Lee Fist

Christmas is for cunts

2007-12-25T12:07:00.000Z

Shazza's caught on to the fact I'm writing this blog, and now she thinks she's me fucking manager or something. "You got to keep your readers happy Lee, send them a Merry Christmas message, they'll like that".

Who does she think I am? Fucking Graham Norton or something? If you ask me Christmas is bollocks. Don't get me wrong, I like the run-up, and the days leading up to new year. It's Britain at its best. Time off work, eat, drink, be merry and cause trouble. But Christmas day? Load of shit. I mean, what sort of a twat would say the best day of the year is the one when the Bull only opens for a couple of hours in the afternoon? And you're taking me for some kind of cunt if you think I actually want to go round Shazza's parent's house and watch Chris Plumber eating his turkey while seeing off the cans that Shazza made me bring round as a "goodwill" gesture.

No, I've had enough. Christmas is wank. I mean, I've heard some elaborate excuses for how a bird got up the duff, but only one of them has meant we have to spend a shit day out of the pub and sat round a table with a bunch of cunts you cant stand.

Roll on Boxing Day.

Few tales from the Bull

2007-12-24T20:56:00.000Z

I was having a great fucking Christmas until Shazza decided to lay the law down. "Enoughs enough," she said and now I'm stuck here writing to you cunts on Christmas Eve while the boys are on a bender. They're doing a pub crawl all the way into the centre of Stoke and hope to bump into a bunch of pricks doing it the other way. But I've got to be on good form for Shazza's parents tomorrow or some bullshit.

I've had a Stella time so far this Christmas. Drank over 100 pints in the last ten days and am planning to get blottoed right up until the end of the year. So while I'm sitting here I thought I'd recount a couple of stories I've heard down the Black Bull over the last few days.

1. Chantelle Spreadam was in the other day telling us how she banged Chris Plumber after sharing a taxi home with him from Liquid. We were all like, "You dozy slag, why did you do that?" She replied, "Fancied a bit of cock didn't I." But she was shocked when Plumber whipped the lad out- apparently he's got a bell end like a blind cobbler's thumb! Ha! What a cunt.

2. D&D Dave was in with his kid Dwayne, who was banging on about what he's gonna leave out for Santa when he comes. I'm like, "Fuck this cherry shit, give the man a can of Stella. He's earned it." But then Police Cell Pete pipes up, "Nah mate. If everyone gave him a can he'd have half a billion pints in one night. He was so pissed last year I saw him having a slash up against my neighbour's garage door. Dozy cunt left his sleigh unlocked so I had myself an XBox 360."

3. One of D&D Dave's mate, Indecent Gav was telling us how he got his nickname. He was lying in the park one day, catching a few rays and knocking back a few tinnies. Fine. Then some fittie comes along and starts taking off her gear and rubbing cream all over her flaps. Gav's loving this of course, but being the upstanding citizen that he is, he goes into the bushes nearby to crack one off.

I mean, it would just be out of order to blow open his chutney chamber in full view of passers by.

So anyway, he's there thrashing away at his sperm sprinkler behind a good old Sycamore tree. But then, just at the critical point, some old bird and her kid walks past and spots him let fly his jumping jack juice all over the pavement. Luckily they thought it was a pigeon dropping but he still got in the shit with the pigs for whippin' out his wanger.

Couple of weeks later he's up in court and the judge tells him he's being done for indecent exposure.

Gav's havin' none of this – and rightly so – shouting back: "Are you fucking telling me my dick ain't decent! I even washed it last night! See for yourselfs!"

At this point he pulled down his slacks, whipped off his boxers and slapped his (big) fella down on the top of the dock, even pulling back his foreskin so the whole court could see how clean it was. And fair play like, there weren't no Stilton rubble that day.

But the judge weren't that happy like, so he ended up gettin' done - six months in the slammer. Gav says it ain't too bad though in prison. Apparently inside it's a case of 'get your prick when you want mate'.

Fist: Pay what you like for my new album

2007-12-22T16:36:00.000Z

Here's something you dick heads might not have heard about. I made my own album the other month, and it got a few mentions in the Stoke Sentinel. I'll just let you read that, as I can't be fucked to write about it myself:

Fist: Pay what you like for my new album

Hot on the heels of Radiohead's latest album In Rainbows, unemployed Stoke resident Lee Fist, 28, is releasing his own record – and fans will be encouraged to pay what they want.

"It's just some bollocks I knocked up on some decks in my bedroom," Fist told gathering reporters. "There's a few banging tunes on there, but most of it's just shit. There's one bit where I recorded the sound of me nobbing my bird and whacked a beat over the top. After reading about the new Radiohead album I just thought 'If them whining cunts can do it, so can I'. I've got a mate to stick my album on a few CDs, and if anyone wants a copy they can just text me on 077876577890 and pay me whatever they want".

