Please welcome tonight’s guest speaker…

Let’s hear it for Jacques Ellul. Take it away Jacques…

Men now live in conditions that are less than human. Consider the concentration of our great cities, the slums, the lack of space, of air, of time, the gloomy streets and the sallow lights that confuse night and day. Think of our dehumanized factories, our unsatisfied senses, our working women, our estrangement from nature. Life in such an environment has no meaning. Consider our public transportation, in which man is less important than a parcel. Yet we call this progress…and the noise, that monster boring into us at every hour of the night without respite.


…for historical man, until a comparatively late date, work was a punishment, not a virtue. It was better not to consume than to have to work hard; the rule was to work only as much as absolutely necessary in order to survive. Man worked as little as possible and was content with restricted consumption of goods.


The time given to technology was short, compared with the leisure time devoted to sleep, conversation, games, or, best of all, to meditation. As a consequence, technical activities had little place in these societies. Technology functioned only at certain precise and well-defined times. This was the case in all societies before our own. Technology was not part of man’s occupation nor a subject of preoccupation.


In our day, we are unable to envisage comfort except as part of the technical order of things. Comfort for us means bathrooms, easy chairs, foam rubber mattresses, air conditioning, washing machines, and so forth. For us, comfort is closely associated with material life; it manifests itself in the perfection of personal goods and machines. The men of the Middle Ages also were concerned with comfort, but for them comfort had an entirely different form and content. It represented a feeling of moral and aesthetic order. Space was a primary element in comfort. Man sought open spaces, large rooms, the possibility of moving about, of seeing beyond his nose, of not constantly colliding with other people. These preoccupations are altogether foreign to us.


Technology is of necessity, and as compensation, our universal language. It is the fruit of specialization. But this very specialization prevents mutual understanding. Everyone today has his own professional jargon, modes of thought, and peculiar perception of the world. There was a time when the distortion of oversimplification was the butt of jokes and a subject for vaudeville. Today the sharp knife of specialization has passed like a razor into the living flesh. It has cut the umbilical cord which linked men with each other and with nature. The man of today is no longer able to understand his neighbour because his profession is his whole life, and the technical specialization of this life has forced him to live in a closed universe. He no longer understands the vocabulary of others. Nor does he comprehend the underlying motivations of others.


Man was made to do his daily work with his muscles; but we see him now, like a fly on paper, seated for eight hours, motionless at his desk. Fifteen minutes of exercise cannot make up for eight hours of absence. The human being was made to breathe the good air of nature, but what he breathes is an obscure compound of acids and coal tars. He was created for a living environment, but he dwells in a lunar world of stone, cement, asphalt, glass, cast iron, and steel. The trees wilt and blanch among sterile and blind stone facades. Only rats and men remain to populate a dead world. Man was created to have room to move about in, to gaze into far distances, to live in rooms which, even when they were tiny, opened out on fields. See him now, enclosed by the rules and architectural necessities imposed by over-population in a twelve-by-twelve closet opening out on an anonymous world of city streets.


The machine tends not only to create a new human environment, but also to modify man’s very essence. He must adapt himself, as though the world were new, to a universe for which he was not created. He was made to go 6 kilometers an hour, and he goes a thousand. He was made to eat when he was hungry and to sleep when he was sleepy; instead he obeys a clock. He was made to have contact with living things, and he lives in a world of cement. He was created with a certain essential unity, and he is fragmented by all the forces of the modern world.


…no longer are there any lonely mountains and deserted seacoasts. Solitude is no longer possible; space is at such a premium that men jostle one another everywhere. Quite apart from the solitude of relaxation, we no longer have even the normal solitude which implies sufficient space to live other than as if in a prison cell or at a factory workbench. Living and working traditionally meant open space, a no man’s land separating a man from his fellows. But there is no longer any possibility of that.


Man has always known wide horizons. Even the city dweller had direct contact with limitless plains, mountains and seas. Beyond the enclosing walls of the medieval city, was open country. At most the citizen had to walk five hundred yards to reach the city walls, where space, fair and free, suddenly extended before him. Today man knows only bounded horizons and reduced dimensions. The space not only of his movements but of his gaze is shrinking.


