Knobheads.

Knobhead - A person with absolutely nothing to give to the world, has no moral standards and is        basically a cunt.

This blog isn't about a single knobhead it's about knobheads in general, I fucking hate knobheads and although I live here, Liverpool seems to be the place were knobheads feed and grow. Does our city have some sort of fucking dysfunctional oxygen cycle that we don't know about, some fucking gas leak somewere that when smelt you instantly turn into a bad fucking bellend? I'm pretty fucking sure it does.

We all know a knobhead. For instance, if there's a group of 5 lads, at least 2 of them will be knobheads. It's the same ratio with girls and 'slaggyness', this is simply a fact.

How to tell if you're a knobhead:

• You say you're scouse when you're from Ellsmere Port.
• You terror someone on Twitter then the minute someone finds out who you are you go quiet.
• You take any fictional characters tweets to heart. Cough cough.
• You press the stop button at the lights when you have no intention of crossing the road.
• You chat utter shit in Burger King after a night out.
• You think you're mad because you went to boxing for 5 weeks when you were 14.
• You bail your mates when you get a bird.  
• You butter your toast and put the crumbs back into the tub.
• You try to terror someone on Twitter and your picture is an egg.
• You comlain about your football team, and think you have a wider knowledge than the manager in charge when really you're just a part-time binman who has never been to a game. 

Those are just a few from about 10,000 ways you can tell if someone is honing their knobheadness.

Now personally, I don't know about you but to me I can tell who a knobhead is just by looking at their face. They're moody looking twats, faces like an overcooked Chicago Town pizza and constantly walking around like they've been set on a personal mission to look like a mad cunt.

I avoid knobheads at all times, if I see a knobhead walking toward me to ask me directions, I'll immediatley point him the wrong way, this doesn't make me a knobhead, I'm actually doing people a favour by simply pointing them the way out of the city and nearer to Kirkby. I've done this about 5 times in the past 2 months, if you know a knobhead in Kirkby then they've probably been sent their by me. 

A car once pulled up to me, full of mancs, they had an away game at Anfield. Now I'm nor red or blue and you all should know by now that Bethlehem F.C is where my passion lies. But, this car, this fucking little F reg Nissan Micra was plastered in 'Red Devils' stickers, these were the type of lads that go the barbers and ask for a fucking fringe. Heads full of greasy hair gel. You know the type, Manchesters own version of wools. Queer rings in, collars up, silver bracelets on, listening to some Blazin' Squad, this was their fucking big day out. Anyway, they asked me "Arite pal, dy'a know where Liverpools is from here?". Bearing in mind we were in fucking Anfield, i found the temptation to lead them into town. The directions I gave them were as follows: "Go down this road here, it will take you to county road, when you get there take a left, you'll see a sign on Scotland Rd saying Town Center, head towards that. Carry on through all of the lights and you will end up on a round about, there's a tunnel leading from this and as soon as you pass through it Anfield is your first left". They replied "Ar cheers pal". To which I replied "Sound, take it easy".

  

I'm not sure what happened to this group of inbreds but they took my information seriously and even my mate said I seemed legit. Possibly at some point a little red Nissan Micra was paying a tunnel fee to Birkenhead. Success.

This BLOG in short:

• Don't be a knobhead.
• Make knobheads extinct from your city, remove them when possible.
• Nissan Micras are shit.

FIFA - The rules.

I've been playing FIFA since the early days back in Bethlehem, FIFA AD to be precise, consisted of two teams, Romans and Jews. Every game was a derby and both teams were 2 star so the skill was limited to a single step over.. which if you were mad enough to attempt, could backfire with injury.

This blog is based on the rules of playing FIFA, either with a mate or online against some absolute beaut that you cant stand with a name like xXMag1kSk1llzXx or some other fucking daft name. I've played many people in my time and I have came to the conclusion that FIFA is absolutely shit unless the rules I'm about to state are adhered to. These rules can be considered as high as the fucking 10 commandments. I've sat there in fits of rage and shouting sheer abuse at Mary "Mary you fucking fat head", when jammy little bastards have snook in an equaliser last minute, backed out before the 5 minute mark or even lagged for the full fucking 12 minute game. Making it look like fucking crimewatch. These people need to be jabbed in the neck, with a fucking concrete slab, going online using their neighbours fucking wi-fi. The little meffs.

