This is what happens when you have to watch daytime TV

BLAH BLAH BLAH OH LOOKS IT’S THAT STUPID BELL END MOANING ABOUT BEING ON THE DOLE AND NO ONE TOUCHING HIS TODGER AGAIN. BOOOO BOOOOOO…WHY DON’T YOU JUST BLOODY FUCK OFF LUKA…WITH YOUR STRONG POWERFUL CHIN AND LOVELY LOVELY SOFT HAIR…YOU DICK…YOU STUPID DICK…BOOOOOO….GET A BLOOOODYYY JOBBBBB….GET A BLOOOODY GIRLFRIENDDDDDDD BOOOOOOOO NO ONE GIVES A SHIT WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAYYYY WHY DON’T YOU JUST DIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE..

Alright mate, cool your jets it’s not like I drone on and on and on and on about the same shit all the time is it? By the way this blog is about being unemployed and not getting laid.

Day 459 of my unemployment odyssey. Is it? No probably not but I can’t be arsed working out the dates just to satisfy a bunch of blog reading chumps. No offence like? Notice when someone says no offence they often use it just before saying something quite offensive. Like saying sorry before you set a bird sanctuary on fire, not that I’ve ever done such a thing. I have no problem with winged creatures unless they decide to defecate on me, which just shows the arrogance of the animal community thinking they can take a shit on people without any consequences. Anyway no offence but I believe we should gas anyone who isn’t white to create an Aryan super race. No offence but I just had sex with your deceased grandmother. No offence but I’m Olly Murrs. See my point? I’d like to think so.

Anyway I paid a trip down to the old dole house just this past week only to discover that my new ‘advisor’ had once spent a heroic EIGHTEEN MONTHS on the dole. Now maybe I’m wrong here but when I’m putting my employment chances in the hands of this stud who has single handedly devalued my epic dole record by trouncing me by a whole year then maybe It’s time to look elsewhere for help?

…and who better to help me…than myself. Or I as I sometimes like to be called.

Since my last business ventures never really took off due to the general public being a bunch of buffoons and cowards then I have decided to come up with a few more consumer friendly opportunities for you to wrap your disgusting, sausage like fingers around. That’s just me though, I love to help. Some of you might be saying ‘...b-b-b-but Lukat…sir…no OFFENCE but you’re a jobless loser sponging off the government, how the hell can you help?’ Well that may very well be true but for what I don’t have in ‘money’ and ‘skills’ I more than make up for in bitterness and a love of ruining other peoples fun.

So that got me thinking, what do people like? I wouldn’t know as I’m not considered to be an actual ‘person’ but if I was I’d assume it would be things like…quality of life…health…entertainment…education. All kinds of wonderful stuff that doesn’t involve watching repeats of Judge Judy in a pair of shorts I’ve had since I was 14. (Due to the wearing away of the material in the crotch area these shorts are no longer suitable for public use.) So how can I provide this kind of ‘useful’ service that people may even enjoy? Because really, learning can be fun. Especially when starting fires during class time, I didn’t both make and burn an effigy of Richard Gere just to be heckled on youtube. I did it for the benefit of humanity.

Behold my concepts. Cherish me. Tickle the Lukat's whiskers and stroke his luxurious fur. Purrrr purrrr…REEEERRRR.

Lukat’s 100% British Zoo

As an animal lover and long time fan of containing things that are weaker and less intelligent than I am in confined spaces then it would make sense that a zoo would be an exciting business venture. Now if you’re like me and sick of all these pompous foreign animals coming over in their banana boats and stealing the work and accommodation of good British animals then fear no more. I, 'The Lukat' am going to put an end to this and open a zoo of fabulous creatures which would usually not get the recognition they deserve. Behold the wonder of Lukat’s Zoo. ROLL UP ROLL UP people of all ages, come see Lukat’s zoo located in the car park of a condemned pub in the beautiful rural area of Burnley.

Come see the world famous Spider shed. We have collected a range of beautiful house spiders from various asbestos soaked abandoned council houses and have brought them to you in one magical place. Does your child have a birthday party coming up? Maybe you want to do something truly special for little Billy and his schoolyard chums. Well I offer you an exclusive package which allows your kids a whole 4 HOURS in the spider shed. We lock up to ten kids in a dark, spider infested second hand shed so they can interact with the friendly creatures, letting them crawl on your Childs face, underneath their clothes and lay eggs in their hair.

‘MR LUKAT PLEASE…I’M SCARED...PLEASE…I WANT MY MUMMY…PLEASE MR LUKAT THE SPIDERS ARE BITING MY LEGS’

‘Oh little Billy the spiders aren’t biting you, they’re giving you kisses. Now stop your sobbing.’

It will be a birthday your child will never forget. But the fun doesn’t stop there, oh no. We have a range of other attractions as well which are simply unmissable and are all included in the original £20 fee on entry.