Lager lout or musical luminary?

Local layabout Lee Fist is sure to become Stoke's finest musical export since Robbie Williams with a stunning debut album. One For The Road combines some sumptuous synthetic beats with lyricism as honest as it is heart wrenching.

Cultural commentator and sometime TV presenter Gordon Agent-Orange said: "If Dylan was the poet of the baby boom generation and Springsteen the poet of the 80s badlands - then Fist is the poet of the 21st century sofa. He IS England right now."

The album kicks off with "Same Again (You Cunt)" - a thumping acolade to the 'drink now think later' culture that has swept across Britain since the Millennium. His post-apocalyptic vision of the country is deepened with "Fuck Last Orders", which cuts through contemporary liberal attitudes towards health and urges the common man to push his body right to its limits. And then beyond.

Another stand out track is a subtle and astute parody of Elton John's "Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting". "Every Night's Alright For Fighting" begins with the sound of finger nails being tapped gently on the bar and ends with a euphoric blood gargling noise cleverly juxtaposed against the sirens of onrushing ambulances. The Stoke Sentinel has learned that the sounds of this track are actual recordings. Fist, 28, revealed yesterday: "I'm for real yeah. But you won't see me carving that into my arm like some Welsh cunt. I'll carve you up son if you look at me wrong."

But One For The Road is not just an anthem for the laddishness that made Fist the man he is today. It does emotional. And how.

"Sticky Eyes" is a heartfelt ballad in which Fist releases his love for his girlfriend Shazza. The moans of lovemaking are cleverly worked into a beat described by the artist as "banging" before the song climaxes with an explosive cadence that leaves Shazza whimpering. The song ends with Lee at his most tender: "You've been blinded by my love, my dear," he sings.

Fans should text Lee as soon as they can to pre-order a copy of the album because it may not be free for long. Fist announced yesterday: "It's pay what you want at the moment. But if this shit gets big then I'm going round every cunt's house what's got a copy and won't leave till a) I've smashed up the place b) boned their bird (or mother) or c) got 15 susans out of them."

He added: "It's fuckin' art innit."

'Tis the season to get trolleyed...

2007-12-15T12:42:00.000Z

Look, I didn’t come up with that title. Shazza’s cousin’s been round and he wouldn’t shut up when I was writing this. Frankly he’s a bit gay. I mean, what sort of a cunt calls getting pissed “trolleyed”? That’s what I did to Chris Plumber’s motor when I spotted it on Morrison’s car park the other week. And as for “Tis” – who do people think I am? Charles Dickens, Shakespeare, or some cunt like that? I don’t think so mate.

Anyway, I couldn’t think of my own title for this post, so I let him have it. It’s not like I care, and it’ll keep the little prick happy for a few hours. All I wanted to do was let you know that me and the boys have been really getting into the Christmas spirit. Not in a gay way, mind, but we’ve upped our hours in the Black Bull. There’ll be a few big ones now leading into Christmas, and a few even bigger ones leading out of it. Shazza usually accepts that she probably won’t see me from about the 23^rd to the 27^th, although last year I did end up getting dragged round to her parents house for Christmas dinner. Plumber was there, and needless to say it all kicked off before the Queen had even managed to show us her minge, or whatever it is she does on telly every year.

The other thing people have been asking me about is Fabio Capello. Do I reckon he’ll do a good job? Well, truth is I’m not sure, but one thing I did hear is that he’s a big fan of some bloke called Franco. Now I don’t know who he is, but I’m just hoping it’s not the Italian name for Frank Lampard. He’s a right cunt.

Banged up proper

2007-12-12T13:55:00.000Z

I was reading me Sun this morning (Shazza's granma's always asking why I don't read something proper, like the Mail, but like I tell the smarmy old bag, I can't handle anything clever after a big night in the Bull) when I come to some article about how long coppers can bang up terrorists for.

Apparently the law wants to bang 'em up for 42 days without charge (not sure what that means, Ive never met anyone who's been arrested without getting charged), but some wankers in parliament reckon that's too long.

Now, I'm no expert, but if you ask me the least the filth can do is bang these bastards up. Let's face it, if you're the kind of cunt who's just done a suicide bombing, you're only gonna go and do another one if the pigs let you out on bail.

Reading about this reminded me of the first time I got put away for the night. I'd be caught having a piss against the window of Stoke Oxfam, so the bastards got me for D&D, indecent exposure and public urination. It didn't help that it was only Saturday afternoon, so Oxfam was still open. Police Cell Pete's auntie works in there - he reckons it's hilarious that she's seen me nob, but you'd probably have banged her when she was younger, so the joke's on him.

