Oh For Fuck's Sake

Dear Manager,

We received a formal application from a person who is called Jacques Tits is applying to register "asym42" as their domain names and Internet brand in Hong Kong and also in Asia on 2009-03-05. During our auditing procedure we find out that the alleged Jacques Tits has no trade mark,brand nor patent even similar to that word.As authorized anti-cybersquatting organization we hereby suspect the alleged Jacques Tits to be a domain or trademark grabber.Hence we need you confirmation for two things.First of all,whether this alleged Jacques Tits is your business partner or distributor in Asia.Secondly,whether you are interested in registering these domains and Internet brand instead of that alleged person.(The alleged Jacques Tits will be entitled to obtain a domain not needed by original trademark owner.)

If you are not in charge of this please forward this email to appropriate dept.

This is a letter for confirmation.If the mentioned third party is your business partner or distributor in Asia,please DO NOT reply.We will automatically confirm application from your business partner after this audit procedure.

Best Regards,

Judy Lau
Registration Commissioner
Sponsoring Registrar:Asia Network
Tel: +852 3118 1808

+852 3065 8284
Fax:+852 3065 8189

Email:judy@asianetwork.mobi

Website: www.asianetwork.mobi

Why Television is Shit

It has to be said that most of what we watch is utter shit.

Davinia and I were slumped on the sofa, the pizza box on my lap. We mechanically chewed as we watched the flickering lights on the tv.

“..And see how it improves the appearance of wrinkles!”

I snorted. “Total arse. You pay 20 quid to smear the remains of a dead whale over your face, and it doesn't even do anything. You might as well smother yourself in cooking lard.”

Davinia stirred. “Shut up and stop arguing with the telly.” She reached for her glass of gin and took a dainty sip.

“I'm just making an observation.”

“You always argue with the telly after you've had a beer.”

“..For the best deals in car insurance, go to compare the market dot com!”

“How about 'Go fuck yourself dot com'?” I slurped beer, feeling rather pleased with that comment, but then spoilt the moment by burping.

“Charming.” Davinia daintily picked a pineapple chunk off her pizza and flicked it towards the rubbish bin which stood some four yards distant. The chunk missed and stuck to the wall.

“I still don't know what you've got against pineapple,” I said.

“It's fruit.” She took a bite of pizza and continued in a muffled voice. “Fruit is for pudding, not the bloody main course.”

We ate in silence for a moment. A situation comedy came on the tv. We watched as some middle class people in a middle class house agonised over fuck all. An audience of simpletons tittered obediently in the background.

I opened another beer and took a swig. “I can't believe,” I said damply, “That the BBC allows this horseshit to be made. It may have been funny thirty years ago, but not now.”

“It's Sunday.” Davinia was humouring me. “Old people watch telly on a Sunday and they like to watch old fashioned shows with old fashioned jokes.”

“Why don't all the old people watch tv on a Monday afternoon when everyone else is at work? Then they can wallow in shite sitcoms and antique shows until they're spilling out of their incontinence bags.”

“Not Monday.” Davinia frowned. “On Mondays they go to the supermarket and buy cat food. It's the law.”

On the tv, the sitcom reached its climax. A middle class man appeared, dressed as a woman. The audience collapsed in appreciative guffaws.

“All we need now,” I told Davinia, “Is for the vicar to appear.”

“..Oh my god, Charles, take that dress off at once, the Vicar has just turned up!”

“You're fucking joking.”

“I don't care, darling. I want everyone to know how I feel!”

“So do I. It's my fucking license money you're wasting.”

That seemed to be a good point to give up for the evening. Nothing on tv, nothing else to do, so I looked at Davinia. “Hey, do you fancy... you know.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“Oh yeah.” I snuggled a bit closer. “Go on. It's been ages since we...”

“Alright, alright. I give in. Go on, then.”

Yes, we watched 'Die Hard'. Thank God for Bruce Willis.

The Festive Season

Editorial Note: Asym42 is currently on sick leave, after he woke up feeling a little queer. He went to the doctor, the doctor said “I haven't seen you for ages”, so Asym said “Well, I've been ill.” The dcotor said “OK, take your clothes off, stand by the window, stick your tongue out.” Asym said “Are you going to examine me?” The doctor said “No, I just hate the people opposite.” Ahem. This blog entry has been contributed by the Office Space resident style guru, Jeremy Grand-Merde.




The shops are full of people buying gifts. Happy children queue to see Santa. But Jeremy is alone, and Jeremy is sad.

Guys, I know you're wondering how this could be. Your main man, alone and sad at such a special time of the year. “What gives?” I hear you cry. “How can such a fantastic guy be so down?”

Guys, I have a tragic story to tell you. My babe has gone. Moved out. Moved back in with her mother, that raddled old bitch who has hated me ever since I broke her Royal Doulton shepherdesses whilst boning her over the coffee table. And that wasn't even my fault. Her fucking gimp mask slipped and the daft bitch started thrashing around like she was suffocating, I mean, that woman was a fucking blur. Next thing I knew, her stilettos had slipped off and trashed the contents of her china cabinet. Well, I was every inch the gentleman and after I'd done the money shot I left her to clear up in peace and quiet, not that I got any bloody thanks for that.

