Maybe that last complaint is uniquely mine – a few years ago I upset the Midland Mainline press office by writing a newspaper column when I likened their attitude to that of the Stasi. I got a rather frosty reaction from the people at my local station too. “Maybe I was a bit harsh”, I thought at the time, though once again I now feel fully justified, self righteous, and I’m about to mount my high-horse.

The other day I had to go down to London on business, as part of my new job (that’s right, I’m basically Don Draper now), so thinking it was the sensible thing to do I booked tickets online like I have done many times before. I went down to London, did the sort of jet-setting important business you’d expect someone of my stature to do, before heading back to St Pancras to catch the train home.

Because I’d booked online, I’d ended up with “Advance” tickets, assuming they worked like they always have – whilst the return train isn’t tied to any particular time, the seat reservation is, but that I could catch any off-peak train back with the ticket I’d paid for.

If any train spotters are reading, you can probably predict the horror that was about to unfold as I boarded the train. I put my advance ticket into the ticket-gates, they swung open, seemingly verifying my preconception, I boarded the train, found a seat and tried to decide whether reading New Humanist or The Guardian would make me look more important to the other passengers.

The ticket inspector came along the carriage checking tickets, I presented mine expecting no problems only to be told that my ticket wasn’t valid. I calmly explained that this had never happened before, but the ticket inspector wouldn’t budge – he insisted that I had to buy a whole new ticket. “Oh, fair enough, it’ll only be something like £11 as it’s a single in the middle of the day”, I thought. Then he dropped a bombshell: the ticket would cost me FIFTY-ONE POUNDS. I think I looked visibly shocked – and the woman sitting opposite me looked as horrified as I did. The ticket man explained that if I’d changed my tickets at the station it’d have been somewhere in the region of £14… but because I’d got on the train he was going to charge me £51 – this despite the ticket machine he was holding clearly being able to issue a variety of suitable fares. I asked him about railcards and the like, but he said it was “company policy” to charge the full fare.

I was furious, but remained calm as I handed over my card – before asking, in a sort of passive-aggressive way what the complaints procedure was, hoping that he’d let me off.

What enrages me about this whole experience is that East Midlands Trains were technically in the right, their small-print and “policy” had got me… but morally, I don’t know how Ian Dobbs, chief executive of Stagecoach’s rail arm can sleep at night. How can a company so ruthlessly enforce such arbitrary rules and metaphorically shit all over their customers?

At risk of sounding like a left-winger who’s much older than I am, the problem seems to be linked to nationalisation of the railways. Not the de-linking of infrastructure from train operation, or the impenetrable topography of who-owns-what, which has de-incentivised train operators from improving their service, but the complete removal of any accountability of the companies operating the trains. Because of the way the trains are operated, the commuters rage – our rage – is completely impotent.

One of the key ideas in capitalism is that it empowers the consumer by allowing them to “vote” with their money – if they don’t like a product or service, they can stop buying it and force the companies to change to win them back… that’s basic economics. The problem is that there is no competition for trains. Don’t be a smart-arse and say “what about national express?” or “what about walking?”, I mean actually plausible alternatives – and besides, bus and train operators are all eventually owned by a small handful of bastard parent companies anyway.

So basically East Midlands Trains have a free hand in treating their (whether they like it or not) loyal customers like shit, wringing as much cash as they can out of them for providing such a basic service. I feel completely powerless.

At least if we had a nationalised railway there’d be some political responsibility, and more crucially the whole ethos of the “business” would be about providing an affordable service and getting people to their destinations, not about maximising profits. Hell, a nationalised railway might even run services over night at a loss – something that they’re going to have to start doing for me to give up driving and enable us to achieve  the “low-carbon future” that we so desperately need to do something about.

I wouldn’t even mind paying the penalty fare if the prices were not so wildly taking the piss – the ludicrous disparity in peak and off-peak ticket pricing, and the high prices in general create essentially an apartheid system, where if I want to catch a train earlier in the morning, I probably need to be earning a six-figure salary or I should forget about it.