Anyway, they put me in a car and took me down the station and banged me up for the night. Somehow it had never happened to me before, so I didn't know what to expect. I'd heard it was a piece of piss - you know what you read in the papers, like a hotel and that, Ian Huntley being allowed to use Facebook, Rose West's ensuite jacuzzi, Shipman being allowed to shag prozzies on a Sunday...

But I get into me cell and there's just some kind of shitter and some horrible bed. So I ring the bell and tells the copper to bring me a telly. "If you think I'm sitting in here all night like some kind of cunt, you've got another thing coming". Bad idea saying this, it turns out, as the copper did me in the bollocks with his baton and locked me in for the night. I felt like that poor cunt who got chained to that radiator in Iraq or wherever. Those coppers down Stoke station are like fucking concentration camp guards, I tell you.

Still, you live and learn. These days I know exactly how to deal with getting banged up. Make sure you get pissed up enough beforehand so you don't even notice it all, and then in the morning make sure you have a piss on the matress before you leave, just in case the next guy in there's a rapist or a paedo or some shit like that.

Fight night

2007-12-09T23:07:00.000Z

Saturday night was fight night. And I don't mean that lightly. Hatton versus Mayweather in Vegas. Fist versus Plumber in Stoke. It all kicked off.

So here's how it happened. Cos the Hatton fight didn't start till 4.30 in the morning, we had a lock in at the Black Bull and got proper pissed up. I was already steaming by 'closing time' but then when John the barman pulled his new lock in curtains he bought from Ikea the other day I knew it was going to get lively.

Everyone was there - Police Cell Pete, Drunk and Disorderly Dave, GBH Steve and even their slags showed up to show their support for the Hitman. He may be from Wankchester but he's Our Boy in Vegas so you gotta support him. But crucially, fucking Chris Plumber - Shazza's brother - turned up because his cruiser, the White Bull, weren't showing it. Surprise fucking surprise.

Now me and Chris have never got on. Believe me I've tried but at the end of the day it just ain't happening. I drive a van for Somerfield, he stacks shelves for Morrison's. I like footie, he likes rugby league. Mine's a lamb donner, his is chicken. I'm a Stella man, he drinks Carlsberg. I punch, he kicks. I can be a cunt when I want, he's a cunt all the time.

Anyway, we stayed out of each other's way - until the Stella ran out. No problem says Barman John, we'll just get another keg. Chris, the cunt, says 'look mate don't bother yourself', I'll get it. He goes out the back, gets the keg - but then he hears the fucking pigs' siren go and launches himself into a bush. What a scared little cunt. After about half hour I'm thirsty as fuck so go out looking for him. I find him lying there under the trees scared out of his mind. Then I saw someone had nicked the keg. So I twatted him in the face.

My mantra has always been: the most important thing to do after you punch a cunt, is hit him again - but harder. So I'm stradling Chris, my throat's as dry as Gandhi's sandles, and smacking him again and again, screaming, 'WHERE'S MY FUCKING STELLA YOU CUNT!' Eventually all the boys come out and drag me off him - there was shit all over me but I didn't care.

Then Chris offers to nick a keg from the White Bull. Too fucking right mate, I said. He goes off, comes back with a new keg: fucking Carlsberg. This time I went ballistic, throwing glasses, shouting, headbutting the wall - the only way they could calm me down was by pinning me down and pouring whiskey down my throat.

So I ended up watching the Hatton fight being held down by D&D Dave and Police Cell Pete while Chris sat in the other corner mopping his bleeding nose like a sad cunt. The Hitman lost - I'm now calling him the Shitman - but fair play, he did his best. Although someone should have told him Mayweather lost a keg of Stella, then we might have seen some real fighting.

Mid-week warehouse lay off

2007-12-04T13:58:00.000Z

What? So I haven't posted for a bit. I've seen these other 'blogs' where the dickhead who writes it comes on and 'apologises' for not posting. Fuck that. Why the fuck should I apologise? I'll post when I want. It's your own fucking fault if you come on here and I ain't written anything new. If you spent more time shagging and less time wanking you wouldn't be on the internet so fucking much anyway.

This don't mean I don't try my best to post. But it's a bit like when I was at school. I try my best, but ultimately I couldn't give a fuck. Never have, never will. It's like that Shipman fella. He was a bloody good doctor when he wanted to be. Just chose not to be. Fair enough is what I say.

Anyway, some good news and bad news to start this week. Good news is I can step up my hours in the Black Bull in the run-up to Christmas, but the reason for this – and this is the bad news – is that they've pulled the plug on my hours at the warehouse. Had to lay me and this gypsy lad off, not enough work they reckoned.