In our cities there is no more day or night or heat or cold. But there is crowding, enslavement to press and television, total absence of purpose. All men are constrained by means external to them to ends equally external. The further the technical mechanism develops…the more we are subjected to artificial technical necessities.


That man until recently got along well enough without measuring time precisely is something we never even think about. What means there were in the past for measuring time belonged to the rich and until the fourteenth century, exerted no influence on real time or on life. The time man guided himself by corresponded to nature’s time. It became abstract when it was divided into hours, minutes and seconds. Today the human being is dissociated from the essence of life; instead of living time, he is split up and parceled out by it.

The Technological Society – Jacques Ellul, 1964




Dudley Dawson jumps a shark!

Posted in Hong Kong | 370 Comments

A quick word from Frank…



I hate my neighbors. The constant cacophony of stupidity that pours from their apartment is absolutely soul-crushing. It doesn’t matter how politely I ask them to practice some common courtesy – they’re incapable of comprehending that their actions affect other people. They have a complete lack of consideration for anyone else, and an overly developed sense of entitlement. They have no decency, no concern, no shame. – Frank

Posted in Hong Kong | 106 Comments



$2839 Hong Kong dollars for a pair of brown shoes. There’s no other word for it…that’s obscene.

Two thousand, eight hundred and thirty nine Hong Kong dollars…for a single pair of plain brown, lace up shoes. I just about had to do a barrel roll to shake the horror of this grotesque obscenity from my senses. What do I look like here…J.D. Rockefeller? A mainlander?

What kind of bug-eyed rube would you have to be, to enter into a contract of purchase to spend $2839 on a pair of uninspiring, boring, brown sweat-shop loafers? Furthermore, what kind of absolute cunt would have the bald faced, cold blooded gall to charge almost $3000 Hong Kong dollars for shoes that probably cost 0.07c to manufacture?

“Clarks England”, that’s who. Or as I like to call them…“Cunts England”


Step right up folks, step right up. ‘Cunts’ is the name and cunts is the game. The biggest cunts in the country. A name you can cunt on.

For 2839 credits, these plain brown lace up shoes would want to look pretty damn snazzy. Do they? Let’s check ’em out…


…oh…you cunts

Pretty standard really…they’re…brown shoes. It does say “Gore Tex” on a special faux metal plaque…but that shit’s been around since 1969, so what’s the big deal there? They’re sensible I suppose…something your grandfather might favour. But even if he did favour them, I don’t think he’d spend half his life’s savings on them.  So, what’s the go Cunts England?? I’m baffled.


Spot your currency: That’s a behemoth $362 US dollars…at $472 Canadian dollars it’s nearly half a gorilla and a straight up sucker punch to the kidney…in Australia it’s a $473 medicine ball to the face…it’s $6565 Mexican Pesos worth of state sanctioned torture, and it’s a $279 British pound headbutt to the bridge of the nose. Either way you slice it…whatever currency you look at, it amounts to nothing more than a kick in the face on a Saturday night with a steel-toe grip Kodiak work boot, and a trip to the hospital, bloodied and bashed, for reconstructive surgery.

Lucky for me, I was with my mother in law at the time and as soon as she saw the price she collapsed to the floor in sheer ecstasy, shaking her arms and legs and wailing like a banshee. When she passed out from over-exertion and delirium, and her heart stopped, I was forced to administer mouth to mouth. After about 30 minutes of that, and as soon as she could speak again, she told the shop assistant to ring up 45 pairs of shoes, and then got on the phone to organize the necessary mules and parallel trading experts (her friends and family) to get them across the border to Shenzhen and beyond.


As soon as my mother in law saw the price of the shoes she hit the deck, overwhelmed by feelings of joy and consumption. She bought 45 pairs, the entire stock load, and let me have mine for $2835. It only took me an hour of haggling and in the end she offered me the ‘shelf’ pair because, she reasoned, a lot of people had probably touched them. She’s a really fantastic person.


