Before we start, and in the words of Sideshow Bob, "I'm aware of the irony of decrying people complaining in this blog, so there's no need to point it out".
Who are these people who complain to watchdogs when somebody says or does something apparently inappropriate? The latest is skinny hilarity-peddler Chris Moyles, who went on a limp-wristed rant about not being paid for 2 months. 61 people complained.
My question is, why?
First off, what do they think they will achieve? I'm all for free speech, and you can't please everyone all the time, but do they really think ringing in to say they didn't like it will make a blind bit of difference? In this case, Moyles won't even by disciplined, so how do they expect to change the BBC's charter with their hand-wringing and whining?
Second, and this is a long-standing bug-bear of mine, if you don't like it, turn it off. Nobody's making you listen to him (although I understand the CIA use it as a torture technique). Instead of sitting there waiting to be offended, put something banal and inoffensive off to avoid hurting your sensitive ears. I can't stand Moyles; I think he's a talentless toerag who uses shouting to mask his lack of humour, but I don't listen to him and bitch all the way through; I just don't listen.
Thirdly, what was so offensive about this anyway? If he'd littered his diatribe with a series of four-letter and/or swear words, fair enough, but he didn't. Personally I don't care what the fuck you say in any form of communication (subtle gag there), but I get how some people don't want to hear coarse language and mentions of 'frothing at the gash' while they're listening to their favourite disc jockeys. However, all he did was moan about not being paid; he didn't swear, he didn't have a go at the listeners, so I really don't see the need to complain. Ironically, the complaints should have been directed at him instead, as he used the position afforded to him by the British taxpayer to whinge about not being paid, instead of knocking on his gaffer's door to discuss it in private, like any normal person.
At the end of the day, there will always be people out there who can't wait to be offended, just so they can get on their high horse about it. With that in mind, feel free to comment on this and I'll give you a whole new perspective on what it is to be offended. Toodle oo.
Friday, 24 September 2010
Monday, 20 September 2010
Bigots: Presumptious
We've all been in a position where we've said something out loud assuming the others in attendance were in agreement, only to realise we'd completely misread the feelings of everyone else, making us look like a right royal doughnut.
Usually such an occurrence revolves around your opinion of the popular music scene, or maybe you're a Glee fan in the company of a group of normal people. Such events must be highly embarrassing for the bollock-dropper, so imagine how bad you would feel when you thought you were surrounded by like-minded bigots, only to realise you're actually amongst human beings.
Case in point - this past weekend. Long story short, the DJ at a leaving party I went to was a transvestite cabaret act. He was very entertaining, had a nice arse and gave the party the oomph it needed when it was going a bit flat. He was very well accepted (apparently he was a friend of the family) but there was no unpleasantness directed at the lad, and he ended the evening with most party goers on the dancefloor screeching 'New York, New York' in their regional dialect.
When we got back to the hotel afterwards, the bartender was asking another couple if they'd had a nice evening, and they were talking about this DJ:
Chap: "Yeah, it was....er....interesting"
Bartender: "Oh yeah?"
Chap: "Yeah..."
Silence, so I butt in
Me: "He was a transvestite cabaret act"
Bartender: "Right. Was he any good?"
Me: "He was great"
Chap: "I'll tell you something though, this kind of thing is becoming acceptable these days"
Bartender and I look at each other then him, wondering where it's about to go
Chap: "Er, which is good"
What a goon. He genuinely expected us to go "Bummers are gay" or something else suitably vitriolic, just because the DJ was from a social minority. Who gives a shit what he looks or dresses like? As he was drumming up dancers, he asked my friend and I if we wanted to join in, but upon hearing 'no' from us, he left us to it. He didn't overdo it, he didn't attempt to drag us up, and in the words of a world-class innuendoist, he didn't try to ram it down out throats.
On a serious note, people like the bar bigot need to be stamped out, and I'm glad he wasn't joined in his opinions by any of the other protagonists. Hopefully this episode made him realise how much of a weapon he is for a) expressing such opinions and b) having them in the first place. Maybe in time he might even learn to be tolerant of people just because their different to him, but given that includes right-minded people with morals, that could take some time. Dickhead.
Usually such an occurrence revolves around your opinion of the popular music scene, or maybe you're a Glee fan in the company of a group of normal people. Such events must be highly embarrassing for the bollock-dropper, so imagine how bad you would feel when you thought you were surrounded by like-minded bigots, only to realise you're actually amongst human beings.
Case in point - this past weekend. Long story short, the DJ at a leaving party I went to was a transvestite cabaret act. He was very entertaining, had a nice arse and gave the party the oomph it needed when it was going a bit flat. He was very well accepted (apparently he was a friend of the family) but there was no unpleasantness directed at the lad, and he ended the evening with most party goers on the dancefloor screeching 'New York, New York' in their regional dialect.
When we got back to the hotel afterwards, the bartender was asking another couple if they'd had a nice evening, and they were talking about this DJ:
Chap: "Yeah, it was....er....interesting"
Bartender: "Oh yeah?"
