Johnstones everywhere

Having paid very little attention to my Scottish ancestry up until now, my nan (from whom my apparent Scottishness comes) informed me that me, my brother and my half Nigerian sister have been officially registered and accepted into Clan Moffatt (and all the spelling variations that come with that name). Since then, I’ve decided to embrace my Scottish heritage and live like a true Scotsman. I have therefore become unnecessarily nationalistic, extolling the virtues of a small part of a tiny, impotent kingdom that sold itself out to the English because of failed colonial efforts. After the travesty that was Brexit, I’m now heavily campaigning for another Scottish independence referendum. I think it’s high time we Scots regained our sovereignty. Regardless of what Brexiteers think about the necessity of a United Kingdom. They say it’s even more important now that we’ve voted to leave Europe in order to regain their sovereignty.

In learning more about my clan and the Scottish blood that courses through my veins, I learned that for many generations, we had a feud with Clan Johnstone. Since then, I have been keeping an eye out for any possible Johnstones. I’ve discovered there everywhere. Not necessarily bearing the name Johnstone, but like Scottishness, it’s something that goes beyond blood. Anyone can be a Johnstone. This guy for instance. He’s a proper Johnstone.

Johnstones represent everything that is wrong with society today. They exist on both sides of the current pollical chasm, through which a river of shit runs. Johnstones make up the reactionary right, spewing bile and hatred. They are bloated bigots supping from frothing tankards of privilege.

Johnstones make up the fascist left, using language and the notion of offence as a means to control. They are identity-obsessed and feel if they shout loud enough they can get their way, no matter who stands in their way. These whining weasels dine on smashed avocado on toast, buttered with privilege.

Johnstones are the sick fuckos who burn effigies of Grenfell tower whilst laughing gleefully. They are also the twats who write articles demanding they be tried for hate crimes rather than just calling them sick fuckos and moving on with their lives. Unfortunately, you can’t make being a tasteless piece of shit a crime – prisons are too crowded as it is.

Johnstones infect every layer of society. They are the loud, swaggering types drunk on cheap lager in a children’s park. They are the self-entitled middle-class mothers whining that their mocha is not mocharey enough. They are the disenfranchised youths that walk the streets with knives and lament the lack of opportunity, despite the fact that education is free (up to a point) and there are numerous initiatives trying to provide more. They are the conservative politicians who disregard these youths without a second’s thought, despite the fact that they might have a point (might, still no excuse to stab someone; being pushed to sidelines to be forgotten is no excuse for being a cunt).

I don’t know you, but I’m fairly certain you’re a Johnstone. Even I’m a Johnstone, and I’m a Moffatt, who hate Johnstones.

Deep down, we’re probably all Johnstones. Except maybe Liv Tyler and that’s only because I’ve not seen much of her since her Arwen days. Rose tinted spectacles and all that. Horny, spermy teenaged spectacles that look all angsty.

The world will be a better place when it has been washed clean of all Johnstones. Which judging by recent climate reports will probably be around 2030.


Throw Enough S***.



This is a famous moose, it is Famoose. A variation of this drawing is on an old entry of this blog somewhere, so if you were looking at it and thinking – that is entirely plagiarised, it is. I plagiarised myself… and anyone else that’s said Famoose before, which I’m assuming is quite a lot of people.


Throw enough shit and you’ll eventually hit someone you dislike.

That’s a family motto of ours, my kin and I have always been angry, bitter and hate filled. However, the general point of the motto is, perseverance is key. Keep working away at something and eventually you’ll get somewhere. This is a common theme. Perseverance is the key to success. If at first you do not succeed, try and try again.

And yet, it is said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. So, logically speaking, the key to success is insanity.

Insanity is all well and good in and of itself, but it’s not really sustainable, it’ll get you killed in the end. So, in that case, what is the key to success? More to the point, if success is what we all crave, why do we keep it locked away with only one key cut and then lose the key? We humans are ambitious by nature, back in the day when most mammals looked at large and dangerous predators they thought ‘fuck that, let’s run away.’ Whereas humans thought ‘One day, I’m going to punch that so hard in the face that it dies, and then I’ll wear its skin as a symbol of my power!’

We succeeded in that, or at least some of us did otherwise we wouldn’t be here – or at the very least there’d be more predators running about – like sabretooth tigers and that, not those weird aliens from the Arnie film and a string of other shit films.

