I'm missing something here. A 32-year-old woman and a 17-year-old boy have admitted they're seeing one another (I therefore presume shagging one another too). That's it. That's the story in its entirety.
Talk about a shit-storm though.
The lady in question is Caroline Flack who presents The Xtra Factor (whatever the hell that is), while the lad is part of singing sensation One Direction, who I'm led to believe are a modern musical act. Apparently the fact that there is a 15-year age gap between them has got some people very hot and bothered, as if he was nine and she some aging spinster with a pocket full of flying saucers.
For the sake of argument, let's put aside the fact that some boys/men have older women fantasies, and that she also happens to be a proper corker. Are either of them doing anything wrong? I grant you that it's unusual for two well-known people of such ages to get together, but I bet hundreds of millions of couples in the UK alone are in relationships with similar age gaps. Extrapolate those number across the globe and you're talking upwards of 14 billion people in similar circumstances. And they can't all be wrong.
I get why some people might say "Bit weird, innit? She's old enough to be his great aunt on some estates, yet here she is banging him like a porch door in a storm", but in truth, some people have labelled their tryst as 'disgusting', which is a bit harsh to say the least. There does come a point where an age gap becomes uncomfortable, but this isn't it. If he was 25 and her 40 nobody would be batting an eyelid. And the last time I checked the town charter, 16 was the minimum age for coitus, so she's OK on that score.
I can also understand people's concerns when the genders where reversed. That lad off The Green Mile is in his early fifties and he's married to a 17-year-old top-heavy blonde piece, and that's a bit odd. Don't get me wrong, I can see what 'assets' he was attracted to (tits) but she seems happy enough and they spend that much time in the limelight that he couldn't get up to any creepy mischief even if he wanted to.
At the end of the day, you can't choose who you fall for. If these two want to get it on bedroom-wise, let them help themselves. Wringing your hands and commenting on the inappropriateness isn't going to make them change their minds. As with all relationships, it will come to a tearful, bloody end soon enough, so let's let the kids have some fun before we're all in our cold, cold graves. Merry Christmas!
Wednesday 7 December 2011
Wednesday 16 November 2011
Light up, light up, as if you have a choice. Er, you don't...
I'm a non-smoker. Apart from a couple of years in the mid-noughties when I tried my hand at being a cool dude, I've never been interested in Lady Nicotine. Or cigs.
As a result, any legislation which bans smoking in public areas is AOK by me. Yes, it means that you're constantly stuck behind selfish arseholes at supermarket doorways as they strive to light up the second they leave the building, and the revelation that under the smoke lies only farts and B.O. in nightclubs hasn't been universally welcomed, but the health issues must surely be clear for all to see (not least now all the smoke has gone - arf!).
However, the latest development is a request to have smoking banned in cars, regardless of whether you are alone or not. And to me, that's a bit rubbish.
I subscribe to the notion of common sense; that people have their own minds and exercise the relevant caution in their day-to-day lives to ensure themselves and those around them are not put in any unnecessary danger. To that end, I expect people with passengers in their cars not to smoke, for example. Call me naive if you will, but I just expect people to be intelligent enough to make that call without being told it's bad and what have you.
If they want to get in a car alone, wind the windows up and smoke themselves into some kind of stupor, however, they can jolly well help themselves in my book. Providing they don't obscure their visibility with the smoke and/or piss about lighting fags when they should be concentrating on the actual driving, that's up to them. You would think they would know the health risks (those unsubtle "Smoking makes your ears explode and people call your sexuality into question behind your back" mottos on packets get the point across), so if they want to do it, leave 'em to it (potential slogan there).
If I got into a car and someone lit a cigarette without asking, they would be politely told to put it out. If they asked permission to light up first, they would likewise be told no. It's a simple system which we can all abide by which ensures that those who want to smoke can do, and those who don't like it don't have to tolerate it. Forcing folk not to smoke in the privacy of their own cars is just ludicrous, when we're told police numbers are at an all-time low. Surely they should be out there stopping and searching young people in inner cities for no real reason rather than pursuing someone through the courts because they had a fag on in a traffic jam.
What next - silencers on Christmas crackers to prevent heart attacks? Probably not, no.
As a result, any legislation which bans smoking in public areas is AOK by me. Yes, it means that you're constantly stuck behind selfish arseholes at supermarket doorways as they strive to light up the second they leave the building, and the revelation that under the smoke lies only farts and B.O. in nightclubs hasn't been universally welcomed, but the health issues must surely be clear for all to see (not least now all the smoke has gone - arf!).