So back on the Job Seekers', not that I ever stopped collecting that. I'm not gonna let it get to me. Just like GBH Steve's Grandad said to us that last time we visited him in the nick: "Don't let the bastards get you down lads". Bloody good advice that. Wasn't my fault anyway. Me and the gippo worked it out when we went for some lunchtime beers the day before they told us (we could see it coming, see it in the way the cunts looked at us). We reckon we were TOO productive. Pack the shit up too quickly and you're shooting yourself in the foot, shitting on your own doorstep, banging your best mate's missus, know what I mean? The work gets done and you're sent packing. Don't need you anymore. Thanks for nothing, like. Wankers.

So there we have it. Victim of my own success. Same old fucking story. Might be a bit skint now, but fuck it, I can up my Bull hours again. Every cloud, as some cunt once said.

I don't like Mondays

2007-11-27T21:47:00.000Z

At first I thought I had a right result with my warehouse job. Rock up in the motor for about 10, pack a few boxes, have a few teas, steal a few perfumes, get the bacon sarnies in, pack some more shit, nick some more then head off by 4 with £60 in my pocket.

But now it's really starting to fuck me off. I'm a man of the world right and, more importantly, a man of the street. Standing there putting fucking underpants on a trolley ain't exactly what I had in mind for myself when I was younger. I'm better than this. Anyway, there's one prick there who's really starting to wind me up - and not surprisingly, he's my boss.

So, this morning, I'm sitting there on the stairs having a tea. And I was knocking it back something rotten I tell you. I was slurping that bastard like Shazza's sister after a few vodka and Cokes. It never stood a chance. Then my boss comes over, just started the job, and he's all like: "How's it going fellas? You all feeling up for a big morning? We've got plenty of units to shift by this afternoon." You know the kind of slag – he's the weedy sort who says shit like "cheerioo", "just the ticket" and "thank-you". He drops his Ts on purpose, goes to fucking Church and once, I even caught him washing his hands after a slash. I even hear he doesn't slap his missus about!

Now my head's banging from last night and I can't be fucked with this sort of bullshit. "How was your weekend?" he asks. I'd rather re-enact Saturday night on this cunt's face than tell him about it.

"It was shit, now fuck off or I'll smash this Jordan perfume over your bonce," I says.

Lucky for him, he fucked off. Diplomacy. Lesson: violence may be the best way, but not the only one. Then I finished nailing my tea. And believe you me, I nailed it.

John Terry: a true symbol of the English spirit

2007-11-26T13:27:00.000Z

Told you fuckers it'd catch on. Imagine my surprise when I picked up my Sunday paper, only to find out that England captain John Terry had joined my campaign to save Binge Britain.

Turns out that a few weeks before last week's qualifiers, the England lads went out on the razz. And like a true English lionheart, captain JT was there leading from the front. He's got up on the stage, pulled a few moves with the lapdancers, then tried to piss in a plastic cup and got it all over the floor. Fair play is what I say. Nice to know that despite being paid 100 grand a week, our national captain knows where the true English spirit lies. Next time my Shazza catches me pissing in the wardrobe after a heavy night down the Bull I wont be in for such a bollocking.

And what about the other player? Get in! Shagging some bird and getting sucked off in the middle of a club. Don't know why they're protecting his identity – if I was him I'd be shouting it from the rooftops. Do a Heat magazine expose,like. "Stoke lad Fist bangs bird in club". Imagine showing that to the lads down the Bull.

I tell you, you all know how fucked off I was after the Croatia match. But fuck it, yesterday's news has restored my faith in Eng-er-land and its underlying bulldog spirit. Give me George in my heart keep me English!

Just say what you want mate

2007-11-24T13:54:00.000Z

I'm sick of signing on here and finding these messages slagging me off. These cunts reckon they've got the moral high ground, but let's face it, these days the moral high ground pretty much adds up to that bird who wrote Harry Potter doing a line of charlie off Maxine Carr's knockers. Not very fucking high, know what I mean?

Anyway, they come on here and question me, and reckon I ain't for real. As far as I'm concerned they're welcome to their opinions. "Just say what you want mate", that's my philosophy. But it don't mean they're fucking right. When I talk, people listen. Look at my profile picture. I've got the ear of Camilla, mate. And that ear's probably been jizzed on by the heir to the throne.

I'm not a soldier. But I know a few lads who are in the army, so I might as well be. If there was a war, blokes like me would be there leading from the front. A can in one hand and an uzi in the other.

You might wanna fucking bear that in mind.

'Postmodern'? 'Post-sober' more like

2007-11-23T15:18:00.000Z

I'm a man of the world right, and men don't stand around and take shit without having their say. That's what this blog is all about - cutting through the bullshit of the 21st century.

