A guide to street combat.

So since I moved home to the mean streets of Burnley after my three years of poncing about at university, I’ve had to revert back to my traditional life approach of being pissed off all the time and wanting to attack bald strangers. That’s ok, these things happen, it must be something in the air. Usually the scent of cigarettes and piss, it’s an assault on the senses. We here in Burnley are simple folk and we like our basic pleasures in life such as ‘feightin’, racism and teen pregnancy, you need not bother us with your worldly concerns. I dare say that to enjoy living here it does help that you have at least made a start on your criminal record and like your women to come in tangerine. In other words it helps to be one hard bastard like Stone Cold Steve Austin or Jim McDonald off Coronation Street. People often come up to me when I’m struttin’ out on the street and they say ‘Lukat…are you hard?'... And to that I say, ‘yes…yes I am but it shouldn’t be a problem as I’ve just tucked it in to my waistband.’

That’s right; I’m a bad, bad man. I’d brush my teeth with sandpaper but I don’t even have teeth from all the times I was having bare knuckle brawls with old war veterans. (They didn’t have teeth either but the incidents weren’t related.) I’m so bad I stay up past my fucking bed time and I listen to rap. In fact I’m listening to rap right now but it’s filling me with that crushing disappointment and guilt that I’m not or ever will be a black man.

So how does a man like L-Kat survive out on these mean streets? How do I get my strut on when others would potter around in the shadows like a mouse…LIKE A FUCKING MOUSEEEEEEE? Well don’t worry about it, you’re about to go back to school…the school of life pal. Today’s lesson…being one hard bastard. Now let’s work towards that Btech national diploma in ass kicking. Put up your dukes pal…it’s go time.

I’m going to beat you like you just gave my woman’s pint a dirty look. That’s right I socialise with the kind of women who drink pints. Or in other words… lesbians.

I’m going to beat you like you called me a liar when I said I’d shagged Paulo Nutini…and he was crying for mummy all night long.

I’m going to beat you like you’d just asked me to remind you to remember something at a later date.

‘Ere mate could you remind me I’ve got to catch the train at…’ NO…NO I CAN’T YOU FUCKING DICK...YOU REMEMBER…WHY IS IT NOW MY RESPONSIBILITY TO REMEMBER FOR YOU. I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU I FUCKING SWEAR I’LL KILL YOU...AND YOUR FAMILY...AND YOUR PETS…AND ANY OF YOUR CHILDHOOD FRIENDS….OH I’LL KILL YOU SCUM..I WILL KILL YOUUUU HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAH...HAHAHAHAHAHRHGHHGHHHH.

So as I wipe the blood and tears from my face after administering one of my world famous 'cry beatings', I take a cool sip of ‘tappy’ (tap water for any middle class types out there) and sit back down to the task. Where was I? No where pal…now don’t ask me another fucking question or we’re taking this outside and we’re gonna dance…not dance like you did back at the school disco gently swaying to cotton eye Joe with a plastic cup of orange fizzy pop in your hands. Not like that at all. Oh no my friend…you won’t like this dance one bit.

Anyways enough of the threats, it’s time to get down to some real business and teach you chumps a little something about the art of hand to hand combat. Here are some of the classic tips I have put to practice over the years when engaging a nemesis in fisticuffs.

1- The struggling turtle.

Often when one gets himself in a physical altercation it can be down to having one too many shandeys during the evening. Sure it all starts out well enough, sneering at women who won’t have sex with you and awkwardly dancing and trying not to vomit on your own crotch. But sometimes it’s not always smooth sailing and you will run in to opposition, usually some stocky chap with tribal tattoos. Once combat begins to take form you quickly realise that you are far too drunk to actually mount any kind of offence, fear not. Simply grab the victim in a headlock and fall over. You will notice that you are pretty much stuck like this on your back flailing around as the chap punches you in the ribs and you try not to fall asleep mid fight. Simply wait it out, the bouncers will eventually come in and separate you, then most likely ban you from the club. Now go for a victory takeaway and repeat somewhere else. An honourable battle if every I saw one.