That was a time when success meant survival. These days survival is sort of expected, in fact with the emergence of takeaways it’s really easy – you don’t even have to leave the house. If you find yourself dead at the end of any given day, then you’ve obviously done something very wrong, or stupid.

So, what do we mean by success these days?

It’s either lots of sex or lots of money.

With free to use online dating services becoming readily available, it’s now fairly easy to get sex (depending on your standards of course) and you only have to leave your house once. So money, money is the mark of success now and very few of us have any.

There seem to be many ways of making money, I was speaking to someone the other day who was earning enough money to pay his rent and bills with his own jam making company. So he was making and selling jam. JAM!

So, why aren’t we all making Jam? It can’t be that hard.

Where I work, those at the top are on a tremendous sum of money. I sometimes see them about the place, with self-satisfied grins on their faces and taking long, elegant and expensively trousered strides. One would suspect, given their high salaries that they have difficult and stressful jobs. They do not. From what I can tell, their jobs are to tell others to do some work and to walk around looking important.

So how come they are successful? Have they spent years and years flinging shit in the general direction of people they don’t like? Who knows? I’ll ask them one day.

I’m just bored and had nothing to do, my Xbox broke.

The FuzzyRambler





If Music be the Food of Love, Stop Playing Oasis

Below is a self-indulgent rant against buskers. I set myself the target of producing blogposts as often as possible, but have discovered I rarely have much to say. Enjoy.


I like music, I am a musician of sorts. I even won Hertfordshire under 18s Battle of the Bands many years ago. We were awarded with £300 and the chance to play an outdoor concert in the centre of Letchworth Garden City. It was during a cold winters day, the instruments went out of tune with each strumming of a chord, and an old man told us to be quiet, but we didn’t we stuck it to the man (at least that particular one) by playing for our allotted time and then buggering off.

So it might seem a bit hypocritical when I say I hate wannabe musicians and their insistence on trying to get people to listen to their music. In my defence, I am a hypocrite, it’s one of my few consistencies. There are many reasons for hating them. I know it may seem a bit extreme to brand them with such a powerful word, what with all the people in the world more deserving of it (Isis, Boris Johnson, various cowardly Leave campaigners who campaigned, got what they want and then fucked off, Donald Trump, Putin, James Franco, paedophiles etc.).

First of all – for all their claims to love music, and for music to be their life, they warble on with the same tired and basic songs. That is buskers and those that play in pubs. I have more respect if they do their own songs… even if they’re shit, at least they’re not cheating. Any beanie wearing twat you see playing in a pub, whenever they eventually (for they will, it’s inevitable) start strumming the opening chords to Wonderwall, be sure to stand up and punch them right in their arrogant and most probably bearded faces. Oasis were shit, it’s a well-known fact. Their terribleness is apparent in how popular they are at open-mic nights in pubs and how everyone sings along. Their songs are easy, culminating in tuneless wailing, which is why they go down well in such a location, because drunk people can sing along with ease. It’s cheating. Anyone can get a reaction by playing Wonderwall to the ignorant masses who don’t know any better.

Buskers in a busy town or city centre utilise the ‘Oasis factor’ as a shield. They think people will tolerate them more, if they’re ruining known hits that have been played so much that they’re already ruined. In which case, become a background buzz, like an annoying fly constantly batting its head against a window pane. Bland enough to be largely ignored, but loud enough to be irritating after time, an act they expect us to pay them for.

There is one particular busker round my way, who wears sunglasses, whatever the weather. Occasionally, he wears stylish musician hats. He seems to think he has all the ingredients necessary for success, sunglasses, hat, acoustic guitar and a set list of bland songs. I hate him. I hope he dies of some rare blood disorder. Harsh I know, but one must be honest in life.

The problem may be due to the lack of music specific venues willing to give amateurs their chance. Contrary to what I have just stated (here I go again, I’m a complex individual in many ways) I do enjoy seeing live music, particularly from artists (and I use the term in its broadest sense) we have yet to experience. However, I enjoy them at a time and place of my choosing. I resent them when I go to my local for a pint and a chat with the friends I haven’t seen for some time (because they’re actively avoiding me) and in these narcissistic bellends march, acoustic guitars in hand with egos completely disproportionate to their talent. They play obnoxiously loud, with songs we have heard time and time again, done in the same way, actively preventing people who just want to drink, from drinking. I hate them, I hate them all.

