Imagine, if you will…

…in all its pompous glory, a long, rambling, dull, drunken post here about the mind-buggering awfulness of Die Hard 4.0, and that the iPhone WordPress app isn’t a bug-ridden festering baboon’s arse of shit that didn’t destroy the local draft last night when I was foolish enough to press ‘Save’. Go on, imagine it.

Twitter twat

You can read more of this pointless shite by following along on Twitter @ncguk. If you don’t know what any of that means, count yourself fucking lucky and go outside instead.

Things that don’t exist

Kiwipedia, the collaborative encyclopaedia for dyslexic New Zealanders.

Three words or phrases that will be banned come the revolution, pt.XIX

1. The cloud
2. Steampunk
3. Quentin Tarantino presents

It’s Robocrap!

Reuters reports that sinister forces may have replaced UK Prime Minister Gordon Brown with a sophisticated robot.

Spammers: they’re lovely

A spammer has thoughtfully used my e-mail address as the reply-to in some spam the cunt has excreted and, as a consequence, at one point this morning I was getting battered by over 100 delivery failure notices a minute. Call me unreasonable, but I’d quite like to see that spammer torn apart over a period of several years by a large machine designed specifically for the task, while it simultaneously waterboards him with the urine of people he’s spammed and embeds broken glass in his face, until he’s pulled into 5 separate pieces, set on fire, buggered by perverts, and then buried in a vat of old people’s shite.

Message to phishers

Dear phishers,

I am writing to you to ask that you please keep sending me eight fake bank security notices a day, as the more notices I receive the more convinced I become that they are genuine. More than that, your subtle tactic of bombarding me with poorly constructed pleas for my personal details and surprising choice of pretending to be a bank with whom I don’t have an account indicates to me that you have a certain blind jolly optimism rarely seen in the evil scamming prick world and, for that reason, I certainly hope you don’t have a bloody and horrifying accident involving your testicles and a food blender that involves searing, intolerable, excruciating pain and a slow, lingering death that lasts several days, you fucking thick as pigshit venal cuntmonkeys.

Yours sincerely,
Deskbound.

Ad campaign for Virgin Media directory enquiries not a great success

“It’s like 118, plus 2, minus 118!”

Message to Richard Branson

You’re not a rock star, you sad old prong, you’re a ruthless corporate tossbag just like all the other CEOs, so stop trying to be likeable, put the guitar down, and fuck right off.

Virgin Media = Goons of Goon Island

Somewhere between Sunday night and Monday morning my Virgin Media broadband, cable television and phone service died.

On Monday evening the first Virgin Media phonecock I spoke to told me there were no engineers in my area until Friday, and forgot to book the appointment anyway; then on Tuesday morning an engineer turned up while I was out and fixed the phone service. On Tuesday evening another Virgin Media phonespaz told me categorically that there were no engineers available until the following Monday evening, 8 days after the fault occurred.

Today (Wednesday — 5 days early) an engineer turned up to say he’d had a rummage around in the junction box down the street and fixed the TV and broadband. Left hand, meet right hand. No? Okay then.

And, because Virgin Media likes to give the gift of raging incompetence, the set-top box has come back to life with most of its channels missing because of another fault in the area.

In summary, then: commtards.