However, the latest development is a request to have smoking banned in cars, regardless of whether you are alone or not. And to me, that's a bit rubbish.
I subscribe to the notion of common sense; that people have their own minds and exercise the relevant caution in their day-to-day lives to ensure themselves and those around them are not put in any unnecessary danger. To that end, I expect people with passengers in their cars not to smoke, for example. Call me naive if you will, but I just expect people to be intelligent enough to make that call without being told it's bad and what have you.
If they want to get in a car alone, wind the windows up and smoke themselves into some kind of stupor, however, they can jolly well help themselves in my book. Providing they don't obscure their visibility with the smoke and/or piss about lighting fags when they should be concentrating on the actual driving, that's up to them. You would think they would know the health risks (those unsubtle "Smoking makes your ears explode and people call your sexuality into question behind your back" mottos on packets get the point across), so if they want to do it, leave 'em to it (potential slogan there).
If I got into a car and someone lit a cigarette without asking, they would be politely told to put it out. If they asked permission to light up first, they would likewise be told no. It's a simple system which we can all abide by which ensures that those who want to smoke can do, and those who don't like it don't have to tolerate it. Forcing folk not to smoke in the privacy of their own cars is just ludicrous, when we're told police numbers are at an all-time low. Surely they should be out there stopping and searching young people in inner cities for no real reason rather than pursuing someone through the courts because they had a fag on in a traffic jam.
What next - silencers on Christmas crackers to prevent heart attacks? Probably not, no.
Wednesday 19 October 2011
End of the world III - this time it's personal
You've got to respect "Reverend" Harold Camping, who has recently announced his bi-annual prediction of the world's end.
Having predicted it would go tits up existence-wise on May 21st, he then revised his calculation to October 21st instead. Presumably he forgot to carry the one.
The most amusing aspect of this ridiculous man is he's done this sort of thing before, having predicted Armageddon in 1994. Whether he was talking about the pissy Hollywood action flick is unclear, but you have to admire his insistence that it was a mere mathematical error and next time he'll totally be right.
Personally, I don't see the point in trying to predict the end of the world. If you're wrong, you look like a right knob, and if you're right, everyone's dead so you won't be able to say "Told ya didn't I". Yes, you'd be able to wander around heaven looking smug at your accurate prediction, but those around you would presumably already believe you. It's us Hell-dwellers who would be most put out by him thumbing his angelic nose at us whilst imploring us to "Kiss it".
The thing is, the Rapture isn't the sort of news folk want to hear about. If you could predict the lottery numbers, you'd probably have a much more responsive audience, but if your game is telling people that they won't be seeing Children in Need this year, aside from a celebratory air-punch, I imagine they'd be a bit irked.
At the end of the day (geddit?) where there's religion, you're always going to have a healthy flock of lunatics telling us we're bad and we're off to Hell and the end is nigh, etc. If that is the case, then why don't you sod off and let us get on with it? If you predictions are accurate, you'll be upstairs playing air hockey with Jimi Hendrix soon enough anyway, so let us get on with our debauched lives in peace. Just let us have a quick crack at Imogen Thomas first.
Having predicted it would go tits up existence-wise on May 21st, he then revised his calculation to October 21st instead. Presumably he forgot to carry the one.
The most amusing aspect of this ridiculous man is he's done this sort of thing before, having predicted Armageddon in 1994. Whether he was talking about the pissy Hollywood action flick is unclear, but you have to admire his insistence that it was a mere mathematical error and next time he'll totally be right.
Personally, I don't see the point in trying to predict the end of the world. If you're wrong, you look like a right knob, and if you're right, everyone's dead so you won't be able to say "Told ya didn't I". Yes, you'd be able to wander around heaven looking smug at your accurate prediction, but those around you would presumably already believe you. It's us Hell-dwellers who would be most put out by him thumbing his angelic nose at us whilst imploring us to "Kiss it".
The thing is, the Rapture isn't the sort of news folk want to hear about. If you could predict the lottery numbers, you'd probably have a much more responsive audience, but if your game is telling people that they won't be seeing Children in Need this year, aside from a celebratory air-punch, I imagine they'd be a bit irked.
At the end of the day (geddit?) where there's religion, you're always going to have a healthy flock of lunatics telling us we're bad and we're off to Hell and the end is nigh, etc. If that is the case, then why don't you sod off and let us get on with it? If you predictions are accurate, you'll be upstairs playing air hockey with Jimi Hendrix soon enough anyway, so let us get on with our debauched lives in peace. Just let us have a quick crack at Imogen Thomas first.