Some of my mother in law’s friends and relatives smuggle the shoes across the border, cleverly disguised in harmless boxes of noodles and milk powder products.

I guess I owe Cunts England an apology. Maybe they aren’t cunts preying on the provincial gullibility and cult of perceived status of cashed up rube mainlanders after all. Maybe they’re just good, old-fashioned, honest, hard-working cunts, bringing much welcome happiness to the lives of thousands of delirious consumers who have way more money than sense. It just depends on how you look at it. Anyway, what do I care? Anything that brings me closer to my mother in law is alright by me. And when I say closer…I mean…closer. Ooh lala. 😉

So…sorry Cunts!

I just don’t know how I’m going to explain to my wife that I spent $2835 dollars on a pair of shoes. Maybe she’s on the phone right now…to her mother…talking about me…talking about the shoes…oh…oh dear God no…


He what….?


…for what…?




…oh Dudley…you’re a dead man…

This post brought to you by…

gfgg (1)

Cunts England. At Cunts…we’ll cunt you good


My ex-wife has crabs








Posted in Hong Kong | 37 Comments

The Perfect Storm – Part II: MTR Murder



I’m on the verge of tears by the time I reach the platform. I’m trying to listen to the new Cantopop Hits of the 80’s & 90’s CD, but every Wong, Ip and Lee is buzzing in my ear…yelling into phones, bellowing at each other or munching sausage bread like a jackal with a mouth full of sap.


Dudley Dawson shows off his latest acquisition…The Very Best of Cantopop Volume 1. The whole album has a clear, crisp sound and a new sheen of consummate pedestrianism that really gives the songs a big boost.

I make my way to the very end of the platform because there’s fewer people there. In Hong Kong, people are so damn lazy they’d rather pile into the mid section of the train with a whole smorgasbord of dipshittery, than walk another 30 seconds for a more comfortable ride.


Dudley Dawson attempts to drown out the sound of a hundred boorish phone calls.

When I get to the end of the platform, I put on my dark protective sunglasses. There’s a moment of sheer panic when the train arrives and I realize the last car is jam packed. I hit the volume controls, turn up the Cantopop and hope for the best. The doors open and half the people empty out. Relief washes over me in an awesome wave. There’s even seats available, so I take one.


…what the…





Out of the corner of my eye I see two middle aged, dreary looking women approaching from the left. They’ve seen the empty seat next to me and both make a play for it, but a drearier, older woman swoops from the right and beats them both. She thuds down, plastic bags full of cabbage and radish swinging from each arm. She’s on the phone trying to explain something to someone. She’s loud. She’s frantic. Where the fuck did she get all that cabbage and radish at this time of morning?


I like to take out a pencil and a notepad in situations like this, lean forward, nod along to the loud, rude, annoying conversation I’m being assaulted with and jot down notes. Should we be getting all this down, dude?  Is any of this gonna be on the test?? And he looks at me like I’m the bad guy!


Yell, yell, yell, scream, scream, scream. I’m a thoughtless lax slob who refuses social responsibility because that kind of self discipline’s just too hard. It’s much easier to do what everyone else does and just do what I want, yell when I want, scream when I want…and then blame you if you’ve got a problem with it.

Mercifully, the cabbage & radish woman ends her phone conversation pretty quickly and I ease back the volume on my Cantopop compilation. I do keep half an eye on her though, because I know what’s coming. Sure enough, there it is. She can’t sit still…she whips the phone out and I watch her dim sum fingers dial 6 numbers in a row, desperately trying to get someone on the phone…anyone. But she can’t do it. Nobodies answering. I focus on the book in my hand and start to read.

