Spoiler alert - You're a dick

I've never hidden my feelings regarding people who are moved to complain about the contents of a TV programme. My attitude is firmly in the 'if you don't like it, don't bloody watch it' camp, and honestly believe some people are only happy when they're being offended by something which gives them a chance to get Ofcom on the blower.


However, recent events surrounding the Eastenders 30th anniversary have taken the biscuit, eaten the biscuit, digested and shat out the biscuit, then maybe eaten it again.


Incredibly, 5 people complained to Ofcom following the climax of the 'Who done in Lucy Beale, innit?' storyline on Eastenders because it they didn't provide clues and it was too hard to predict the killer


Shit the bed. I mean, seriously, Jesus H Christ on a bike that's shat the bed.


Who in their right mind (and let's be honest, I've probably answered my own question right there) is so wrapped up in their own existence that they can't wait an hour to see the climax of what is essentially a made-up story for light entertainment? It's a TV programme - a fictional one at that - yet a small minority of people can't just invest in the drama and say 'Oh, him was it?' at the end before going back to tweeting close-ups of their private areas for the amusement of their friends.

By all means moan that you didn't think the outcome was very good, or that you hardly see up Kat's skirt at all these days, but a) thinking that a 10-month whodunnit is deliberately misleading and b) being moved to actually call an official body to voice those thoughts is the sign you're something of a COMPLETE AND UTTER TWAT. And if you're offended by that, why don't you ring the fucking A-Team.

Pour form

Yo-yos.  Planking.  Equality.  All things which started out as a bit of a laugh and captured the public's imagination for a few short weeks, before being confined to the dustbin of history as 'Huh, what were we thinking, eh?'

The latest heelarious fad to sweep that Internet consists of a celebrity pouring a bucket of ice water over their heads, all in the name of charity.  I'm not actually sure what the charity is, but for the sake of comedic irony, let's say it's to raise awareness of the lack of water in the Third World.

It started a few weeks ago, where recognisable person after recognisable person were filmed having a bucket of cold water poured over their heads, thus showing that they're 'one of us' and highlighting the plight of people less fortunate than themselves.  Quite what this was supposed to achieve is unclear.  Perhaps they expected us to exclaim "J-Lo owns a bucket.  I own a bucket!  But I bet her ice is store-bought and not hacked from the back of me Mam's freezer.  Mum, what's in this turkey baster?".  We may never know.

The second element of the process is to then nominate someone you know to go through the same ordeal, spreading awareness and having a bit of good clean (if a little cold!!!) fun at the same time.  Naturally, as with everything anybody ever classed as a celebrity has ever done, us normals latched onto it and started pouring and nominating faster than you can say "Youngsters in wet T-shirts online".

If you're that bothered about raising awareness, stop coming up with dick-brained methods of drawing attention to yourself the charity, ask everyone for a fiver and clear off.  What's next?  Smacking yourself on the arse with a cricket bat?  Piercing a nipple with a school compass?  Perhaps you could direct an elaborate remake of The Crying Game using local vagabonds.  Don't pretend you haven't thought about it.

I'm all for a bit of good clean (if a little cold!!!) fun, but do we really have to do this?  Yes, it's only a bucket of water, but what's the fucking point?  Our environment is on its arse as it is, so wasting its valuable water (not to mention the electricity needed to power our video-enabled telephone devices and tumble drying machines) is tantamount to vandalising Mother Nature's face.  And that's just asking for trouble.

Bang, crash, lawsuit

You've got to admire the moxie (or balls - topical reference) of the Australian broad who injured herself during an 'adult situation' and attempted to sue her employer because it happened on a business trip.

Having painstakingly pieced together the various bits of forensic evidence, it appears that in the throes of passion with a 'colleague' (make of that what you will), she managed to rip a light fitting off a wall which promptly twatted her in the face.  Lips were bust, eyes were blacked and one would presume coitus was suspended, unless she's into that kind of thing.

Initially, she actually got compensation, until the High Court's Pisstaking Division got involved and told her to turn it in.  Her employer quite rightly insisted that her actions, whilst carried out during a business trip, were not actually part of her role with the company, and anything she does on her own time is none of their concern.  Quite how she got from 'I can't believe I've just done that' to 'Well, this is clearly the company's fault - heads are gonna roll' is anyone's guess, and her unflinching brazenness in bringing this into the public domain has to be applauded.  Win, lose or draw, she's managed to drag her own reputation through the muck in the process, making her unemployable at best, a misguided harlot at worst.

Thankfully, her case being thrown out prevented the setting of any precedence, where any Tom, Dick (arf) or Harry would start filing nuisance lawsuits because they'd trapped their bell end in a trouser press, or got into a compromising situation with a Filipino chamber maid for whom 'no' really does mean 'no'.  Hopefully she'll think twice the next time she gets herself into this situation (cos you know she will).  My advice would be to test the structural integrity of the room before beginning any shenanigans.  That, and to record the whole event.  That way, if it all goes to plan, you've got a romantic keepsake, but if chaos ensues, you can send it in to You've Been Framed for a grand (I know, a grand!).