I think essentially what I’m trying to say is that trains are very frustrating. And I loath East Midlands Trains with a passion.

• East Midlands Trains
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The best bit is that I’ve managed to involve both my friends and work: Simon, Duncan, Niki, Crispian, Will, Carmen, Charlotte, Arthur, Jim, Steffan, Tom and Pete are all involved – and I’m hosting it on (where else?) ipadio.

Hopefully as there’s loads of us working together this will take off rather than sink without a trace, like, er, Two Minute Hate.

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No, I was watching one of the obscure religious channels on Sky, Inspiration TV. I know I shouldn’t be surprised at the transparent money-grabbing and the open contempt they show towards their viewers – after all, I compiled a video of much the same thing a couple of years ago – but it really reminded me just how sickening the whole thing is.

I tuned in to see a large man of about 60 wearing an expensive looking suit, hosting something akin to a church service on what looked like the set of Blind Date. At the bottom of the screen was prominently displayed phone number and a message soliciting for donations – or for viewers to “sow their seed” in religious channel parlance. Apparently a £120 donation will get you a free “Prophecy Bible”, because obviously the eternal love of God isn’t a big enough draw on its own.

What’s interesting about the language of “sowing seeds” to describe donations is that I’ve heard it before on other religious channels, where the on-screen charlatan will promise miracles in return for donations. Presumably there must be a loophole in the Ofcom broadcasting code that makes it acceptable to promise undeliverable rewards in exchange for money, as long as you express it as an agricultural metaphor.

What made this even more remarkable though was that the text occasionally changed to say that if the caller makes a donation of £1195 ($2400), then they are guaranteed to get a miracle that is ten times larger. That’s right: £1195.

So somewhat bemused by the precision at which indulgences were valued I sat and watched a large man, who must have been somewhere between 60 and 70 years old tell a long, rambling story about a trip he made, interrupting himself every few sentences to ask a man off-camera how many people had called in so far – as they were trying to find 12 people to make the big $2400 donation. What he lacked in charm and charisma he made up for in shouting.

To cut a long, rambling story short, the gist of it seemed to be that he got back something he gave away one time – the moral being that donating can only be a good thing. He said at one point: “Call in now and sow your seed of $2400! I’ll give it back…” which sounds surprisingly generous, but he then added “…but it’ll be by miracle”.

He kept referring to how he himself was a prophet, but I’m still sceptical that of all the people in the world that God would choose him, and even if he did, whether God would let this man write black miracle cheques as he seems to be doing.

The most enjoyable part though was as the end of the programme neared, he became more visibly anxious about not getting enough callers – the checks with the man off stage became more frequent and the presenter/reverend/pastor character became more visibly ratty. “You gotta act tonight” he said, slightly exasperated, “NOW!”.

He sounded pretty angry that people seemingly weren’t willing to send him over £1000 at the drop of a hat.

As the programme began wrapping up, the huge choir behind him started to sing “Yes Lord, Yes Lord” over and over whilst the man shouted “Pick up that phone! In Jesus’ name, pick up that phone!” repeatedly, whilst the cameras cut to the people taking the calls.

Having not hit the targets they were aiming for, right at the end another man appeared and informed us viewers (I’m assuming it wasn’t just me watching) that lines were going to remain open after the programme, and that we should “obey the voice of the holy spirit, obey the spirit of obedience”.

And at this point I got a little bit depressed thinking about the naked profiteering that these charlatans manage to get away with, and the poor, credulous people who buy into this shit and throw away their money.

It was still better than Children in Need, though.

• Check out my video about religious TV if you haven’t seen it already.

• Religious TV is irritating.
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My point is that for years I’ve been slagging off poetry – the creative medium that best manages to put up a fight to musical theatre in the battle for “crappiest art”. It’s drummed into us at school, as if to imply that it’s actually in some way vaguely important (much like how being able to dribble a football around some cones becomes important for twenty minutes a week as the PE teacher goes on a power-trip) – and I don’t think it would be unfair to say that it’s perceived as a dying art. After all – before telly was invented, watching a pompous cock read out some words that may or may not vaguely rhyme was the only means of entertainment, assuming you weren’t rich enough to have one of the serfs executed for laughs.

