Don't p-p-p-p-pick up a penguin, or the snipers will get you.

Until the government decides that it is legal to run down cyclists and creates a position to do so, 2 people in Sydney have officially the coolest job title in the world. I have witnessed a friend who will remain unnamed try to convince a group of girls in Oceana that he played upfront for Mansfield Town, and being shot down in flames. However if he had said he was a Penguin Bodyguard Sniper, the women would have been flocking round him like a low budget gangsta rap video. The story can be found here, however disappointingly it features a lesbian speaking rather than footage of actual penguin protecting sniping. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/asia-pacific/8153168.stm
Job satisfaction must be huge for these guys. Penguins - good, firing sniper rifles - good, combining the two - going home as pleased with your days work as Michael Owen's agent.
On the opposite side show some pity for the poor person who had to create a speaking, windmilling penis as part of Sacha Baron Cohen's new film Bruno. Definitely not one for the Facebook status, there. There was to be an even bigger cock on screen later on when Bono showed up, but that's beside the point.



Bono's appearance on Jonathon Ross yesterday made the competition for bellend of the week intense, however Amir Khan posing with a crown was enough to tip the scales in his favour. I would absolutely love to see him lose tonight, however Frank Warren will never allow him to fight an opponent more challenging than Stephen Hawking, after seeing what happened the last time he was put up against an actual boxer. Sadly for people who would enjoy seeing Khan lose almost as much as a jogger getting chased by a buzzard http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/cornwall/8156734.stm, the fight is likely to be about as fair as an Iranian election. Before reading the news story linked just above I had always wondered why people go jogging. You never see a smiling jogger do you? However it is not clear that the point of jogging is to have your face eaten by a bird of prey, and look like a small, slow rabbit. Sounds about as enjoyable as watching Paul Parry play football.
This may be the last ever blog post I write, as tommorow is Aled Williams birthday. Last time we went to the pub for a binge drinking session, the night ending with stealing and throwing a fridge, jumping into some goal nets, a 3am barbecue that Aled subsequently put out with enough water to make Comic Relief unneccesary if donated to Africa and finally, walking into Aled's room to ask which was the best way to walk home, only to find him curled up in the fetal position in the middle of his room in his boxers rocking backwards and forwards. This was a tuesday night with nobody else out, so tommorow could end up making hit film The Hangover look like a swift half after work. Wish me luck.

The kids aren't alright. Because we've hit them in the face with a dumbbell.

Teachers. We've all had them. Some of them good, some of them bad, quite a few utterly insane. On the side of the bad, there was Mr Denman, who used to move a girl in my class every single lesson for what seemed like no reason. This was later proved when he told them to move...on a day they were off school ill. Then you have Frau Brown/Jones/Franklin-Jones/Whoever it was she happened to be married too that year. Had a hatred of me for a reason that remains unknown. One fateful time she covered us for a P.E lesson, and within minutes had accused the majority of the room of being sexist. The reason? Not getting on with the highly important task of filling in a worksheet that would be thrown in the bin after the lesson. I had the last laugh though, she fell over a fan once and it was fucking hilarious. And I wrote she was a big slag on an exam table and got away with it. YEAH! STICK IT TO THE MAN! Finally Miss Gifford. Spent most of the lesson in her cupboard drinking Whiskey before coming up with a genius new lesson plan of drawing a shell. Seriously, a man employed to draw pictures of shells, whose hobbies include the drawing of pictures of shells has drawn less shells than me.
It wasn't all bad of course. Apart from Mrs Crawley, who regularly had 6 months at a time off for being mental, the English department were very good and encouraged me to get into journalism. Also Mrs Keeling's lessons encouraged me to get into some of the most legendary pencil fights ever seen. It was like the UFC of pencil fights, truly epic stuff. Sadly Miss Owen had to leave after mistaking her Facebook page for the pages of Zoo, but what a way to go. Teenage boys everywhere salute you, Miss Owen. Mrs Hutt and her plates upon plates of Kit Kats and Mrs Markham who once said that I must have cheated on an essay as what i'd written was too good complete the legendary department. Other honourable mentions go to Mr Bell, who took us down the pub during a GCSE revision lesson and Mr Stewart who not only got me a ticket to Middlesbrough away, but also sung the theme tune to Postman Pat, probably making him the coolest teacher in existance. A special mention has to go to Miss Groves, my form teacher and one of the most influtential people in my early life. R.I.P Sian, we miss you.
The cause of this teacher nostalgia was the news today that a teacher had been arrested in Mansfield for putting 3 pupils in hospital, one of them seriously injured. It appears that he used a dumbbell (pictured below) to beat them almost to death. Now I saw some teachers go pretty mad at school (Miss Peach's reaction to being hit by a paper airplane that had been set on fire probably number one) but not one of them decided to use a blunt object to beat the pupil around the head. Maybe they just didn't care enough.