Girl grows up. Nation melts down

Professional 'entertainer' Miley Cyrus has created quite a stir this week (and not just in mens' underpants!!!). The former wholesome child star of Hannah Fantana has graduated to being a fully-fledged woman, with tits and what have you. Capitalising on her minx-like persona, she wore tiny kecks and a bra to cavort, bump and/or grind her way through some atrocious piece of music during the MTV Music Awards. Instead of brushing it off as a typical piece of PR to drum up music sales (akin to Madonna and Britney having a snog, or that lad Gaga wearing a dress made of beef), some parts of the popular press have gone into meltdown, citing the end of the world and questioning the mental state of a 20-year-old with a butt that won't quit.

Such displays of fleshmongering are not new. Recall that 'Dirty' caper by Christina Aguilera back in the early Noughties. A few eyebrows were raised (amongst other things!!!) but nobody seemed to go batshit about it, seemingly because she was an attractive woman making the most of what God gave her (and ultimately took away, if recent photos are to be believed). It seems young Miley has captured the imagination of some of the more conservative members of society because she used to be a child star, and therefore any development into anything remotely sexual is the work of Satan himself, and the only explanation is she must be mentally ill or have daddy issues (the latter of which is perfectly understandable, given who her old man is).

Isn't it even slightly possible that she is just being a young woman doing what some young women do? Does dressing up in skimpy attire instantly mean she has some kind of issue or torment? I've commented before about certain well-put-together young ladies, and how if I were similarly stacked I would in all likelihood strut around in all manner of revealing get-up. It doesn't necessarily mean I'm bereft of confidence or struggling with crippling emotional concerns; I could just be an epic cock-tease.

Miley hasn't so far commented on the uproar which has surrounded her 'performance' the other day, and I very much doubt she will. I won't pretend I've scoured the media particularly closely for reactions from all quarters, but I'm yet to see any response from young girls suggesting she is some kind of role model and they will live their life like her from now on. Quite honestly, if your teenage daughter is looking up to a 20-year-old in a bra as a bastion of moral fortitude, it's you who needs to take a long, hard look in the mirror, not her. I recommend wearing a bra and pants while you do.

She said what?!?!? Get her!

You know those occasions where you see something in the popular press or on that Internet, and the content of the prose makes you so cross that your only response is to threaten to rape the author?

No, me neither.

I'm a pretty liberal cat, but even I think rape is bad; wrong even. Whilst I can't argue about its ability to get the point across, it's not the most subtle of argumentative tools. What's wrong with opening a debate, putting your collective points across and agreeing that ultimately it's a futile argument; Chelsee Healey is fit and THAT'S THE BLOODY END OF IT, OK?

I need not tell you this whole rape kerboodle started when a female MP had the temerity, the brass neck, the sheer bloody-mindedness, to campaign to have the image of a female on the back of a new bank note. Now, as far as feminist ideals go, this is towards the bottom of the scale in my mind. It's not as if they're women-only bank notes, usable only by the fairer sex. Nor does it represent the final emasculation of the male species, as the last image of a man is finally scrubbed from our currency as those bra-sporting period-havers finally wrestle control from men and bring in their terrifying regime.

The reaction to this woman's ultimately successful campaign was misguided at best; concerning at worst. Numerous threats of rape were made against this woman within minutes of the news breaking. Not belittling her cause, not slagging her off for her choice of woman to appear on the bank note, not even congratulation. No, "I'm gon' rape you, dog" was the gist of a myriad misogynists' responses.

Thankfully, the Feds haven't hung about, and a couple of arrests have already been made. What perhaps surprises me most about this is that tweets or Facebook posts are widely available and pretty damning in their content. If you were to threaten to rape someone in the street, you could at least play the 'he said, she said' card. If you go and write it down and broadcast it on that Internet, your defence is at best shaky.

I'm not naive enough to think these people didn't already exist, although I imagine the majority of the posters in this story are probably cowards, just trying to fuel their knackered confidence by threatening to forcefully deflower some poor, unsuspecting politician. That said, I think the time has come for some organisation, be it the police, the Government or the coastguard, to step into this online abuse debate and start kicking some ass and imprisoning people, if only to make the next berk thinking of making such a threat to think again.

It's either that or people growing up and accepting other people's points of view. Zing!

But she's fat. I need to tell that Internet

Some folk are insecure. Sorry for the bluntness, but sometimes you have to take the bull by the horns and call a spade a spade. Especially when you're conjoining metaphors.

However, some folk are so insecure that they need the outlet of the comments section on a celebrity story to get their neuroses off their presumably flat chests.