But all that's in the past, and old Jezza is not one to bear grudges. No, right now I can only think of my Babe, and the things she said to me as she walked out of my life. I could only lie there, stunned, as she heaped scorn and derision on me, and the two babes I had in the sack with me, which really hurt because they were, after all, her best mates.

So, she's gone. My house is so empty without the sound of her laughter as she did the washing up and ironed my gear. No more will I get home from my exhausting job as a high flying PR exec, to find her waiting for me, a drink in one hand, a cuban cigar in the other, dressed in maybe the french maid outfit. Or that lurex space vixen one. Or maybe the can-can dancer. Whatever, those days are gone.

Guys, there is a moral to this tragic tale. You should treasure the babe in your life. Respect her. Listen to her problems and be there for her when she needs a strong shoulder to cry on. Never forget that she is much more than a great shag and handy with a vacuum cleaner. Especially if she can cook as well. Dammit, I'm welling up again. I miss her so much, and I just wish I could remember her fucking name so's I could send her a card or something. Oh well.

Shit Presents for People you Hate

Now that the festive season is nearly upon us, it's time to think about what to buy for those special people in your life.

Parents

Cliff Richard has written his autobiography, so you might consider that. He loves God, we all know he loves God, we don't fucking care but nonetheless, your parents might. Alternatively, you might get them a gift voucher which they can put towards a stair lift. Either way, you will be reminding them that they are desperately old, which is fine, if you hate them.

Sisters

If unmarried, and past child bearing age, get them a book of baby names. If married, with children, but suffering post-natal depression, get them a Carol Vordemann diet book. If engaged to be married, give them a framed photo of a previous boyfriend (claim that it was an honest mistake). All of these are fine, if you hate them.

Brothers

A framed photo of them, aged nine, wearing a tank top. Or maybe aged 17, grinning, showing their bad teeth. Because you hate them.

Wives

A beautifully framed copy of their last prescription for chlamydia cream. Because they're worth it. And you hate them.

Husbands

His collection of football match programs, pulped and made into a papier mache ash tray. Particularly effective if he doesn't smoke. Remember: He deserves it, because you hate him.

Friends

A signed photo of you, on top of his/her wife/boyfriend/dog. At least one of you should be on the point of orgasm. Tricky to organize but worth the effort, because you hate them.



Well, I hope i've given you a few useful pointers and remember, nothing is too much trouble if it helps to make life miserable for people you hate.

Margaret Thatcher - the Truth

Editorial Note: Asym42 is currently indisposed with irrational urges to marry all of the BBC female newsreaders, except the ugly one who does the local news for the south-east, and set up a commune with them in the country, where they can live in peace and harmony, like the Waltons only with a lot more sex. This blog entry has been contributed by the 'Office Space' resident social and economic affairs correspondent, General Sir Rupert Harrumph-Barp.


Good evening.

Our proud nation can boast some of the greatest leaders in history. Names such as Wellington, Disraeli, Churchill, Thatcher. Of these, Margaret Thatcher definitely had the most attractive breasts, and was certainly rumoured to be an absolute panther in the bedroom department. But how many of us knew the whole truth about this remarkable woman, this 'Iron Lady'?

Few people know, for instance, about her wilderness years, when, as a young women, she was forced to work as a topless barmaid in Kabul. It was there that she fell in love with General Motors, the local warlord, who took her away to his hill top fortress and showered her with gifts. Tragically for young Margaret, Motors was killed when a grand piano fell on his head. The CIA denied all knowledge, but it was well known that Washington had hired Warner Brothers as technical advisers for covert operations, together with the ACME company for the supply of explosives, rocket back-packs and long lengths of rubber.

Margaret fled Kabul in tears, disguised as a nun. Later, she arrived in Paris, disguised as a go-go dancer. After spending a few weeks on the South Bank, disguised as a cheap street walker, the sort who take your damned money and then run like hell, the bitch, she met and fell in love with Eduard D'rigible, inventor of the airship and captain in the French Police. It was he who taught the young and confused girl how to love again. It was he who took her to all the police balls, where Margaret's eyes were opened. She had never known such balls. They were big, sumptuous, proud. Later, she said: “You don't know balls until you've seen a French policeman's balls.”

Tragically, however, Eduard was killed when he slipped on a banana skin, fell into a manhole and then a grand piano fell on his head. Once again the CIA denied any involvement.

Heartbroken, Margaret returned to her native Britain, where she became Prime Minister. Bitter, twisted, with a loathing for grand pianos and roadrunner cartoons, she presided over the 1980's which was, of course, a golden age of big hair and strange clothes. Margaret Thatcher – we salute you.

The Dinner Guest

There are times when silence is golden. There are also times when silence is a muffled scream, a mad urge to crawl away and die, a toe-curling and bottom-twitching hell of embarrassment.