There’s the wasp tent. We have filled a rather small Argos tent with about 50 wasps, all of which were raised with British passports. Not only do you get up close and personal with the furry little critters but you also get an exclusive gift bag including damaged sachets of brown sauce, a 2 litre bottle of Netto orangeade to share between you and a blob of antiseptic creams for any ‘bites’ or other small injuries which may arise. (Disclaimer-Lukat is not responsible for any incidents which may arise in the wasp tent) The wasp tent is not just for kids either, maybe grandpa wants a day out to experience the unique interaction as the angry wasps sting his frail body.

‘MR LUKAT...MR LUKATTT…IS GRANDPA OK...HE’S SHAKING...MR LUKAT PLEASEEE THE WASPS ARE HURTING HIM’.

Oh little Billy don’t worry about grandpa, the wasps are just tickling him, he’s having the time of his life.

You want more? Well we got more. Come climb under the covers of the woodlouse bed. Come on kids get all nice and cosy and come play with your new creepy crawly friends. We have picked up a knackered old mattress from the tip and then covered it in a community of household woodlice all with unique and endearing personalities that your children will simply fall in love with. There’s Uncle Duke Louse with his zany ideas and crunchy outer shell. There’s Pappa Louse and Mumma Louse creeping around with their lovable kids, covered in filth and disease. Not to mention big buster Louse who is twice the size of a normal louse and known to nest in the hair of little girls. Come see the whole family in Lukat’s Woodlouse bed, you’ll never want to leave.

That’s not enough? What about the bluebottle bins? We lock you in a wheelie bin filled with giant flies. The fun never ends.

Or the slug lift? We pack you all barefoot in to a lift and let you ride to the very top floor of a block of council flats, all the while enjoy the company of the charming and gooey animals.

VISIT NOW. LUKAT’S ZOO. TICKETS ARE AVAILABLE NOW. JUST SIMPLY SEND ME YOUR BANK DETAILS AND LET THE FUN COMMENCE.

Lukat’s dole enhancement course

Have you recently signed on the dole? Maybe you got a degree in fine art or forensic science and realised no one will employ you? Well help is at hand with The Lukat’s dole enhancement course. I will not help you find a job, far from it, I will simply advise you on all aspects of the dole lifestyle. Including how to correctly fill out your little dole booklet with lies and tall tales to get you out of the job centre quicker. I will show you how to stretch your money by purchasing subhuman foods from home bargains and Iceland. I will provide you with a list of alcohol prices to determine what brand of supermarket bitter would work out the cheapest. (Currently Asda which offers the fantastic opportunity of 8p a can). Do you have too much pride or self esteem that is getting in the way of you effectively completing your time on the dole? Maybe you find it degrading to be advised by people who are much less intelligent and less useful than yourself. Well never fear, we will completely strip you of any pride you have by getting you wasted off white ace and making you sleep with hideous, orange women. GO ON LAD.

Our team of experts will beat you with a sack full of spare change and urinate on you to prepare you for all the upcoming humiliation you will receive at the hands of the job centre. We have mock interviews set up where we hurl abuse at you and make you eat dog food off the floor in hope that it might get you a job. COME ON…YOU USELESS BASTARD…YOU WANT A JOB DON’T YOU…EAT THE DOG FOOD.

DOG FOOD…DOG FOOOD...DOG FOOOOD.

It’s not all hard work and elbow grease though. To make learning more fun we have designed a whole new version of dole monopoly. Pass go and receive your £52 a week benefits. You can play as a variety of characters including…the stinking le coq sportif cap…the knackered old fiesta…the can of special brew…or the used condom. Go to jail for not paying your TV license. Chance card…pay £80 fine for urinating in public. Buy a cheap council house in Nelson and charge your tenant extortionate rates to get rid of the musty, damp smell and yellow stains on the wall. THIS IS DOLE MONOPOLY.

Sign up now for your dole enhancement course available at all credible places of learning.

Lukat’s street workout

Are you sick of going to the nice, clean gym and having to share the equipment with a bunch of ponces wearing their boat shoes and cheeky novelty t shirts? Do you crave a more manly, rugged workout which will actually cause more harm to your body than it will good? Well come take part in Lukat’s prison workout. I have set up a series of objects in my back yard which need smashing up and taking to the tip. Work all day with no food or water breaking up old washing machines and feel the benefits of a real mans workout while I play you rap music and beat you with a large stick every now and then.

Cardio? I got your cardio…we go for a run in the roughest areas of Burnley wearing skinny jeans, cardigans and carrying expensive laptops…run for your lives as unwashed youths chase after you on bikes to steal your possessions and kick your head in.