…tap…tap…tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap…

What in fuck is that tapping noise? I look to my right and the old woman’s tapping the living shit out of an ipad. She’s playing Candy Crush or something. I can’t not hear it. I can’t not see it out the corner of my eye. Opposite me there’s a plain looking woman doing her makeup. It’s mildly disgusting watching her smear paste around her gaping eyeballs while she contorts her sallow face in a small pocket mirror. I get a good look up her nostrils. Fuck. I look away. The guy on my left is playing Candy Crush. He looks totally focused, completely engrossed and highly challenged. The man next to him is holding two phones. He’s looking into one and yelling into the other. Opposite him, there’s a thick-set woman unconscious…mouth wide open, head titled back like a sideshow clown ready for a ping pong ball. The man next to her keeps screeching “wai” into his phone over and over again. He’s horrific.


“Why you look at me? Not your business! Mind your business while I’m add my makeup on…


…is none of your business…*scowl scowl scowl*…


…you fuck…you stupid…your problem…mind your business you stupid fucker fuck you go to hell….” – Listen you self-absorbed cretin….this is NOT rocket science. It’s NOT complicated. If you’re so staggeringly oblivious that you think it’s OK to sit directly opposite me making a public spectacle of yourself…prepare to be stared at…expect to be laughed at…and count on being photographed and made an example of on Hong Kong Sucks. Don’t look at me like I’m the bad guy. I’m the one sitting here keeping myself to myself. You’re the moron doing your toiletries on a public train. 


Winnie Chan attempts to make herself less ordinary…in her private bathroom…


Hong Kong fast pace OK…Hong Konger must use the time OK…not your business OK


Pull a hat down over your face or something, fucking hell.

I need space. I give up my seat and head to the standing area at the very end of the train. There’s a woman in the corner trimming her nails and dropping the clippings at her feet. I manage to make eye-contact. There’s no sign of embarrassment though…she couldn’t look more indifferent if she tried. Very Hong Kong. In the other corner there’s a man on his phone…monumental in volume. He’s slapping a rolled up newspaper on the wall to emphasize whatever it is he’s screaming about. My ears! The Cantopop does nothing!


These are the toe and finger nails I collected in a single morning commute last week. I’ll be presenting them to Carrie Lam at a luncheon this Thursday.

serd (9)

Make yourself at home, man.


…what the…ffffuck…???


Wont that be a nice surprise for the janitor 😉


Just a regular guy

I look down at my feet…someone’s spilled a drink. Oh wait a minute is that…it is. A mainland women’s helping her mewling cabbage urinate into an empty bottle of Watson’s water. There’s too much urine and not enough bottle. It’s textbook play from the mainlander though. She thinks that’s what you do. The girl next to me is slobbering all over a piece of bread still in its plastic bag. Saliva strands trail from her mouth to the plastic. I can hear her chewing. She’s watching something inane on her phone with the sound turned up.


Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me? What’s that? You’re on the phone? Sounds like you’re talking to me. Are you talking to me? I can hear you three carriages down. Who the fuck are you talking to?

I slowly take the lighter fluid from my pocket. I know what I have to do. Listen you fuckers, you screwheads. Here’s a man who will not take it anymore. A man who’ll stand up against the scum, the cunts, the dogs, the filth, the shit. The idea has been growing in my brain for some time. It’s time to wash away the garbage and trash…

…there’s a flash, then screams a couple of carriages down. I smell smoke…burning. Somebody down there has passed the point of no return. I can just make out a figure. He’s on fire. They’re all on fire. It’s pandemonium. I slip the lighter fluid back into my pocket and take out my phone…


It’s like watching a train smash or something


Say cheese……..cheeeeeeze that’s hot!!!!!!!!!!!

This post brought to you by…

serd (4)

The MTR Corporation Logic and Fair Practice Division…


…Apple’s new Peeping Sanjay app…


…hand luggage…


…breakfast menus at 11:03am…


…Rowdy Roddy Piper…


…Central, Hong Kong…


…the yellow jacket…


…check-in luggage…


…having a great time with friends…


…in picturesque settings…


…the kooky umbrella movement…


…fair play for parallel traders…


…the Dudley Dawson Division of Logic and Fair Play…make a public spectacle of yourself…expect your public spectacle to be documented.


…and making reservations at Cafe de Coral.