Anyway some cunt commented on my last post saying this was some sort of "postmodern pastiche". Now he's probably thinking I'm the sort of prick who don't know what postmodern means. And he'd be right. But I reckon he means I ain't for real.

Tell that to the Portuguese policeman I battered last summer - the England team weren't the only ones who got knocked out that night. Tell that to the barman I glassed in the Bull last month when he called last orders at 10.55. Tell that to Shazza, who caught clap from the best looking bloke in town (that would be me).

I don't have to walk round like some Welsh cunt with a a guitar and a razor blade blade to prove that I'm "4 real". I prove it every time I hit the streets of Stoke every Friday night.

Speaking of which, I'll be done packing boxes of Katie Price's perfume in an hour so will be down the Bull in no time. By the way, the only time I want to smell dear Katie is if I was just about to jizz over her baps. I've had enough of her "Stunning" range. There's nothing stunning about shit darling.

Anyway, back to "anonymous" who had the nerve to question what I'm all about. I just looked up "postmodern" on Wikipedia.

It is: "A cultural, intellectual, or artistic state lacking a clear central hierarchy or organizing principle and embodying extreme complexity, contradiction, ambiguity, diversity, and interconnectedness or interreferentiality."

Whatever. Sounds gay if you ask me. If anything, the 21st century should be termed 'post-sober': a culture of drink and drugs, football and fighting, fucking and getting fucked.

This is modern Britain. Deal with it.

Shit city, shit beer, shit team

2007-11-22T13:42:00.000Z

I'm back in Stoke and I'm fucking glad. London? What a load of wank. Me and D&D Dave trekked all the way down there for England v Croatia, and the silly cunts go and fucking lose.

I'd got pretty steamed on the drive down - 8 or 9 cans made the journey cruise by, and D&D Dave helped me polish off the rest of the 12 pack. By the time we got to London I was fucking well up for it – you know, let's have it, where's the boozer, like? But then it turns out we had to get on some shitty train. I says to some copper, "I thought Wembley was in fucking London, like?", he says "it is mate, out in zone 4". I thought, fuck off, the only zone I know is the Stoke city centre alcohol-free zone. And I don't even pay attention to that.

Anyway, we watch the match. I'm screaming at McClaren and his bunch of cunt players and some prick next to me tells me to keep the language down cos he's with his 6-year-old daughter. So I turns and says "Fuck off mate. If you don't want her to hear bad language you don't bring her to a crucial Euro 2008 qualifier. Should have left her at home with the wife, or is she too busy shagging your brother?"

The rest of the match, well, you know what I think. Next thing we're outside the stadium and all we wanna do is find a cruiser. But we end up in this fucking queue for some train station in the pissing rain and back on a train back to some place called Baker St. By this point me and Dave are absolutely arseholed and I'm asking some posh cockney cunt where we are. I says "what the fuck's Baker St?" The guy says "Why, haven't you heard of Sherlock Holmes", I said "Yeah, course I fucking have mate. He was a cunt. Didn't he fuck kids?"

So then we find ourselves in some boozer and I get the pints in, 2 wife beaters like. You'll never believe this. Price for two Stellas: £6.60. SIX POUNDS FUCKING SIXTY! I nearly fucking chinned the barmaid. Would have if it hadn't been some fit Polish bird. Next thing these Croatian fans come in singing and shouting. I thought for a minute give 'em a chance, it's not their fault. But then one of them nudged into me at the bar, so I stuck the nut on him. His mates piled in, something happened then me and Dave got kicked out. Shit pub anyway.

Off we went to try and find somewhere after hours. They say London's got everything, but I'll tell you what, it aint got any fucking lock-ins. We wandered for fucking ages trying to find a beer. Wasn't happening. Even tried going into that Stringfellows place but the bouncer was like, "sorry lads, no football shirts". I just thought fuck off, you've got birds in there prancing around with their muffs out and you're bothered about me and Dave wearing the 3 Lions. Didn't say it though, he was a big cunt. And by that I mean big and a cunt.

So there we were wandering, couldn't find anywhere. In the end we thought fuck it, get back to the car. But that was somewhere near Wembley. "Get back on the tube" Dave says. But turns out that shuts at half twelve. So we ended up getting some cans and sitting up in a park. Woke up piss wet through this morning and still absolutely hammered. Made our way back to the car and Dave drove us back.

London? What a shit hole.

England - a bunch of cunts.

2007-11-21T22:37:00.000Z

Carson cunt. Richards cunt. Lescott cunt. Campbell cunt. Bridge cunt. Cole cunt. Gerrard cunt. Lampard cunt. Wright-Phillips cunt. Barry cunt. Defoe cunt. Bent cunt. Beckham cunt. Crouch... cunt.

McClaren cunt.

