Friday, 30 March 2012

My thoughts on people who panic bought petrol

If you panic bought petrol, then, in a nutshell, you’re a blert who’s been had off big time.

If you genuinely had to queue coz you were running on fumes and you needed a tenner’s worth to get you to yer bird’s tonight for a nosh. Fair enough.

I shall now digress, should you care to read on: 

1) The thing that annoys me the most about panic buying petrol is that there isn’t even a strike.  All the truckers are on the radio saying “Yeh we aren’t even striking yet.”  What ‘s actually happened is a load of MP’s have chatted shite trying to get us all to panic and fork out a few extra million quid to line their pockets before the end of the financial year.  Quite simple really. This panic buying will have quite literally just boosted the Government’s tax revenue by a good few million this financial year.  They’ll all be sitting off now in the Houses of Parliament laughing their inadequate cocks off watching a giant screen with the running total going up and up and up.  Then they’ll all be sooooo triumphantly happy and power crazed that they will start a game of Soggy Biscuit, and  that will then lead to them scatting on each other and all sorts, some work experience lad will walk in on it all and then a multi million pound cover up operation will commence, using taxpayers funds.  Nice one.

2) The thing that annoys me  second most is if you’re the kind of person who has panic bought petrol and filled your tank up so much that you couldn’t even fit a woodlice’s cock in there now,  then you’re possibly the type of person who has a wind up torch and variety of tinned food stashed under the stairs in case of an apocalypse. I cannot think for the life of me what tinned fucking food I’d want to eat if the world was ending. I’d want a steak. Steak and chips. With onion rings. And a pint.  That would be my “end of the world food”... Not some tinned peaches and cold beans.   And what the fuck is a wind up torch gonna do for me, moments before I am burned to a crisp by a giant fire ball? What-the-fuck-what will I want to do with a wind up torch?  Read a book? Do a crossword? No. No I would not. 

3) And the thing that really baffles me so much that my arse hole hurts is...... What’s THE WORST that would happen if YOU ran out of petty? Really?  

Is yer telly gonna stop working?  No.  

Is the footy gonna be off at the weekend? No.  

Is the takeaway gonna run out of chicken sweet and sour with egg fried rice? No.  

The worst thing that could possibly happen is that  YOU wouldn’t be able to drive to work.  Which, if you’re a decent scouser, is a belter. 

If I was in routine employment I would be doing everything I could to run out of petrol so I could bail off from work .. I’d be running my Nan the bingo and back, I’d lend @TinheadFTM my car so he could go drag racing down The Strand...  I’d even leave the engine running on the drive... all so I could run out of petrol and be “stuck at home, soz boss, no petty like have I?”

SO .... Basically .. if you went and panic bought petrol you should hang your head in shame. If you know someone who panic bought petrol then terror them accordingly for all the reasons above.  Or let their tyres down so they cant go anywhere after all.  That’ll teach them.

Laterz lids
JC  x

Tuesday, 27 March 2012


Dear Tulisa, 

I write regarding The Video a.k.a Your Sex Tape

I’ve been trying my best to let this go, and to not have to put pen to paper... but then you went and did your “woe is you” video “setting the record straight”,  and now you’re on about suing this MC Wotsit for £100k  in damages etc... And I can no longer keep my silence.

I appreciate that having a sex tape released is a traumatic event. I am all too familiar with the experience myself. You will be too young to remember the scandal in the early 90s involving me, a certain TV weatherman and a VHS that somehow made its way out of my house and in to the hands of my ‘ so called best mate’  Sinbad.  Took me a while to forgive him, and my Mum never spoke to me ever again... Anyway, back to you, and your nosh tape. 

I don’t find the fact that your Ex leaked the tape surprising in the slightest.  You’re famous and his cock is nothing to be shy about – so why wouldn’t he?

What I do find surprising is that a bit of a bad slag like yourself, who has obviously been getting back ended since the first year of high school,  is SOOOOO TERRIBLE at noshing off a cock.

I mean.... really? What were you doing? 

It’s like a 6 minute show reel of ‘How NOT to Suck Cock’.  If someone said to me: “Hey, big boy what do you want me to do to you tonight?”.. I’d say “NOT THIS” and refer them to your video accordingly.

Like, what the actual fuck possessed you to slap the purple headed warrior against your head? How was that of sexual benefit to him or you? You were just procrastinating really, weren’t you? Doing whatever you could to avoid actually putting the one eyed monster in your mouth.