Case in point; the lovely Gemma Arterton. English rose, award-winning actress, fit as fuck. However you dress it up, she done nothing wrong and seems to be making her way through life sporting tight togs to accentuate her 'curves' (newspaper speak for 'tits and arse'). A couple of days ago she turned up at some kind of pre-arranged shindig, wore some nice garb and had her picture taken.

Well, she had it coming didn't she? I mean, she was arskin' for it your Honour.

The number of people (presumably female given their clumsy Internet monikers) calling her fat was utterly ludicrous. I'm not a scientist or an expert in body mass to any serious degree, but at your most negative you could describe her as 'top-heavy', which in my day was the very definition of a compliment to a bit of fluff down the old battle cruiser. Presumably such ill-informed barbs have a cleansing effect on the people making the comments, as if calling an attractive person fat somehow heals their soul and restores their idea of equilibrium. I doubt Gemma sees the comments, thinks 'God, they're right, I'm a right pie-arse' and descends into a spiral of self-loathing and Kit Kat consumption. In all likelihood she doesn't give the shiniest of shites.

I'm all for free speech, but you have to draw a line somewhere. I'm not defending top-heavy lovely Gemma specifically; most stories carrying pictures of people perceived to be fly tend to be inundated with negative responses regarding their physical appearance. By all means pick on them for the questionable morals, clothing or tattoos, but saying someone is fat just because you're jealous is bogus, dude.

At the end of the day, as long as people have got holes in their arses they're going be mean to people better than them to bolster their rock-bottom confidence, and restore parity in their fantasy world where Tulisa or Adolf actually give a rat's ass about your opinions. Presumably that's why people keep putting dog dirt on my door handles.

(Don't) get your tits out

Before we start, this is a rant, not a complaint, so any mention of irony is entirely unfounded.

Who are these people who are so offended by the most banal, nondescript things shown on TV that they are moved to ring the TV station and complain about it?

The latest in a long line of busybodying concerns walking tooth factory Holly Willoughrack, who wore a dress that at best could be described as 'riqsue', at worst 'mildly alluring'. Househusbands favourite Holly is not averse to wearing tight-fitting garb and continued that impressive run on prime-time shout-fest The Voice over the weekend, where crowing wannabees are hauled in front of the great and the Will.I.Am of modern music to sing for their supper, while their family understandably cry in the green room. Last Saturday's show saw Miss Willoughjumperbumps wearing a seemingly offensive dress, with a modest cut-out in the boobal area showing her goods in a manner that you would expect at a former gangster's funeral.

The fall-out (arf) though was unprecedented; over 100 complaints to the BBC about the unsuitability of the outfit. The Beeb were even moved to release a statement accepting the complaints, as if she turned up wearing a full body stocking with fig leaves covering her gubbins.

Now, I've studied these pictures repeatedly from every conceivable angle and I'm yet to find anything remotely inappropriate about them. I understand that the programme is on at a time accessible by kids so certain standards need to be upheld, but I'd be very surprised if any toddlers were among the 100 or so goons deploring the partial display of Holly Willoughshirtpotatoes' funbags.

Seriously, if you're that offended, why don't you just turn over? There are plenty of things which offend me on TV - that faux-reality Made in Chelsea cobblers, the breathless coverage of the most minor of events by Sky News as if the world is about to implode, any ITV drama - and the fact that they're watching The Voice, yet are only moved to complain about the host's get-up says more about them than society in general.

The BBC don't care about your views. They don't care that you're offended, not least because it creates a story and gives their dreadful output free publicity. You're not in their key demographic; you don't say 'Amaze-balls', you don't wear a cap far too big for you, and you don't think Channel 4's haikus are entertaining. You're a middle-aged busybody who thinks that anything not presented by that lovely Fiona Bruce is akin to Nazism. If you really want to make an impact, try writing a blog on that Internet. Then people will sit up and take notice.

How can you hate me - I am your aesthetic superior

Let me be the next lazy commentator to jump on the bandwagon and slag off superhot vixen Samantha Brick for her hilariously short-sighted article about how hard it is being fit.

The basic premise of her article in the Daily Mail (don't worry - I only go there to look at pictures of The Saturdays in hotpants) was that women hate her because she's beautiful. Cue reams of photographs of a not-unattractive-but-you-wouldn't-look-twice-if-you-passed-her-in-the-street blonde lady in various fashionable togs, book-ended by a wailing diatribe about how she can't help being beautiful and women hate her and she's never been a bridesmaid and it's all someone's fault.

Now, I don't know this woman other than this article and I suppose it's possible that based on her experiences, she believes her looks have caused hatred from other women, but if you don't see the folly in moaning about such occurrences in the national press, maybe it's your attitude that is making people think you're an arse. I've never been the sort of person to judge someone's character based on their physical appearance, and I view the myriad responses calling her a dog and what have you to be a cheap shot, but based on the content of her article, it does appear she lives in some kind of parallel universe where everything bad that happens to her is because she's supposedly mint.

