onionbagblog
Any Port(o) in a Storm
Much madness (and there's more) down South Lambeth Road tonight, and I don't think it is to do with TIMMAH! twatting up at Wimbledon yet again.
It's on sporting nights like this I would love to see a UKIP candidate canvassing in Sunny Stockwell. Splendid Isolationist Little England is alive and well? Um, washed out more like along with Henman.
London as the proud capital of out great nation? Well, proud capital but with a foot firmly placed at the centre of Europe as the Anglo-Portos party hard with anyone, any nationality and any team colour that wants to celebrate with them.
The media myth of Tube Strike Hell was nowhere to be seen in SW8 on the last day in June. 'Crippled' (back to TIMMAH! again) proclaimed the Sub-Standard tonight. Bad taste aside from some dumbfuck circuit journos, but even a sour faced Sub-Standard hack from the Home Counties could probably walk on water in Stockwell tonight.
God help us on Sunday should our Mediterranean friends actually win the damn thing.
Such a shame that TIMMAH! won't be troubled in the final on Centre Court this weekend. Dare you imagine the 'celebrations' in some suburban shithole like Surbiton if he ever manages to remove his choker curse? Tea and cucumber sandwiches, bunting on the green and all back behind the net curtains in time for Antiques Roadshow and then Songs of Pissing Praise.
Bye Bye Little England. I'm off out to hit the mean streets of Sunny Stockwell to get shit faced on Sagres (which is saying something for a teetotal tea slurper) and to find some Senhora's to, erm, shag.
Any Porto in a Storm.
Have fun TIMMAH!
| Wednesday 30 June, 2004 |
Much madness (and there's more) down South Lambeth Road tonight, and I don't think it is to do with TIMMAH! twatting up at Wimbledon yet again.
It's on sporting nights like this I would love to see a UKIP candidate canvassing in Sunny Stockwell. Splendid Isolationist Little England is alive and well? Um, washed out more like along with Henman.
London as the proud capital of out great nation? Well, proud capital but with a foot firmly placed at the centre of Europe as the Anglo-Portos party hard with anyone, any nationality and any team colour that wants to celebrate with them.
 I'm off to find some Senhora’s to shag |
God help us on Sunday should our Mediterranean friends actually win the damn thing.
Such a shame that TIMMAH! won't be troubled in the final on Centre Court this weekend. Dare you imagine the 'celebrations' in some suburban shithole like Surbiton if he ever manages to remove his choker curse? Tea and cucumber sandwiches, bunting on the green and all back behind the net curtains in time for Antiques Roadshow and then Songs of Pissing Praise.
Bye Bye Little England. I'm off out to hit the mean streets of Sunny Stockwell to get shit faced on Sagres (which is saying something for a teetotal tea slurper) and to find some Senhora's to, erm, shag.
Any Porto in a Storm.
Have fun TIMMAH!
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Probing Uranus
• sex referee anders frisk
• four poofs (sic) and a piano free mp3 download
• scottish sweaties
• shagger norris
• jason lee pineapple
• paul scholes testicle
• larkhall dogging photos
• latex lovelies
• peter beardsley bollocks photo
• referee village people denmark italy
• anders frisk gay referee video
• kiddy piss
• wife swap
• jimmy krankie shakespeare
What have all of the above got in common? No, not items listed on Ann Widdecombe's Amazon wish list, but subjects searched for that no doubt led to disgruntled deviants down the dark alley that is onionbagblog.
Aww, shame, you seedy little scrotum scrathcers. Here's a picture of the Dulwich Hamlet hardcore instead. Go on, you know you want to.
Bring your own box of tissues.
*yeah yeah, oldest blog trick in the book, but I though that 'peter beardsley bollocks photo' was particularly imaginative.*
| Wednesday 30 June, 2004 |
• sex referee anders frisk
• four poofs (sic) and a piano free mp3 download
• scottish sweaties
• shagger norris
• jason lee pineapple
• paul scholes testicle
• larkhall dogging photos
• latex lovelies
• peter beardsley bollocks photo
• referee village people denmark italy
• anders frisk gay referee video
• kiddy piss
• wife swap
• jimmy krankie shakespeare
What have all of the above got in common? No, not items listed on Ann Widdecombe's Amazon wish list, but subjects searched for that no doubt led to disgruntled deviants down the dark alley that is onionbagblog.
Aww, shame, you seedy little scrotum scrathcers. Here's a picture of the Dulwich Hamlet hardcore instead. Go on, you know you want to.
Bring your own box of tissues.