And the spitting? Oh dear lord the spitting!  Did you think you were stood waiting for a bus or something?  In which part of ChavLand is:  “I’m gonna do a massive greb right on your jap’s eye” a turn on?

If someone did that to me, I wouldn’t thank them for it. I’d get right on to Davy Liver taxis via the priority line and get them a ride home to their council house.

Had you actually done it properly and put the full shaft in your mouth instead of licking it tentatively like a lolly ice that’s too cold .. you wouldn’t need to lube with spit, the natural juices would be flowing. Throw a bit of deep throat action in the mix and you’re laughing.   But no. You just licked around and spat like a bad virgin who’s never even seen a bell end before. 

Oh and then the hand action? Jesus girl it’s a cock not a can of spray paint. Calm down with the choke the chicken before you tear it off.  Surprised he wasn’t crying.  I’d rather dip mine in vinegar. 

And then my ultimate favourite comedy moment was when you randomly whapped your left tit out, considered a tit wank, realised you couldn’t coz of the angle and then bailed and just left it hanging there. Yer nipple wasn’t even hard was it?  What an #ULTIMATEFAIL

All then... on top of all the above ...the SHEER HIDEOUSNESS of that pink velour trakky you were wearing to do said deed?   Had you no mirrors?  Is it any wonder he didn’t shoot his load?

I would have quite literally killed myself if I was so very bad at sexual acts and the whole world seen a tape of it. 

I was delighted to hear you had released an apology video. I watched it with interest, waiting for the line: “I am really shit at sucking cock, I see that now, and I apologise to all men out there who were offended by this”... but it never came (like yer ex ... waaayheeyyy)

How you can sit there in your “woe is you” video and refer to slapping a cock against your head and grebbing on it as an “INTIMATE MOMENT” I will never know. Its about as intimate as a shot gun up the arse in broad daylight.

And now you have the ultimate cheek in trying to sue your ex for £100k in damages? WHAT PLANET ARE YOU ON? Have you WATCHED the tape? I strongly believe that MC Ultra should be the one getting £100k in damages for having put up with such a bad bad bad bad bad blowie. Bet the poor lad is scared for life. Bet he has to wank in to a sock in the dark, otherwise the memories haunt him.

In summary, I sincerely hope that you have revised your technique since this tragic event.  And should you win the £100k in damages, I recommend you invest in a How To Suck Cock Properly Course, to ensure that repeat incidents do not occur.

Good day, yer bad slag,

Jimmy Corkhill

Friday, 16 March 2012

Being Blocked By Imogen Thomas

My thoughts on being blocked by Imogen Thomas:

So ... I tweeted @Imogen_Thomas and @CharlotteChurch to ask if this was theirs:

That Chazza ‘Voice of an Angel’ Church hasn’t replied yet... Probably busy smoking outside The Asda or something.    But for some reason, the right honourable role model of society Imogen Thomas took it upon herself to block me:

Ok so ... my initial reaction  was this:


And then I knocked out a few quick off the mark tweets about me and Ryan Giggs now having more in common than a bald patch.

.... But then I thought about it a little more as I munched on a nice packed of crisp, and, well I had to ‘Ponder the Point’ of whether she has any right to take the moral high ground over a bit of Twitter banter?

Correct me if I am wrong, but this is the very same Imogen Thomas made most famous for being a home wrecking slag, yes?   

The very same Imogen Thomas who repeatedly managed to open wide for Ryan Cunting Giggs, yes? 

The very same Imogen Thomas who then tried to blackmail Giggs (not that I would piss on him if he was on fire like) about going the papers with a kiss and tell, yes?

The very same Imogen Thomas who then sold her story and caused that high court drama with the whole Giggs Being Named On Twitter saga, yes? 

And the very same attention-fucking-seeking shaft-whore Imogen Thomas who tweeted this very picture just a matter of days ago, yes?

Oh yes, Saint Imogen of Cock, it quite clear that you only use Twitter for professional purposes and encourage no forms of banter / abuse. Yes.  Of course.

Have a fucking word with yourself, you fame hungry slagamadagama ...  

You’re just a blag Catherine Zeta Jones anyway, like... Jog on.

Monday, 5 March 2012

My thoughts on Justin Fucking Bieber

Justin Fucking Bieber has landed a $10.8m house on Hollywood Hills.

Let me explain my feelings about Justin Fucking Bieber. 

In a nutshell, I quite literally despise the whiney little bumfluff-lipped jizz rag.