Engage each other in daily knife fights. Build your own shiv from rusty nails, old toothbrushes and razors and battle it out to improve your conditioning. Please avoid any actual stabbing/sticking with the blade though due to recent fatalities during the workout. Just cut each other a little, we need to think about the health and safety after all. It’s political correctness gone mad I say.

Work on your speed by playing games of chicken on the motorway. Who will show their fitness superiority by not getting crushed by a Farmfoods lorry? Who will have the mental resolve to live when others die in the name of a good workout? The guys down at the gym are too busy flexing on the rowing machine and staring at attractive girls to know what it takes to be a real man. There are no attractive girls here. Just a whole bunch of pain and insurance forms. Enter Lukat’s street workout. Enter the 4^th dimension of health and fitness.

Yours for £10 an hour and a few tinnies.

Well there you have it. I’m not sure exactly what IT is but I assume it is something that was evident in the blog otherwise there’d be no point writing it. NO BLOODY POINT WRITING IT HAHAHAHAHA…THERE HAS TO BE A POINT...DOESN’T THERE? WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN...JUST WORDS…JUST TINY STUPID WORDS…OH MY LIFE HAS NO MEANING…COME ON MATE GIS’ A JOB…GIS’ A JOB…I’LL SUCK NUTELLA OFF YOUR FINGERS…COME ON BABE…COME ON MY MUMS NOT IN AND I’VE GOT SOME OLD CONDOMS…SOME OF EM’ MIGHT STILL BE IN DATE…PLEASE..OH GOD PLEASE…KILL ME…KILL ME...KILL MEEEEEEEEEEEEE I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE.

I mean…cool…thanks for reading.

Lukat.

Beards, pornography and other tales of failure.

Another blog… another bastard blog. A sign that I am neither employed nor getting laid currently. My boredom has become so severe now that for the first time in my life I have decided to commit to growing a beard. An act so offensive and vile that it takes a certain kind of man to pull it off. Sadly I am not one of these men and currently have a sparse collection of white/blonde hairs spread around my face, like a pre pubescent boy trying to get served for alcohol. Speaking of which the last time I tried to get served for a case of Carlsberg (which is wrong on every level) the ethnic gentleman at the shop looked at me so suspiciously that I began to question if I was in fact of legal age to buy alcohol despite being a grown man

’How old are you mate?’

ERRR...ERRR.WELLL ERRR...I’M 23 HONEST PAL…DOGS HONOUR…I’M 23…THAT’S OLD ENOUGH ISN’T IT? I HAVE MY I.D LOOK IT’S ME I WAS YOUNGER BUT ERRR...IT’S STILL ME...BUT IN THE PAST…CUMMON MATE... A GUY JUST WANTS TO BUY SOME CARLSBERG...I WON’T BINGE DRINK MATE…OR USE IT TO SEDUCE MINORS…PLEASE MATE…CUMMON MATE…MY BIRTHDAY IS ERR...FUCK FUCK...IT’S ERRRR… I’M SORRY PAL...I’M SO SO SORRY...I’LL JUST GO

…fleeing the shop in tears with my ears bleeding and leaving a ten pound note on the counter for compensation of my act of deception.

So what’s new in my life…well other than ‘the beard’ then I’d have to say absolutely nothing. So what’s this blog about? I have no fucking idea, I never think these things through but luckily for me I can talk pointless shit for hours until people leave the room shaking their heads, both furious and full of pity, not being able to comprehend their own emotions. That emotion is simply ‘Lukat’. Lukat is not a man but a force of nature, a ray of sunshine on a hot summer’s day. The twinkle in an old mans eye as he sees his flowers spring to life in the British bloom. The anger in a girls face as she looks at me with disappointment and hatred as I offer to ‘finger’ her as compensation after drinking myself impotent. These beautiful feelings are all part of the true essence of Lukat. A true poet of our modern times, but enough about me.

Actually I have nothing other than me to sell, it’s all about me…me… me… me…fucking me. Oh yeah read my stupid little blogs and my opinions …oh look at me with my stupid tattoos and muscles which offer no practical use other than for posturing in filthy night clubs to seduce big boned, drunk chicks. My life is a series of heroic events that embody words like dignity and achievement. Sadly this doesn’t seem to come across on my C.V which has been rejected so many times I’m starting to wonder if I’ve smeared shit on the paper or wrote some subliminal message on it in a moment of madness… ‘FUCK OFF…STUPID BELL END…DON’T WANT JOB…WILL FUCK FOR COINS’. Sounds reasonable to me anyway.

So if my C.V is no good maybe that’s because the potential employers can see through my web of lies and faux politeness. Maybe instead if I was more honest about my achievements then they would realise that I’m a pretty great guy and they should let me use the company toilets to wash my undies in the sink. Cool.