*yeah yeah, oldest blog trick in the book, but I though that 'peter beardsley bollocks photo' was particularly imaginative.*
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To Di For
Five years in the making, costing three and a half million pounds and designed to reflect the stupid tart's 'inclusive personality.'
Couldn't they just have borrowed a burnt out car from my estate to remember the stupid bitch?
| Wednesday 30 June, 2004 |
Five years in the making, costing three and a half million pounds and designed to reflect the stupid tart's 'inclusive personality.'
Couldn't they just have borrowed a burnt out car from my estate to remember the stupid bitch?
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Everybody Out!
Tube strike day today – HURRAH!!!!
Apologies if you are reading this on your PDA from the back of an overcrowded bus, but then again the chances are that the average onionbagblog reader (i.e. my mum) hasn't even heard of a PDA let alone owns one.
Actually, no apologies at all. PDAs are for (over)Paid Dickhead Arses, except for mrs onionbagblogger of course who is certainly overpaid, but the Dickhead Arses are those higher up than her on the greasy pole who failed to understand why a 9-5 Modern Girl was still messing about with pen and paper.
As for the strike itself – well the dear old Inspector Sands articulates the media lies and myths far better than I could ever hope for, and I hereby give notice that unless his wonderful dictum is not given the Leader column in the Sub-Standard by tomorrow lunchtime, then I may actually go on blog-strike.
Oh look, I'm still here...
It's all to do with not being treated like shit, stooopid. Yes, it really is as simple as that. The crappy Carlton TV local news ran a poll earlier posing the pathetic question of:
'Should tube drivers be allowed to strike?'
Imagine that you were an incompetent fuckspud local TV Producer devoid of all original and meaningful ideas to engage with your target audience. A pre-requisite of the job some may say. But still, your evil empire building boss turns round and said:
'You’re shit, ARGHHHHH!!!! - take a 50% pay cut.'
Don't expect the onionbagblog poll to ponder the following day:
'Should incompetent fuckspud local TV Producers devoid of all original and meaningful ideas be allowed to strike after they have been told that they are shit?'
Even knobbers can withdraw their labour.
Tube strike days allow for me to act even smugger than usual (and that's saying something given the fact that there is the distinct possibility that I may be able to get my photo taken with the London Senior Cup that Dulwich Hamlet brought back to SE22 last season).
Cycling into 'work' (OK, the daily ritual of humiliation and torture by the under tens) is a joy on tube strike days. Peddling past the endless Johnnies at the Bus Stop (remember The Lady held the view that you were a 'failure' if you still used busses past the age of 30 – the silly old witch) and then when you arrive, the other useless tossers (staff, not pupils) are nowhere to be seen.
Bliss.
It's also a great opportunity to try and mobilise pedal power with a number of new cyclists taking to the London streets out of necessity, and then realising that two wheels are indeed the way to go.
Not too sure about the BMX Boys though who you sometimes see peddling from Brixton up to Brick Lane on their gearless gizmos. Then again if they are Brick Lane bound then it is highly likely that you will be in ownership of a PDA. In which case I don't want you around here and so stop downloading the page (as if...).
Whatcha gonnna do? Go on bloody strike?
| Tuesday 29 June, 2004 |
Tube strike day today – HURRAH!!!!
Apologies if you are reading this on your PDA from the back of an overcrowded bus, but then again the chances are that the average onionbagblog reader (i.e. my mum) hasn't even heard of a PDA let alone owns one.
Actually, no apologies at all. PDAs are for (over)Paid Dickhead Arses, except for mrs onionbagblogger of course who is certainly overpaid, but the Dickhead Arses are those higher up than her on the greasy pole who failed to understand why a 9-5 Modern Girl was still messing about with pen and paper.
Even knobbers can withdraw their labour |
Oh look, I'm still here...
It's all to do with not being treated like shit, stooopid. Yes, it really is as simple as that. The crappy Carlton TV local news ran a poll earlier posing the pathetic question of:
'Should tube drivers be allowed to strike?'
Imagine that you were an incompetent fuckspud local TV Producer devoid of all original and meaningful ideas to engage with your target audience. A pre-requisite of the job some may say. But still, your evil empire building boss turns round and said:
'You’re shit, ARGHHHHH!!!! - take a 50% pay cut.'
Don't expect the onionbagblog poll to ponder the following day:
'Should incompetent fuckspud local TV Producers devoid of all original and meaningful ideas be allowed to strike after they have been told that they are shit?'
Even knobbers can withdraw their labour.