Friday 7 October 2011
It's a day for common sense
It's genuinely heartening to see that bloke from Manchester not facing charges after he stabbed some burglar's shit up when he broke into his house. By the sounds of it, he used reasonable self-defence against this punk, so he hasn't been done for murder. And that to me is common sense.
My own outlook goes way beyond this 'reasonable force' mantra. Personally, my attitude is "If you break into someone's house, they can do literally anything like like to you, including (but not limited to) the use of knives, killer bees and some kind of flame-throwing device to cause you harm, predominantly to the face if possible". I don't advocate the murder of the burgling scum, but I don't see why you shouldn't be allowed to bring the noise if they have the temerity to break in in the first place. For all they know, you just happened to be sharpening your best axe at the time. I appreciate this leans slightly towards a vigilante culture, but as long as you're not wandering the streets with a machete looking for bother, you should be OK to defend yourself by whatever means necessary should someone want to nick your LP's.
I've heard arguments about such acts infringing the burglar's human rights and whatnot when these events occur, but my argument is always the same - what about the rights of the victims? I have a similar outlook to those in prison. I couldn't give a fuck if you're cramped or have to poo in front of twenty other men, or that two inmates keep trying to disembowel you with razor blades melted into toothbrush handles - you should have thought of that before you started burgling/raping/murdering folk. My sympathy you have not got.
The acid test will come when another burglar tryies to do his thing and is met by a Home Alone-inspired scene of flying paint pots and sticky floors, ending with a good hiding from a sporting bat of some description. At that point the courts will probably have to say 'come on, play the game' and send the homeowner down, not least for referencing Home Alone in modern society. Until that day though, I see no reason why homeowners can't continue to introduce the pilfering underclass to their friend pain. Maybe then they might learn not to bother. Fools.
My own outlook goes way beyond this 'reasonable force' mantra. Personally, my attitude is "If you break into someone's house, they can do literally anything like like to you, including (but not limited to) the use of knives, killer bees and some kind of flame-throwing device to cause you harm, predominantly to the face if possible". I don't advocate the murder of the burgling scum, but I don't see why you shouldn't be allowed to bring the noise if they have the temerity to break in in the first place. For all they know, you just happened to be sharpening your best axe at the time. I appreciate this leans slightly towards a vigilante culture, but as long as you're not wandering the streets with a machete looking for bother, you should be OK to defend yourself by whatever means necessary should someone want to nick your LP's.
I've heard arguments about such acts infringing the burglar's human rights and whatnot when these events occur, but my argument is always the same - what about the rights of the victims? I have a similar outlook to those in prison. I couldn't give a fuck if you're cramped or have to poo in front of twenty other men, or that two inmates keep trying to disembowel you with razor blades melted into toothbrush handles - you should have thought of that before you started burgling/raping/murdering folk. My sympathy you have not got.
The acid test will come when another burglar tryies to do his thing and is met by a Home Alone-inspired scene of flying paint pots and sticky floors, ending with a good hiding from a sporting bat of some description. At that point the courts will probably have to say 'come on, play the game' and send the homeowner down, not least for referencing Home Alone in modern society. Until that day though, I see no reason why homeowners can't continue to introduce the pilfering underclass to their friend pain. Maybe then they might learn not to bother. Fools.
Wednesday 5 October 2011
Just cos nothing rhymes with 'Sollecito'
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Thursday 29 September 2011
Nice rack, lend us a tenner
There has been a study published recently detailing the propensity for people to pose as legitimate folk on that Internet, find vulnerable people to groom, then con then out of literally thousands of pounds by tugging at their heartstrings. Those conducting the study have commented that it seems much more common than they first thought, with the numbers likely to be even higher when you factor in the number of people just too damned embarrassed to report the blag.
You'll be mortified to learn that I find the whole caboodle laughable, as if there is someone out there daft enough to part with their hard-earned just because someone they've never met tells them they've got nice hair. I mean, come on, I get that some people are vulnerable and liable to fall for someone who pays them the right kind of attention, but surely even they get alarm bells when they get requests for £45 cos their beau's clutch is shot.
Don't get me wrong; I can see it happening in a situation where the baddie spends months working their target, meeting them, maybe even interfering with them sexually (consensual of course) before dropping the bomb that they need ten large in the next few days or their fingers will be cut off. Within a few months, plenty of relationships have established a level of trust where such a request no longer feels like a confidence trick. But you've got the draw the line at handing over brass when the only evidence you've got of them is a grainy picture cut from the TV Times depicting a fringe cast member from Hollyoaks.