Later dudes!



Posted in Hong Kong | 39 Comments

The Perfect Storm


The S.S. Dawson takes on Victoria Harbour

The Perfect Storm – Part 1: Morning Madness

The Perfect Storm: an especially bad day where conditions dish up nothing but snake eyes

I’ve never experienced the perfect storm in Hong Kong…but if I did, I imagine it would follow this factually based hypothetical timeline…

6:00am – I wake up to the sound of urine. The steady, unmistakable sound of someone else’s morning piss plunges deep and sure into my brain. The walls are thin, the urine is strong. I swoon a little, imagining some old woman hosing out her steaming yellow labia liquid in the unit above me. I hope I don’t have to listen to her trying to push the kids into the deep end…oh…too late. I vomit in my mouth a little…it’s going to be one of those days…


Aunty Urine’s special labia liquid

6:15am – I try to make my way to the shower before the door slamming starts. But I don’t make it. BANG! SLAM! SCREECH! BANG! KA FUCKING SLAM! There’s 8 units on my floor and the savages living in them need to leave early for school or their customer service jobs on the other side of Hong Kong. They slam their doors with a kind of cruelty and hateful spite which truly boggles the mind. I feel like I’m being violated somehow.

6:20am – I’m sitting down, trying to read a few pages of a book before I have to leave for work. But Aunty Urine’s up there chopping a bagful of radish. CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP. She sure does have a lot of radish. She’s swinging from the shoulder too. CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! From the unit above and to the right of me, another woman…a mother, starts screaming at her young children. She’s firing off a withering barrage of instruction and scolding. She’s snapping and biting off anywhere between 300 to 500 Cantonese words a minute I’d reckon. She has, easily, one of the most grating and irritating voices I’ve ever heard. And right here, in my home, my castle…that bitch is crystal clear.


Damn radishes

6:22am – Someone on my floor comes by my door to take rubbish to the bin in the stairwell. Their trash clunks into the big plastic bin then I hear them shuffling back down to their unit…seconds later the heavy, fireproof stairwell door crashes closed with a gigantic thud. That’s followed by my neighbour slamming her own door as loud as she can in typical Hong Kong fashion. Meanwhile – Aunty Urine’s still dealing with the radish; CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! CHOPPITY CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP! CHOP! CHOP; someone’s started tapping something for some reason somewhere in the unit next to me and I can hear a TV blaring…that’d be my other neighbours – the ones who enjoy leaving their door open and their TV on, loud, at 6 in the morning.


Home is where the hate is

6:24am – The man in the unit above and to the left of me starts his daily hammering activities. Not sure what kind of project he’s working on, but he should be finished soon because he’s been at it for a solid year now. Moments later, car horns start going off somewhere down on the street. And I mean going off. I don’t even live in a built up area. What the fuck is going on down there? I keep reading the same line in my book over and over again, not knowing what it says. I have to get the fuck out of here.

6:30am – I’m on my floor waiting for the lift, praying none of my neighbors come out. Because if they do, I know they’ll be bellowing at one another and their breath will stink. Just before the lift arrives I hear commotion from round the corner. Keys are rustling, voices are yelling and doors are slamming in typical Hong Kong fashion. I mash the CLOSE button feverishly, in typical Hong Kong fashion, but I’m too late. Mr and Mrs So Fuk Yiu slide inside. At first they’re like goldfish added to a new tank…docile…quiet…slightly stunned. I half entertain the idea that the whole ride to ground level will be peaceful…civilized even. But like a rocket ship that’s just blown a rivet, Mrs So Fuk Yiu unleashes a wild sawtooth screaming salvo which is instantly interpreted by Mr So as some form of coherent communication and has him yelling back in turn immediately, at twice the volume. They’re not fighting…just chatting. They continue, both shrieking at the same time, all the way to the lobby. Not sure if they noticed I was there…but I don’t think it would it have mattered either way.