Tube strike days allow for me to act even smugger than usual (and that's saying something given the fact that there is the distinct possibility that I may be able to get my photo taken with the London Senior Cup that Dulwich Hamlet brought back to SE22 last season).
Cycling into 'work' (OK, the daily ritual of humiliation and torture by the under tens) is a joy on tube strike days. Peddling past the endless Johnnies at the Bus Stop (remember The Lady held the view that you were a 'failure' if you still used busses past the age of 30 – the silly old witch) and then when you arrive, the other useless tossers (staff, not pupils) are nowhere to be seen.
Bliss.
It's also a great opportunity to try and mobilise pedal power with a number of new cyclists taking to the London streets out of necessity, and then realising that two wheels are indeed the way to go.
Not too sure about the BMX Boys though who you sometimes see peddling from Brixton up to Brick Lane on their gearless gizmos. Then again if they are Brick Lane bound then it is highly likely that you will be in ownership of a PDA. In which case I don't want you around here and so stop downloading the page (as if...).
Whatcha gonnna do? Go on bloody strike?
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Totally Rad-iculous
Clapham Common Skateboard Park isn't much cop; a couple of quarter pipes (bet that impressed you eh?) and one of those single tram lines whose sole purpose seems to be to inflict a lifetime of sexual incompetence for the skater yoof as they are introduced to the pleasure of having a metallic rod being hammered through their dangly bits at an early age.
It was therefore with some trepidation that I went to take some photos, knowing that there is a market for under the counter publications that specialise in pictures of pain infliction within young men.
What I found instead however was a couple of Porto teenagers (The Doors T-shirts were a dead giveaway) who would have probably found it difficult to stand upright even if they were wearing a deep sea divers weighted boots, such was their severe lack of balance.
Enquiring if it was OK to take some pics of them, 'we're not very good' was the cagey response.
True to their word, they were both shite.
My first shot involved the fifth generation Jim Morrison loving Mediterranean kid balancing his board tantalisingly off the edge of the quarter pipe for over a minute, teasing me with what wonderful new manoeuvre he had planned for my photographic benefit.
Finally he edged forward and then rolled his baggy arse over tit, crashing to the foot of the pipe in a move so fast that even my nifty shutter speed was heard to send out a digital signal which translates back as: 'Jeez, he WAS fucking shite wasn't he.'
Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee became strangely camera shy from this moment on.
The stage was then left for some Avril loving little ankle biters to steal the show. Having been granted permission from their elders to snap away, they were full of tricks, and also talk.
I just about managed to bluff through some skter boi bollocks with one of the Young Turks who was keen to talk me through what move he had planned next. Some sort of triple twist tweak with a totally rad carve grind, Ollie style. You go for it boy.
And then he fell off as well.
Not a great success and by now I was starting to attract the attention of the mid-morning coffee slurpers in the nearby hippy shit Clap'ham Common cafe, wanting to know if I would take some portraits of their Tarquins and Tallulhas sitting on some authentic oriental cushions.
'Um, I'm not very good' was my cagey response.
Jobs a good un then.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Monday 28 June, 2004 |
Clapham Common Skateboard Park isn't much cop; a couple of quarter pipes (bet that impressed you eh?) and one of those single tram lines whose sole purpose seems to be to inflict a lifetime of sexual incompetence for the skater yoof as they are introduced to the pleasure of having a metallic rod being hammered through their dangly bits at an early age.
It was therefore with some trepidation that I went to take some photos, knowing that there is a market for under the counter publications that specialise in pictures of pain infliction within young men.
True to their word, they were both shite |
Enquiring if it was OK to take some pics of them, 'we're not very good' was the cagey response.
True to their word, they were both shite.
My first shot involved the fifth generation Jim Morrison loving Mediterranean kid balancing his board tantalisingly off the edge of the quarter pipe for over a minute, teasing me with what wonderful new manoeuvre he had planned for my photographic benefit.
Finally he edged forward and then rolled his baggy arse over tit, crashing to the foot of the pipe in a move so fast that even my nifty shutter speed was heard to send out a digital signal which translates back as: 'Jeez, he WAS fucking shite wasn't he.'
Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee became strangely camera shy from this moment on.
The stage was then left for some Avril loving little ankle biters to steal the show. Having been granted permission from their elders to snap away, they were full of tricks, and also talk.
I just about managed to bluff through some skter boi bollocks with one of the Young Turks who was keen to talk me through what move he had planned next. Some sort of triple twist tweak with a totally rad carve grind, Ollie style. You go for it boy.