Today, for reasons that made it seem like a good idea (I might explain later if an idea I’ve had comes to fruition), I went to see some poetry, and I’m pleased to report that I was right all along – and if poetry is a dying art form, I say let it die, and put a bullet between its eyes just to make sure.

It was an open-mic poetry reading. And it was bad. Very bad. I’ve written a bit of explanation below in the style of a bad poem, to try and illustrate how torturous it was.

People sat in rows holding notes,

Berets, wine, and middle class satisfaction filling the air,

Posters for ’spaces’ to rent in Hoxton pinned up on the wall,

Faux-intellectualism permeating through the atmosphere,

As Islington ponces read collections of words they call ‘poems’.

They rarely rhymed, as real poems don’t have to,

Their structure was about as consistent as this,

They had no message, no meaning, no stance,

“Here is a poem about about Yorkshire I wrote whilst on holiday in Yorkshire”

Said one man, failing to recognise that he was wasting his life.

He was just reading out his blog with a few dramatic pauses

Punctuated by applause.

A “jazz poet” from Lewisham was up next,

He pronounced his “I”’s like “Ah”, like he was Gambit out of X-Men.

A ginger woman gave an uninformed rant about the role of religion in politics,

Probably because she’d describe herself as “spiritual”,

Given the bollocks she was talking in previous poems.

One man said he was going to read some prose that we might find “poetic”,

So he was basically reading an article he wrote,

About the campaign to release some bloke in America,

I’m sure his poem was going to make all of the difference.

The worst bit was when someone had a poem about the BNP,

“Are there any BNP members here?”, he asked,

“Yep, right here”, said one man in the audience, oddly proudly,

“I hope this isn’t fascist poetry night”, I thought to myself.

The poem wasn’t what you’d expect,

No “smash the fascists”, no “fuck the BNP”, no rallying cry,

Just some bizarre metaphor about full moons,

I didn’t really get it.

I think “Poetry” is just a pretentious name for a collection of words that those not talented enough to write music or those not big headed enough to write a blog use to describe a “collection of words about something”.

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My friend Eve and I were passing through Trafalgar Square today when we stumbled upon literally hundreds of Morris Dancers – it was all because of this. We hung around for a few minutes to take in what can loosely be described as “culture” (ie: old men prancing around), and to enjoy the amusing juxtaposition with some Falun Gong dancers who were also on the square waving their traditional hankies around too (theirs were red) – it was almost like a dance battle were taking place.

One thing that stunned us though were that one troop of Morris Dancers had blacked up. It’s just not something you’d expect to see in this century, let alone in a city as diverse and cosmopolitan as London. Clearly these country bumpkins who’d been bussed in for the day were as familiar with social progress as I imagine they are with modern technological wonders like the wheelbarrow or not marrying their cousins.

As we moved closer, to try to verify that yes, there really were blacked up men dancing on Trafalgar Square, a couple heard Eve saying “Well this isn’t very politically correct, is it?”

“Ah, but how do you know they’ve ‘blacked up’? They could have blackened their faces to be like miners, as they’re from rural England, and Morris Dancing was around before they knew about black people”, they said quite smugly, having shown us young people who’s boss.

It was at this point that we had to make a decision: how to respond? Obviously, the route I’d usually take in such a situation would be to troll them, and try and wind them up – but unlike most people who I’ll try to wind up, they were on the older side of middle-aged, so my genetic programming to be polite to old strangers kicked in and prevented me from jumping on my high-horse.

In the end, I responded with a rather tepid “Well, it doesn’t reflect terribly well on them, does it?” followed by explaining that Eve and I were members of the “PC Brigade”.