Mr & Mrs So Fuk Yiu

6:35am – I’m on the street now. I have a 10 minute walk to the MTR. The first thing I notice is maids all over the place carrying school bags for spoiled cunt school children. The second thing I notice is mothers and fathers holding drink bottles or some kind of limp bread up to their child’s mouth, helping them eat and drink and then wiping their mouths for them. Their goggled-eyed child stands ineptly, arms dangling uselessly by their side as they vacantly chew.


Hong Kong students learn about how entitled they are

6:40am – I’m half way to the MTR and I’ve noticed everyone is walking really fast. It’s as if they can’t wait to get to work. They’re double timing it…like they’re being frog-marched by someone with a gun to their back. Why can’t people move with this much purpose at the ATM or summon this kind of energy to return their shopping trolleys to the rack, helping to keep the checkout area clear of trolleys and baskets? What the fuck is wrong with these people? Later, there’s a woman in front of me trying so hard to walk fast she almost pitches forward and topples over. I glide past her, look back and she’s holding up the queue trying to find her Octopus Card in her handbag. What a moron.


Why use one phone when you can make more of an asshole of yourself with two??

6:50am – The MTR. Dear God.


To be continued…in…

The Perfect Storm – Part 2: MTR Murder


Good Samaritans document the scene for law enforcement officials


This post brought to you by tissues. Good for hawking up phlegm, spitting in, then tossing into or near a rubbish bin.


Packet of tissues store value…40 cents. Special promotion value…free. Lining up for 20 minutes to get them…priceless.


Scum…subhuman scum


Snake eyes you lose!

Posted in Hong Kong | 104 Comments

Andy Lau Fell Off A Horse


Pass around the hat for Andy…oh god…my kidney…my lung…my pelvis…anything…not Andy! Not Andy!! Anyone but Andy!!! Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!

If you’re stuck on the MTR and packed in so tight you can’t even access your phone, it can be a sound ploy to distract yourself from the surrounding scum by focusing your attention toward the on-board television, insipid and vacant as it is. That’s where I found myself the other day and this is what I saw…over and over…and over again:


Surrounded by vacuous morons securing lame photos for a vacuous Hong Kong public, His Royal Highness and certified God, Andy Lau, is wheeled into the Hong Kong Sanatorium and Hospital in Happy Valley. That’s right…Sanatorium.


Local deity, Sir Andy Lau fawns for the media


The hospital bed where Hong Kong sacred cow, Andy Lau, will learn to use his bedpan.


Supreme Being, Andy Lau, and his horse-stomped pelvis…sporting a bad cold…and a…horse throat?? 😉


Andy…Andy!! How did it feeeeeeeeel when that horse stomped on your pelvis? Did you hear any bones snap??? Andy!!!!!!!!!!


Andy Lau’s boring wife on her way to visit the injured divinity.


We love you Andy! We love you! We are so bereft. Andy! Andy!!!! How does your pelvis feel??!!!!!!! Does it hurt when you urinate???!!! Andy!!!!!????

I know what you’re all saying…who the fuck is Andy Lau?? That’s exactly what I thought. I work with about 9 “Andy Laus” but none of them, that I know about, have tried to molest any horses recently. Apparently the Andy Lau with the snapped pelvis is some kind of money-grubbing horse hater who films TV commercials in Thailand. He’s an ‘entertainer’. In other words, he flits between the cracks, hobnobs with shallow show business types, sings lame dreary songs and makes B-Grade movies. No surprises then that a massive Hong Kong media scrum scuttled out of the smog, surrounded his ambulance stretcher like vultures, and started snapping away, ready to regurgitate their big ol’ pile of watery bile to a mind numbingly superficial Hong Kong populous, set to lap it up with relish, I’m sure. And just in case Yum Cha Johnny and Aunty Fishball don’t understand just what happened to poor Andy Lau, they have this…

Andy Lau can clearly be seen repeatedly jabbing the horse with a sharp object. The horse then bucks Andy off like a sack of potatoes and stomps him not once, but twice…right on the pelvis. Pin point. Ouch. Never work with animals or children, Andy.

What’s the moral of this story?

