Harry BawBags Blurt

The Moon Cup.

Whilst writing the previous post I googled “Huge and Baggy Fanny” and was led to this page on a website called The Bad Mothers Club.

Jesus Christ!!!

I was confused. I was mesmerised. I was nearly passing out.

Prey tell me Great God Google … What is this magical cup they refer to? Release me from this bitter ignorance!!!

It commanded me here

Its a What? … They put it where? … They walk around with it in their bodies? …

Jesus Christ.

I never knew.

I swear to you – I never knew.

Zane Lowe.

While im on the subject of Succubi ( … is that the plural of succubus?)

Here is a living and breathing example.

I have come across him twice

The first time I accidently tuned intae his show on Radio 1 and he was dissecting the lyrics of Bloc Partys’ new album.

Ho Hum.

The second time was during the Glastonbury Festival coverage on BBC2 – If he got any further up the the guy fae The Fratellis arse he would of disappeared.

Whats a foreigner doing on Radio 1 anyway … aint there any people who care enough about music in Britain to become a DJ.

Alternative Music Expert Zane Lowe.

Bawbags Hairy Fucking Arse!

Sycophantic …. Shitehawk …. Succubus.

I cant even be arsed googling him to investigate.

Somethings wrong here.

John Peel … RIP … Bawbags truly cared for you xxx

Identity Crisis!

Getting called BawBags has never bothered me.

In school it gave me an identity or a tag that I needed.

You see my real name is Peter Harrison (Sssh!) – and believe it or not there were 3 Peter Harrisons in the same school as me at the same time – one of them being my cousin.

He was the sporty type – the “Jock” so to speak – always popular – with everyone vying for his attention.

Everyone called him by his first name and everyone called me Harry (as in Harrison).

But that still caused problems cause of the other Peter Harrison – he was slightly higher up in the pecking order than I was also … and his circle of hangers on called him Harry too!!!

So when I gained the name BawBags, as explained in my podcast, I never fought against it.

There was no question who I was when people spoke about me then.

My identity had been forged and it kinda suited the space cadet I was.

But now, at the age of 30, when strangers hear me being called BawBags by all and sundry – what must they think?

The reason I blog about this is that my landlord asked me discreetly about it earlier.

“Harry”, he said “What is this BawBags thing that people call you … is it to do with your past … its a bit presumptious no?”

Well … what do you think?

I Like it.

Polish Road Signs In The UK.

I read in a newspaper the other day about an English county council who produced a bunch of road signs in Polish to warn drivers of that nationality about road works that were being carried out.

Right! … Lets get this straight … I aint got NOTHING against Poles working in Britain ok!

BUT

This is Britain.

If they wanna drive here then they should understand British roadsigns.

If not … dont let them drive … full stop.

Make them sit the theory test all british drivers have to pass.

I have a Polish girlfriend who thinks its ridiculous also.

I wish all this political correctness towards the european union would cease. Other member states arent going to these lengths.

Allow this kind of shite and it is only a small step in logic to see them allowing Islamic Law here.

And then, mark my words, we are truly fucked as a nation.

John Bull has been well and truly muzzled.

Nae wonder people are joining the BNP.

Which is fucking crazy in itself!!!

Im gonna get off my soapbox now … ahm gettin hell of a dizzy so ah am!

Aw the best.

My Conscience

Mr Patel, my landlord, has a laundry room which all the tenants of Heartbreak Hotel can use.

The washing and drying machines use tokens for which he charges a pound a pop.

I spend a tenner a week on them.

My new tubular lock picks open the slot mechanism in which these are deposited and kept.

I know this because I tried.

Ah couldnae fucking steal any though!!!

My values wont allow for it.

Ma mother done too good a job on me