Seizing the moment, the wife of this couple delivered a knock-out blow in the tête-à-tête, by wryly wondering aloud if that by presuming that it was racist, when it might not be, that makes Eve and I the racists? The logic was pretty sound – after all, if I were to speculate that Robert Mugabe were a nasty, totalitarian bastard, when it turns out that he’s actually a lovely old man, that makes me the nasty, totalitarian bastard. The couple walked off, smugly, with their metaphorical copies of the Daily Express under their arms.

However, what makes this interesting that having since done some research – it turns out that the blacked-up Morris dancers was almost certainly playing on racial stereotypes. Here and here explain that blacking-up is something to do with North African origins of the practice. And as if this isn’t explicit enough, one Morris Dancing group based in the North West are called the ‘Britannia Coco-nut Dancers’ and you can see from their photos that they look like they enjoy blacking up.

So in a way, we were sort of right – they were blacking-up, and I guess the ethical question of “blacking up isn’t really on, is it?” remains for you to decide.

But take THAT old couple who I’ll never speak to ever again. I win at Morris Dancing factual accuracy.

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She starts off by making possibly the most banal observation about Twitter that’s it’s possible to make:

A friend showed me his twitter ‘feed’ this weekend. A cure for insomnia if I ever saw one. Did I really want to know what three hundred followers made of the film ‘In The Loop’. One opinion would do. I have absolutely no interest in knowing that someone had to take a roast dinner around to her grandmother’s house on behalf of her parents whilst visiting on Sunday.

Yeah, and what about people in cinemas who talk and rustle their food? Or kids on buses with loud music playing ringtones? You’re commentary is inspired, Nadine. Or it would be if you didn’t miss the point is such stunning fashion. The “why care?” can only be made if you fail to understand what Twitter is about. Twitter is a a meritocracy, where the most interesting people rise to the top – something you’d think a Tory would support. If you’re boring, no one will listen to you – that’s why people who only post Facebook-esque updates about what they’re eating or that they’re “happy!!!!!” only have four followers and people who try to be interesting and funny have thousands. If you’re bored by the people you see on your Twitter feed, you’re following the wrong people.

Obviously, there is a lot of seemingly trivial one-liner things on there. But to judge Twitter by individual updates is like judging a book by individual pages – the returns or “payback” are largely from the cumulative experience of following someone, and it’s exactly the same in real life. If someone you didn’t know told you what they had for lunch, you might not care – but if a friend did – say, in Nadine’s case, if it were that crazy creationist woman from the Dispatches documentary – you might be interested.

I also find Nadine saying she only wants one opinion rather than three hundred interesting. I realise she represents a Tory safe-seat but surely she must pay at least lipservice to the democratic process. You know the democratic process, right? The one where the opinions of many people are aggregated to make a judgement on something. Would it be childish to suggest that maybe she’s referring to the Bible as her “one opinion”, as she has got quite a history of Bible-bashing? Perhaps, but it isn’t going to stop me. God’s already on Twitter, anyway.

Nadine continues on:

Twittering has to be a symptom of a dysfunctional society. You know the one I’m talking about; when people don’t talk to, care about, help, consider or even interact with each other anymore.

Yeah, Twitter isn’t social media at all – look at all of it’s other functionality that isn’t designed for interacting with other people. Did Nadine’s friend actually show her Twitter, or just a rock on the ground and say that it was called Twitter? She does later refer in her post to a “lap top” with a space in there, so maybe this tech-no-lo-gy thing is all new to her?

What’s brilliant about Mad Nad’s blog post though is the last bit, where she seems to – whilst completely unaware – demolish any point she was trying to make in the first place:

At my daughters birthday party this week 60 good and close friends turned up. People she has known since nappies, playgroup, school and university. She doesn’t twitter to any of them. She may spend hours running up her phone bill, but at least she and her friends still know how to talk to, care for and laugh with each other.

Kids today! Spending so much time on the “telephone” talking to each other and interacting despite a lack of geographic proximity! This is what’s causing society to dysfunction – it’s not the disparity in the distribution of wealth, or lack of social mobility disenfranchising people causing “broken Britain” – it’s all of these new passed-buck-holding technologies.