As you all know, England just crashed out of Euro 2008 by losing to Croatia.

The beers are waiting. Somebody's gonna get hurt tonight.

We're going to Wem-ber-ley!

2007-11-21T13:14:00.000Z

About to set off down to London with D&D Dave for tonight's match. Dave's driving so I've got a few tinnies in for the journey down. He'll have 3 or 4 but you've gotta keep it legal aint ya?

I'm fucking well up for this, I am. I phoned in sick this morning to the warehouse. Told 'em I've got bird flu so they wont expect me in 'til at least Friday now. Got the old England shirt out too. Shazza had to give it a wash cos I hadn't worn it since we got knocked out of the World Cup last year. It's funny how hard it is to get bloodstains out. Still, the Portuguese cunt deserved it.

I'll be off then as Dave's beeping the horn, impatient cunt. I'm England till I die, I'm England till I die, I know I am, I'm sure I am, I'm England till I die!

Binge Britain: Your Country Needs You

2007-11-20T21:01:00.000Z

I've always said this country's been going up shit creek. First they shut down the factories where real men used to work. Then came zebra crossings and the smoking ban. And now, the newspapers are telling us we're just a load of poofs.

Get this: beer sales are now at their lowest since the 1930s.

Now I'm not knocking Binge Britain or anything. We're still downing booze at record rates - it's just no-one's drinking beer anymore. Apparently, in 1979 we were guzzling seven million more pints a day than now - it's by far the biggest scandal since Diana starting getting it on with her chauffeur.

Not to get too philosophical or anything - at the end of the day I'm just a cunt like everyone else in Britain - but sometimes I do believe we're born for a reason. Like that Jesus fella.

1979 was also the year I was born and since then I've done my level best to drink my way to the bottom of every keg in every boozer in the West Midlands. So today I've found my calling: I was put on this earth to become the Saviour of the Pint - and make Britain back into the pissed up Empire it once was.

I'm not saying this is gonna be easy. With gaylord politicians whinging about 10-year-old lads downing a few bottles of cider with their slags in the graveyard and many a wife bleating to their men to come home sober "just once a week" – we've certainly got a fight on our hands.

And today I heard the average beer might jump up to £4. Four fucking susans for a brew! But then again, money is just fucking money, and I'm fighting for a higher cause.

Let's get things straight. The pint is a man's best friend. I normally like to name mine: I always call the first of the night "one" then the last one is named either "fifteen" or "sixteen".

If there were more men like me in Britain today – there would be far less bullshit and far more of the Bulldog spirit that made us Great.

A bit of work

2007-11-20T09:43:00.001Z

Thank fuck. I've finally got a bit of work under me belt. I've been getting a right bollocking at my monthly meeting down the job centre, cos the cunts down there reckon that just cos it's called "job seeker's allowance" you've got to spend all your free time looking for a job. At least I have a flick through the jobs section of the Stoke Sentinel on a Tuesday, but those bastards reckon that's not enough.

Anyway, fuck 'em, cos Police Cell Pete's uncle's mate runs a warehouse where they pack and send out the kind of shit people only buy at Christmas – you know, gifts, perfumes, hampers, shit like that. They were recruiting extra for November and December, and Pete's uncle's gone and wangled me a job. Plus the bloke's agreed to pay cash in hand, so fuck the tax man – the only person getting his hand on these notes is the barman,

Added bonus is that in the warehouse they have all the kind of shite Shazza likes, especially Jennifer Lopez and Mariah Carey perfumes. I nicked her a couple of bottles yesterday and she was well chuffed. Told her they had a special offer on down at Boots – if she finds out I swiped 'em she'll have my bollocks.

So, good start to the week. Bit of steady cash coming up to Christmas means there's no need to think before I drink. I'll have to pull sickies tomorrow and Thursday when me and D&D Dave go to Wembley, but I reckon that'll be alright.

Sunday at the in-laws

2007-11-18T14:10:00.000Z

What's the last thing a bloke like me needs on a Sunday? I'm on the way out to meet GBH Steve and the boys in the Black Bull when Shazza collars me and says she's told her mum we'll go round for a Sunday roast. "For fuck's sake" I said. "How many times do I have to tell you that I don't do shit like that?" But she aint taking no for an answer, and starts crying and hitting me with all that "do it for me" bollocks. Tugging at the fucking heart strings, like. So I've said I'll go as long as we don't have to do any more shit like that until Christmas.

