Breaking News From The Desk of (Spencer) Miles Lloyd

Buckingham Palace has announced: Next week is to come two days early.

The unexpected move has caused outrage amongst the public. Without the coming weekend millions of Britons who work long, hard hours throughout the week are set to lose two nights of getting shit-faced, not to mention a full Sunday to come-down, smoke weed, and watch Superbad on repeat from their beds.

Sausage Rolls,Wet Shorts and MANBOY!

My shorts. My shorts are wet. Sopping wet. I just went to pull them out of my backpack and they are soaked with an unknown substance but everything else in my bag is bone-dry. I cannot make head-nor-tail of it. I also found a wrapper for a type of sausage roll I have never eaten in there. I don’t mean that I eat sausage rolls in my bag, but the wrapper was in my bag. You know what I mean.

Attempted Rape, Get In The Van & Shitty House

I heard the greatest thing ever on Friday night. I was at a party in a rugby club and I had gone outside to smoke a fag. There was a group of three girls just out by the door, also smoking, and just chatting away amongst themselves and what-not when who should appear from the door of the bar but a pair of gypsies. Proper gypsies. the rough Irish kind, not the lovable roman kind. The kind of gypsies that are in the paper now and again because they steal homeless men and force them to work as slaves. The type of gypsies you avoid at all costs. I think you get the picture.

Jesus Babies, Orlando Bloom & Being Sick in a Bucket.

I’m actually properly sick and I haven’t been sick in years. I don’t know what to do with myself. I know what I should be doing. Other stuff, that’s what. Yesterday I thought it was just a hangover from the banging party I was at on Saturday. Also, it turns out that I’m an awesome DJ, but I must re-evaluate that due to stomach cramps and vomit. Being sick, not the DJing.

Baaa! I have a fucking job interview tomorrow, too. Hot-damn! I’m going to have to man the fuck up and pretend to be fine. Hopefully I will be though. I’m suppose to go see Reggie, too. I was suppose to see him yesterday but had to get a really early train home from London and I was also sick then, too. You think that we would have evolved to never be sick anymore. I also think we should have evolved to see better in the dark. I don’t think it’s fair that dogs can see fine at night and we can’t. The other day one of the dogs, Duffy, was trying to find a little sausage or something she had hidden behind her bed and I turned the light off just to annoy her a bit, but she just kept on. If that was a human boy or girl trying to dig out a sausage from behind their bed and I turned the lights off they’d go ape shit. I can even safely say they’d swear towards me. “Turn that fudging light back on, you!” or something light that. “What the effing fudge, you cunt?” You know what swearing is. I wont patronize you.

I really feel like I should eat, but what if I eat and then I just sick it back up again? What if I’m pregnant? I can’t be. Or I could be, it would just be a Jesus-baby because I’ve never had sex. Or have I? I think I have a fuzzy memory of having sex once, but it was so long ago I’ve forgotten all about it. Or maybe I’m getting my life mixed up with Orlando Blooms again. I’m always doing that. I wonder if he mixes his life up with mine from time to time? Like he might be bored as fuck in the house because there’s fuck all to do where he lives and he can’t go out because he’s skint so he just sits in his tiny room because the only options for watching T.V. are god-awful soaps and reality shows in one room or the fucking football in the other, so he just sits in his tiny, boring room fucking about on his laptop and writing shitty blogs and funny songs he will probably never get recorded and then he thinks to himself, “Ha! What am I like? I’ve only gone and got my life confused with Miles Lloyds again! I’m actually fucking loaded and don’t live in a shit-hole town in my parents house with fuck all to do! I’m Orlando, mother-fucking, Bloom and I’m going out to get white girl drunk and pick up loads of women.”

Not me, though. I’m going to the toilet to be sick.

Something About Crabs or Hamsters. I Forget.

I just don’t know what to do with myself. Jack White said it first, but I say it better. And I mean it. I actually don’t know what to do with myself. He’s loaded and adored the world over and shit. He can do whatever the fuck he wants. I can’t. I’m too poor and unloved to be able to do anything. I just sit and Google myself whilst crying onto my erection, hoping that one day I will have a woman to cry onto my erection for me. At least I think that’s how sex is done, anyway. It’s been a while. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the girl crying onto my erection and then something about a pie? I’m going to be honest with you. I’ve forgotten. I’ll just move along. This isn’t what I want to talk to you about today. Oh no!

What I wanted to talk to you about is anyone’s guess, to be honest. I just need to talk at someone and nobody is here to be talked at and nobody online will reply to my talking ats. But even if they did reply, I don’t know what I would talk at them. I know what I want to talk, but I don’t want to talk that at just anyone because it’s my own private talk and it is only for certain people to have at them. this is getting weird. I’m saying too many weird things. I’ve spent too much time depressed and self-loathing and looking at photographs of crabs smoking fags.

Pretty good, eh? It’s only a temporary fix though. Not the fag for the crab. The crab with the fag for me. But the fag for the crab is the crabs own temporary fix, I guess. But anyway, before long there will be no-more animals doing people things that have been unseen by these human eyes. There will be no more dog’s mowing the law.