Lukat C.V

Profile

I am a bitter, hate filled man who lives at home with his mother. I have never had a proper job as I believe that I am better than most people however I do have many useless qualifications in art based subjects which will be of no use at all to the position I’m applying for. I have no criminal record but that does not mean I don’t regularly commit crimes, ranging from urinating on public landmarks to fighting with bald, drunken oafs in the street. I have many bizarre tattoos’ including the naked torso of Iggy Pop and some text from American psycho as I only seem to be able to relate to serial killers. I enjoy working out in front of a full length mirror, mostly naked, mainly because I find myself so attractive that I could get an erection over the sight of my own body. I hate small animals and other peoples kids and have a secret agenda to tear down society and revel in a kind of post apocalypse where the general public are all slaughtered like the dickless sheep they are. I am totally wrong for this position and will most likely mock you via my facebook and twitter accounts and post blogs detailing what a total wanker you are because I have no respect for you or anything you have ever done or will do in your pointless existence on this earth.

Work experience

None. I was forced against my own will to do some work experience in a warehouse when I was about 15. I had to ride around in a fork lift truck with a chap called Windy which I can only assume is because he had experienced some notable success at being flatulent, most likely farting on people down at the pub. The rest of the staff told me he was a sex offender but not until I was a good 8 feet in the air with him alone, to which they shouted ‘PEEDO PEEDOOO’. On my lunch breaks they let me sit in the office and look at pornography, some of which they had sellotaped to the roof of the building so they could look at ‘tits and fannies’ as they were working. It was a professional environment and my input was non existent as is often the case when I’m bored and surrounded by halfwits. I did however get a free mug and some samples of shampoo and toilet cleaner to take home with me but I have never actually cleaned a toilet as I have no work ethic. During my time they allowed me to attend a health and safety course where an angry red faced gentleman explained the dangers of the warehouse by sticking a bowing ball on a stick and saying it weighed as much as our heads. I am still unsure of the moral here as it is very difficult to adjust the weight of ones head, especially in the short time I was on work experience.

I did work in a bar for about 4 hours but I was so terrible at it that the customers became very angered. They were ungrateful bastards if you ask me, it’s not my fault I poured them a half pint of froth and charged them more than the actual price. Many of them were old so I just assumed that they would be senile and be happy with what they were given, but that’s the elderly for you…just a bunch of nob heads aren’t they?

Education

I have all my GCSE’s as when I was younger I was a quiet mute who would sit in the library on my lunch breaks with other social outcasts. This allowed me to achieve a pass in all my exams as girls didn’t actually consider me to exist so I had no distractions. At college there was much of the same until I discovered alcohol and started drinking heavily, I still managed to pass but that was mainly through my skill of lying and pretending I’d done work when I’d actually just handed in the same project several times. This is a testament to my laziness and on a few occasions I was asked to leave the premises due to me distracting other members of the class. One time I head butted the power switch off to the entire building because an associate had slapped me on the buttocks as I was crawling around on the desks for a laugh. Sometimes I would go in wearing shorts and pull them up to the crack of my anus which gave the impression that I was naked, I enjoyed playing sports but mainly in the classroom, sadly the teachers seemed to have on objection to me booting a football around a room with delicate art supplies but they are stuck up faggots if you ask me. I also had to take a life drawing class which involved me standing in a hot room for several hours and sketching an elderly woman’s vagina with charcoal. She was hoisted on to a mattress which was spread out on some tables, often with a step ladder as she had just had a hip replacement. Due to my ineffectiveness with women seeing her pussy at the age of 16 was the first sexual experience I ever had. This was a blow to my self confidence but luckily I managed to go on to Uni, the only Uni that would accept me of course as I was rejected from most of the major universities after turning up at the interview with a portfolio of naked dolls which I’d torn the heads off and put them in the woods to replicate rape victims. I would often turn up late to lectures after drinking my cocktail of vodka and cider but refused to take any notes and would coast along for three years passing by handing in my old college work and sponging off others. Luckily I am now £21 grand in debt from my time in education so everything worked out for the best and I am sure all this is relevant to the job I’m applying for as…telesales clerk

Software/system skills

I am fully computer literate and often use this skill to download illegal music or watch pirate copies of new films released at the cinema as I’m too poor to actually go myself. I also enjoy making offensive Photoshop’s of people in my spare time, often cutting and pasting their heads on to pornography. Speaking of pornography I am able to access this online but have found myself bored with the more traditional stuff so now tend to look for more extreme options such as Chinese women urinating on each other and beastiality.

Well that all seems above board to me so hopefully after I send this off to a few people then I’ll be in full time employment some time soon. If you will excuse me I just need to go and ring the job centre to see if they have a lost and found box as I seem to have misplaced my dignity there. Let God bless you all and by God I mean the vengeful Old Testament lord who would smite you for being a homosexual or disabled and have his boy nailed to death on a cross to punish us for our mistakes. Smell you later you bunch of fucking nobodies.

