Howdo folks. Originally my next blog was going to be about the tarts who sell their stories to the newspapers after shagging a footballer, but a couple of other things got on my tits before I got to my computer, so I'm going to have a bit of a round-up instead, to get everything off my chest in one go. Enjoy.
Bloody R 'n' B. Again
Everyone knows I hate R 'n' B, but recently I heard a song from this cess-like genre that I actually liked. I'm talking of Jay-Z's new one (no idea what it's called. Frankly I don't care). The thing is though, the only good bit about it is the sample that runs throughout it. Therefore, my question is this: When was the last time someone released an R 'n' B tune that didn't contain any samples whatsoever? I'm guessing the 40's, when R 'n' B was proper music; not this gun-toting cobblers 'sung' by shirtless blokes covered in gold and fake-breasted birds. They make a bloody fortune out of other people's work. All they do is say 'yo', 'ice' and 'west side' over the top. Piece of piss.
And another thing - all musicians in every genre get a certain reputation, be it good or bad, to the extent that some people won't listen to their music as soon as they know it's them. R 'n' B is no different, so may I suggest you stop saying everybody's names at the start of the record, then you might get a few more listeners.
Kiss 'n' tell slags
I try not to read the red-tops (not that it's particularly difficult to not read the barely-literate tripe they serve up), mainly because every day some bimbo has shagged a footballer and the paper (being on the social pulse) knows we want to hear about every last detail. We really don't, you unclean slappers, but clearly some section of society must lap this cobblers up. The thing is, nobody ever calls the young nymph's morals into question, when she shags someone and immediately goes blabbing to the papers, complete with obligatory bikini snap. It's obvious they're furthering their pathetic glamour careers by doing this but nobody ever says owt.
The latest offering is some hairdressing munter who's supposedly had Cashley Cole. The story is astonishing; tales of him chucking up in the taxi and off the side of the bed mid-shag (only to rinse with some mouthwash and hop back on) and him slapping her arse so hard their was an imprint of his wedding ring on the cellulite-riddled buttock. Reading this tale of debauchery is bad enough, but when you consider that this woman repeatedly states she doesn't like footballers and wasn't really impressed with him, it goes against the fact that she shagged him anyway, vomit and all. She didn't sell her story to out a cheating husband; she just wanted the brass. I personally hope he's given her the clap and she loses her job for being such a morally-vacuous tramp.
And as for Cole? Yeah, to be fair, if I had Cheryl Tweedy at home I'd cheat as well. Pillock.
Immediate smokers
The smoking ban is a good thing. That quote was taken directly from the Government's last manifesto by the way, and it's right. More people are quitting and we're now treated to the smell of BO and farts in nightclubs. However, people who immediately light a cig when they leave a building really piss me off.
I went into Tescos the other day, and got stuck behind a minging old couple lighting up in the doorway. What got me was they were parked miles away, so they had ages to light up. But no, they had to give in to the sweet taste of nicotine the second they left the building. I briefly considered killing the pair of them for being selfish and getting in my way, but I thought 'what's the point?'. In a court of law I'd get done for stoving their heads in with a shopping trolley, while they're free to pollute the doorways of buildings with their stale smoke. There's no justice sometimes.
Saturday, 26 January 2008
Friday, 18 January 2008
These people live among us
It's been ages since I wrote about the many plebs which punctuate my working life. Truth be told I've been a lot busier recently, plus I'm keen to filter them out as often as possible. However, every now and then you just have to doff your hat at the unbelievable stuff these people get up to.
The people in question are actually the parents of someone I work with, so we're talking early sixties. They've stumped up for a trip to Monte Carlo, and have managed to blag cheap flights due to the current nature of air travel. The thing is, due to the current nature of air travel, it's not uncommon to be charged additional brass for both your seat and to check luggage into the hold. It turns out that this couple were to pay £20 between them to check a single bag into the plane. Their solution?
That's right - they would borrow their friends' clothes when they got there.
That's borrow their clothes.
In Monte Carlo.
To save £20.
For fuck's sake.
The people in question are actually the parents of someone I work with, so we're talking early sixties. They've stumped up for a trip to Monte Carlo, and have managed to blag cheap flights due to the current nature of air travel. The thing is, due to the current nature of air travel, it's not uncommon to be charged additional brass for both your seat and to check luggage into the hold. It turns out that this couple were to pay £20 between them to check a single bag into the plane. Their solution?