I don’t talk to, care about, or laugh at anything on my Twitter feed. It’s a completely joyless experience. That’s why it has so many millions of users and has taken off so spectacularly recently.

Nadine ends by explaining that:

Whilst psycho analysing twitter over lunch, we came up with some things you just wouldn’t dare twitter, ever, ever. Especially if you were an MP.

Yeah, you have to be careful. You wouldn’t get many kind replies on Twitter if you were to post that you’d just voted to restrict abortion rights, for example.

I think Alan Johnson was right about the best way to campaign for the next election: David Cameron might seem tolerable but just look at the crackpots sitting behind him.

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Obviously it’s pretty much the done thing to slag off all politicians, “they’re only looking after themselves”, blah blah blah. But this is only a cliché because of the regularity with which political figures re-demonstrate this tired argument for defeatism.

For instance, I was stunned to see that a bigger fuss hasn’t been made of Lord Bell, one of the key figures behind the Tories 1979 election campaign, is now running a public relations campaign for Alyaksandr Lukashenka, the President and dictator of Belarus (“The last dictatorship in Europe”). Who, my understanding is, a thoroughly nasty man – political opponents in Belarus tend to “disappear”, that sort of thing.

I could – maybe – understand, say, operating a business in a dodgy country – on the basis that globalisation can sometimes democratise, or that some money coming in is better than none or whatever – but to be employed by the Belrussian President to make him look good… I’m struggling to see the difference between Lord Bell and Lord Haw-Haw.

Having a look at Bell’s Wikipedia entry too, it tells me that he was also involved in the controversy over the shutting down of bribery and fraud inquiry into the selling of weapons to Saudi Arabia… arguing on the side of the Saudis, that the bribery claims shouldn’t be looked into. Amazingly, he was also apparently put on an Iraqi advisory board for the “promotion of democracy” – which I guess is equally as ludicrous as making, say, Tony Blair, a Middle East peace envoy.

And what the hell was he knighted and made a peer for? Services to Bastards?

Apparently Lord Bell used to have scruples, but then realised he could sell them off for a stack of cash instead.

Sigh.

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It screams “ANOTHER BLOW TO FATHERHOOD” in that way only the Mail can do. No – it’s not a sympathetic piece  supporting say, Fathers 4 Justice and their campaign for father’s rights – the Mail branded those “morons” long ago. It’s in fact some thinly-veiled homophobia, of course. “Now IVF mothers can name ANYONE as ‘father’ on birth certificate – and it doesn’t even have to be a man”, the paper tells us.

Now obviously the Mail can’t just outright attack homosexuals – even it knows these days that it isn’t really on – and besides, the Mail is the voice of silent majority – shouting would be to surrender to the politically correct Brussels bureaucrats that really run this country. So it has had to opt for some euphemistic language instead.

Critics said a woman could list her best friend on the birth certificate. The word ‘father’ may even be replaced with the phrase ’second parent’.

Don’t worry they’re not lezzers, they’re just good friends.

The second parent, who will have to consent to being named, will take on the legal and moral responsibilities of parenthood.

This raises the spectre of a legal minefield in which female ‘fathers’ will fight for visitation rights and be chased for child support payments if their fragile relationship with the mother breaks down.

Obviously any relationship between women is going to be fragile because who’s going to beat them into behaving?

Making its agenda slightly more obvious, the paper tells us:

The regulations are part of the controversial Embryology Bill passed by Parliament last year. The Human Fertilisation and Embryology Authority said they will give lesbian couples in civil partnerships who undergo IVF the same rights as married heterosexual couples.

So we get it, this is a Bad Thing, right? But how can we know for sure – what we need is an expert opinion. Maybe a Doctor could give us some insight:

Dr Trevor Stammers, a GP and lecturer in healthcare ethics, questioned the strength of the relationships or friendships between the mother and ‘father’.

He said: ‘There is no doubt from sociological evidence accumulated over the past few years that children do best in a two-parent married family with heterosexual couples being the married parents.

‘It probably will be the child that is the loser but by the time we find that out, in 15 or 16 years, a huge amount of damage will have been done.’