- When the adverts for his god awful Christmas album came on telly I would press mute and shut my eyes so fast you’d think it was a sex tape featuring our Lindsay or something. #EveryDadsWorstNightmare. 

- When he pranced around making an utter bad bell of himself on stage with the right honourable Stevie Wonder on the XFactor USA final show, I had to take such deep breaths you’d have thought I was in labour.  If Stevie Wonder could see fuck all he would have swung for him, tellin yer.

- When you get all these screaming teenage “Beliebers” on Twitter making him trend every single day in some form or another... it makes me want to go to Twitter HQ wherever the fuck that is and beat the living shit out every single person who allows it with an old splintery cricket bat covered in AIDS and dog diarrhoea.

So yeh, I don’t like him much... so I have spent months and months trying to ignore the fact he even exists. But now ... Here I am innocently reading the Mail Online and I find out the little feltch remnant has landed this £10.8m house and my hatred has risen to another level completely.

What the CuntingFUCK does a midget little only-just-18-year-old need a house like this for?

Surely that pool edge is dangerous for a fucking toddler? And the open fire has got to be a no-no?

What the CuntingFuck does a scrawny little fuck with NO PUBES need a bedroom like this for?


For all that sex he ISN'T going to have??? He looks too young to even wank?! Bet he almost reaches jizzing point and just pisses everywhere.

And what the CuntingCuntingCuntyFuck does he need a dining table like this for?

His McCains Potato Smiley Faces and Alphabetti Spaghetti will look the part on there wont they, the fucking whopper.

I’m gonna have to go and lie down.

Thursday, 1 March 2012

Hollister: What a cunt of a shop

On a nice spring day like today, what is an ‘in-between roles ‘ soap character like me to do other than hop on the bus to town for a mooch round the shops and enjoy a few bevies with old friends?

I fancied myself a new pair of denims, as my favourite stone wash Wranglers are getting a bit old now, so I was wandering through Liverpool One trying to find this G-Star shop that @TinheadFTM recommended and I came across this strange smell.  It smelled like the scent of really pretentious rich teenagers who would pay more for a popped collar polo shirt than I paid for my first car.

I looked to my left to see where this overpowering odour was coming from, and saw some kind of strange surf shack / beach house thing, with loud funky music blasting out of the dark window shutters.

“What. The. Fuck’s. This?”   I said to my double denimed self. I thought it was a nightclub or something, so popped in for a Babycham. 

“Hey, welcome to Hollister”  goes this posh-non-scouse- bird wearing a checked shirt 4 sizes too big for her and some denim hotpants.  *note to self:  get some of those hotpants for Summer*    I just about heard her over the ear-rapingly loud music.

Once my eyes had adjusted to the fact that it’s darker than a Chilean mine shaft in there, I realised I wasn’t in a bar, but was actually in some fucked up Californian fraternity house type shop that would fit right in on the set of the 90210 remake.

Piles of overpriced t-shirts resting neatly on a dining table that defo used to be me Nan’s... A load of trackies rolled up stored in a bookcase ...  A load of hoodies folded with a ruler and spirit level placed on a rustic wooden bench...   fuck me.. Never seen such bad grip in my life.

“Hey, what’s up.”  Goes this open shirted-non-scouse-bloke.

“I’ll tell you what’s up, I can’t see fuck all, I can’t hear myself think, and WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS PLACE? And why can’t you just turn the big light on?”

Instead of answering me, the beaut just flexed his muscles and flashed his Hollywood smile.

I was then distracted by two lads trying to decide which t-shirt was most, and I quote, “epic”.
 Who the fuck calls a T-shirt epic?  I’ll tell you who DOESN’T...  scousers!  These two were obviously Uni students who need to bail the fuck out of Liverpool the day they graduate before they end up another statistic on the Echo’s gun crime map.

Another waft of aftershave (Eau de Pretentious) came through the air conditioning and I nearly vommed,  I had to get out of this non-scouse hell hole and fast. But then I seen that the shopping bags have a proper fit guy with no top on them, so I had to buy something didn’t I.   

Ended up with this monstrosity.....  --->

Thought it was beige coz of the light in there, didn’t I. Turns out its the colour of a Mr Kipling lemon fondant fancy and now @TinheadFTM is calling me “a bad nonce and a wool combined”.

Moral of the story is... 
Hollister is not scouse.
Hollister = wool
Popped collars = wool
Clothes that are solid primary colours = wool 
Wanting to look like you're off the set of 90210 = wool
Saying a tshirt is epic = ThunderCuntish