Chap: "Yeah..."
Silence, so I butt in
Me: "He was a transvestite cabaret act"
Bartender: "Right. Was he any good?"
Me: "He was great"
Chap: "I'll tell you something though, this kind of thing is becoming acceptable these days"
Bartender and I look at each other then him, wondering where it's about to go
Chap: "Er, which is good"
What a goon. He genuinely expected us to go "Bummers are gay" or something else suitably vitriolic, just because the DJ was from a social minority. Who gives a shit what he looks or dresses like? As he was drumming up dancers, he asked my friend and I if we wanted to join in, but upon hearing 'no' from us, he left us to it. He didn't overdo it, he didn't attempt to drag us up, and in the words of a world-class innuendoist, he didn't try to ram it down out throats.
On a serious note, people like the bar bigot need to be stamped out, and I'm glad he wasn't joined in his opinions by any of the other protagonists. Hopefully this episode made him realise how much of a weapon he is for a) expressing such opinions and b) having them in the first place. Maybe in time he might even learn to be tolerant of people just because their different to him, but given that includes right-minded people with morals, that could take some time. Dickhead.
Sunday, 19 September 2010
My E-tribute to a good man
When I started this blog, it was intended to be an amusing and thought-provoking study into the emotional overtones of owning one pair of shoes, which see you through all manner of life's big events (christenings, weddings, funerals, etc), and how they become synonymous with those events. I then realised what a crock of shit that was for an idea and settled on something far more worthy instead.
Kev Buckley was the manager of the Sunday league football team I played for in the nineties and early noughties, and this week I went to his funeral. He was 44.
I hadn't seen him for a couple of years, but I was informed of his incredibly untimely death whilst he was on holiday and made arrangements to be at his funeral. I'm glad I could be there to express my condolences and pay my respects, and am happy to report that a great many others did likewise.
He was a good man was Kev. Generous, amusing (often unintentionally), fiercely loyal and a strong family and community man. He leaves behind a wife and three children in their late teens and early twenties, and will be keenly missed by all around him.
His was a life you could measure by the amount of people there to pay their respects. More than 200 people crammed themselves into his local church, each one touched by him in some way. Away from football I barely knew him, but I was surprised at the impact he'd had upon me when I found out he'd died. I've known friend-of-a-friend types die before and I haven't made an effort to attend their funerals, but this was an event I wanted to be there for.
Sadly, with the service being on a Friday, a lot of people had to work in the afternoon so we didn't get a chance to fully celebrate his life. However, in the short time we were together, a few things were said about him, all of them good. It is a fitting tribute to him that I find it much harder to think of him not being at that kind of event than that he isn't around any more; at any other time he would have been in the centre of that get-together, having organised it at his own inconvenience.
If there's one thing I will always remember about him, it's his sense of humour, summed up when he said this to me shortly before coming on as a substitute (again):
"Go out there and use your pace"
If that's not a man capable of telling jokes, I don't know what is.
Rest in peace, Kev.
Kev Buckley was the manager of the Sunday league football team I played for in the nineties and early noughties, and this week I went to his funeral. He was 44.
I hadn't seen him for a couple of years, but I was informed of his incredibly untimely death whilst he was on holiday and made arrangements to be at his funeral. I'm glad I could be there to express my condolences and pay my respects, and am happy to report that a great many others did likewise.
He was a good man was Kev. Generous, amusing (often unintentionally), fiercely loyal and a strong family and community man. He leaves behind a wife and three children in their late teens and early twenties, and will be keenly missed by all around him.
His was a life you could measure by the amount of people there to pay their respects. More than 200 people crammed themselves into his local church, each one touched by him in some way. Away from football I barely knew him, but I was surprised at the impact he'd had upon me when I found out he'd died. I've known friend-of-a-friend types die before and I haven't made an effort to attend their funerals, but this was an event I wanted to be there for.
Sadly, with the service being on a Friday, a lot of people had to work in the afternoon so we didn't get a chance to fully celebrate his life. However, in the short time we were together, a few things were said about him, all of them good. It is a fitting tribute to him that I find it much harder to think of him not being at that kind of event than that he isn't around any more; at any other time he would have been in the centre of that get-together, having organised it at his own inconvenience.
If there's one thing I will always remember about him, it's his sense of humour, summed up when he said this to me shortly before coming on as a substitute (again):
"Go out there and use your pace"
If that's not a man capable of telling jokes, I don't know what is.
Rest in peace, Kev.
Monday, 13 September 2010
"One's dirty, the other's Coleen"
So ends the latest satirical swipe at a member of the celebrity fraternity; in this case, potato-faced razz-merchant Wayne "Always a Blue" Rooney.