There will be no more cats waiting up for their cheating wives to get back from ‘working late at the office.’

No more monkey night-walkers.

No more immigrant hamsters sweeping the homes of the wealthy Englishmen to make a quick buck to feed their illegal immigrant kids.

No more Panda getaway drivers.

And no more of this:

I have forgotten why I started to make this list of animal-people. Ah yes! Because I’ve nearly seen them all and then I have to deal with the reality of getting my ‘life in order’ and dealing with my ’emotions’. God-damn you, anybody! God-damn you to heck!

I’m going to have a cup of tea and finish putting this burfday card together (it should have been done last week, but remember what I was telling you about being depressed and self-loathing and the crab with the fag? Yeah, that happened.) But I do not have to justify myself to you, as the card isn’t even for you! Fudge yourself.

Miles Lloyd Fucks The Cinnamon Challenge.

Today I finally achieved something worthwhile. After 25 years of being a useless waste of the human race I can now finally hold my head up high and say “Yes. I AM Miles Lloyd. Who the FUCK are you?” After all this time wandering the planet Earth, amongst other planets, I now have something that separates me from the rest of the chumps. Something that defines me as me. Something that I can shove in the face of every girl that ever left me and the grand-children I probably wont have. I can look them all square in the eye and say “Yes. I DID do the cinnamon challenge and I DID do it well”

That is right. I ate a spoonful of cinnamon without the aid of water and I wasn’t sick. Well, I wasn’t sick untill after I had swallowed it and shown my empty mouth around. About ten seconds after that I was aggressively sick all over Max and Tilly’s balcony. Thinking about it now is making me dry heave. It was disgusting. It doesn’t sound that bad. I thought it was going to be a piece of piss, but it wasn’t. It took me two attempts and a full one-hour of recovery time after the second attempt. I was successful though! I am unusually proud of myself. What’s odd is I tried to eat a chunk of my sick after I had finished being sick and that was easier than trying to eat cinnamon. I probably will not be able to eat a Danish for about six months. I remember once back in Wales I ate a whole clove of garlic and I couldn’t eat garlic for about a year after that without having a flashback to being sick at a bus-stop, reaking fo garlic, on my own at three in the morning. I once snorted a line of tabasco sauce, but that didn’t put me off tabasco sauce. I love that shit too much. It did feel like I was going to die though. I spent ages in a bathroom with my head in my hands thinking my brain was on fire. That was actually the worst thing I have ever done to myself. Until today. Here is the video of my first attempt. I failed.

Failed. You have to wait for the video of the successful attempt. It needs editing and an epic soundtrack. The english language does not have words for how vile it was. The worst part was when I did finally sick it up, a shit-load went through my nose and I was blowing cinnamon out of there for about two hours. I just started heaving at the thought, but you can’t see that so you will just have to take my word for it. I use to work in a pub called Stamps and I gained the nickname “Honest Jon” from the locals, so you know I can be trusted. Honest Jon doesn’t fib. Miles Lloyd does though. He fibs like fuck. For example; did you know that I am very good at having sex with female girls? See? I fib. I can’t even get a girl to actually sleep with me, just lay down next to me and sleep, let alone let me have a go of the boob. Who in their right mind would though to be honest? And, in my defence, every girl I’ve ever had a relationship with has actually proven themselves to be completely mental in one form or another, whether it be by asking me to urinate on them (I declined) or asking me to leave  their life, they have proven themselves to be mental. So no girl in their right mind would. Tea? I think I’ll make some tea.

Bang! Tea. Just like that. What was I talking about? Ah yes! Cinnamon challenge/self deprecating my talent with the ladies. Of course! The only things I ever talk about these days. But I do do one of those things very incredibly well. According to me anyway. I love this sleeping pattern I have now. It’s around about 6am – 11am. amazing. You get all of the night to do fuck all, and pretty much all of the day, too! I don’t know why everyone doesn’t sleep like that. Well, I do know. It’s because most people are employable and therefore have jobs to get to. Not this guy though! I haven’t had a proper job in years and I have no intention of starting anytime soon. I’m just going to wait it out until writing vaguely funny things starts to pay off. I’ve nearly done a thousand words! Not bad for a small-town boy with no higher education or qualifications. Well, I had a bit of higher education. I was in Swansea Uni for about four months before I worked out it was a pile of shit. I could have slipped a weed joke in with the “higher education” thing, but I’m just not that sharp. Or witty. Or forthcoming. Or clean. Or strong. Or charming. Or exciting. Or rich. Or alert. Or warm. Or kind. Or loving. Or high. Or cheerful. Or caring. But I did do the cinnamon challenge and I have a pretty girthy penis, so fuck off.

Here is the video of my actually kicking the cinnamon challenge in the arse. I finally got around to adding it here, but without the epic soundtrack I promised. Just play some Blood Brothers over it yourself:

Flange.

I use to play alot of golf when I was young. I had a new putter once and it was made by a company called ‘Flange’ and as a result had ‘Flange’ written on the bit of it you hit the ball with.

I would spent my weekends hitting my ball with my flange. Brilliant.