Yours sensually,

Lukat.

Here comes success...here comes my chinese rug.

Alright fellas, there was no blog last week as I had no sense of humour so wasn’t quite up to the task of mocking my life. Swimming in a sea of my own despair. No worries this week though, luckily for my readers my existence is getting more pathetic by the second, which is always good comedy value.

I think this is around day 227 of my unemployment odyssey, which is way further than I ever though I’d get without throwing myself in to the canal wearing a concrete duffel coat (like I could afford concrete). For all those street cats out there who know the jive talking, ol’ Lukat has finally reached level 3 on the dole. For the less educated people out there that means I am really...really fucked.

After 6 months of ‘enjoying’ my work shy holiday I now have the opportunity to work...FOR FREE. That’s right now the government has decided that instead of having all these scumbags stealing their new yacht collection money why don’t we just send the smelly bastards out to work full time for their droppin’s. Now that might sound all fine and dandy to the working folk out there...you know how it is...bloody wasters...paying for them to have bloody kids...bloody tax payers expense...bloody pint of union jack please mate. Well I’d agree maybe it would be nice to get some work experience and hopefully get a job at the end of it, after all you guys were kind enough to fund me for my internship in watching daytime TV and masturbating twice a day so why don’t I get out there with my tub of elbow grease. Well you see the thing is I have really been trying to find a job but sadly no one really wants to employ a fine art photographer/writer of erotic literature so I pretty much have the proverbial thumb…up my literal anus…or is that the metaphorical thumb up my mythical anus? Anyway I’ve been running around like a half man half wolf trying to find any shitty job that would take on my slick anus...(woah woah too many bum references here. Let’s clean this right up). To the extent that by the end of last week I was stumbling around one of the roughest areas of Burnley wearing a tight fitting shirt, Cuban heels and a man bag/satchel begging for employment. I was the only white man within a mile and looking like a waiter at a moderately good Italian restaurant, trying my best to pull the traditional ‘don’t stab me bud’ face only to arrive at the destination of my ‘interview’, which was actually some plumbing supplies shop down a back alley where they took my C.V and told me to do one. Here comes success.

I’m pretty much starting to think I am unemployable now. I went to an open interview for a telesales job dressed in full business wear thinking SURELY compared to my fellow dole scum I am a more attractive prospect. Oh how wrong L-Kat was. So I go in there reeling off a list of my educational victories only to be passed up for a chap wearing jeans and trainers who looked like he’d just smoked about 200 cigarettes. PLEASE SOMEBODY…SHOW THIS MAN TO THE HEAD OFFICE…WE MUST EMPLOY HIM AT ONCE. Truly a better man than I, for he had sales experience. He’d worked in a shop for a while so obviously that makes him more able to speak and communicate than the guy with a DEGREE. No worries, not like I’m bitter or anything. I mean it aint like I’ve resorted to begging for terrible jobs that I don’t actually want…out of pure desperation…then still getting rejected in favour of crack heads. It’s not like I’m 21 grand in debt after going to Uni to try and get a decent career…only to find that once I graduated I can’t get a job hassling old ladies on the phone to buy insurance. I mean that wouldn’t make a guy bitter at all, the worlds a great place. La la lahhhhhh.

So basically now if I don’t find a job in the next few weeks they are probably going to ship me out to do 100 hour shifts working in a slaughterhouse. Handling offal with my bare hands for what works out to be 0.0002p an hour and getting a weird skin disease that makes my hair fall out.

But ey…that’s ok...that’s just fine pal. Fine and dandy. You don’t kill of L-kat that easily, the foul stench of despair that I am, surviving purely out of spite. I don’t think making me work for free is bad enough, I think that’s too good for me. I want something worse...I want to sponge bath old people and clean up their faeces for weekly rations of beans. I want to be used as a test subject for dangerous new chemical experiments and I don’t want any compensation when my penis falls off and my blood turns neon green…I’ll be glad for the experience…something to put on my c.v. So so grateful.

Here’s an idea, why don’t you send all us dole scum out to solve the conflict in the Middle East. We don’t even need equipment or any training, it’s not like we’re real people or anything. Just stuff us all in to a big crate then drop us in the middle of the war zone. Might as well put us lazy bastards to some good use, no more sponging off the taxpayers. Now we’re out fighting a war with our filthy, bare hands. We’ll just get some of the bigger lads together and rush the enemy shouting ‘DOLEY DOLEY DOLEEEEEEEE’ and hope they retreat in fear. Watch the terror in their eyes as a bunch of poorly dressed idiots charge them down pounding them with bin bags full of spare change we collected off the floor. We’ll have our dole booklets stamped in blood. If we capture a prisoner of war we shall break him simply by talking about our lack of employment till he crumbles and reveals enemy secrets. ‘ERRR YOU SEE WHAT IT IS MATE..WHAT IT IS..I JUST CAN’T GET A BLOODY JOB..HALF OF EM SAY I’M NOT EXPERIENCED LIKE BUT HOW AM I MEANT TO GET EXPERIENCE UNLESS I GET A BLOODY JOB..IT’S HARD WORK MATE..THEN I’M OVERQUALIFIED FOR HALF OF THESE BLOODY JOBS MATE..YOU KNOW.’ The stench of our cider breath too much for even the toughest of soldiers to handle. Sure some of the weaker job seekers will be brutally slaughtered and ripped in half by gunfire but at least it stops us sponging off the government. Kill us...why not eh...would be a few less expenses then for old Davey Cameron.