And then he fell off as well.
Not a great success and by now I was starting to attract the attention of the mid-morning coffee slurpers in the nearby hippy shit Clap'ham Common cafe, wanting to know if I would take some portraits of their Tarquins and Tallulhas sitting on some authentic oriental cushions.
'Um, I'm not very good' was my cagey response.
Jobs a good un then.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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Ring-boner
A weekend run with my Walkman (oxymoron alert, not moron alert) around Clapham Common left me with a classic case of monger with mobile messes about with my radio reception. Anyone who has been unfortunate enough to be within a five metre radius of one of the repulsive ringing things will recognise the humming noise that sounds like an ear bleeding Aphex Twin remix which is picked up through your headphones whenever a useless tosser tries to send a twattish text:
ive jst cn onionbagblogger runN rownd clapham comN & he doesn't sEm best plsed
I wouldn't have minded but the interruption in service came at the most inconvenient moment; just as Sir Trevor Brooking was about to reveal something outrageous about his kinky sex life to Gary Richardson on 5Live's Sportsweek, the bloody beeping noise started.
I can only assume that Trev was talking about his tit ride fetish as when the reception returned, it was back to the bloody rugby.
It's no coincidence that the knobbers causing the interference are centred around the crap coffee shops of Clap'ham. Sunny Stockwell seems to escape the problem at the start of my running route. The only interference I have to dodge here comes form the Bag Lady who always tries an inebriated attempt to pull my shorts down as she drags herself up from the gutter, pissed out of her pig ugly head on meths with her sole mission to give my knob a spit and polish using some highly toxic fluid.
And I bet she swallows as well, the saucy little mare.
Nope, it's when I first hit Clap'ham North that the usually serene Sunday morning on 5Live is livened up with some Aphex like Drill n Bass action.
Of course you may surmise that I am a senile old school GPO loving geezer. And you'd be dead right of course. But an intrusive 24-7 ringing, txting and vibrating little gizmo doesn't exactly rally me to forge a 'relationship' with a four inch piece of plastic.
We'e talking phones here of course.
Virility and vibrations though are also an issue. Research has suggested that the male sperm count may be reduced by up to a third in men who position their plastic prick substitute close to their blue veined custard chucker.
Is that a mobile in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me? If it is the former then may be you should rub that smug smile off your face as the chances are that you will be shooting blanks at my face later, baby.
Which is I think what Sir Trev was saying all along back on 5Live when the reception on my walkman went a bit wobbly.
They'll be telling us next that blokes who wear headphones whilst running risk losing the plot slightly, forming irrational hatreds of mobile users and a fascination with the sex life of former West Ham players.
| Sunday 27 June, 2004 |
A weekend run with my Walkman (oxymoron alert, not moron alert) around Clapham Common left me with a classic case of monger with mobile messes about with my radio reception. Anyone who has been unfortunate enough to be within a five metre radius of one of the repulsive ringing things will recognise the humming noise that sounds like an ear bleeding Aphex Twin remix which is picked up through your headphones whenever a useless tosser tries to send a twattish text:
ive jst cn onionbagblogger runN rownd clapham comN & he doesn't sEm best plsed
I wouldn't have minded but the interruption in service came at the most inconvenient moment; just as Sir Trevor Brooking was about to reveal something outrageous about his kinky sex life to Gary Richardson on 5Live's Sportsweek, the bloody beeping noise started.
I bet she swallows, the saucy little mare |
It's no coincidence that the knobbers causing the interference are centred around the crap coffee shops of Clap'ham. Sunny Stockwell seems to escape the problem at the start of my running route. The only interference I have to dodge here comes form the Bag Lady who always tries an inebriated attempt to pull my shorts down as she drags herself up from the gutter, pissed out of her pig ugly head on meths with her sole mission to give my knob a spit and polish using some highly toxic fluid.
And I bet she swallows as well, the saucy little mare.
Nope, it's when I first hit Clap'ham North that the usually serene Sunday morning on 5Live is livened up with some Aphex like Drill n Bass action.
Of course you may surmise that I am a senile old school GPO loving geezer. And you'd be dead right of course. But an intrusive 24-7 ringing, txting and vibrating little gizmo doesn't exactly rally me to forge a 'relationship' with a four inch piece of plastic.
We'e talking phones here of course.
Virility and vibrations though are also an issue. Research has suggested that the male sperm count may be reduced by up to a third in men who position their plastic prick substitute close to their blue veined custard chucker.