I wrote a blog of a similar ilk a while ago about a woman who had succumbed to such a ruse, and went on the radio to alert people to the possibility. She suggested that nobody could call her names worse than she'd already called herself, which was asking for trouble, but at least she had the balls to hold her hands up and say "Yep, the game's up. He got me" to at least show that this can happen to people. It's all well and good releasing studies saying it happens to thousands of people a year, but without a victim to come out and describe their experiences, all you're going to get is self-righteous idiots belittling their plight in blogs. I imagine.
At the end of the day, while there's money and emotions in the world, this is going to keep happening. It's a lazy stereotype (something of a trademark on here you might have noticed), but there's always going to be slick-haired lotharios preying on emotional-scarred women who just need a hug in order to get their hands on their wonga (not a euphemism). While it's never a bad idea to expose these sorts of goings-on to help reduce the number of cases, you eventually have to trust people to have a bit of common sense. To paraphrase Homer Simpson, if you're dumb enough to fall for this kind of trick, you deserve to be robbed of all your money. Doh!
You'll be mortified to learn that I find the whole caboodle laughable, as if there is someone out there daft enough to part with their hard-earned just because someone they've never met tells them they've got nice hair. I mean, come on, I get that some people are vulnerable and liable to fall for someone who pays them the right kind of attention, but surely even they get alarm bells when they get requests for £45 cos their beau's clutch is shot.
Don't get me wrong; I can see it happening in a situation where the baddie spends months working their target, meeting them, maybe even interfering with them sexually (consensual of course) before dropping the bomb that they need ten large in the next few days or their fingers will be cut off. Within a few months, plenty of relationships have established a level of trust where such a request no longer feels like a confidence trick. But you've got the draw the line at handing over brass when the only evidence you've got of them is a grainy picture cut from the TV Times depicting a fringe cast member from Hollyoaks.
I wrote a blog of a similar ilk a while ago about a woman who had succumbed to such a ruse, and went on the radio to alert people to the possibility. She suggested that nobody could call her names worse than she'd already called herself, which was asking for trouble, but at least she had the balls to hold her hands up and say "Yep, the game's up. He got me" to at least show that this can happen to people. It's all well and good releasing studies saying it happens to thousands of people a year, but without a victim to come out and describe their experiences, all you're going to get is self-righteous idiots belittling their plight in blogs. I imagine.
At the end of the day, while there's money and emotions in the world, this is going to keep happening. It's a lazy stereotype (something of a trademark on here you might have noticed), but there's always going to be slick-haired lotharios preying on emotional-scarred women who just need a hug in order to get their hands on their wonga (not a euphemism). While it's never a bad idea to expose these sorts of goings-on to help reduce the number of cases, you eventually have to trust people to have a bit of common sense. To paraphrase Homer Simpson, if you're dumb enough to fall for this kind of trick, you deserve to be robbed of all your money. Doh!
Thursday 15 September 2011
Hut movement: Pricey
I'm all for preserving our nation's heritage, be it a famous building, a tree where gravity was supposedly discovered or the chair in which a TV executive first pitched the notion of Big Brother. Such artefacts are a part of our national identity, intrinsically sewn into our culture and as much a part of us as looting and sleeping with Ryan Giggs.
What I do object to though is well-to-do families bursting into tears and begging for public money to help preserve something which is very much within their moral and financial remit to protect.
This week, Roald Dahl's family have asked for a £500,000 donation to move his writing hut from the bottom of his garden into the museum built in his honour to preserve it. Now, if they were on the bones of their arse, I'm sure we could come to some arrangement to preserve such an important piece of history, but his granddaughter Sophie has to be worth a few quid from her modelling and pouting exploits, plus she could pull rank on her titchy husband Jamie Cullum, who must have a few notes stuffed under his car seat, if only to raise it slightly.
Lest we forget that the Roald Dahl estate must be coining it as well. He was a world-reknowned singer songwriter, and certainly to my mind the greatest exponent of bluegrass music in the Western world*, so I'd be amazed if they couldn't scrape at least a percentage of the sum together to preserve his beloved hut.
There's been a reasonable public outcry at this request, presumably along the same lines as my attitude. In these times of austerity and iPad purchasing we can't afford to be giving money to a wealthy upper-class bunch to move a garage from one place to another. I'm sure in the fullness of time they'll stump up, but you've got to admire their balls at chancing it. What next - the Queen asks to borrow a million quid to wallpaper the guest bedroom? I'll be in my cold, cold grave before that happens - there is no guest bedroom at Buckingham Palace.