If that’s no good maybe the government could sell us to the human trafficking industry. We can be sold as sex slaves to the Koreans. I’ll go and work in a massage parlour giving hand jobs to big businessmen; it doesn’t matter, as long as I get my £52 a week then no worries. If people don’t want to fuck us due to the stench of despair then why not just make us all fight each other for entertainment. Get a TV deal with channel 5, send us all to a big field then have us compete in a fight to the death. It can be like the old roman gladiators, bashing the shit out of each other in chainmail vests with swords and spears. If that’s too expensive just give us a bunch of bin lids and steering wheel locks and we’ll beat the piss out of each other so the richer folk can have a good time. Look at those awful poor people, deary deary me. Maybe even introduce some pitbulls if things are getting a bit dull, there’s nothing that says entertainment like watching the unemployed get mauled by vicious dogs. It’s the laugh riot of the century. Earn your bloody keep mi’ lad. Maybe turn it in to a kind of unemployed big brother. A bunch of us lads off the dole get sent to a council house and each week the general public votes one of us out to go and live on the streets and die homeless. They can make it more competitive by introducing a series of tasks like...who can get the most rejection emails in one day or...who can drink the most scrumpy in the space of an hour. It is TV gold just waiting to happen.

Why not just send us off to concentration camps instead? That would be more cost effective, just get us all in a warehouse and gas us to death. We’re no better than animals anyway, it’s not like we have brains or pay any tax. Subhuman scum. GET A BLOOODYYY JOB…or die. Sell us all to Jezza Kyle for his travelling circus. His whole career is based on exploiting poverty stricken halfwits…ROLL UP ROLL UP…COME SEE THE FREAK…HALF HUMAN…HALF DOLE…THE BODY OF A MAN…BUT THE BANK BALANCE…OF A SPIDER. Good ol’ Jezza is always in need of inbred scumbags, if we’re not ugly enough just expose us to radiation and nock all our teeth out. We don’t need to eat or sleep; we’ll just live in his basement chained to the radiator till he’s ready for us. He can even get some of his high society pals round to kick us in the balls and burn us with cigars for a flippin’ good laugh. The possibilities are endless.

So I would estimate that I have about one or two more weeks left to live. I mean live in a human sense of the word. After the job centre has finished cutting off my testicles and making me swallow cocktails of my own pride then I probably won’t be able to exist in normal society. I will most likely dwell underground in the sewer, speaking to no one but people on my level such as sex offenders and ageing transvestites. Soon I will lose the ability to read or write and will become terrified of the internet and its modern technology. I will cast aside all that I am to begin my new career...using my own hair to mop up piss in the toilet of life…for free of course…I don’t need paying. Why would I?

Big business and more urine based fun.

I just woke up with no pants on and the hairstyle of a man who is desperately trying to hide his baldness. I’m not going bald by the way, that’s the one positive that still makes me slightly attractive to women. Once my hair is gone I imagine my body will disintegrate and gently float away in to the atmosphere. So anyway looking like a sex offender/web pervert reminded me that I should probably write another blog, since I presume that’s what those kind of guys do.

I think I graduated about a year ago so it looks like we’re coming up to the one year anniversary of my unemployment. I tell you it’s been a hell of a year; I’ve met some great people down at the dole office, some real characters. It’s been an experience. The good times don’t look like ending soon either, I just picked up an application form to be a biscuit packer in Nelson but sadly there is not enough room to write down all my art based qualifications which I think would have landed me the job. My search goes on.

Anyway to commemorate this landmark achievement I have decided to arrange an official competition giveaway to all Lukat fans out there. This is your once in a lifetime chance to win various prizes such as signed pages from my job seekers booklet, a binded collection of my rejection letters and emails and last but certainly not least, the opportunity to have a morning pint with me in Whetherspoons after collecting my dole money. You’re paying obviously. All you have to do to have a chance to win any of these great prizes is answer the following questions.

1. What are your bank details?
2. What is your national insurance number?
3. What is your mother’s maiden name?

Send all those answers off with a copy of your signature and you will be entered in to the official Lukat prize draw. Good luck you little bastards.

