Sweat pant rant

OK what is the deal with all the people wearing sweat pants or tracksuit bottoms?
Are they on their way back from the gym? Are they ill?
A tracksuit bottom is an infinitely half-assed item of clothing.
You're practically announcing to the world that, a) you can't be arsed to wear clothes that take more than two seconds to put on, and b) you delude yourself thinking that wearing sweatpants makes you look sporty (well as sporty as Sporty Spice). What is going wrong with the British populace?
The worst of the lot are those who wear sweatpants and dress shoes. A more retarded mismatch of styles and self-consciousness cannot be produced in the British Isles.
Having said that, given the social class among whom the tracksuit bottom is most prevalent, I can understand its more practical side. You see, wearing tracksuit bottoms significantly decreases the time necessary to make future dole-scrounging babies with an under age slapper in a shitty council estate in Newham. On that point the sweatpants must be seen as victorious.

The procedure goes something like this:

*One bottle of Bacardi Breezer (preferably 'watermelon' flavour - drives the slags crazy and makes them feel classy);
*A few well-placed "you're allright Sharon, fancy a shag?" followed by "listen yeah", "innit", "is it?" and "when is your dad released?";
*Slip off;
*Slip in;
*Slip of the one-eyed soldier;
*Slip out;
*Slip on;
*Wait for 9 months;
*Beat up you kid and its mother for having the audacity to hold you to account.
*Repeat at will.

Not really much of a rant, but the message should be clear. Now fuck off.

Welcome

Hello to one and all, and welcome to the home of vitriol and bile that is SpasmGasm.

This is the place for naughty thoughts to breed and grow, feeding the heaving, throbbing heart of British national discontent. Also, for flights of fancy, and unbridled bouts of small-mindedness and pettiness of spirit.

So, by means of kicking it all off, so as to speak, please find below a first foray into the world of all that is backward and wrong in the world, and, more specifically, on the number 15 bus from Holborn to Tower Hill.

I like my mobile phone. It rings. I can speak to people. Plus it has an awesome golf game on it which gives me something to do when I find myself on the crapper with nothing to read. It even has a timer so I can note how long I've spent in there, then use the calculator to estimate how much David Beckham gets paid for taking a number 2. Lots. For the record.

However, mobile phones and users thereof on the number 15 have recently driven me to bouts of psychotic whimsy. In short, if I wanted to listen to your stupid tinny R and Fucking B on the bus I'd have asked to you inconsiderate little arseholes.

You know who you are. Irritating little bastards all of you. If I were about 15 times more muscular, a foot taller and less of a total coward and confrontation avoider I would:

1: Take your tinny little blower and drop it, gently, out of the window into oncoming traffic.
2: Stamp on your telephone until it shut the fuck up.
3: Drop you gently out of the window into oncoming traffic.
4: Stamp on you until you shut the fuck up.
5: All of the above, although not in that order as it would be easier to follow a 4, 2, 1, 3 approach.
I'd like to avoid, if at all possible, having to dash out into traffic to stamp on anyone or anything - despite the enormous satisfaction it would provide.

There is, as with all things however, an exception to the rule. This, gentle reader, came in the form of an enormously muscular man, not one week since. Just as one particularly abhorrent bunch of our nation's future captains of the dole queue had left taking with them their shitty, tinny little Akon rip-off, the chap at the back of the bus let rip with his miniature boom box.

No Akon for him, nor indeed any Mariah Carey sound-alike. But Aqua. Barbie Girl, or similar.

Thank you massive man at the back of the bus. You have made me hate the world a little less.