* I'm joking of course. Dahl was a straight-up rhythm 'n' blues aficionado.
What I do object to though is well-to-do families bursting into tears and begging for public money to help preserve something which is very much within their moral and financial remit to protect.
This week, Roald Dahl's family have asked for a £500,000 donation to move his writing hut from the bottom of his garden into the museum built in his honour to preserve it. Now, if they were on the bones of their arse, I'm sure we could come to some arrangement to preserve such an important piece of history, but his granddaughter Sophie has to be worth a few quid from her modelling and pouting exploits, plus she could pull rank on her titchy husband Jamie Cullum, who must have a few notes stuffed under his car seat, if only to raise it slightly.
Lest we forget that the Roald Dahl estate must be coining it as well. He was a world-reknowned singer songwriter, and certainly to my mind the greatest exponent of bluegrass music in the Western world*, so I'd be amazed if they couldn't scrape at least a percentage of the sum together to preserve his beloved hut.
There's been a reasonable public outcry at this request, presumably along the same lines as my attitude. In these times of austerity and iPad purchasing we can't afford to be giving money to a wealthy upper-class bunch to move a garage from one place to another. I'm sure in the fullness of time they'll stump up, but you've got to admire their balls at chancing it. What next - the Queen asks to borrow a million quid to wallpaper the guest bedroom? I'll be in my cold, cold grave before that happens - there is no guest bedroom at Buckingham Palace.
* I'm joking of course. Dahl was a straight-up rhythm 'n' blues aficionado.
Monday 15 August 2011
Death + Protest = HD TV
I've waited and waited before commenting on this rioting hoopla simply because the story has been moving that fast that there was a real chance that any blog I wrote would be out of date and old-fashioned within minutes. There's a first time for everything I suppose.
As you're probably aware by now, some dude recently got shot in London, resulting in his family marching on the local police station in a peaceful manner, demanding answers and what-have-you about why he was shot. Having not received satisfactory responses from the Feds, some factions of the protesters decided the natural next step was to start chucking stuff around, setting fire to buses and giving it large whilst wearing masks. A nation looked on, tutted, then got back to whatever it does of a Saturday evening.
Then a strange thing happened. Clearly moved by the plight of this poor chap being killed, some of the fruitier elements of the social underclass decided that they too should take to the streets, sling a few home-made explosive devices and loot anything they could from their local retailers. Now, it would have been bad enough if this had occurred in Tottenham where the original bother occurred, but this lot were talking about their own backyards, namely West Bromwich, Wolverhampton and Manchester. For the next 24 hours, we saw wall-to-wall footage of infants in hoods charging about helping themselves to all manner of unrequited goods. I tend not to scare easily but I have to admit I was feeling a bit anxious for the correspondents who were following the baddies as they ransacked countless clothing stores and set fire to shit.
This is what's weird about this though. When you think of rioters, you think of bloodshed, murders even, but the majority of the scum's ire seems to be directed at shops and buses. Don't get me wrong, there have been a handful of merciless killings which put this trouble into a much more racially-motivated sphere, but it seems to me that most of them saw that the coppers were more or less letting them get on with it, so put their hood up, grabbed a carrier with good handles and set off for a night of looting. That the majority of the perpetrators were youngsters and they fled at the first mention of heavy-handed policing tells me that they weren't trying to make some kind of statement. They just wanted to nick some new trainers.
Now, you may be surprised to learn that my opinions of these ne'er-do-wells isn't exactly positive. If I had my way, the cops would be steaming in beating eight shades of shit out of them, let alone seven. Quite why they were told to stand back and let them get on with it is anyone's guess, and I'd wager that the soft tactics employed initially are what inspired hooligans in other cities to chance their arm in their neck of the woods. If they'd seen limbs being snapped and heads coming off, they might have thought twice about having a crack at Top Shop in the first place.
It's more or less settled down now, and the hand-wringing has begun in earnest. Personally I think the various bodies charged with deconstructing this and coming up with solutions are missing the point when they talk about moral degradation and the like. At any time in any society, there will always be folk who will take things without consent given the opportunity. There will also be those who can be influenced and coerced into doing the same. If there wasn't, we wouldn't need a police force in the first place. So next time, coppers, instead of sitting back cos you might not have enough numbers, wade in,bang a few heads together and the majority of the baddies might just realise it's not worth the risk.