Is that a mobile in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me? If it is the former then may be you should rub that smug smile off your face as the chances are that you will be shooting blanks at my face later, baby.
Which is I think what Sir Trev was saying all along back on 5Live when the reception on my walkman went a bit wobbly.
They'll be telling us next that blokes who wear headphones whilst running risk losing the plot slightly, forming irrational hatreds of mobile users and a fascination with the sex life of former West Ham players.
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Great Fire of London
I don' want to piss all over the parade of the London Olympic bid – the Wimbledon fortnight weather saw to that on Saturday down in South London. With the Athens 2004 torch passing through Brixton and (not very) Sunny Stockwell this morning, much has been made of the marketing opportunity of a flickering flame.
Come on people. Open your eyes, see it and tell it like it is.
Even a multi-national hegemony hater such as myself couldn' fail to be touched when Brixton gave big love to Frank Bruno as he proudly pounded the streets of SW9 with the mythical flame.
So what if the event was top and tailed with some ghastly global corporations attempting (and failing like the miserable rain) to hijack the day with their logo loving floats pumping out some ridiculous R 'n B bollocks along Brixton Road. The local yoofs wisely turned a blind eye and kept a lookout out for the fantastic flame instead.
Bet the 50 Cent CD is soon switched to some Simply Red shit once the torch hits crappy Kensington.
Brixton NEEDS events like this. People still talk about the Sunshine Days of the Summer of '96 when Mandela made his way through South London and left us all with a legacy for the future. Likewise for Spike Lee and even Mike Tyson who always makes a point of crossing the river to say hello whenever he is in town.
What do you want instead? Google brixton+torch and the chances are that you will bring up some pages documenting the last Brixton riots of '95 (scary shit indeed when a helicopter hovers over your flat for half an hour with a beaming light shining directly at your bedroom).
Helicopters and sirens were of course present once again today but it makes a refreshing change from the usual mainstream media bullshit of shooting and syringe stereotypes that we have to live with around these parts.
I do worry for the 2012 bid though when the only guaranteed safe passage through South London for a flame is that of a black cab. Doesn't exactly sell the story of an integrated transport structure does it Ken? The sooner the East London Line is extended to reach the Beautiful South the better.
Midway down Brixton Road and our Frank lit Davina McCall's flame, which is something you don't hear very often. So what if it takes a fruitcake former boxer (but we still LOVE him) and a media whore tart who couldn't even jog properly (the flat footed freak) to put Brixton back on the front pages?
Plus when is the last time that a piece of history passed right outside your front door and you have the photographic evidence to treasure?
Flaming hell.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
| Saturday 26 June, 2004 |
I don' want to piss all over the parade of the London Olympic bid – the Wimbledon fortnight weather saw to that on Saturday down in South London. With the Athens 2004 torch passing through Brixton and (not very) Sunny Stockwell this morning, much has been made of the marketing opportunity of a flickering flame.
Come on people. Open your eyes, see it and tell it like it is.
Even a multi-national hegemony hater such as myself couldn' fail to be touched when Brixton gave big love to Frank Bruno as he proudly pounded the streets of SW9 with the mythical flame.
Brixton NEEDS events like this |
Bet the 50 Cent CD is soon switched to some Simply Red shit once the torch hits crappy Kensington.
Brixton NEEDS events like this. People still talk about the Sunshine Days of the Summer of '96 when Mandela made his way through South London and left us all with a legacy for the future. Likewise for Spike Lee and even Mike Tyson who always makes a point of crossing the river to say hello whenever he is in town.
What do you want instead? Google brixton+torch and the chances are that you will bring up some pages documenting the last Brixton riots of '95 (scary shit indeed when a helicopter hovers over your flat for half an hour with a beaming light shining directly at your bedroom).
Helicopters and sirens were of course present once again today but it makes a refreshing change from the usual mainstream media bullshit of shooting and syringe stereotypes that we have to live with around these parts.
I do worry for the 2012 bid though when the only guaranteed safe passage through South London for a flame is that of a black cab. Doesn't exactly sell the story of an integrated transport structure does it Ken? The sooner the East London Line is extended to reach the Beautiful South the better.
Midway down Brixton Road and our Frank lit Davina McCall's flame, which is something you don't hear very often. So what if it takes a fruitcake former boxer (but we still LOVE him) and a media whore tart who couldn't even jog properly (the flat footed freak) to put Brixton back on the front pages?
Plus when is the last time that a piece of history passed right outside your front door and you have the photographic evidence to treasure?
Flaming hell.
Crap Picture Gallery (click on thumbs to see large image)
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