I could put a fucking tenner on it that ther's lads out there that play FIFA with a fucking footy scarf around their neck, strapped up in shinpads and singing fucking chants around the house.

FIFA RULES:

Pausing
Don't pause the game, don't abuse the need to pause either, once is enough to make a substitute. Why is there a need to pause? Are you eating your fucking tea? If that's the case then don't fucking start a game.

No Jew goals
Hitting the ball across the 6 yard box when there's no defenders.  These are impossible to save, I wouldn't even do this in 5 a side.

Barcelona V Real Madrid
Don't go either, unless the other cunt online has picked one first, I always go a 4.5 star team. In my eyes the people that go 5 star probably support clubs like Accrington Stanley or fucking Preston North End and are clearly shite at life.

Celebrations
We know you can score lad but I don't want to see a virtual fucking bellend version of you with a green afro, attempting to do the fucking worm in the middle of the pitch whilst being surrounded by other gimps in bright yellow fucking banana boots. Turn it in, give your head a wobble, get back to the match.

Penalties
Don't fucking hit them down the middle, this is a bad shithouse trick, everyone wants to make the perfect camera-shot save. Hitting it down the middle makes you a fucking prime pleb. Wool hit penalties down the middle to be safe, just like they only have sex with their bird in missionary position.. and with the lights off.

Replays
I seen your shit goal mate, you seen your shit goal, we're in the same fucking game. There's no reason to watch that shitness again.

International
If you want to go international teams then buy fucking Euro 2012.

Created players
Having your pro at 99, all skills achieved and being a bellend at being greedy? We all know you're really a fat bellend who spends about 7 hours a day in the fucking arena. Making your pro stand out because it's what you don't actually have in life. You're shit at footy, do not have dreadlocks and you are far from physically active. Fucking couch potato, stop slobbering on your mic, take off your Pot Noodle stained thermal vest and go for a real game of footy once in a while.

The Mic (Online)
Don't talk to me, I do not know you, nor do I wish to have any sort of communication with you. Also, you're a heavy breather, infact just turn your mic off.

Pro Clubs (Online)
If your position is set to defence then bail the fucking great escape, stay in your own half and stop trying to score 30 yarders with Tony Hibbert.

Pic Related: Me scoring a top bin. G'wed Jee lad.

Summer and twats.

I love the summer, I love summer just as much as I love tea-bagging birds then making them pay their own taxi home. The sun comes out, so do my shorts and tee-shirts, I go a bit browner than previous, I end up bladdered and that is all that fucking matters. You can't beat a good BBQ either, big scran on the go, few biblical tunes on, little paddling pool out and showing off infront of the birds, me walking on the water, Moses parting it and all that.

Now I like going the beach when the suns got his bullhead out and the flags are cracking. It reminds me of back home in Bethlehem, sand everywhere which mostly in-between your arse crack. It's a feeling everyone hates but still not arsed about because fuck it.. it's summer isn't it, I'll get a shower and wipe the fuck out of it later. The normal routine for most scousers is to go the beach in the day with a few cans then sit in a beer garden sunburnt to fuck because let's face it, scousers are hard and factor 30 is for fucking wools or nerds that sit in the shade, if anything bang a bit of carrot oil on and glisten like Edward out of fucking Twilight. The glittery little bellend.

There's a few problems that come with sun in Liverpool, first of all you've got all the 'chestys' that have been smashing the gym for 7 months of the year just for this 1 week of sun. All going the beach like it's some sort of fucking pilgrimage to Arnold Schwarzenegger. Tops off showing bang-on tattoos such as "Only God Can Judge Me" sprayed across their juiced up shoulder blades. No mate, I've just judged you, and I judge that you are a full on wet wipe who probably does press-ups during adverts on the fucking tele.