Don't get me wrong, I bloody love a proper Sunday roast and a few Stellas, and her parents are alright. Her Dad'll be down the bookies till the food's ready and her mum's just a harmless piss head, but me and her brother, Chris Plumber, just don't get on. He's a right prick. He drinks down the White Bull, which serves Kronie instead of Stella and is full of cunts. It all started at her 21st last year when he came up to me all tanked and said I wasn't good enough for his sister. I swung for the cunt but the sly prick booted me in the bollocks then filled me in while I was busy worrying about my spunk count. Me and GBH got him back a few weeks later but since then Shazza's been trying to stop us kicking off. I don't see him that often. It's not like me and the lads would lower ourselves to going in the White Bull anyway, fucking shit hole.

We're going round at about 4ish, so right now I'm sat at home seeing off a few Stellas and trying to recover from last night. It all got a bit heavy after D&D Dave got the Sammy B's in...

Russia left as sickle as parrots

2007-11-17T20:31:00.000Z

I don't care what anyone says - I fucking love the Jews. Just watched them beat the Russians 2-1 on the Sky John nicked for the pub. That means England just need a draw on Wednesday night and we're through. Me and D&D Dave will be there to bollock those Croat cunts all night - I can't wait.

Anyway I'm writing this on Dave's phone while he's at the bar getting a round of victory Sammy B's in. That's Sambuca to the rest of you. Better send some filth to his slag before he gets back...

Friday night. £100. Carnage.

2007-11-16T16:26:00.000Z

It's Friday night and I'm fucking buzzing. Just got back to the flat after doing some work on me nan's drive. £100 cash in hand. Tonight's gonna be messy.

To make matters even better, I just got a text from Shazza saying she's getting a crate of Lambrini on the way home from the salon 'cos she's having a night in with the girls. That's perfect 'cos it means I won't get no drunken phone calls later with her in tears wanting me to scoop her off the pavement and carry her home. With any luck, the silly slag will just pass out on the sofa.

So here's the plan: D&D Dave knocks off at 5 and GBH'll be along not long after so by 6 we should be well on the way. My philosophy has always been – get the first five pints down sharpish, then you can start having fun. When I hit the Black Bull, the barman's already pouring my first Carling before I reach the bar. Then I sit down, slap my wallet and fags on the table, and drink. I don't say much early doors, just get 'the five pillars of Bedlam' out the way.

Then for the Stellas.

After that anything can happen. Glasses, bottles, faces, cars, policemen, reputations, brain cells. They're all gonna get smashed. And I ain't apologising for that. It's a free fucking country. Our forefathers fought in the war for our right to fuck and get fucked.

After the Bull, reckon we'll head for Stoke town centre. Bit of a sing song and maybe a row on the bus, but eventually we'll reach my favourite cruiser – 'Spoons. Bloody great pub is JD Weatherspoons: cheap beer and even cheaper women. Quality.

We'll get properly tanked in there and probably hit Liquid afterwards. Lay a few moves down, sink some more pints and check out the slags. OK so I've already got a slag of my own. But I'm a red-blooded man, so fucking sue me.

We always round off the night – so I'm told – with a trip to Ahmed's (large lamb donner, curry sauce, onions no salad) and a rowdy ride home in a cab.

Shazza'll be in a sorry state as well, probably passed out – so I'm not gonna fucking apologise for anything I might do then.

Big weekend

2007-11-16T14:00:00.000Z

I'm fucking well nervous about this weekend. I'm gonna be fucking gutted if Eng-er-land don't qualify for the Euros. I'll be supporting Israel tomorrow when they play Russia. John the landlord's showing the match in The Black Bull, cos GBH Steve reckons some bloke he used to work with nicked some dodgy Israeli satellite card when he was up in that Jewish bit of Manchester the other week. He's giving it to John tonight who's rigging it up for us to watch the match tomorrow. We'll get proper beered up for that one, and if Russia win there better not be any Ruskies out in Stoke town centre. Me and the boys wont be happy to see them.

Bit of good news is D+D Dave texted me yesterday saying he's managed to get hold of 2 tickets for the England-Croatia match next Wednesday, so me and him will be hitting London for that one. Haven't been down there since I got nicked at a Stoke play off final at the old Wem-ber-ley, so it'll be fucking quality. Show them London pricks how it's really done. And even if England are already out we'll spend the match giving shit to that useless cunt McClaren.

But for now all I'm thinking about is tomorrow's game - come on you Jews!

Bit of a row

2007-11-15T09:46:00.000Z

Here's a video of the fight at last year's Stoke match at Leicester. My mate D+D Dave took it on his phone, but posted it by the name "leicesterFANdave" for a bit of a laugh. Plus he reckoned if he did that no one would know it was him.

This was the match me and Police Cell Pete got arrested at. "Why'd you do it?" the copper asked me. So I just told him the truth: "Shit ground no fans mate".

New sprog?

2007-11-14T11:28:00.000Z

So I'm chattin' my bird Shazza up the other night and she tells me sumat' about Julie next door gettin' banged up proper.