She says she's lost friends because of it, and only yesterday a female neighbour ignored her wave when she passed in a car. Ignoring the fact that she might have been concentrating on the road, has she stopped to think why people stop talking to her? What happens when she's late for work, or her car breaks down? "Is it cos I is fit?" is presumably her stock response.

The level of vitriol and sarcasm generated by her article is ludicrous, and the Twittersphere (yep, that's what we're calling it these days) was inundated with every Tom, Dick and Duncan Bannatyne having their say. The gist of their comments refer to how up herself she is and that April Fool's Day has already passed this year. It does smack of bullying as people gang up on her for stating her beliefs, but she's well and truly shot any positive PR in the foot by writing a follow-up article today basically saying "Told yer - bitches be crazy". She is genuinely claiming that the abuse she's suffered as a result of her article proves she's right, and that "no one in this world is more reviled than a pretty woman". Yeah, that's why everyone's laughing at you and calling you names - not because you're so up yourself you can see the back of your own head.

Honestly, she gives us genuinely attractive people a bad name. Don't hate me - God just likes me more than you...

Charity: Time well spent?

Before we get going, let me make it abundantly clear that I have nothing against charities or those who do charitable deeds. I know several people who support very worthy causes every day and help raise funds and awareness for all manner of plights. They are not the target of my ire.

However...

Is it really necessary for every donation we make to be embellished by someone putting themselves through physical and sartorial torture just so we feel obliged to stump up?

A friend recently opined that there is no need for 'celebrities' to run the length of the British Isles or swim the Thames for our money, and that the important thing is the money is donated in the first place. I wholeheartedly agree with this, although I understand how showing a stadium comedian looking tired (with obligatory Coldplay soundtrack) is often required to tug at the purse strings and get us tightwads to part with our hard-earned cash IN THESE TIMES OF AUSTERITY.

However, on a local scale, I don't see why we can't have a whip-round and send in a cheque. We're busy people; we've got lives to lead and skin colours to judge; surely we can't be arsing around doing a 3-day Wii Bowling tournament or 24-hour cardioathon at a local gymnasium.

What's that? We can? Oh, right.

Like I said, I'm all for stumping up to pay for a new wheelchair or what have you, but do I really have to piss about on a treadmill for an hour while my colleagues shout slogans at me? Can't you just have the fiver and I can get on with my life? I don't want to wear matching T-shirts or be part of a poorly-named team or be in the local rag. I just want to put the kettle on and light a massive cigar.

Having said that, if one day I need to buy a new kettle or one of those things to snip the end off the aforementioned cigar, it would only be right that John Bishop pogoed across Britain's suspension bridges to raise the necessary awareness and funds. We all know he's got nothing better to do.

The camera tripod: Boxing's answer to the folding steel chair

You know what British boxing needed? It needed two of its key protagonists to get into a playground-style ruck involving beer bottles and camera tripods in a foreign country. Only then would the rest of the world realise that we're a serious contender and not to messed with. Either that or we're a bunch of dickheads.

As you're probably aware, Derick Chisora narrowly lost his fight with Vitali Klitschko on Saturday night and went some way to repairing his reputation as a tit-end. He'd spent the run-up to the fight slapping and spitting any Russians put in front of him, but his efforts in the ring actually afforded him some respect. Alas, that went tits up when David "Mind me toe" Haye rocked up at the back of the post-scrap press conference and started yelling all manner of clumsy offence, focussing heavily on Chisora's recent record of defeats. Chisora decided this was uncalled for and went to the back to confront him, and - not to put too fine a point on it - the shit hit the fan.

Despite both being professional pugilists, only one punch of note was landed, and even that looked more like a drunk bird hitting her boyfriend with a Bacardi Breezer. All manner of cameras were in attendance so we've been afforded every conceivable angle of the action, culminating in Haye slinging a camera tripod at his opponent (as you do), but only succeeding in hitting his own trainer who ended up bleeding and looking very furious indeed.

Haye subsequently legged it and checked out of his hotel (as we speak is still at large somewhere in Germany) while Chisora thought the best way to calm the situation down was to declare that he would 'shoot' and 'burn' David Haye. If Haye now ends up shot and/or burnt, you can't say he hadn't been warned.

I'm not what you'd call a boxing fan, but even I'm embarrassed by the antics of these two muscle-bound buffoons. I was brought up to respect other people's possessions and to behave when in a foreign country, but these two uber-berks think throwing their weight and photographic equipment about is an acceptable way to conduct themselves on foreign soil. I wouldn't be surprised if it was a clumsy PR stunt to drum up interest in a real fight between these two, but surely they could have done it in a more suitable venue. Like, oh I don't know, a boxing ring?