Now back to business, literally. Since I’m not having much luck in convincing people to employ me as some kind of ‘work based dude’ who could perform menial tasks in exchange for pay, I thought hey L-Kat baby you’re a resourceful man. Why not make your own luck and get started on some new and exciting business ventures. I am a man of the world after all, I’ve been on nights out in Burnley, Blackburn, Colne and Padiham after all, and my travels have brought me much knowledge, insight and also hangovers. Lots of hangovers. In fact just this last week I woke up with a tingling sensation in my legs after ten hours of drinking which I’m sure is a sign of good health in some cultures. If things go well you could well be seeing me in the dragons den, the Chinese takeaway not the TV programme, I always go there when celebrating a small victory (e.g. pulling ugly chicks or pounding on cocky youths).

Anyway here is a series of projects I’m working on and looking for potential investors, so prepare to be blown away by my entrepreneurial skills. I give you the official Lukat 2011 business plan. Now let’s break bread.

Who's your fucking daddy pal?

Well if you want, it could be me? Are you lacking a strong father figure in your life? Maybe your dad is a let down like mine and only turns up to throw guilt money at you about twice a year before vanishing off in to the horizon in his jeans and sport jacket combination. Maybe you find your dad embarrassing or he left town after your mum shacked up with a large Turkish gentleman. Who knows? These things happen. But you need not suffer for it, as I, the mighty Lukat am willing to be your father. That’s right, I have a whole host of fathering skills having passed on my seed at an early age. I can fulfil all of your fathering needs; we can play catch in the yard, share a joke about ‘the footy’ and go on weekend fishing trips. I’ll let you sit on my lap while I tell you anecdotes about when I was younger and read you bedtime stories. I’ll even let you call me ‘poppa’. The current packages I have available will cater to all kinds of fathering needs.

Do you need a drunken angry father? Maybe you invite some of your friends round the house or a new boyfriend? Drunk dad is having none of it, sipping on his can of lager and accusing everyone of being a bloody puffter. The fun doesn’t end there, he’s a super racist too, and maybe one of your pals has foreign blood or even a very nice tan? Drunk dad won’t like that one bit when he gets all hot and bothered about this country going down the shitter. Bloody darkies coming over here on their banana boats eating curry and stealing our jobs. Send them back he says. Send them all back. This is white man’s land. Drunk dad will ruin all your birthdays and moments of achievement. Drunk dad will even slap your mother around for no additional cost. The drunk dad package can be yours for a bargain of £5 an hour. (Alcohol must be supplied separately). BOOK NOW.

Maybe you need someone more stern and judgemental. A man of great morals and strong holy beliefs. Good Christian dad could well be what you’re looking for. His book collection includes two copies of the Bible and three separate editions of Jeremy Clarkson based literature. Church is on Sunday where he plays rhythm guitar in the lord’s band and blasts out numerous hymn classics like he was taking care of business at a status quo gig. He wears stonewash jeans and crocs, he’s the casual man about town and he will frown upon you socialising with friends in a non Jesus based manner. Don’t push him too far though or he shall bend you over his lap and slap thy anus in front of stern onlookers and relatives. Christian dad will send you to your room and prohibit you from having any form of sexual relations until you are 30 years olds. For no additional charge he will turn up at a college house party in his dressing gown and furiously drag you out by your ear telling you how very ashamed he is. Jesus wept.

Christian dad is yours for £6 an hour. TAKE IT. TAKE IT.

Maybe you’re looking for a much more casual father. Someone who barely notices you exist and makes you spend all your time craving his acceptance. He will sit around reading newspapers and watching TV mumbling at you whenever you come home with a big grin telling him all about your day. He’s deadbeat dad…and he don’t give a shit. Your momma wants child support...fuck her...AND FUCK...YOUUU. Deadbeat dad don’t care none, he’s too busy watching planet of the apes on TV. Ask him to come to your school play or watch you take part in sports, FUCK YOU. Deadbeat dad thinks you’re a nobody. For an additional booking fee of £10 deadbeat dad will appear on Jeremy Kyle with you to take a DNA test, refusing that you’re even his child as you sob away in your chair…sat there in his stinking suede jacket with yellow teeth. ‘ERRRR ERRR WHAT IT IS JEREMY…ERRR...WHAT IT IS JEREMY...I JUST DON’T KNOWWW JEREMY…HIS MUMS SLEPT ABOUT WITH ABOUT 50 OTHER BLOKES ERRR SO I’M ABOUT 240% SURE HE INT MINE LIKE BUTTT ERRR ABOUT 156% SURE HE IS JEREMY.’ Deadbeat dad just don’t give a SHIIIIIT.

He is yours for only £7 an hour.

Who’s your daddy? Lukat’s your fucking daddy…for the right price.

Want to kick my head in?