2- The talkative sloth

I used this one a while back when having a conflict of interest with a rat faced chav fellow outside JJB sports. You initiate the action with a series of verbal insults and finger poking in the general direction of your victim. You are clearly far too drunk to throw any kind of punch but luckily so is your rival. This leads you to both shouting crap insults at each other for ages and unable to lift your arms above shoulder height. If you’re stuck for things to say it can get pretty questionable so always have a small skit or script prepared, I think I once whipped out the phrase ‘I’ll fuck your grandma pal…DEAD OR ALIVEEEEE.’ That one may be a little too strong for the occasion though, especially weddings or the funeral of a grandparent, so use your own judgement. This kind of confrontation can last for hours so endurance becomes very important, always make sure you have something to lean on like a lamppost or fat bird. It might seem like it’s a pulse racing, heart pounding battle to you but to any more sober bystanders it just looks like two pissed lads pushing each others chins in slow motion and slurring their words. I suppose this is why sky sports rejected my idea of a show which has drunks fight it out in a car park. Danny Dyer was well up for presenting it but then again that doesn’t count for much. Stuck up bastards.

3 The confused ferret

This approach is purely psychological. Like a psychological thriller…starring Morgan Freeman probably. You see sometimes in battle when you begin a conflict you quickly realise that you are out numbered so all your tough talking and big man posturing quickly becomes ineffective. You are surrounded by slow witted oafs wanting to punch your flipping ears in so you must take control of the situation. How do you do it? You must convince your enemies that you are mentally disabled. Oh yes…oh yes indeed. My approach is to completely change personalities during the argument and deny all that has happened already even though at least five people have witnessed it. Tell them a story, then tell them a different one, have them in the palm of your hands. They will become disorientated; they will question their own mental state. Have they transcended in to another dimension? Have they lost all sense of reality? What is happening? Now repeat after me.

'WHAT? WHAT? WHO ARE YOU? I DON'T KNOW YOU? I WAS JUST WALKING DOWN THE STREET MINDING MY OWN BUSINESS AND YOU STARTED A FIGHT, I WANT NO PART OF THIS'.

As soon as you have had this unreasonable outburst you quickly slip off in to a taxi and speed of in to the night as they try to piece together their fractured psyche. Mind games pal…mind games. That’s another W for the L-Kat baby. It’s all me.

These are all excellent fighting stances to cause any opponent many problems. Just bare in mind that when embroiled in the heat of the moment don’t let pride or sexuality get in the way. Don’t be afraid to punch a man right in his willy or stick a big thumb up his arse. Instantly neutralizing his flow of attack. I once choked out my flatmate for dropping a banana condom in my strongbow. I was naked, he was clothed, that's the kind of commitment i'm looking for. there are no boundaries. If you are in the unfortunate position of fighting a woman then I find that a good way to quickly dispose of women is to simply make a sexual advance and they quickly flee. Lesbians however are a whole different matter. It is a well known fact that the lesbians are the hardest bastards around so all rules go out of the window. One time I enraged one to such an extent that she crushed a glass in her bare hands before having to be restrained by several people. To this I simply say run…run and live to fight another day, or you can always kick her right in the bottom once her back is turned then flee as fast as your little chicken legs will carry you, screaming ‘HELLLPPPP…HELLLPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP.’ The acts of a hero. These subtle manoeuvres can be the difference between a win and a loss. Dignity is your enemy. Just take a real long shower once you’re done.

So now we learnt some combat techniques I think we should feel a lot safer when we’re out frontin’ on the streets. If shit goes down then you know how to handle it, like a professional. But there is more to being hard than just the act of battle, you must live the lifestyle and look the part. One summer I got a bit carried away and decided to have my head shaved and spent the next few months looking like a neo Nazi and threatening fat lads in nightclubs. It was a fascinating experience.

Another important aspect is the walk. The ten man walk as it’s called around these parts. To correctly perform the walk you need a good posture, a strong chest puffing out like a buzzard. Then you need to hold your arms out rigid as though carrying two large carpets. If you are not familiar with the measurements of fabric then you can use a protractor to judge the angle of your shoulders in relation to your elbows. Angles are very important here, we must remain rigid at all times. A good tip is to take mass quantities of steroids; this will allow your body to naturally form in to the required posture. This is vital in maintaining your hard nut image.