Dr Stammers, has been described as a GP and lecturer in healthcare ethics. He makes quite a damning judgement of the moves here – I wonder what informs his ethics? Oh, he wouldn’t happen to be the same Dr Trevor Stammers who is head of the Christian Medical Fellowship, would he? Oh, he is. I wonder how much of his “sociological evidence” was found in his Bible?

The Mail also cite another professor:

David Jones, a professor of bioethics, likened the role of second parent to that of godparent. He added: ‘This sounds like social engineering on the hoof.’

David Jones is a professor of bioethics – that’s an important sounding role. He must definitely be an expert. Oh wait, here he is – it looks like he isn’t a scientist, or a professor of say, sociology, both which would make his contributions relevant – he’s a Professor of Theology. He’s a Professor at St Mary’s University College, Twickenham – which when you look at its mission statement, reveals in it’s first line to be aiming “To advance education, in such manner as befits a Catholic foundation” and that “The mission of St Mary’s is to provide high-quality academic and professional higher education within a collegial ethos inspired and sustained by Christian values”. The website also reveals that Jones doesn’t have anything even resembling a science qualification, having stuck with theology. No wonder the anti-abortion Society for the Protection of Unborn Children are such big fans of Prof Jones’ bioethics course.

There’s a name on the St Mary’s website that sounds familiar too. Dr Trevor Stammers? Why do I recognise that name from somewhere? It makes me wonder how much of this story is verbatim from a press release.

Still, maybe the Mail’s other sources of commentary are more objective?

Philippa Taylor, of Christian charity CARE, said: ‘We are going to get to the point where a birth certificate is not going to be a true statement of anyone’s biological heritage.’

Oh. At least they’ve admitted that this lady is head of a Christian charity. Though what a quick Google reveals is interesting: the evangelical organisation started life as the Nationwide Festival of Light – which Mary Whitehouse had a prominent role in. No surprises there then.

So what about our elected representatives – what do they have to say? I hear that there’s some cross-party concern about this change for birth certificates.

Geraldine Smith, Labour MP for Morecambe, said a birth certificate should be a true record of a child’s genetic heritage. She added: ‘I don’t think the state should collude with parents to conceal the true genetic identity.’

Hmm… so Labour MP Geraldine Smith – who apparently hangs out with religious types – is concerned about genetic identity. On a completely unrelated note, she’s got a track record of being strongly against equal gay rights.

Former Tory leader Iain Duncan Smith said a father played an essential role in the development of a child. He added: ‘The present Government seems not to care a damn about families.

Ah, IDS. Concerned about families. On a completely unrelated note he’s got a track record of being very strongly against equal gay rights.

At least Ann Widdecombe, a woman who quit the Church of England and joined the Catholics because it was too liberal for her, is fairly honest about her intentions:

Tory MP Ann Widdecombe said the change would destroy the ‘basic nature’ of a man and a woman bringing up a child together as parents.

On a completely unrelated note, she’s got a track record of being very strongly against equal gay rights.

These are MPs in the Commons though. What about the other Chamber, the Lords? That’s where respectable peers, who are able to take time and deliberate in a calmer, less confrontational manner are able to go over bills with a fine tooth-comb to make sure all of the technical details are sound.

Baroness Deech, a former chairman of the HFEA, said the practice would lead to the ‘ falsification of the birth certificate’.

A bureaucratic concern – falsifying birth certificates could create some problems. On a completely unrelated note, Baroness Deech has happened to be absent on every vote on equal gay rights.

So I’m not saying that the Daily Mail is homophobic or anything – well actually I am. It’ss just funny how every source of comment in a story happens to come from either an anti-gay (not to mention anti-abortion, etc) member of the legislature, or a couple of Christian sources (a religion that doesn’t exactly have a tradition of tolerance). What makes this even worse is that Mail have deliberately hidden the affiliation of these people to various religious organisations and the like, which makes the whole thing fundamentally dishonest.

So typical Daily Mail, really.