She was all like, "ain't it so sad", and I was like: "She had it coming love".

"That slag's got a great pram-pushing walk," I said. "Specially when she bends down to get the pushchair up curbs n'shit. Sometimes you can catch her CK pants through her white trackies.

"She's fit – cogito ergo bum – one day someone's gonna forget the Durex and splash the Dulux."

And funny enough, that's the way it happened. Now Julie's got an arc that would give Noah a run for his money if you know what I mean. Her bump's like one of those African kids you see on the telly.

Next day, I meet my mate GBH Steve. We call him that for a bit of a laugh – affectionate like – 'cos he actually got done for attempted murder. But that don't got a ring to it does it? And he don't like the term 'attempted' anyway. Steve lives by the motto: "When I wanna do a cunt – I do a cunt."

So I'm chattin' to GBH and, turns out, he's only gone and banged up Julie by mistake! 'Wham bam fill the pram' like.

Anyway, GBH is gutted. And I mean gutted.

"I'm already forking out for four hango-bortions," he says. (By the way, that's short for 'hangover abortions' – when your bird's too fucked from the night before to go to the clinic.)

So seeing his obvious distress I said: "Should of had a wank mate."

Nice one...

2007-11-14T09:53:00.001Z

Doctors need to watch their backs

2007-11-13T14:15:00.000Z

I'm fucking sick of doctors. One minute they're saying Shazza's got the clap meaning I'm left with my cock in my hand for 2 weeks, next minute they're saying going out getting pissed up is a bad thing. What a bunch of cunts. They might want to stay in on a Friday tossing off into their prescription pads, but me and the boys want to be out on the town sinking a few beaters.

So what if it's bad for your health. So's telling me and the lads to lay off the beers. If Dr Cunt wants to take time off from nobbing his receptionist to come down the King's Arms and tell the Stoke boys to stop drinking, he'll fucking find out what's bad for him. Drinking a pint aint half as bad for you taking one in the face.

And look at this bollocks: "A bigger problem was the discounting of prices by supermarkets and off licences". What, so the World Cup's on and me, GBH Steve and the lads want to go round Police Cell Pete's to watch Eng-er-land and we've gotta pay out our fucking arse's for 24 Stellas just so some bird who cant hold her drink doesn't fuck her liver up? Not that we'll be watching England next summer anyway - ginger grinning prick McClaren.

Fucking Mondays

2007-11-12T13:48:00.000Z

My bird Shazza's gone out to get some fags so I thought I'd have a quick look on the internet, if you know what I mean. I fucking hate Mondays me - it's days like today when I'm just glad I aint got a job. I was down the local last night and there were all these poor cunts taking it easy, worrying about having to work today. Not for me any of that bollocks. I almost chinned the fucking landlord when he called last orders at half 10. If he wasn't my mate's dad I probably would have done.

Speaking of landlords, we had a bit of aggro in another pub on Saturday night with my mate GBH Steve. Fuck knows why we call him GBH when he was done for attempted murder, but anyway, we'd been in the boozer all day when Steve's missus comes in at about 10pm shouting her mouth off. She reckoned Steve was meant to be shagging her later on but he'd had too many wife beaters. Next thing the landlord comes over and tells us to pipe down, and Steve's bird just fucking loses it and hits the landlord. Then the bouncers come over and it all kicks off. Worked out alright though in the end. Steve's missus ended up getting arrested, the silly bitch, meaning me and him could stay out and have a few more beaters.

Read this or fuck off...

2007-11-11T20:39:00.000Z

Right, listen up you cunts. My name's Lee Fist and I don't give a fuck. Never have, never will do. I come from Stoke, which is about the hardest town in the West Midlands, and I'm probably the hardest cunt in it.

Normally I only come on the internet when I want a wank but today's different. I'm launching my own blog because it's about time people outside Stoke started hearing what I've got to say.

I got the idea the other day when I was down the clap clinic with my bird Shazza. I was flicking through some paper called The Times when I saw this bit called 'opinion'. Basically it was a load of gays shouting their mouths off about tax and Arabs or some shit. I thought what's the deal with all these pricks telling you what life's all about? At the end of the day, if you can't hold your own in the town centre on a Friday night after 12 Stellas – who gives a fuck? Not me. The only opinion I give a shit about is my own.

So here's my blog: Lee Fist – Diary of a Modern Man. Enjoy it if you like, but I couldn’t give a fuck if you don’t.

In it, I'm going to talk about me, my life and my mates. Remember the name yeah. This shit's gonna go global. Turns out, Shazza's got clap so her twat's gonna be out of action for a while. So I'm gonna have to spend more time on the net anyway. I hate to say it, but even YouPorn.com has got a shelf life.