There is no moral. Andy Lau fell off a horse. Then a huge pile of scuttling substance starved robots took photos of him being wheeled into some kind of 19th century hospital…MTR television played the whole thing on a Clockwork Orange type loop…I watched it for 20 minutes to keep my attention diverted from the scum all around me and I reported my findings here.

The end.


Dudley Dawson studies the Andy Lau media scrum.

Posted in Hong Kong | 70 Comments

Meat Bakery Blues


Hong Kong baker, Eduardo Wong, adds a dash of meat to the bread mix

Hong Kong bakeries specialize in soft, limp bread with soft, limp crust. That’s how they like it in Hong Kong. Their bread mirrors the people…soft and limp. Now, because Hong Kong is shallow, superficial and gaudy, Hong Kong bakeries feel the need to dress their bread up in all manner of gimmickry. That’s why the bread available in most bakeries is rarely just bread. It has to be milk bread, butter bread, honey bread, syrup bread, chocolate bread, walnut bread, limp cheese bread, sugar bread, sweet bread, cheese sauce ‘flavour’ bread, sweet topping bread, used-by date mashed fig bread and dick cheese bread. You see, locals need to think they’re getting something special…something fancy. But they’re not.  They’re just getting soft, limp bread with third party gimmickry.


It’s soft, it’s limp…it’s cheap disgusting crap…and Hong Kong loves it.

Hong Kong bakeries are also experts in the mass production of tasteless, substanceless cakes. Their cakes mirror the people…tasteless and without substance.  Trickery is a fine art, and Hong Kong bakeries are cunning tricksters. They’ve perfected the deceptive art of making cakes that appear inviting and sweet, but that are almost completely devoid of richness and taste. These things are so physically light and vacuous a sheet of paper would tip them on a set of scales. The shameful business practices of Hong Kong bakeries almost defy science. Whipped cream that tastes like air. Icing so plain you’re sure it’s made from starch and water. Butter, sugar, eggs, and flour that somehow combine to create the dull taste of old cardboard. Hong Kongers, of course, lap it all up and kid themselves it’s good because it comes in a special box with a carry string.


An insipid collection of characterless crap


They look ok, but taste like the gaudy cardboard box they come in

But of all the low down, half-baked, crusty, crummy bakery gimmicks implemented by seedy Hong Kong bakeries, the shrewdest one has to be MEAT BREAD. Like all canny food businesses, Hong Kong bakeries know that Hong Kongers can’t take 5 steps without stuffing some kind of meat down their throats. Any meat. It doesn’t matter. Walking into a Hong Kong bakery is like walking into some kind of meat locker or butcher shop chop-chop room. It’s like being on the slaughter belt of your local abattoir. If it once lived and breathed the air, knew its mother, had eyes, knew love or fear…then you’ll find it in the Hong Kong meat bakery, ground up, dead and stuffed in a glazed bun.

These fuckers will kill anything if they know they can shove it inside 2 cents worth of soft, limp bread for a profit. Ham steak croissant, black liver chicken bread, tuna fish pastry, sausage & cheese flavor bread, shredded pork bread, ham steak croissant, reconstituted ham baguette, tuna fish puff, cheese & turkey bun, meat cocktail roll, literal cocktail roll, flossy pork French stick, ham corn and corn-hole shredded pork bun, frankfurter sausage bread with added frankfurter, crispy sausage bun, pork belly bread, seared pork belly bread, double seared pork belly bread with extra belly, flossy pork salad bun, chicken cartilage roll, turtle gizzard cold remedy bread stick, cow tongue surprise sweet bread with turkey feet shavings, offal toast niblet dip slices, garlic chicken neck baguette, deep fried aspic meat with tendon roll butter melt bread, tiger penis bread balls, chicken tuna pork beef aspic turkey floss neck loaf.

