Poor old Willy lad got his sorry ass kicked off New Zealand X-Factor. His wife, a lovely lady by all accounts, lost the guts and threw her toys out the cot when she was presented with a rather low class version of her husband to judge.
They judged. They did.
The TV executives then did judge the judges. They did.
And fired the poor fuckers.
My high esteemed and respected goodself and Willy could see eye to eye on a few things here. Sometimes, just once or twice every while, you have to let your slightly more uncaring and psychopathic nature out for a play. I am sorry the guy in for criticism had mental health concerns, but you are being judged on what you put forward as part of the judgement process. If I judged women differently from guys because they had perceived frailties, that would make me what ________________________? Just saying.
It could certainly be unhealthy to keep all that goodness bottled up for ever.
The world needs to see this shit, although Willy really stuffed this one up.
HE BLOODY WELL APOLOGISED.
Simon Cowell never apologised. Nor did the ginga cook who swears a lot. Whats his name…? You know, the ginga guy who is also quite capable of psychopathic diagnosis being high on most peoples favourite outcomes with their local bookie… Ramsey. Gordon Bloody Ramsey.
My ex spiritual advisor ™ once commented that the unbecoming amusement I got from watching Gordon was due to the fact we were the same.
This spiritual advisor is a lot cleverer than she looks. She is the one person on this planet who even came close to really knowing me.
And now, just quitely, one WELLINGTON HIGH SCHOOL dropout to another…
WILLY BOY. Are you back on the drugs or something?
Fucken apologising for saying what was on your mind without editing it down to complete drivel and bore inducing crap?
Dude. Come on.
EPIDURAL FUCK UPS
Went for another epidural as part of a relatively drug free pain management strategy. Who the hell would have guessed having a adult life full of chronic pain may have had something to do with “drug use.”
And then…. The epidural went quite shit. A big needle poked through your disk, into your spinal chord thing… And they got it wrong multiple times for the first half an hour. My blood pressure was 150/90 for hours after. I was happy to get out.
But then the next day… I went and got a tattoo done. Tattoo took well over two hours… In fact, here it bloody well is….
And those two hours were okay. Bloody sore. The tattooist knew it. I knew it, everyone knew it.
But, it was less painful than sitting up and walking afterwards. The tattooist asked me to get his camera (he keeps it under the table). I could not get it. He winced, and said “oh fuck, sorry mate, yeah, your back…”
That night I had my kid. I got caught leaving a young ladies house by her on again, off again, very serious and very very hard man father of her kids. Just saying. I am an addict after all.
Excuses are everywhere. Claiming to be an addict of everything – sex, smack, sugar, being smacked – get’s you a one way ticket to a recovery industry. Maybe, if you don’t swear and play your cards correctly, a real publishing deal.
Fuck that. Idiots.
The next day went a little pear shaped. It ended with me spending six hours in accident and emergency with a line in my hand and pain relief pushed into my oh so unwilling body.
And today I awake and cannot afford the prescription costs to get more.
Song of the day —
There is no depression in New Zealand (extra points for guessing where the coastline is in the opening of the video…)
There is no depression in New Zealand;