Displeasure Poetry


I’ll pop down to the gym,
To do my exercise,
I aim to help my biceps,
Achieve a larger size.

But a man upon the chest press,
Warrants more inspection,
He isn’t doing exercise,
But reading the Arts section!

Piss off, you utter tit,
Your behaviour is obscene,
Can’t you read the notices?
Rest away from the machine!

Displeasure Music


I wish Amazon would stop suggesting Groove Armada albums to me.

Currently, it thinks that I like Groove Armada enough that I should own every CD that they have ever released.

There is a reason that it thinks this. I told it that I own Lovebox and Vertigo, and I like both of them. Which is true. But that’s enough. No more Groove Armada thanks. Let’s try something else.

So I tried clicking on “Not interested” for the recommendation that was at the top of the list.

Oh, said Amazon, Well, perhaps you’d be interested in THIS Groove Armada album instead?

(click) Not interested.

Oh, said Amazon, Well, perhaps you’d be interested in THIS Groove Armada album instead?

Clearly a new tack is called for.

So I went back and changed a few things. Told it that I didn’t own Lovebox or Vertigo. Removed all traces of the trail. That’ll sort it, surely.

Oh, said Amazon, I see you don’t own any Groove Armada albums. What kind of a person do you think you are? EVERYONE should own some Groove Armada albums. Amazon (that’s me) recommends their entire back catalogue.

le sigh.

*Originally posted here*


Ultimate Card

Our reporter in the field has just spotted a sign in the window of a greetings card shop:

“NEW! The Ultimate Card! 8 Pages of sentiment!”

I’ve been looking for something to keep with my thirty thimbles of introvertedness and my nine mugs of yellow. My epic quest may be over.

Displeasure Meander


Our Sales and Marketing department have fish. Four fish. Not the most beautiful fish in the world, but every fish is a fish. Two are black, two are gold, and they have huge beady eyes which intimidate me.

Well, they used to have four fish. One day last week, there was a population drop of one. That’s the nature of things, I thought. Fish come, and fish go. I remember when I was really young my family had a fish. Really really young. Its name was “Fish”. Clever, that.

I remember when Fish died, no-one noticed. Feeding it was a chore, and nobody noticed that the amount of uneaten food in the filthy water was rising. It finally came to light about a week later, by which time Fish was fossilised into the walls of the tank. None of my family seemed to care, so that was that.

Back to the present – so here I was, tussling with Nature and all the big Questions, and how Golden Fish #1 had gone off to a better place when I was informed that there is actually a perfectly unnatural reason why Golden Fish #1 is now in 5 Second Heaven. A trained eye would probably have noticed the absence of fish food anywhere in the office.

At this point I excused myself and went to the supermarket, silently cursing the laziness of my peers, and how they would work a 13 hour day if it meant more money, but picking up some fish food while they were getting two pints of milk for the coffees was just too much thought.

Why don’t people notice when a job needs doing, and do it?

Displeasure Meander


I was in a card shop yesterday being served by a couple of incompetents. Yes, you read me right, a couple. It took two of them to be totally useless. That’s impressive. One was a young blonde stupid girl, and one was an old wrinkly ((If truth be told, she wasn’t wrinkly at all. She was middle-aged-ish.)) woman who seemed to be excited by everything.

But I digress – it was one of those occasions when over the course of five minutes you think of approximately eight really funny things to say, but you don’t say any of them. Why? Because you have been in the situation too many times before, and you find the blank stares of incomprehension too painful to bear.

It hurts me – yes, it hurts – that I have to keep my sense of humour inside.

Where is this going?

It is important – nay, paramount – to spend time around those of a similar nature to yourself, otherwise it is inevitable that you will censor yourself, and your demise will commence.

I propose a promised land – a place where all those with a truly arse-about-face sense of humour will one day be led, by the chosen one (let’s call him Pete, for the sake of argument) to live out a life of great edification. A place where “funny” tales of drunkeness actually have to be funny for a good reason, and person X doesn’t feel the need to insult / beat up / slaughter person Y just because they choose to live their life in a different way, even though it doesn’t affect person X at all. You get the picture.

And we shall call this promised land “PeteLand”, and the chosen one (we’re still calling him Pete, right?) will lead as your King. And you shall bow down and worship him. Hell, worship me as your God. Him. Worship Him.