Along with these 'chestys' come all the hibernators, the type of birds that live in your street but you never see and as soon as the clouds move out of the way then out come the same pair of denim shorts they all had on last year, mostly followed by a pink vest top, flip-flops and a pair of shit white sunglasses. Swerve it, you had that on in '2K7' so fucking leg it. Now don't get me wrong, there's nothing better then clocking what obviously is sweaty clunge but fuckinghell, they're out in force, walking around the Asda in fucking bikinis. Have they not been near the fridges? It's fucking freezing. Costa del Walton.

There's another bad thing with the sun and that's sunburn. A scouser loves a legit tan, a tan that's different to fucking orange on most birds or bright pink on them lads that 'hit the beds' every now and then.The sun gives you a nice tan, unless your ginger. You could put a man in a room with a slap head but still no that he was ginger just by looking at how much he suffers and crisps in the sun. Picture related, he's still got his fucking tee-shirt on. The little redED.

There's always fucking moaners aswell, "It's too hot", "I can't sleep". Fucking fuck off, it's not, you can't sleep because you're awake and posting shit on Facebook  and Twitter about the weather, try opening your windows and closing your fucking eyes you little bin lid. Why moan about it? We only have it for a fucking week anyway.

Then there's always them birds that take photos of themselves on the beach or in the garden, yer, sound, ok, I can live with that. But do you really have to re-post the same picture and share it on Facebook every other fucking day? I seen it yesterday, I'm not going to 'like' and neither is anyone else you little cringey bastard so fucking pack it in.

Birkenhead.

I felt like a bit of a fucking moan so I thought I'd come onto here and unleash my intense anger that I have towards Birkenhead as a town and the people of Birkenhead.

First of all, what the fuck is Birkenhead? Who put it there? Why is it looking at our amazingly scouse city?

It's a place of darkness, people grow up to and have ambitions of serving sausage rolls in Sayers and Greggs. There is no such thing as 'getting new clothes for a bank holiday' there and all of the birds wear white reebok classics. I haven't even started yet, I went to Birkenhead once, it was to go to that fucking crazy/dangerous/peado filled baths when I was about 7. I must have fronted about 7 kids because I lost my goggles and wanted a new fucking pair. Once your accent is heard over there you're treated differently, I went on the slides 1st, when I wanted and how I fucking wanted.. head fucking first with my shorts down to my ankles and pulling a fat fucking mooney. That was the last and both the first time I ever went to Birkenhead.

Anyway, enough of my childish antics.

In Birkenhead there is no difference between a big issue seller and a fucking top boss in Halifax, both wearing shite suits and looking rough the next day. I've seen a pigeon in L1 with better fucking clobber and pride than one of them retards. You expect a pigeon in town to move out your way? You better fucking think again, It needs volleying before it will even take notice of you being there.

I'm a proud person and I fucking love liverpool but I don't see why we offer a ferry service, crossing people over from Birkenhead.  In my opinion there should be fucking border force standing at the Albert Dock with a fucking checklist that looks like this:

Anyone wearing these items will be sent back:

• White Reebok Classics
• FILA socks - white and over the trackie bottoms
• Silver chains
• Sovereigns
• Caps
• England football tops (Because Birkenhead F.C are fucking shit)
• Jeans with rips in. Why?
• Pyjamas

Along with these items you must also own:

• A full set of teeth
• A scar free face
• An arm that doesn't contain a bad tattoo
• Ferry fair back to Birkenhead (Same day return)
• Vinyl gloves (No touching Liverpool)
•  Proof of never appearing on The Jeremy Kyle Show
• A matching set of black socks

Moving on to the people of Birkenhead, what do they fucking eat? I've seen a fucking Oxfam campaign with an Ethiopan looking more healthy and with a better glow. I'm sure they all know they're fucking ugly so they all come out at night and nobody ends up with a fucking tan.

When I was there I didn't seem to see any job opportunites so I can imagine the citizens have took it upon themselves to create jobs for themsleves like 'top fingerer of the city' where a man will offer sweaty, pink Lacoste trackied up birds a finger for the hour in return for the end of a ciggy.