I'm sure you've read by now that Mr Rooney has, borrowing from popular tabloid parlance, 'been up to his nuts in guts' extra-maritally. The lucky 'lady' in question is some high-class Mancunian prostitute (for 'high-class' read 'charges over a grand a night for her services and only hangs around in places were people are rich/stupid enough to fork out that kind of money for such a transaction'). Apparently, Roo (copyright: The Sun) met said tom in a casino in Manchester and, not to put too fine a point on it, fancied the arse off her. He subsequently paid for several nights with her, all around the time that both Coleen was up the stick with his firstborn and he was in the form of his life on the pitch (insert 'scoring', 'tackle' and 'in and around the box' gags here).
Of course, this is isn't on, as Coleen sat at home brewing his demon seed, while he allegedly chased this expensive piece of crumpet around, shagging her whenever his wallet allowed. And of course, she didn't say a dickie bird about it at the time, choosing only to bring it up once his interest had died down and the press were after someone else to go for in the event of John Terry's todger staying where it ought to.
Naturally, all hell has broken loose to the extent that he was dropped for the next league game (away to Everton; an event Sky would deem 'ironic' when it's merely coincidental) and the press have spent literally 10 days poring over his life, sticking up for the wronged wife (in no way linked to her status as a chav-level national treasure) whilst painting him to be the devil incarnate.
Now, he's done this kind of thing before. We all remember the infamous granny-shagging days when he was but a slip of a lad, and Coleen (rightly or wrongly) chose to forgive him and take him back. My lawyers instruct me to make it clear that her decision had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she was trying to forge a media career and would be effectively skint and a nobody without Rooney's status and brass at the time. So what's she going to do this time? The pair of them have asked for privacy in this difficult time (borrowing heavily from the '21st Century Celebrity Couple's Guide to Manipulating the Press') while she presumably gives him a bollocking and throws a series of revolting yet expensive plates at him. One can only guess. Personally, I think she should kick him into touch now, as he's proven that he respects her enough to shag grannies and prossies while she's pregnant behind her back. Cynical though it may be, she's now got enough money and fame to make it on her own, and she could easily claim half of his possessions due to his adulterous behaviour. Surely she can't love the balding Shrek-a-like enough to tolerate this kind of activity, and if she does, he knows he's got carte blanche to do anything and anyone he wants in the future, knowing he can just put on his puppy-dog eyes and come back with his tail between his legs (for a change).
Either way, it always ends up coming down to an uncomfortable truth. At the end of the day, Rooney's despicable, immature and unpleasant behaviour can be explained as follows.
The hooker is fitter than Coleen. Much, much fitter.
I'm sure you've read by now that Mr Rooney has, borrowing from popular tabloid parlance, 'been up to his nuts in guts' extra-maritally. The lucky 'lady' in question is some high-class Mancunian prostitute (for 'high-class' read 'charges over a grand a night for her services and only hangs around in places were people are rich/stupid enough to fork out that kind of money for such a transaction'). Apparently, Roo (copyright: The Sun) met said tom in a casino in Manchester and, not to put too fine a point on it, fancied the arse off her. He subsequently paid for several nights with her, all around the time that both Coleen was up the stick with his firstborn and he was in the form of his life on the pitch (insert 'scoring', 'tackle' and 'in and around the box' gags here).
Of course, this is isn't on, as Coleen sat at home brewing his demon seed, while he allegedly chased this expensive piece of crumpet around, shagging her whenever his wallet allowed. And of course, she didn't say a dickie bird about it at the time, choosing only to bring it up once his interest had died down and the press were after someone else to go for in the event of John Terry's todger staying where it ought to.
Naturally, all hell has broken loose to the extent that he was dropped for the next league game (away to Everton; an event Sky would deem 'ironic' when it's merely coincidental) and the press have spent literally 10 days poring over his life, sticking up for the wronged wife (in no way linked to her status as a chav-level national treasure) whilst painting him to be the devil incarnate.
Now, he's done this kind of thing before. We all remember the infamous granny-shagging days when he was but a slip of a lad, and Coleen (rightly or wrongly) chose to forgive him and take him back. My lawyers instruct me to make it clear that her decision had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she was trying to forge a media career and would be effectively skint and a nobody without Rooney's status and brass at the time. So what's she going to do this time? The pair of them have asked for privacy in this difficult time (borrowing heavily from the '21st Century Celebrity Couple's Guide to Manipulating the Press') while she presumably gives him a bollocking and throws a series of revolting yet expensive plates at him. One can only guess. Personally, I think she should kick him into touch now, as he's proven that he respects her enough to shag grannies and prossies while she's pregnant behind her back. Cynical though it may be, she's now got enough money and fame to make it on her own, and she could easily claim half of his possessions due to his adulterous behaviour. Surely she can't love the balding Shrek-a-like enough to tolerate this kind of activity, and if she does, he knows he's got carte blanche to do anything and anyone he wants in the future, knowing he can just put on his puppy-dog eyes and come back with his tail between his legs (for a change).
Either way, it always ends up coming down to an uncomfortable truth. At the end of the day, Rooney's despicable, immature and unpleasant behaviour can be explained as follows.
The hooker is fitter than Coleen. Much, much fitter.
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