I’ll cut you in half while you’re smilin’ ear to ear


I have very little sympathy for soldiers who come back from war missing an arm or a leg or suffering in some way. You went to war, another guy in another country also went to war and he blew your fucking leg off. Stop whinging about it.

You knew what you were signing up for. What did you expect? A welcome party waiting for you in Iraq or Afghanistan? Nope. You got your legs blown off and have about as much hope of leading a normal life when you return from the horrors of war as Oscar Pistorius has of developing athlete’s foot.

Your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re saying.

My soul always winces whenever I read a Robin Williams (or some other celebrity suicide) tweet that reads something like this: Robin Williams died from suicide. Helpline numbers: 1222-blah, blah and blah. #tearsofaclown

It is the helpline numbers that make me wince, it’s so—I don’t know, fucking stupid?

Like someone needs a reminder.



‘I totally forgot that I was depressed and have suicidal thoughts. You were meant to remind me to phone those helplines!’

‘Jaysus Johnny, it totally slipped my mind.’

‘Thank fuck for PrickPringles@Hornymuffin or I would have never remembered.’

What do they think is going to happen? That someone will read their tweet and be inspired to phone the helpline and maybe it will be a turning point in their battle against depression?

Do they actually think that someone in this day and age has no clue about helplines for suicide? If so, come a bit closer because my foot can’t quite reach your arse from here. It is condescending, emotional porn.


‘My grandfather was a tight bastard,’ Jimmy said. ‘He had lots of money but would never spend any of it if he could help it. Not on himself, not even on family and friends, every Christmas and birthday present was the cheapest thing he could find. Nobody liked him.’

‘And you can’t take it with you when you go,’ I said.

‘Exactly,’ Jimmy replied. ‘He died and left every cent he ever had to my father.’

‘There ya go. All that money and somebody else spent it for him.’

‘I wish,’ Jimmy replied. ‘My old man was just as tight as his father. The brick doesn’t fall far from the building.’

‘I guess your father was reared with that attitude and it rubbed off on him.’

‘It did indeed. My father was not just tight. He was a hoarder. Until his dying day he kept everything even if it was broken or had fallen apart. It killed him in the end.’


‘He joined the army and was killed by a grenade.’

‘Fucking Hell!’

‘Yes. He did everything right, he pulled the pin, took aim…but he could not bring himself to throw it away.’