One final word of advice is to invest in some tattoos. The classic route is to go tribal as I have previously alluded to. Tribal tattoos are a staple of the roided up wanker. It’s an industry classic. I strayed from the path by getting the naked torso of Iggy Pop tattood on my forearm but I really redeemed myself with the ‘kids name in gangster writing’ design. Play it smart, remember with tattoos the more it looks like you got them in prison the better. Jail time is the ultimate seal of approval when pursuing a career in being a rock hard bastard. If you can get sent to jail for a brief period then that would be ideal but if not then just keep making reference to ‘doing time’ and start practicing your home made tattoos. It’s a lot more cost effective this way.

Anyways I think that concludes today’s lesson but if you have a problem with that bud then what say we take this outside and see who has the biggest appetite for a knuckle butty. But I tell you, you’re going to be real full after this because I’m serving up knuckle breakfast, knuckle dinner, knuckle tea then a whole knuckle banquet for knuckle supper. So make sure you’re real hungry pal.

Keep the faith.

Lukat.

The Game of Shame.

Ok so now its official, Lukat is back. Back in town, back on the block, down the back of your grans house trying to break in to her shed. Nah well maybe not, I’m crime free these days (watch yourself pal). I’m back in a strictly blogging sense of course. I’m not back in any other form as I never actually went away. Like a foul musty smell I loom over you all with my bitter, hate filled opinions and caveman expression, ready to step in any time I sense that someone is ‘happy’ or having ‘fun’. If there’s one thing old Joey Luka knows about it’s ruining other peoples good times, be I shouting obscenities or threatening you with my big knuckle. Now if only I could get a job doing that but I don’t think The Walkabout are recruiting for door staff at the moment. On that note can I just say how thoroughly honoured I am that when I was out the other week some pony tailed buffoon approached me thinking I was a bouncer and proceeded to beg me not to kick him out. ‘CUMMON PLEASE MAYTTT PLEASSEEE I WON’T BE SICK...I WON’T BE SICKKKK.’ Let’s take a moment to just put that on my c.v. I suppose I should stop wearing black and standing outside nightclub toilets looking irritated but some things can’t be helped, I just love the smell of other peoples urine. It’s good for you so I hear.

There is no other current news in my life, I am simply existing…I am a weed blowing gently in the sweet Burnley wind. Or a spider waiting patiently in its web till some gigantic bastard comes along and Hoovers me up. Enough with the metaphors anyway, you people don’t deserve the Lukat’s urban poetry. You bunch of fucking nobodies. I have pretty much retired from being a public nuisance and I tend to just sit about reading romance novels and sucking on a werthers original while keeping a crafty eye on the suspicious looking youths outside kicking their ball around. I’m well on the road to becoming a middle aged dad type by the age of 23. Next on the agenda are some stonewash jeans, big white trainers from Matalan and a status quo world tour 2002 t-shirt. I’m a has been, I’m ancient; I listen to classic rock and make sure I eat healthy. I clean up the poo of infants. (Just to clarify that’s not a hobby, I am a father). I get tired before midnight and insist on having at least 10 hours sleep a day. The Lukat as you know him is dead…DEAD AND GONE. Well until the next time I go out probably or get myself a Thai bride with my dole money.

So anyway since nothing is happening in the present or future I suppose that means I’m just going to have to settle with the past and dwell on old terrible memories that I’d rather forget but for the sake of entertainment value I have to bring them up every so often so people can laugh at my expense. See that’s my job, I make people feel better by simply being me, you can all just think ‘well I’m a bit of a nob head…but at least I aint as bad as Joey Luka.’ I’m Prince Bell end…I'm the duke of dick heads…I’m the chairman of the board of wankers…Jesus of the pricks. No one shall challenge my crown. Fear me. Fear my shame.

