Alright sire, it’s just me baby, it’s just Lukat. Back from
the dead once again for no feasible reason other than boredom and a pathetic
need for attention. Pandering to you freaks and milking it like that Son of
Dork reunion that no one wanted. Gone are the good old days of Myspace,
pottering about with my rigid black hair and infected piercing trying to
seduce insecure emo girls. Pc 4 pc they’d say, a shilling would buy a loaf of
bread back in ye olde’ days but look at us now, old and forlorn.
You did this. You dragged me back. Here I am minded my own
sweet business trying to watch Japanese girls giggle and sit on each other’s
faces when you start flooding my stream with this Neknominate bollocks. Here’s
a laugh, let’s drink a pint of dogger…let’s drink a pint of piss…some
bleach…some blended dead ferrets, filming it for your own warped vanity,
desparate for the applause as you wretch in to your own grubby urchin hands, grinning
away like the feckless peasants you are.
I’m furious, furious and foaming at the mouth with rage I
can’t even speak rarhghgh errghgh rarghghgghghhghgh. Back in my day we’d drink
a pint of piss just for the pure adrenaline thrill and goodness of it. Now here
you are filming away with these new fangled camera phones like you’re summat…when
you’re nowt. A pint of piss we’d say back in the old days, a pint of piss good
barkeep and we’d cycle back home on our penny farthings listening to Lost
Prophets on our Walkmans. Back in the good old days when Ian Watkins was still
a heart throb… but no… you selfish, judgemental women turned your back on him
when he decided to take the music in a daring new direction. The
nonce rock genre just wasn’t good enough for you sheep was it? How do you live
with yourselves?
By the way if any of you tools feel like nominating me I
will gladly drink a pint of your blood.
Well that’s just fine and dandy. What you been up to pal?
How’s tricks? Wuu2? How r u? Wubup2????? Fuck off. I’ve been working pal,
paying those bloody taxes like a proper boy. Errmmm…not being funny mate…I’m
not being funny pal… but some of us have to bloody work instead of writing
aimless blogs to sucker in a bunch of page views to compensate for my lack of
social life. Errr Lukat you’re not funny now you’ve got a job. You were reyt
fun when you were on the dole but you’re crap now. We don’t like you anymore.
Up yours. I climbed the corporate ladder and I had to listen to a lot of
fucking Radio 2 while I did it. I even worked in a call centre for a grand
total of 20 days. ‘Good morning, this is Joe speaking. How can I help you
today? Please excuse me for a moment while I confirm with the manager.’ Words like
ashes in my mouth. The final straw came after I’d returned from my lunch break
and confided in my colleague that during said break I’d read a book, to which
he looked as though he was going to vomit in his mouth, confused and enraged by
this concept of reading as a leisure activity. Fuck books though eh, fuck em in
to the ground, the filthy earth, the cold, wet soil. All that’s left are the
torn pages and a learned man’s ejaculate. Books are for fags.
Speaking of books, my book was a towering success. It was
snubbed outright by over twelve different London
agencies. To this I can only assume that my book was so provocative, so dangerous
that they didn’t have the stones to take on a man of my stature. Who could have
known a violent existentialist novel set in Burnley ,
featuring me as the protagonist being haunted by the ghost of the elephant man
and a bunch of giant spiders wouldn’t be a critical and commercial success.
That’s fine, those sad sacks couldn’t invest in the liquid gold currency that
is my blood but here, just for you ultra fans is a snippet of my debut novel.
‘I find her in the back alley, getting finger fucked by this
idiot.’
Profound.
Don’t worry there is plenty more where that came from but
for now I’m working in a pretty respectable job with my ‘trendy’ haircut and my
protein shakes. I sold out and I’m tapping my Cuban heels a long to the Quo
with the best of em’. Don’t stop a rockin’ lads. I’m sure the vengeful lord
will take all this away from me soon though. It’s good to be positive. That’s
just the kind of bloke he is though, this God bloke. You say one bad thing
about the geezer and he’ll give your gran cancer. He’ll kill off Philip Seymour
Hoffman…he’ll kill off Heath Ledger...he’ll kill off Dennis Hopper yet the cast
of Grown Ups 2 are free to go about their business as they wish, laughing it up
over jokes about animal piss and high fiving each other’s farts. That’s the
kind of comedy God likes, nothing too wordy, the broad stuff. Slapping his
thigh while Kevin James lights up the silver screen. Good banter, quality
banter.
That’s what you all want isn’t it? The fucking banter. The
cheeky banter. That vague term used by witless idiots as a substitute for a
personality. We don’t have any humour to speak of but we are dick heads, which
is probably the same thing, so let’s just think of a collective term for it
then anyone who’s not a total pecker is considered to be some bland outcast who
can’t take a joke. Uhrrhh urhhrrr I only pissed on your chips pal can’t you
take a bloody joke pal. I only slaughtered your entire family, can’t you take a
bloody jokey joke. Here I am bitterly casting my eye over vulgar women on dating
sites, with their big orange faces, wondering whether I look enough like Joey
Essex to warrant a reply.
‘I work hard and I play hard. My friends say I’m fun and
bubbly. I like a bloke with good banter.’
Yeh right, I’m chubby and dull and want to find a chap who
treats me like total shit. Right on sister. You tell em’. Up with that there
feminism. Here I am in a quandary, wracked with existential guilt, pondering
what exactly banter is and if I have enough of said banter to allow me to get
tossed off by a beauty therapist from Nelson. This crushing mental strain leads
me to consult a dusty, aged book in the library in the east wing of my home. I
brushed through the pages, gently removing the silk like cobwebs that adorned
the yellowed script of this particular volume. I thumbed anxiously to the B’s
in hope of a resolution to my problem, behold there it was, the elusive
knowledge.
Banter
Noun (UK )
The humour of knob
heads.
To drink several cans
of Carling and fart in your bird’s face.
Well glad that’s sorted out. I can sleep well tonight.
See you in hell you bunch of squares.
Yours sincerely,
Lukat.
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