Welcome to the killing floor, where rolling dough goes hand in hand with mincing, grinding, slicing, dicing, bashing, burning, flossing, cutting, stabbing, pressure broiling, stewing, braising, searing and charring as many ill-raised, stone cold terror stricken animals as can possibly be imagined on a daily basis. And the locals LOVE IT. When they ask, ‘have you had your breakfast yet?’…what they mean is…’did you sit on the train like me chewing with your wet saliva strewn mouth wide open totally oblivious to the sheer terror and unmitigated suffering waiting for anyone within eye-shot of your repugnant, wet mouth-full of pork floss sausage bun yet?’ I always say, ‘no’. No I have not. You scum.


Is that reconstituted turkey sausage? Is there any other kind of turkey sausage? Hahaha


We put all our swine through a series of real, actual floss pulling machine jaws, designed to inflict maximum pain and suffering. The result? Limp soft bread with pig floss so fine you can use it to polish steel. MMMM MMMMMM!


Specialist Hong Kong baker, Moses Chan. “They key to great bread is meat.”


Ham steak bun. Is that ham reconstituted? Of course it’s reconstituted mother fucker! It’s been reconstituted 9 times since last Wednesday 🙂


Chicken floss bread…it’s really not as bad as it sounds…it’s worse. 


It looks bad now…but wait til Winnie Lau’s sitting opposite you on the bus smacking her chops all over it making slapping sounds with her reconstituted sausage saliva mouth chatting loudly into her phone at 7.45am. You’ll think you’ve died and gone to Hong Kong. If you look close enough, you’ll see Winnie actually eat some of the plastic bag around the sausage bun because she’s so profoundly oblivious she has no idea the plastic bag isn’t the reconstituted sausage bun.She simply can’t tell.


Turkey bun. You’d be a turkey not to buy as many as you can eat before your bus gets you from Tsim Sha Tsui to North Point.


Crispy sausage bun? Flossy pork? Nice to meat you!


Tuna ‘fish’ puff labelling prevents people from misguidedly buying tuna ‘pork’ puffs…which are also sensational, but cost a dollar more…and aren’t fish!


Hong Kong baker, Jacky Cheng, gets ready to knead some dough…with a couple of 4 pound ducks.

The Hong Kong bakery is a disgusting den of pastry perversion and degeneracy. These cheap snake oil, sizzle selling merchants prey upon Hong Kong weakness…a penchant for limpness, softness, shallowness and base limbic desire. I can only hope that when Hong Kong fully and magnificently kowtows to China that these crimes against humanity…these meat bakeries…become a thing of the past like the crazy conspiracy theories about mistreatment and mismanagement at the Tiananmen Square ‘Massacre’ and the absurd ‘stories’ about Cultural Revolution genocides. Once China’s firmly behind the wheel, there’ll be no place for shonkiness, artifice or deception in the HK bakery industry, that’s for sure. A baker’s dozen will be a baker’s dozen…and turtle gizzard will be something you drink, not put in a bun. And I’ll never have to look at you maw your way through some disgusting meat pastry product, sloshing it around in your disgusting wide open mouth, stinking up the train, ever again. You oblivious scum.


Highly respected baker, Eddy Cheung, sears an infant wild boar alive for his signature dish…seared wild infant boar bread stick. You’re amazing Eddy.


Pig hair & duck floss surprise. Trying to tell pig hair from split duck feather quill is part of the fun and Hong Kongers love it nearly as much as lining up for 3 hours to throw a foam ball into a hole in a box to win a plastic drink bottle.


This post brought to you by the staggeringly corrupt and felonious Citibank chain…laundering Mexican drug cartel money with the occasional slap on the wrist for over 50 years…and attempting to hoodwink dim-witted fork and spoon operators out of their hard earned cash with blue suitcase trinkets for almost as long.


This post additionally brought to you by Used Tissue Hill. When tourists ask me where to go for authentic Hong Kong culture…I don’t hesitate. It’s Used Tissue Hill every time. It’s as Hong Kong as sitting on a train with a wide open mouthful of soggy limp disgusting pig giblet bread.


When you’re done climbing beautiful Used Tissue Hill, take the load off your feet and out of your nose at Mucus Bench…everyone else does!

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