The shame I speak of can not be achieved simply through the powers of the human mind and body. The shame I speak of is brought about by Satan himself, conjuring such acts of ridicule and humiliation that even he can not stomach them and turns away in pity. He tempts me just like the biblical snake offering me a nice juicy apple but the apple has matured. The apple has been kindly turned in to cider by the good people of strongbow. But the cider is only the beginning of the dance of death, the devil has only plied me with his starter, you can only achieve so much embarrassment off the powers of cider. You might chase around some fat birds, you might get a bit of piss on your blue suede shoes and you may even have fisticuffs with the locals. Yet these are all ordinary shames, these are household shames, they are quickly forgotten and dismissed. For a more long lasting pain and suffering you must sacrifice your soul to the sinister powers of vodka. Not just any vodka…not the top of the range vodka with their distillation and clean taste. Oh no you must go deep down, darker than you’ve ever been. You go for the cheapest bottle; it will usually have some obscure Russian name on the label and a proud crest which hints that it was formed from the might of imperial heritage and dynasty rather than in a factory which also makes urinal cakes. The taste alone makes you want to vomit in to your hands. The scent of household cleaning products and suffering. Take it down mi’ lad…take it all down and you shall become superhuman...take down your molasses. You shall feel no pain. You shall feel no embarrassment as you jangle your penis about on the dance floor, women looking on disgusted. That’s what you live for. Feel no pain as you drop a lit cigarette down your boxers, creating a beautiful inferno of the pubic forest; watch your phallus burn purple before your very eyes. This is the magic of alcohol, now dance with me.

Oh how we danced. We toast the wonders of alcohol, in its ability to turn a well educated man in to a primal savage, strutting about the room like a buzzard, flapping his wings and stomping his Cuban heels on the ground. Watch him strut, with his tight pants, his fly undone hassling women on the dance floor before being escorted away by the bouncers, stale alcohol dripping from his chin. His posture so strong, so powerful. Like a Greek statue which has been poorly remade by Ikea and doused in strongbow. The women glance over and are mesmerised by his animal lust. He shouts in their beautiful faces, giving them the sex eyes, spilling a pint all over his crotch and falling on his arse. Half man…half wolf. HOWLLLLLLLL. He is the Lukat, hear him roar.

So over the years I suppose I’ve created a kind of reputation as one of the worst drunks to be let loose on the general public. There are so many horrific memories that should probably have left me dead or on Jezza Kyle but alas here I am with all my natural limbs.

Like when I was hanging out of a 4th floor window with my bare anus out inscribed with the words’ FUCK OFF’ in permanent marker. Some poor foreign students below begging me not to jump and rushing up to the flat only to find that I was just having a flipping good time. The compassion of strangers always warms my heart, someone left a dirty mattress underneath my window a few days later. God bless their souls. Don’t they know suicide is for pussies, I’d much rather go out fighting a pack of wolves or if you can’t get wolves…then erm…Alsatians?


Then there were my infamous fights…not with humans but with inanimate objects. Like the old grandfather clock I saw on a night out and started punching in the face for no apparent reason. Or my drunken brawl with the cash machine, not sure what the dispute was based on. He must have called my woman a tart. Then there was my losing battle with the lamppost which decided to break my hand and send me packing, never fight objects associated with the council.

There was the mighty dance off back in 07. I stroll in to the club out of my mind on vodkat and Prozac and spy a young upstart trying to ply his trade, busting a move on the dance floor , trying his hardest to impress but little did he know that he was about come up against the force of the Lukat. On I come to interrupt him performing with the classic knee switch routine and intense finger wagging, my eyes full of conviction. The people they stand round and watch in awe at the spectacle. His well choreographed and practiced dance moves are no match for the Lukat’s jungle fever. The battle seems to last an eternity, the boy giving it everything he had and the man…the Lukat effortlessly pounding him with his unique brand of contemporary wankered dance. I finish him off by performing a forward roll whilst my pants fall down simultaneously exposing my anus. My change, phone and keys spilling all over the floor as I scramble around squinty eyed…the people...they cheer and hail me the winner. The kid comes up to me with tears in his eyes and pleads ‘WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME…YOU’RE TAKING THE PISS’ then leaves the club a defeated man. The Lukat stands tall, lord of the dance.

There was love too…and passion. Like when I was sexually assaulted in the walkabout by two obese ladies. They tore off my pants, they chewed my belt (literally), they almost got my boxers off but I managed to escape to the toilet, tale between legs, fearing for my life as they prowled round licking their lips. Not to mention my experimentations with public intercourse resulting in a horrific event a few years back which I shant go in to for legal reasons. People’s lives were irreparably damaged.