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LBC aren’t moaning about him disputing what the DJ, Jeni Barnett, was saying on the radio – chances are they know that she’s an idiot, but they’ve clearly been trying to cover their tracks and hide the fact such rubbish was actually broadcast. So they’ve threatened to sue Ben for “copyright infringement”.

Arguments about fair use, whistleblowing or public interest aside, I think LBC totally have a point there – if Ben Goldacre hadn’t put the recording on in the internet, I would have definitely bought a CD compilation of LBC’s Greatest MMR hits.

You’d think they’d be happy about having listeners redistribute material there’s never going to be any residual revenue on to boost awareness of the station – all of the TV news channels don’t complain about clips appearing on YouTube for much the same reason. So Ben’s had to remove the clip – but now it’s available all over the internet, including on Wikileaks.

As you probably know, this whole MMR causing autism myth started when a hilariously flawed and consistently debunked study by Andrew Wakefield was published in the Lancet – and more importantly, was picked up by the Daily Mail and Melanie Phillips began the uninformed scaremongering. And then the cases of mumps rocketed.

I’ve actually been looking into Wakefield’s methodology, and have conducted a study myself using it. And the results are quite amazing: it turns out that being a fan of Andrew Wakefield makes you a dick. I’ve even got a graph that proves it:

The results are pretty conclusive  – the trend is very clear. The bigger fan of Wakefield you are, the more of a dick you are. Now, I know there may be “MMR sceptics” reading who might dispute this – you might argue that correlation does not prove causation, or perhaps allege that my research was completely fabricated or not conducted properly. If that’s the case, I ask you: why are you holding me to a higher standard than Andrew Wakefield?

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I think though I’ve found a new contender for the most depressing group yet: “I Steal Signs and Other Random Crap When Im drunk!“.

As you might imagine, it’s full of arseholes boasting about the horrendous things they’ve done when drunk. Here are some samples:

“me n a mate stole a couple of kids bikes n rode them bout half a mile home. they were in the living room the next day n we used them to get round the flat:) lmao”

A man boasting about stealing from children.

“i once stole a tug of war winners sheild out of a pub when i was steamin lol”

This goes a bit beyond the student staple of stealing pint glasses. Though I don’t even find that tolerable.

“last time me and my mates went out we managed to remove a car exhaust from a ford mundano,

none of us own a ford tho, lol.”

Horrifying.

“I steel things when im Pissed, sober or fucked out my nut on weed!!!!!! LOL !!!!!!!!!!”

So he’s a thief, alloy and a wanker 100% of the time then.

“me and my mate “found ” a zimmer frame while at a funeral, police came to the wake and took it off us!!!”

I wonder if this is actually some sort of in-joke?

“the most ramdon thing i have stoling was half a wall”

I don’t really understand this one.

“hey on my hen night my mate stole a cone his name is colin he even came 2 wedding with us then he came 2 the lakes with us”

Sounds like a classy wedding. You can’t see the cone in her profile picture, which is one of her wedding photos.

“I have a great selection of shot glasses and those orange warning lights that workmen always have at the side of the road. I am also the proud owner of some BMW hub caps!!”

It’s actually fairly interesting to try and consider where these people draw the line between “fair game” (cones?) and “actually bad theft”. I mean, hubcaps? Jesus.

“when living in bumfuck nowhere we actually just destroy stuff with our vehicles. like drive over people lawns, ram dumpsters, and every now and then the occaisional house gets hit because of drunken foolery…at least its all meant to be good old hazardous fun right?”

I mean, what the fuck?

More Facebleak:

• Status messages that are almost as irritating as when someone syncs their Twitter up with it
• Facebook groups about tramps are almost as cliched as groups parodying other Facebook groups
• A comparison of top books at two universities that is almost as depressing as the intellectual snobbery and hypocrisy on show

• International Relations Society
• James is writing about Facebook. Again.
• Political Metrics
• Cult of the vagrant
• You’re the unluckiest person in the world, mate

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Post tags: depressing, facebook, groups, misanthropy, wankers