Dinner with Davinia's parents. Her father, a rich man who kept looking at me with a baffled expression. Her mother, carefully pruned and plucked, with a lemon-sucking face. She rattled the crockery with disapproving fingers as she laid the table. And her Grandfather. Upright, military bearing, a voice that was used to barking out orders at dimwitted squaddies. And anyone who wouldn't know how to fix bayonets if his worthless life depended on it.

“Very nice,” Davinia said, looking down at her plate.

“Yes, lovely,” I agreed, smiling, forcing reluctant muscles to co-operate. Mother's eyes met mine. I nodded at her. “You've got a nice pear.”

“What?”

“Your, er, plate. Your food. On your plate.”

Grandfather shifted in his chair. “Damned pervert,” he muttered.

Davinia coughed.

Mother cleared away the first course and brought out the next, with no delay. She had the look of a woman who was in a hurry.

I fixed the glassy smile into place again as I looked at my food. Chicken in a white sauce. Lovely. I looked around the table to see if everyone else had started yet. My eyes lingered on Mother and again we made eye contact.

“Is something wrong?” Father laid down his cutlery and gave me that look. Here was a man who seemed to have no idea who I was or why I was sitting at his table. Panic flared in me. I directed the glassy smile at him. “I was just looking at her breasts,” I explained. “They look very nice.”

Grandfather exploded into a fit of dry coughs. “Damned – pervert,” he managed to say, in between wheezes.

“I meant the chicken,” I said.

Grandfather hunched forward and glared at me. “Davinia tells me you're some kind of computer wallah?”
“Yes, I'm a sort of, er, computer engineer.”

He sat back and nodded. “Hmph. No doubt you spend all day looking at pornographic pictures, eh? I know what you computer bods get up to on that damned internet thingie.”

“Daddy...” Mother gave him a stern glance. Grandfather subsided reluctantly.

Davinia decided it was time to lighten the mood a little, as if striking a match in the deepest pit of Hell would make it all better. “Asym and I are getting very interested in antiques,” she offered hopefully. She gave me an encouraging look. “Mother collects old toys, you see.”

“Oh, really?” I ordered my face to look interested. “Do you still have your toys from when you were a child?”

“Some of them, yes.”

I didn't care that her voice could have sucked the warmth from a freezer cabinet at 50 yards. I ploughed on.

“I used to have a monkey, when I was small. In fact, I've still got him.”

“I know,” Davinia added brightly. “He showed me his Dick when I moved in.”

Yes, silence is golden, unless it's with Davinia's family, in which case it's just a bit bloody shit.

Meet the parents

I groaned and writhed, my sweaty fingers clutching the sheets, scrabbling to pull myself out of this horrific nightmare...

“This is it?” I looked at the house, stunned.

“Yes, the house where I grew up. Now come and meet my parents, and don't forget to be nice to them.”

The black, ragged battlements towered over me, blotting out the last rays of the setting sun. Bats gambolled and capered around the turrets. From somewhere nearby, a wolf howled.

“Fucking hell,” I muttered as Davinia swung the huge iron door knocker.

With shuddering groans and creaks, the door opened to reveal a short hunchback. He threw up his arms in delight. “Mithtress! It'th you, you have returned!”

“Hello Igor, how are you?” Davinia flashed her brilliant smile.

Igor shrugged. “Muthn't grumble.”

“How's the hump?”

“What hump?”

“Never mind. Where's Mummy?”

“The Counteth ith in the thcullery, thorting out the thervants.”

“I see, thank you.” Davinia delicately wiped spit off her face.

We followed Igor through the hall. It was very dark and from every spare piece of wall, a dead animal leered down at us. Igor showed us into the library where a coffin lay on the floor.

“The Mathter ith having a thiethta,” Igor told me.

“Right, yes.” I wiped spit off my face.

“Would you like a tithue?”

“No, thank you.”

The coffin lid creaked open and out climbed a tall man, wearing a dinner jacket. A thin smile crossed his face when he saw Davinia. “My child, you have returned!” Then he looked at me and his face lifted. “And look, you brought a take-away.”

“Daddy, behave. This is my new boyfriend, Asym.”

'Daddy' came over and peered at me. “He looks too thin. He needs – feeding.”

“Well, I was hoping we could stay for dinner.”

“Of course, my dear. You know how we enjoy having your friends for dinner.” Daddy smiled again, and this time I saw the enormous teeth, glinting in the firelight.

At this point I woke up, yelling in fear. Davinia sat up and blearily focussed on me. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Bad dream. Vampires, hunchbacks. Stuffed animals.”

“Hmph. Usual bollocks then.” She settled back down again. “Stop eating cheese before bedtime,” she muttered.

“Do your parents live in a castle?” I asked.

“Shut up.”

I sank back down again. Only a dream. Of course it was.

Davinia mumbled something.

“What?”

“I said not any more, they moved out ages ago.”

So, since then, pretty much no sleep at all, really.