Who could forget New Years Eve of 2007 when I got arrested for fighting with a bald man whilst simultaneously having a plastic pirate’s sword shoved down my pants? It was ye’ olde style combat, if Johnny Depp had done it people would have been applauding but oh no, just because it’s the Lukat pounding on some chumps bald bonce it’s seen as a crime. Luckily I was released shortly after and proceeded to go and lose all my clothes in a gothic nightclub except for a tie. I like to keep things formal.

Sure I’ve done a lot of shit. I’ve eaten currency to spite a man. I’ve poured large amounts of alcohol down my pants. I’ve made people drink fruit punch, eat digestives and take photographs of my bare anus at 3am (after sending them home to get their camera of course). I’ve been a pioneer of frontal nudity in nightclubs. I’ve entered a mans flat to steal his alcohol, leave obscene messages on his fridge using alphabet magnets and leave my road works there. I’ve engaged the general public in hand to hand combat and been groped by a tramp whilst wearing Lycra hot pants and routing for change. (It was right there on the floor, next to my dignity). All these things are terrible but how can we use them to help the future generations? Well we can see the warning signs. Here to help you via photographic form I have put together a guide to the telltale signs that maybe there’s about to be a serious crime going down. Someone’s self respect is about to be raped and murdered out on these streets. I for one won’t idly stand by and watch it happen.



The telltale signs are all here. The crazed look in my eyes, which appear to be looking in different directions. The prefuse sweating, the shirt collar torn open in fury. The hair straggled across my forehead like a very cheap wig. My disgusting pink colouring and dissapearing chin all pointing towards the conclusion that one perhaps has had too many shandeys. Be warned.











A classic case here, first note the jumper tied around the shoulders in upper class polo fashion. The elongated neck which is often a symptom of vodka rage. Also note the shit eating grin and double chin emerging. The most condeming signal is acceptance of letting a fat idiot touch me, that would be the definite sign that one is intoxicated. Scoring a 3.5 on the shandey charts.










Many symptoms here. The cold dead eyes of a killer. The whale painted on the face combined with comedy monobrow. The primark shorts and muscle vest all complimenting the swigging of the 3 litre plastic bottle of taurus. For those unfamiliar with taurus it is the aldi brand cider. Brewed to perfection as always.















Very high score on the shandey meter here. There are the giveaways in attire stemming from the tied around blouse effect of the t-shirt, exposing the powerful chest. The main issues here are physical, the face has lost nearly all of it's shape with the hairline parting in a Hugh Grant on crack effect. Rendering the victim completely obscene to all females and terrifying to members of the same sex/species.












All dignity has been lost here, the bondage cap and hot pants combined with the act of routing for spare change in said hot pants has already done severe damage. Notice the big upper body and tiny legs giving a surreal edge to the image, the levels of shame have almost warped all sense of reality creating a new shamed based 4th dimension. There is no going back.











Lukat's final thought

So you see my friends, heed my words of advice and through my shame you can be set free. As i try to salvage the last scraps of dignity and make a new life, do not judge my shortcomings but use them as the moral guidance to enhance your own lives. It is not enviable to go through life never making mistakes, the mistakes we build upon and react to, we become the strong people we are today. So the next time you wake up next to a big fat lass and feel sorrow, do not dwell on this, you get rid of her as fast as possible and you say 'yes...i fucked up...but it will make me a better person. I hope to god i didn't give her my fucking number'. Go get em' sport.

Dole based fun.

Alright champ, I haven’t wrote a blog since back in the day when my hair looked like a black wig and I had a vodkat and bluebolt addiction, so thought maybe it’s time I got back in the game. You can currently address me as Lukat or maybe just L-kat out on the street. I’m going for the half feline, half man approach to things and seeing how that works out for me. Meowww purrr...stroke my luxurious fur...pull my whiskers...watch me defecate in a kitty litter tray.