Well now is your chance pal because the good lord knows unless you’re paying to do it there is no freakin’ way you’re giving a man like the Lukat trouble. I’d stomp your feeble ass.

Do you hate me? Or know someone who hates me? Chances are that you do, due to my personality/looks/things I say or do. Maybe you’ve fantasized about punching me in my cocky big nose or pulling my luxurious hair. Well if that’s the case I am offering you this unique opportunity to beat the shit out of me for a small cash fee. That’s right. You can do it in a variety of ways depending on your financial income.

The bronze package.

Here you get to knock me around for a bit in private. It’s a one on one encounter, I will come round to your house and you can kick me in the balls for a while and get rid of all your Lukat based frustrations. To celebrate the event I will supply you with a signed certificate which commemorates the beating you just gave me. You can cherish it forever. Yours for a £2 coin.

The silver package.

For this deal you get to attack me in public, however I must be very drunk. I will take your abuse but at a later date I will deny everything by claiming that I was ‘wankered’ and have no recollections of the event hence belittling the achievement slightly. You still have the advantage of a small audience seeing you pound on me but it will be tarnished by the fact that I am too wasted to defend myself. There must be no attractive women present either or the deal is null and void and I shall have to boot your ears in as compensation. Yours for an astonishing five English pounds.

The gold package.

This is really a top notch deal you get here. Not only do you get to kick my ass in public, but it is during daylight hours and I am totally sober. You get to beat the shit out of me in front of pretty girls who will be laughing at my expense as you shout abuse at me and I cower on the floor pleading for mercy. You get an official Lukat photo shoot to commemorate the event including keychain and postcard. Yours for £10.

The platinum package.

You twat me in front of a large group of people…and I piss myself…literally. It’s that simple. I will urinate myself as you beat me…in front of the general public. You also get a full video clip of the event filmed by one of my associates which I will allow you to tag me in on facebook. Your charge. A straight up £20 and a clean pair of pants waiting for me at the bus station.

Event destruction

Are you attending or hosting a high brow social event and living in fear that you may perchance embarrass yourself or let others down? Do you want someone to relieve that pressure by giving you a guarantee that at any hint that you are experiencing discomfort, they will throw themselves in front of the proverbial train and sacrifice their dignity for your own? Well that person is me. Be it wedding, birthday party of funeral I am your man. I will get wasted and pick fights with your elderly relatives. I will strip naked and try to have sex with any female in grabbing distance. I’ll call your grandmother a bastard then throw a child through the wedding cake. I will interrupt speeches and make racist/sexist comments in front of a large audience before vomiting all over myself and being dragged out by furious family members. I will be your shame, for a price. That price is £5 an hour and as much alcohol as it takes to get the job done. Book now.

(P.S my elite funeral service is now available where I will physically drag the corpse out of the coffin and start an argument with it. This is for a limited time only, due to legal issues I am restricted to the amount of times I can fight the dead. Available for a flat rate of £50.)

The Lukat Love Experience

Do you hate your parents? Do you need the kind of boyfriend that would horrify and repulse said parents? Well Lukat is your man. Any conflict you have with your mother or father will quickly be swung in your favour when you introduce them to your new lover…me…L-kat. I’ll turn up at your house stinking of booze wearing a wife beater vest to give full coverage of my bizarre tattoos. I will mention in the first 5 minutes that I have a three year old kid whom I spawned as a teenager. I will tell them stories of my sketchy criminal past and then get off with you in front of them. I will be present as you tell you parents that you are pregnant after 2 hours of meeting me and you are now dropping out of college to mother my children and move in to a council flat with several Rottweilers.

Or are you an ugly bird desperate to prove to others that you can get a man? Well I could be that man. I give you the official Lukat Facebook package. I will pose as your boyfriend for a period of time including full agreement of the relationship status. I will poke you and leave sickening messages on your profile such as ‘LUFF U BBZ, OMG I MISS YOU, CNT WAIT 2 C MA SEXY BAYBEHH TEE HEE HEE’ and ‘SHAGGIN U LAST NYT WER PROPA GUD HUN I LUV UR FANNY’. I will even use my infamous photography degree to Photoshop intimate pictures of us together which you can then set as your profile picture. You will be respected by your peers and enemies alike, most of whom will commit suicide due to the debilitating jealousy they feel that you are having relations with the sensual Lukat.

Here are the rates.

Stunners- will do free of charge in exchange for a breast grab

Moderate/plain birds- £5 an hour and a drunken fumble

Ugly birds/fat birds- £10 an hour, no touching. I don’t do that anymore.

Oh Lukat you terrible sexist…shame on you…shame on you indeed.

Ladies and chumps if you want to take advantage of any of these stunning offers then apply now. If I get a job in the next week there will be limited sessions (HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAH). No really on a serious note now send me your fucking money; I’m getting poorer by the second.

Yours passionately.

Lukat.

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.