I did however notice there was a Boots. This shop happens to sell toothbrushes and toothpaste, so why do these creatures insist on spending their dole money on a fucking packet of Haribo's hoping to get their bird a fucking jelly ring for their anniversary?

I'm also sure Birkenhead, infact I'm going to start calling it Jerkinhead. In Jerkinhead incestualism is a fucking sport, brother bang sisters, uncles bang nieces, it's a whole different fucking ball game over there. The majority of them can lick their elbows and count to 7 on one fucking hand. 

They do have some sort of joy within themselves and it's when they all meet up, in car parks, to compare fucking shit cars. Proper shit cars though, a car I wouldnt get a lift home in if the fucking thunder and lightning was out. They take too much pride in them shitty little microwaves on wheels and not enough on themselves. Sitting in the McDonalds car park listening to a bit of Blackout Crew - Put A Donk On It and having a laugh dring Tizer. I mean come on, who the fuck in the right mind drinks Tizer?.. On a fucking Tuesday night?

This blog in short:

• Birkenhead is shit
• Fingers wet central
• Don't SOOP up your car
• Tizer is for victims

Pigeons and pastys.

There's been many times when I've been walking through town in the early hours, not due to the fact that I'm only just getting in from a messy one that many of you might think but because I'd rather get my new clobber without the hassle of thousands of retarded ponses getting in my way.

Scousers love a good pasty, not sure if it's pasty or pastie? Norassed, I'll use pasty. Mainly because they're quick and easy enough.. you go in, pay someone that didn't listen in school abar a quid then walk out literally 5 seconds later with a scran. You always see someone walking around town, flakes of pastry around their mouth and getting followed by fucking seagulls and pigeons that are big enough for a David Attenborough commentary on Discovery Channel. No mess though, I've seen some seagulls that would have gotten away with working on the 051 if they had an SIA badge and a wooly hat.

These flying fuckers don't give an absolute shit about humanity at all. I've been fronted by a pigeon whilst walking through town, yer, fronted by a fucking pigeon because I had a brand new sausage and bean pasty gripped between my hands. When I say 'fronted' it literally stood in my way, I'm pretty sure if it had eyebrows it would have been snarling aswell. I gave it the old 'I'll fucking volley you' action, knowing I wouldn't or should I say couldn't, because let's be honest, you can't just get away with two-footing pigeons in town can you? Especially with my luck, there'd always be some RSPCA loving bellend who has this fetish for pigeons just around the corner with yesterdays loaf of bread.

So anyway, I made that 'fake volley' threat and this cheeky little bastard didn't even flinch, what is going on here? So I done this again, still, no flinch. I had a little look around, it was about 10 bells in the morning and the coast was clear, so I done it, I ripped off a chunk of my sausage and bean pasty, and fucking threw it at it's little weird, wobbling head. I know for a fact that it burnt the little bastard because it never ate it, instead, it flew away probably thinking "what's his game there, throwing boiling hot beans at my head?" And to be fair to the poor fucker my fingers were in bits, I'd bought this pasty about 2 minutes earlier and it came straight from the Sayers oven.. Unlike fucking Greggs, which come straight from the fucking fridge. I wern't going to talk about Greggs but I'ts getting a mention, why are there pastys never hot.. or even slightly warm for that matter? I didn't know you had to take your fucking pasty home and put it in the oven to heat it up yourself.
Fucking build-a-pasty.

Pic Related. Juice head seagull.

 

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Send your very own stories to thescousebible@hotmail.co.uk

The barbers.

The average Scouse lad loves a good trim on the old back and sides, so much so they keep it topped up and looking fresh every week or two or simply the night they're going out in hope it might help them get their fingers wet. Unless you're one of them beauts that have been sucked into the Justin Bieber craze and have opted for a fucking Kellogs bowl to be placed on your fucking scalp.  If that's the case, just go in and ask for a fucking Home Alone.