That's right - they would borrow their friends' clothes when they got there.
That's borrow their clothes.
In Monte Carlo.
To save £20.
For fuck's sake.
Wednesday, 16 January 2008
The blog what writes itself
So Robbie Williams is making a stand against the EMI buyout by going on strike? Isn't that a bit the same as an arsonist going on strike if the fire brigade were taken over?
Not to put too fine a point on it, he's shit. If you're reading, Bob, take heed:
- You haven't had a decent record since Angels and that a) was co-written and b) has now been ruined by chav funerals.
- You think you're 'street' but you're not. The rest of Take That have matured and dress/act accordingly. You stick on a tracksuit and sing Rudebox. Not your finest moment.
- You think we still care about you, and that you're a cheeky chappy national institution. Er, no. We think you're a joke. You've ruined what little talent you had and the women only sleep with you cos you're famous/loaded/in possession of high-class narcotics. Oh, and you can't spell institution without 'tit'
- It's quite clear your career has hit the skids so you're using the buyout as an excuse to bolster your publicity. To be honest, if you had any sense you'd use this as an excuse to cancel the rest of your deal and bugger off before you make it any worse for yourself.
Yours sincerely, society in general.
Not to put too fine a point on it, he's shit. If you're reading, Bob, take heed:
- You haven't had a decent record since Angels and that a) was co-written and b) has now been ruined by chav funerals.
- You think you're 'street' but you're not. The rest of Take That have matured and dress/act accordingly. You stick on a tracksuit and sing Rudebox. Not your finest moment.
- You think we still care about you, and that you're a cheeky chappy national institution. Er, no. We think you're a joke. You've ruined what little talent you had and the women only sleep with you cos you're famous/loaded/in possession of high-class narcotics. Oh, and you can't spell institution without 'tit'
- It's quite clear your career has hit the skids so you're using the buyout as an excuse to bolster your publicity. To be honest, if you had any sense you'd use this as an excuse to cancel the rest of your deal and bugger off before you make it any worse for yourself.
Yours sincerely, society in general.
Saturday, 5 January 2008
A child is yawn
First of all, a Happy New Year and other over-familiar pleasantries. I hope this year brings you exactly what you asked for, or at least what you deserve.
Anyway, today I want to have a low-key rant about baby weights. Put simply, who gives a monkey's sweet nad about how heavy a baby is at birth? It seems to be the first question asked (especially by women) but I fail to see what interest it holds for the bystander.
Now, if it's a whopper (2 stone, for example) it's worthy of note; similarly if it's like a pound or something, but when 90% (not even remotely researched) of kids are about 6-7 pounds, why do we care?
I've thought this for a while when I've listened to the clucking old women at work harping on about how heavy our Liane's firstborn is, or how Bertha from Accounts was saying that her son's wife had to be induced and it was 8 pounds and I'm going to visit them tonight and I've bought them some flowers and a magazine and a cardigan and SHUT THE FUCK UP.
I really, REALLY don't care, so stop telling me. If I'm in the room when you're telling someone else, it's my responsibility to clear off, but if I'm trying to work and you're just wittering, I reserve the right to tell you my assertive opinions on the subject. Good day.
Anyway, today I want to have a low-key rant about baby weights. Put simply, who gives a monkey's sweet nad about how heavy a baby is at birth? It seems to be the first question asked (especially by women) but I fail to see what interest it holds for the bystander.
Now, if it's a whopper (2 stone, for example) it's worthy of note; similarly if it's like a pound or something, but when 90% (not even remotely researched) of kids are about 6-7 pounds, why do we care?
I've thought this for a while when I've listened to the clucking old women at work harping on about how heavy our Liane's firstborn is, or how Bertha from Accounts was saying that her son's wife had to be induced and it was 8 pounds and I'm going to visit them tonight and I've bought them some flowers and a magazine and a cardigan and SHUT THE FUCK UP.
I really, REALLY don't care, so stop telling me. If I'm in the room when you're telling someone else, it's my responsibility to clear off, but if I'm trying to work and you're just wittering, I reserve the right to tell you my assertive opinions on the subject. Good day.
Got a bit angry there, but to be fair the season of goodwill is now behind us for another year. All the best.
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