Don’t get me started on opinionated bloggers. They’re everywhere.





Pictures of Things With Filters

That’s it, I’ve had enough. I try you know, I really do. “Keep writing,” people tell you “You’ll get somewhere eventually.” I try to give you thought provoking, entertaining pieces. I try to talk of profound things, I try to write eloquently with some sort of flair. I try to entertain, inform and other such noble things. I even wrote a good piece on the upcoming EU referendum.

A handful of likes that got.  There’s only so much my ego can take!

So I thought I’d do some research into what people like when it comes to blog posts. I checked some guy’s out, he had a post that had garnered well over 267 likes. That’s a lot right?

It seems the global attention span has become a shrunken and shrivelled thing.  Words are old news. It’s all about a collection of pictures of things isn’t it? But not natural pictures, it’s all about the filters.

So this week I sank to your level. Enjoy my pictures of things with filters.


Sad Dying Flowers, Which is a Bit Cliché but There’s a Filter.


Enter a caption

2) Bane of My Life.




3) A Woman’s foot.

This one is very artistic. You see, the foot is oft sexualised (don’t know why, they’re the things you walk on so will naturally be the most disgusting), but this one is covered in an old and battered shoe. So it represents a long dead sense of subtlety and modesty. You can also just about see my knees, which means the woman’s foot is higher than mine. This can be seen in two ways 1) the dogmatic patriarchal nature of society (I’ve put my foot down!) or 2) an ode to uber-feminism in that ultimately the woman will stand higher than me, seeing as her foot is higher.

OR I accidentally took a picture without meaning to.


4) Addiction Will Never Die.

Many charities, health practitioners and the various police forces have done a lot of work to tackle drug crime and drug addiction. My leftist views aside (most drugs should probably be legalised and made available on the NHS), I can’t help but feel the scourge of addiction will never be washed away from this Earth. We humans are too damaged, too scared. We were born with holes in our hearts (metaphorical ones, I’m not talking about genetic conditions). These holes suck in everything and can never be filled. We will pour what we can into it. For me it’s coffee. This is what I see in front of my face most hours of the day. It’s expensive, as a desperate man I have resorted to mugging old ladies just to fund my habit.

When will the government turn their protective and vengeful gaze upon the coffee shops?





5) The Forgotten Spoon.

We are  a wasteful society. An arrogant society, that takes what we want when we want it and when we no longer want it and can’t be bothered to carry it around any more we cast it aside, as if it meant nothing to us.

Cars, clothes, oil, our children… even this poor spoon.

Never again will it fulfil its purpose of scooping.

Once again my egotistical leg couldn’t stop itself from jumping in front of the lens.



6) Poetry Lives.

Pay at Meter

Display ticket.

Pure poetry right there. I know what the sign maker meant. In many ways we are all paying at the meters of life, feeling the need or some sort of social pressure to display our tickets. Or maybe because we are constantly aware of the 24 hour CCTV watching us that makes us compelled to display them. Which in this instant is clearly meant to be the ever present eye of God.



7) My Lamp Shades Look Like Breasts.

Or I’m just sexually frustrated… which is entirely probable.


8) Work Poos are the Best Poos.

Notice how doing a Poo at work seems to induce a manic sort of joy within me. It’s the best part of the day. Sometimes I stuff myself with dried fruit and laxatives just so I can prolong the feeling. I hate the outside world so much that I find I gain an inordinate amount of comfort from the enclosed space.

From an artistic point of view, you can say how most of our day to day jobs are no different from this act.


9) I was once looking beardy in a pub.


So I filtered that son of a bitch and now it’s here.


There! Are you happy? Will this get me the recognition we all know I deserve! I DO! I REALLY FUCKING DO! WHERE’S MY LEGIONS OF FOLLOWERS?


The Fuzzy Rambler.

Interview With Some Bloke

The title of this piece started off trying to be a literary reference, because if  you’re not actually intelligent, you can throw in a literary reference and trick people into thinking you are. ‘Ooh, he’s read books,’ people say, ‘he must be filled to the brim with wisdom, let’s pierce him with a hot poker and drink the hot wisdom that sprays out.’