As you're probably aware by now, some dude recently got shot in London, resulting in his family marching on the local police station in a peaceful manner, demanding answers and what-have-you about why he was shot. Having not received satisfactory responses from the Feds, some factions of the protesters decided the natural next step was to start chucking stuff around, setting fire to buses and giving it large whilst wearing masks. A nation looked on, tutted, then got back to whatever it does of a Saturday evening.
Then a strange thing happened. Clearly moved by the plight of this poor chap being killed, some of the fruitier elements of the social underclass decided that they too should take to the streets, sling a few home-made explosive devices and loot anything they could from their local retailers. Now, it would have been bad enough if this had occurred in Tottenham where the original bother occurred, but this lot were talking about their own backyards, namely West Bromwich, Wolverhampton and Manchester. For the next 24 hours, we saw wall-to-wall footage of infants in hoods charging about helping themselves to all manner of unrequited goods. I tend not to scare easily but I have to admit I was feeling a bit anxious for the correspondents who were following the baddies as they ransacked countless clothing stores and set fire to shit.
This is what's weird about this though. When you think of rioters, you think of bloodshed, murders even, but the majority of the scum's ire seems to be directed at shops and buses. Don't get me wrong, there have been a handful of merciless killings which put this trouble into a much more racially-motivated sphere, but it seems to me that most of them saw that the coppers were more or less letting them get on with it, so put their hood up, grabbed a carrier with good handles and set off for a night of looting. That the majority of the perpetrators were youngsters and they fled at the first mention of heavy-handed policing tells me that they weren't trying to make some kind of statement. They just wanted to nick some new trainers.
Now, you may be surprised to learn that my opinions of these ne'er-do-wells isn't exactly positive. If I had my way, the cops would be steaming in beating eight shades of shit out of them, let alone seven. Quite why they were told to stand back and let them get on with it is anyone's guess, and I'd wager that the soft tactics employed initially are what inspired hooligans in other cities to chance their arm in their neck of the woods. If they'd seen limbs being snapped and heads coming off, they might have thought twice about having a crack at Top Shop in the first place.
It's more or less settled down now, and the hand-wringing has begun in earnest. Personally I think the various bodies charged with deconstructing this and coming up with solutions are missing the point when they talk about moral degradation and the like. At any time in any society, there will always be folk who will take things without consent given the opportunity. There will also be those who can be influenced and coerced into doing the same. If there wasn't, we wouldn't need a police force in the first place. So next time, coppers, instead of sitting back cos you might not have enough numbers, wade in,bang a few heads together and the majority of the baddies might just realise it's not worth the risk.
Friday 29 July 2011
There's only one way to settle this - Twight!
Barely a day seems to go by these days without two people loosely related to today's celebrity culture having a right old pop at each other via the medium of the Twitter.
Back in the good old days - pre-2006 to be precise - if two people had issues with each other they would meet in a predetermined location, strip to the waist and fight to the death. Now though, it's the done thing to pick on each other online, while your myriad sycophantic followers gorge on the festival of misspellings and name-calling. We've had Kelly Osbourne's ex taking the piss out of her while she was at Wino's funeral, Rory McIlroy and a golf correspondent trading e-blows, and Sir Alan apparently having a go at just about anyone who dares to disagree with him.
Don't get me wrong, if someone brings your integrity or sexual orientation into question over that Internet, you've every right to tell them to bog off, but is this really what the creator of Twitter had in mind when he set it up? I can imagine the planning meeting:
"I've got a right idea"
"Go on"
"What?"
"Tell us about your idea"
"Oh yeah. How about a place to write a short message about what you're up to, or your opinion of the latest celebrity death, and people can subscribe to it to get real-time updates to their mobile phone when they should be working?"
"Sounds wank"
"Yeah, well I'm doing it anyway. How else will we know what Amanda Holden thinks of the Libyan crisis?"
It seems to be another one of those Internet fads which starts under a blaze of glory, with Stephen Fry endorsing it, then it all gets a bit boring, as someone uses it to catch their spouse shagging around, or a company finds out their prospective employer likes ear sex and Nazis. After a year or so, it becomes embedded in the day-to-day rituals of people who say 'aks' instead of 'ask' and people over the age of 30 are condemned for likening it to Ceefax.
At the end of the day, people are always going to disagree. Some of the greatest inventions known to man came from two people with opposing views striving to prove the other wrong (probably). Quite why we're supposed to give a shit about it though is anyone's guess, but then if you're ill enough to want to follow Fearne Cotton's online existence, you haven't really got any cause for complaint if you ask me. And I know you will.
