U.N. HAPPY.

Now let’s get one thing out of the way before I start, a rant is like a dose of diarrhoea, it comes upon one suddenly and once it starts there is no stopping it, overall it is a gut busting blow out which gives much relief to the sufferer, even if it does not clear the air so to speak. Having got that off my chest, lets get down to the nitty gritty.

The U.N. in it’s wisdom, which is not saying very much, as sagacity and the international body have but an imperfect appreciation of each other, has compiled an index of happiness which ranks the nations of the World according to the jollility of their inhabitants. Number six on the list are the Swiss, well that in itself is hilarious, the only time that lot are happy is when they are grassing up their neighbours for farting late at night. Before the Swiss in the league tables are the Scandinavians, it gets better does it not? After all, the Swedes have the highest suicide rate in the World, just imagine your average Swede looking the bathroom mirror first thing of a morning “Oh! I am so happy, I won’t have a shave, I’ll go and top myself instead”, happy? They must be friggin delirious, well the U.N thinks they are

Now where does this leave us poor Brits? Easy, back of the bus stop with no chance of a ride. Take my circumstances for example, and as you will see, the U.N. certainly did not consult me on the question of happiness, although compared with the Swedes I reckon I must be pretty chipper. I live in Whitechapel, the Riviera of the East End of London, a more sorry dump you would not have seen this side of the Pearly Gates, I share my garret with another, he has fur, four legs and loves cheese and if the bastard does not find another gaff pretty damn soon then I am going to present him with a rent book.

Last week I went off to vote, nothing wrong with that you might say, right, except that I got the date correct but the month was a bit out of kilter and as the polling station doubled up for a school, and I was poking around looking for a voting booth I was nearly arrested for paedophilia, the fact that I happened to be wearing a dirty old raincoat did not help matters.

On my way back from the West End the other day, the journey had the added attraction of a cabaret. A fellow passenger who bore all the traits of what I call a Monica, every bitch I have ever known has been a Monica, that is they all have big mouths, bigger arses and faces pebble dashed with zits, this example of the genre had the added attraction of a bald patch the size of a dinner plate, either that or her roots were seriously in need of attention. The dame started shooting her mouth off the instant she stepped on the bus and managed to antagonise every other passenger before completing her journey, after which we all had a jolly good time slagging the old bitch off. Now that was happiness, it would have been complete if the old hag had fallen over and broken her neck.

I got back to the residence to find the lodger had finally popped his clogs, to save on funeral cost, I dropped him down the bog, well, he was only a mouse after all, then I decided it was time for a leak. Unfortunately, my pissing on the poor four legged mite revived him, with the result that he leaped out of the crapper and bit me on the dick. Now if you think running around the joint with a rodent hanging onto your foreskins adds anything to the happiness of the nation then all I can say is that you had better run away and join the rest of the dopes at the U.N., where you can assist in the proclaiming of Syria as a haven of peace and tranquillity.