I have of course – as I’m sure you’ve already worked out – tweaked the title of an Interview With a Vampire. Which, on the face of it sounds like an interesting interview. But, what I’ve cleverly done is made it an Interview With Some Bloke, which on the face of it sounds mundane. However, I feel compelled to confess that I am a fraud, as I’ve never actually read that book, it never really interested me, I saw the film once. It was recommended to me by a friend. It starred Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise and was shit. I don’t talk to that friend anymore. In short – what I have done is just exploited someone else’s work for my own nefarious ends.

Fortunately, my blog is read by about 5 people, and most of them think it’s a shit film too so I think I’m alright.


As I continually express, when I have nothing else of any value to write (and no longer have access to a scanner so can’t upload doodles), I hate my job, it depresses me, and sucks up the majority of my time and thoughts. People often say in these situations, if you hate your job, you need to start looking for another one. As if it is a simple task. This couldn’t be further from the truth. ‘There’s lots of work out there, if you know where to look.’ People say, as though a job is like a wild animal and if you know it’s habits you’ll know the best places to keep a vigil, rifle in hand. THey don’t offer any advice beyond that.

‘It’s easier if you already have a job.’ Is another thing they say. Who are these people? Fucking idiots that’s who. It’s demonstrably harder, as you have less time and energy to devote to the hunt.

The first hurdle in trying to find a job would be in trying to decide what sort of job you actually want to do. Now, that is a difficult question, perhaps the hardest question in existence. What do you want to do? If answered truthfully, I want to get paid to sleep in a little flying pod, invisible to the rest of the world, but able to peer down upon it unseen, like an all knowing being, but thus far this job has yet to be advertised on the World Wide Web.

I can think of a great deal I don’t want to do. My current job for instance. Giving IT support to people I’ve never met, with not even the slightest interest in IT. I don’t care if their computer gets fixed. They can go fuck themselves. I don’t want to be a marine biologist. It sounds interesting, but I can’t swim very well so all the other marine biologists would ridicule me and my papers wouldn’t be taken seriously. Even if I discovered a new species. I’d like to be a doctor, but from what I can ascertain, it’s far too late for that. I’d need to go back and get some specific A levels, and then get into university again, and then do 5 years. I’ll be dead by then, not to mention I’d have no way to pay my rent in the meantime.

So what am I left with?

Anything to do with… Data.

Data analysis

Data entry

Data management.

Data tickling.

Data moving from that shelf to the other one as the builders will be in soon and they’ll need to get to that wall.

I don’t even know what data is? Not really. Surely it can’t all be the same stuff. And yet each job seems to require the same skills. I am not qualified to do any real job, it’s only the ones that seem to specify, a moderately competent twat lacking in any sort of personality where I seem to fit the bill.

So in order to exchange one job I hate for another one, I got some interviews. They were all telephone interviews, which is kind of weird. It’s difficult enough to sell yourself in person, but you can get bonus points by saying, “look I’m wearing a suit.” You can say that on the phone, but they won’t believe you. Who gets suited up to talk on the phone?

Interview techniques? Are there any? I read somewhere, an employer knows who they want to hire from the first has something to do with the basest of psychology. Confidence perhaps, an innate understanding of another human being that transcends explanation.

Now, this isn’t true. I didn’t read it anywhere, but it’s a provocative statement. My point is, it doesn’t really matter what you say, ultimately, it’s a bit of a lottery. Do you have the precise experience they’re looking for? Do they like your manner? Do they like your choice of words, your name, the fucking school you went too. It doesn’t really matter how you answer the questions.

My technique thus far hasn’t been particularly successful. When asked to describe why I should be hired I tend to be to make the mistake of going for the truth. Instead of unloading some cliches about how driven I am, how much of a team player I can be as well as being a formidable lone wolf (that’s right a team playing loner, a mysterious outsider who wears his heart on his sleeve and demands to be loved, an oxymoron of the highest calibre) or anything of that nature. I tend to say the following:

“Well, let’s be blunt, the job doesn’t exactly require much intellectual capacity. I should be hired because I can do the job, anyone can, but I’m here so why not?”

Doesn’t exactly fill them with confidence. I just hate it. Interviews that is, they are the most insincere moment in our lives. We adopt a facade, not even a convincing one. We become a character everyone hates, but no one more so than ourselves, and that facade often lingers on if you get the job, it becomes your work character, and the more you have to be that work character, the more it leaves traces of it in your bloodstream. Before you know it you’re more this other character than you are you. And you hate yourself for it.

I didn’t get the job.

Fucking interviews.

Fuzzy Rambler