Back in the good old days - pre-2006 to be precise - if two people had issues with each other they would meet in a predetermined location, strip to the waist and fight to the death. Now though, it's the done thing to pick on each other online, while your myriad sycophantic followers gorge on the festival of misspellings and name-calling. We've had Kelly Osbourne's ex taking the piss out of her while she was at Wino's funeral, Rory McIlroy and a golf correspondent trading e-blows, and Sir Alan apparently having a go at just about anyone who dares to disagree with him.
Don't get me wrong, if someone brings your integrity or sexual orientation into question over that Internet, you've every right to tell them to bog off, but is this really what the creator of Twitter had in mind when he set it up? I can imagine the planning meeting:
"I've got a right idea"
"Go on"
"What?"
"Tell us about your idea"
"Oh yeah. How about a place to write a short message about what you're up to, or your opinion of the latest celebrity death, and people can subscribe to it to get real-time updates to their mobile phone when they should be working?"
"Sounds wank"
"Yeah, well I'm doing it anyway. How else will we know what Amanda Holden thinks of the Libyan crisis?"
It seems to be another one of those Internet fads which starts under a blaze of glory, with Stephen Fry endorsing it, then it all gets a bit boring, as someone uses it to catch their spouse shagging around, or a company finds out their prospective employer likes ear sex and Nazis. After a year or so, it becomes embedded in the day-to-day rituals of people who say 'aks' instead of 'ask' and people over the age of 30 are condemned for likening it to Ceefax.
At the end of the day, people are always going to disagree. Some of the greatest inventions known to man came from two people with opposing views striving to prove the other wrong (probably). Quite why we're supposed to give a shit about it though is anyone's guess, but then if you're ill enough to want to follow Fearne Cotton's online existence, you haven't really got any cause for complaint if you ask me. And I know you will.
Monday 25 July 2011
She probably should have said "Yes"
It's genuinely sad to see Amy Winehouse die at the age of 27. She was an undoubted talent, but as is to often the case in this country, her off-mic antics dominated the tabloid press and changed the nation's opinions of her. In the last last couple of months of her life she was filmed performing whilst clearly under the influence of Christ-knows-what, and it was a right old shambles. Yet nobody said anything or stepped in or offered to help her. Me included - this ain't no high horse, brother.
Step forward to now and she's been found dead in an unexplained manner. The press have gone mad with suggestions, ranging from drugs all the way to alcohol as to what killed her, and the mourning has begun. What gets my goat though is the number of people who've come out now saying it's a disgrace that she was allowed to perform when she was clearly incapable of doing so, and that someone close to her should have been looking after her and advising her better. Mica Paris went on record saying as much, being such a well-known champion of Wino's health before he untimely demise. Er, Mica, what was stopping you going public and saying that before she carked it? You could've quite easily piped up yonks ago, but it's obviously much easier to have a go at folk after the event. Such finger-pointing is helping no one, not least her family who are now picking up the pieces.
A slightly more chilling aside has been the frequent mentioning of The 27 Club. Apparently a few high-profile rock types (Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Dustin Gee) have met their maker at the ripe old age of 27, which somehow has become a badge of honour of the 'live fast, die young' mantra which some people seem seduced by. If I'd died at 27 I'd be livid, not least because I would have missed at least 4 series of New Tricks. And the 2010 World Cup. Every cloud, I suppose.
At the end of the day, we have to remember a person has died here, regardless of the circumstances. It's all too easy to get bogged down in the infamous life she led, that epic dickhead of a husband and ultimately the wasting of a supreme singing talent. Sadly though, as long as the press have a holes in their arses, the likes of Winehouse will be used to sell papers when they're living, and a hell of a lot more when they stop. And if that's not enough to close a newspaper down, I don't know what it.
What's that? Phone hacking? Sorry, I've no idea what you're talking about...
Step forward to now and she's been found dead in an unexplained manner. The press have gone mad with suggestions, ranging from drugs all the way to alcohol as to what killed her, and the mourning has begun. What gets my goat though is the number of people who've come out now saying it's a disgrace that she was allowed to perform when she was clearly incapable of doing so, and that someone close to her should have been looking after her and advising her better. Mica Paris went on record saying as much, being such a well-known champion of Wino's health before he untimely demise. Er, Mica, what was stopping you going public and saying that before she carked it? You could've quite easily piped up yonks ago, but it's obviously much easier to have a go at folk after the event. Such finger-pointing is helping no one, not least her family who are now picking up the pieces.