The barbers is a trip that no one likes to take, you have no idea how busy it's gong to be and you can't walk in, see a few dickheads with ponytails, decide it's going to be a good hour wait then just get off and come back later.. because it might be even more fucking rammed Well, I can't anyway once I've opened the door that's fucking it, I'm in, it's chopping fucking time. So most of the time I get on with it, pick up a shitty 'Mens Health' magazine from April 2007 and improve my knowledge on how leotards were the norm for gymwear in California USA.

Whilst browsing these shitty pages, hoping for a slight hint of some mega bird, the queue slowly goes down. That is until, the next person getting their fucking wig chopped is a good friend of the barber, so they ignore the fact there are people, like fucking me, waiting and ocassionally stop mid-cut to have a fucking talk about the holidays they aren't goin on this year or how their S Reg Citreon Saxo failed it's MOT.

30 minutes later...

The time comes, it's now my turn to get my wonderful locks cut, go for it mr barber man, fucking sort this head out lad, make me look smart. (I say all of this in my head) when instead he asks "so, what do you want?".... What do I fucking want? I've been coming here since I had to sit on that fucking plank of wood to higher myself up, I've had the same haircut since 9T4 and you ask me what I fucking want? (I also say this in my head) and reply with "2 on the back and sides, trimmed on the top."

So, the cunt starts cutting, no conversation has started, I'm not going to make one, I can't fucking stand him, he looks like a pervert and I can't be arsed distracting him from my heavenly bonse to the point where he fucks my head right up and I end up walking out like fucking Jedward on meth.

Now shit starts getting awkward, the twats chopping away like Edward fucking scissor hands, taking no notice to the fact he's rubbing his fucking 70 year old gooch all over my knee-cap. Yer, sound that mate, I'm not going to wash these trackies now because I love the smell of chopped hair and saggy bollocks all over them. I'm going to sniff the fuck out of them when I get in.

I sit there, wondering why every fucking time I come the barbers the fucking bird isn't there to sort me out, she spends time and effort, almost like she would with fucking plants or some other affectionate shit. I wouldn't mind a bit of slice sliding along my hamstring like.

20 minutes later...

Anyway, dickhead finishes my haircut, grabs a mirror, puts it to the back of my head.. and still not saying a word he lifts his eyebrows as if to say "sound, yer?" I reply with the same expression. Pay him and walk out like I've been abused.

This cycle continues every 2 weeks.

#TSB

Gym squids.

Gym squids are everywhere, you all know the type. Marching into a recreational gym wearing a vest and grunting when they lift a fucking 10kg dumbell, walking around machines as if they run the place. Well, this goes for the lads, the girl equivelent that go to the gym do nothing but attempt to run on a treadmill in a pair of plastic toe-capped Converse whilst trying to stop their fucking mascara from dribbling down their face, so I'll pick on the lads in this one.

The gym brings in some creatures, by creatures I mean squids and by squids I mean gobshites. Most recreational gyms have a maximum dumbell weight of around 20kg so there is no need what-so-ever for a vest to be prestent, tee-shirts do NOT limit any weight lifting capabilty and vests do NOT contain weight-lifting super powers. I don't want to see your skinny pale arms and neither do any of the birds. Personally I'd say it was just about acceptable for Arnold Schwarzenegger himself to wear a vest, never mind these victims. In all seriousness though, at what point do these idiots think it's acceptable to walk out of the house wearing this? Do they live alone? Own no mirrors at all? Or have the type of friends that would accompany you on the Jeremy kyle show? Not only do they bounce around looking like a gimp, they also feel the need... feel the fucking need to strap their iPhone to their arm like it's some sort or Rambo type weapon. Hang on a minute mate, do your shorts not have fucking pockets? You don't go to your job or sit around the house with it on your arm whilst watching fucking tele, so why here, in the gym? In my opinion it just makes it a lot harder to select a decent song, not that these people have any decent fucking songs. Little Wigan Pier heads.

Do us all a favour, lash a fucking tee-shirt and not TapOut one either, you've never done MMA in your life. Then go and do some fucking burpees in your back garden away from society. You fucking squid.

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#TSB