I’m taking a break from my lengthy erotic novel at the moment, it’s set in space but in the past and it turns out everyone’s dead at the end but are also being attacked by cloned dinosaurs and faggot vampire werewolves. It’s pretty deep stuff really, you wouldn’t understand. Anyways I need to use my writing powers for other forms of evil such as insulting fat birds on facebook and upsetting the general public. Look at them with their little boat shoes and disgusting opinions. Makes a man want to be sick in someone else’s sink; one word of advice is to remove the plates and cutlery before you do so.

Anyway let’s get to it, I’m sure people are dying to hear about the total non event that is my life. If Kerry Katona can have her own TV show then surely I can allow myself some coverage. We can’t all be slow witted and overweight can we. I won’t be plugging Iceland however as I have developed a crippling phobia of the place after shopping there for 3 years. It’s amazing how many different dishes and recipes can all have the same generic taste of offal and cheap cardboard, I take my hat off to them. My non existent hat. (Interesting fact of the day; a hat is an item of clothing designed for bald men to hide their naked bony scalp and fool women)

So pretty much since uni and getting my ‘degree’ I’ve been looking for a job, watching Jezza Kyle, making sinister keyboard music and trying to look like I’m on steroids. It’s a wonderful time of self respect and success. It’s especially good when approaching women in nightclubs. ‘Hello my name is Joe. I am unemployed and live with my mother. I have a condom but it may be out of date. Would you like to make love?’ Things aren’t going so well, turns out there is some kind of recession going on. I don’t know, they should just print more money or something. At first I thought maybe having this ‘degree’ might put me in a good position to get a job but it turns out a degree is the equivalent of having a massive dick at an erectile dysfunction convention. Sure it looks good but there just aint much of a use for it. Instead I get to go to the job centre every week and justify to slimy office scum that I’ve been looking for work. I show them my little booklet which says fascinating things like ‘looked in newspaper…no jobs’. It’s a really great read. Oh and by looking for work they don’t just mean browsing a few jobs they mean they want you to swallow all your pride and beg to scrub piss off someone’s floor or cut up dead lambs for 16 hours a day. Your prospective boss is most likely one of the lads from school who used to pull your pants down in p.e for a bloody good laugh. You have to beg though as we’re all so very grateful for the opportunity in this time of struggle. Please sir please, pretty pretty please can I work for you…I’ll wash your car…I’ll make you delicate pastries…volevonts and éclairs….cummon mate...I’LL SUCK YOU OFF…PLEASE…PLEASE OH GOD PLEASE…PLEASE LET ME SUCK YOU OFFFFFF YOU SWEATY BALD RED PILE OF BASTARD.

Luckily this hasn’t happened quite yet but we’re rapidly approaching level 3 in dole terms, I’m currently on level 2. (I’m a real dole veteran…a dole legend if you will. I have my own set of playing cards along with Pissy Pam and the geezer who used to sit outside Woolworths shouting at passers by in angry gibberish). Level 2 is a middle of the range kind of abuse, like being chased around the car park with sticks that have dog poo on or someone sticking a cold thumb up your anus. I can only presume that a step up from this is extreme sodomy and beatings with carrier bags full of spare change. Dignity. Another real cool thing they like to do is call you in for special meetings and group sessions to give you tips on how to get back in to work. They give you mind blowing advice like…maybe you should use the internet? Maybe you should work for free and hope they give you a job? Yeh yeh that sounds great, I could work 40 hours a week...for free...in a job I don’t actually want…so then maybe if I’m lucky I could get the kind of job I would probably have walked in to 7 years ago after I finished school? Thank you job centre, god bless your beautiful souls. If it wasn’t for sitting with that bunch of crack heads watching a PowerPoint presentation I guess I’d still be unemployed right now. Oh wait.