Could this be Labour's last gasp attempt to deliver on their 'Education Education Education' promise? Forcing kids to improve their standards by punishing incorrect answers to "What is an oxbow lake?" with a swipe with a samurai sword would soon see kids leaving school with a list of qualifications longer than the list of Frau Brown's ex husbands. I'm joking of course, but the average Daily Mail reader would probably fully support the supplying of teachers with hand grenades, as long as it kept down house prices.
The question has to be asked as to why this teacher had his Rambo moment. Are the kids getting worse, or are teachers getting more mental? Considering some of the stuff that happened while I was at school (teacher being shot by a BB gun and featuring on the front page of the sun, kid being placed on the sex offenders list and some truly impressive pile ons/bundles that would make international rugby players wince) it has to be that teachers are getting crazier. As with everything in the modern world, this can be blamed on the credit crunch. Teachers know that they won't be sacked, but instead put on gardening leave with full pay. They can therefore take advantage of this, and get a second job while still being paid by the school they left after hitting a year 7 pupil with their car for not knowing the 8 times table.
So, when your child is sent home early from school with shrapnel wounds, don't blame them. Don't even blame the teacher who fired the RPG. Blame Gordon Brown and HBOS, because in todays climate, teachers can't afford NOT to be assaulting children. Mark my words, this is just the start.

Megan Fox running in slow motion.

Bit different to my other entries this one, it's just a list of random thoughts.

1. I have thought about it for a while, and can not think of anybody I would be more satisfied to hear has Swine Flu than Ron Weasley.

2. Looking up Chumbawamba on Spotify to listen to 'I get knocked down' and finding out that nearly all of their songs are about Nazi's is quite worrying. However, the song is still awesome.

3. People almost falling off bikes and looking round hoping nobody saw - Funny. Pointing and laughing as you drive past - Hilarious.

4. Ben Dirs is a great sports journalist, but every time I read one of his articles I just laugh at his name. HAHA IT SOUNDS LIKE BENDERS!

5. When I am on my own and listen to rap music, I feel like a badass gangsta. I am very much not a badass gangsta.

6. The strategy of 'if I don't think about my exam results, I will never have to worry about them' has so far worked, and I expect it to do so until 11:59PM on 14th July.

7. The Doves are a great band, but I wish they had a less gay name. For example, The Killer Eagles that are set on fire and blow stuff up. Doesn't roll off the tongue too well I admit.

8. If I was American, the amount of jobs I've been rejected from recently would probably have me on top of a building with a sniper rifle, screaming about how everybody is gonna pay.

9. Robert Earnshaw changing his Facebook picture to one of him with Jay-Z makes me excited for a possible collaboration. Now I really want to hear Earnie rap.

10. Lots more people than usual will read this blog because it has Megan Fox running in slow motion in the title. Am I right?

Apologies for the lack of anything meaningful, suffering from a severe inspiration drought at the moment.

Swine flu? Not half as scary as female tennis players.

I read a news story today that informed me that in a months time 100,000 people a day will be contacting Swine Flu. This doesn't bother me, as I have already died due to Bird Flu, Mad Cow Disease, SARS, Iraq's weapons of mass destruction, that Earthquake last year and the Large Hadron Collider.
The public seemingly become more determined every year to convince themselves that they're all about to die. There are many reasons for this, some still believing that The Daily Mail is actually a Newspaper, others merely wishing death on themselves by the fact that Big Brother is STILL on TV despite the fact it should have been killed off like a blonde cheerleader in a horror film at least 6 years ago.
However, for those people who can read something on the news without running around screaming that the sky is falling, a far more terrifying thing has been on our TV screens this week. I am of course talking about Venus and Serena Williams.














Serena Williams (left) and Venus Williams have once again made it to the final of Wimbledon. Presumably because all of the other players are scared of what will happen to them if they dared to beat one of them. The noises these two make when they hit the ball are what I imagine evil would sound like if it was represented in the form of sound. The stunning 19 year old Russian model lookalikes who were 'mysteriously' given a wildcard by Wimbledon and cause viewing figures to rise by roughly 9474% never stand a chance. After the final these two will go back home with yet another trophy, presumably to dine on the souls of orphans and look forward to the day they take over the world. Never mind Saddam's ability to launch missiles within 45 minutes, a grunting Serena Williams would send the worlds military cowering to their mothers in roughly the time it takes to switch over to Hollyoaks once Anna Kournikova gets knocked out. The sound she makes is roughly as loud as Brian Blessed standing on a plug with no socks on, which as everyone knows is the second greatest pain known to man.
I don't ask for much in life. I like my Center Backs with as many scars and few teeth and hair as possible, preferably from a country more well known for civil war than football (see Gabor Gyepes), my rock bands on as much heroin and as dead in swimming pools as possible and beer that is as cheap as possible. Is it really too much to ask for some good female tennis players that are actually female?



Gabor Gyepes, a beast of a man.




Venus Williams, also a beast of a man.