghurt in question. It had been inadvertantly hidden by a block of cheese. Rather than confront Dad with the suddenly-found yoghurt, I thought, fuck it, I've done the time, so I may as well as do the crime. I grabbed a spoon, locked myself in the toilet (nice, I know) and inhaled the yoghurt in about three seconds flat. Again, I'm not in the least bit remorseful. Oh dear.

4. I really want to like the following: The Beatles, Star Wars, Citizen Kane, The Divinci Code (book) and The Lord of the Rings (book and film). Fact is, I don't. BOR-IIIIIIING. I much prefer Abba, Madge, Muriel's Wedding, Forrest Gump and musical theatre. Fine, judge me. You'll probably go to Hell anyway for doing so. Ha. I'm not your bitch, don't hang your shit on me, etc.

5. I am the premiership footballer that had an affair with Big Brother 'star' Imogen Thomas. Not really, she's got the wrong dangly bits. And I'm shit at football. In fact, I'm that bad, I was once made to be the goal post, but I was crap at that too.

Oh bugger. It's now 22:08. Fifty two minutes to go. RUN FOR YOUR LIVES, WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE, etc.

See you on the other side, etc.
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