So anyway begging for jobs I don’t want and trying to impress people I’d prefer to punch in the ear is my current lifestyle ‘choice’ I did have an interview last week but kind of got the impression after 5 minutes of talking and them saying ‘That’s all we need to hear’ then ushering me out of the door was probably a sign I didn’t get it. Then the follow up email which stated ‘JOE DOES NOT HAVE THE SKILLS REQUIRED’ was an extra special kick in the balls. These job rejections are definitely getting a lot more offensive. I’m pretty much expecting to get obscene hate mail now. ‘JOE...U FUKIN DIK U DINT GET DA JOB BECOZ U R A STUPID SILY TWAT N NO1 FUKIN LYKS U U UGLY BASTARD FUK OFF FUK OFF LOL LOL YOU DIK OMG I BET UR DIK IS WELL SMALL LOL WATA NOB HEAD’. Nice one lads.
Although that’s probably better then my first job interview when I turned up half an hour late sweating like a lunatic in Cuban heels. It’s always good to check where the interview is taking place beforehand otherwise you have the risk of running up and down a hill for an hour in full business dress and shouting at members of the public for directions.

Now they say Lukat needs to do work experience so he is capable of answering a phone or sending emails with shite jokes in them. So incapable am I that I can’t be trusted to undertake the kind of tasks that any human or well trained ape could handle. What the fuck do they think is going to happen when I answer the phone? Hello could I speak to Mr…’FUCK OFF…JUST FUCK OFF...YOU CUNT...YOUR MOTHERS A WHOREEEE...YOUR FATHERS A PUSSY. YOUR GRANDMOTHERS IS DEADDD…DEADDDD...BUT I’LL FUCK HER…I’LL FUCK HERRRR YOU CUNTTTTTT. OH I WILLL…I WILLLL...I’LL FUCK HERRRRRR’. These are soul crushing times for a man with the intellect and charisma of the Lukat. Work experience? That aint Lukat baby. Lukat's ass is so sweet…so sweet you better have a good dentist bitch…Lukat’s ass is so sweet that it could kill a diabetic in seconds. Better believe it sugar loaf.

We all make mistakes though, except me, I never make mistakes. I just enjoy making really shit life decisions to spice things up a bit. Next week I’m thinking of starting up a meth addiction.

Speaking of meth I was thinking that maybe getting in to the drug trade wouldn’t be a bad career move. The industry is always thriving and you get to work outdoors and meet lots of new people. Those people may be crackheads but they usually have some interesting stories to tell you. Like how they robbed their dying grandmother of her ornaments and sold them...for crack. Or how they use their child support money...for crack. Or how they like to take…loads of crack.

Had an interview just last week actually with the local dealer. Went down to the crack den to show him my c.v.

‘Hello I’m here about the crack dealer vacancy, my names Joe? I hope I’m not too early’

“No that’s fine Joe come in, we’re ready for you. I’m Ste and these are a few partners of mine, Tank and Skinny B. So Joe tell us a little bit about yourself?”

‘Great to meet you guys, Mr Tank I’m familiar with your work, I believe you broke the fingers of a mutual friend of ours. Well Ste I’m a hard working university graduate, I have excellent written, numeracy and communication skills. I’m a team player; I have a working knowledge of most Microsoft office programmes. I also have a degree in photography; I was mainly focused on the fine art side of it. We had some pretty big exhibitions.’

“Ok that all sounds great Joe. Could you tell me what skills you think you have in relation to the crack dealing position?”

‘Well as I said I’m good with numbers. I have some promotions experience we had to market a lot of our own work at university. Which I think would be helpful in pushing the crack, maybe targeting a younger audience or just starting off small. Getting the kids hooked on M-kat or skunk to start off with?

“Ok Joe well it was very nice to meet you, we’ll be in touch hopefully within a few days”

It seemed to go well so hopefully I can fill the position. Actually I’ve just got an email right now. ‘Dear Joe, I’m afraid your application has not been successful for the position of drug dealer with our organisation. We wish you luck in all future endeavours. Thanks. Tank’.

You dirty no good bastards. JOE DOES NOT HAVE THE SKILLS REQUIRED. JOE CAN NOT FUNCTION. JOE IS UNEMPLOYABLE SCUM.

But hey these things happen, things will work out. If all else fails maybe I just go back to uni and add to the 21 grand of debt I’m already in. Maybe get a degree in the performing arts or music. Something equally as useless as my current one. Then there’s always freelance work like allowing myself to be a subject in dangerous drug testing experiments or just giving fat perverts a hand job for a two pound coin. That will buy me a tin of cold hot dogs to make it through the week, just eat them with my bare hands, no problem. Life is good.