A slightly more chilling aside has been the frequent mentioning of The 27 Club. Apparently a few high-profile rock types (Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Dustin Gee) have met their maker at the ripe old age of 27, which somehow has become a badge of honour of the 'live fast, die young' mantra which some people seem seduced by. If I'd died at 27 I'd be livid, not least because I would have missed at least 4 series of New Tricks. And the 2010 World Cup. Every cloud, I suppose.
At the end of the day, we have to remember a person has died here, regardless of the circumstances. It's all too easy to get bogged down in the infamous life she led, that epic dickhead of a husband and ultimately the wasting of a supreme singing talent. Sadly though, as long as the press have a holes in their arses, the likes of Winehouse will be used to sell papers when they're living, and a hell of a lot more when they stop. And if that's not enough to close a newspaper down, I don't know what it.
What's that? Phone hacking? Sorry, I've no idea what you're talking about...
Wednesday 22 June 2011
What a planker! (Insert canned laughter here)
Yo-yo's, Global Hypercolour T-shirts, luminous snapping wristbands. All fads. All shite.
Throughout the ages, various odd practices and items have become famous for five minutes as people latch onto them as the latest craze. Tamagochi, for example, or adding alcohol to beverages, and for a few months it's all you hear about. Dusty middle-aged news reporters in sensible suits talk about them and are encouraged to participate with utterly hilarious results, and normal-thinking folk like myself fail to understand what all the fuss is about and end up crying in confusion.
The latest of these crazes is 'planking' and quite frankly, it's fantastic.
The premise is to lay face-down, arms by your sides, completely still and be photographed. No, that's it. That's all you have to do. Apparently the trick is to do it in as unusual a place as possible, then upload your antics to that Internet for people to look at. Now I've seen and heard of some stupid shit in my time, but this one puts the tin lid on it.
Often, such fads and crazes are easily suffixed with "But what's the point?", but this opens up a new can of pointless wormery. I never fully understood the RickRolling business (linking to Rick Astley footage under the pretence of a genuine link) so I was unlikely to get planking, but where's the fun in it? Where's the prestige? Where's the beef?
At the end of the day, it doesn't appear to be doing any harm (save for a couple of lads who've fallen off balconies for their art) and to be quite honest I couldn't give a shit what today's youth get up to, but it's a poor do when lying perfectly still outside of your local Oddbins passes as entertainment. Give me a diablo and some Pogs any day.
Throughout the ages, various odd practices and items have become famous for five minutes as people latch onto them as the latest craze. Tamagochi, for example, or adding alcohol to beverages, and for a few months it's all you hear about. Dusty middle-aged news reporters in sensible suits talk about them and are encouraged to participate with utterly hilarious results, and normal-thinking folk like myself fail to understand what all the fuss is about and end up crying in confusion.
The latest of these crazes is 'planking' and quite frankly, it's fantastic.
The premise is to lay face-down, arms by your sides, completely still and be photographed. No, that's it. That's all you have to do. Apparently the trick is to do it in as unusual a place as possible, then upload your antics to that Internet for people to look at. Now I've seen and heard of some stupid shit in my time, but this one puts the tin lid on it.
Often, such fads and crazes are easily suffixed with "But what's the point?", but this opens up a new can of pointless wormery. I never fully understood the RickRolling business (linking to Rick Astley footage under the pretence of a genuine link) so I was unlikely to get planking, but where's the fun in it? Where's the prestige? Where's the beef?
At the end of the day, it doesn't appear to be doing any harm (save for a couple of lads who've fallen off balconies for their art) and to be quite honest I couldn't give a shit what today's youth get up to, but it's a poor do when lying perfectly still outside of your local Oddbins passes as entertainment. Give me a diablo and some Pogs any day.
Friday 10 June 2011
Ich bin got E.coli
Far be it from me to cast sweeping jingoistic generalisations across entire nations of people.
But...
Can you think of another country more likely to blame others for an E.coli outbreak before realising it was actually their own products than Germany?
A couple of weeks ago, E.coli broke out in the Fatherland and killed 29 people. In a developed nation such as Germany that is a lot of folk, and they were quick to pin the blame on some innocent imported cucumbers, which were minding their own business waiting to be in rude films. Much stock was destroyed and bans imposed to curb the bother, while nobody noticed that the countries from where the produce was exported remained suspiciously death-free.
Skip forward to today and they've now decided to 'fess up that it might actually have been home-grown beans sprouts causing the carnage in the first place. A fabulously-named Mr. Burger has admitted as much today, although an apology to the nations who had the Jihad put on them is conspicuous by it's absence. I can hardly say I'm surprised. Someone I know works with German colleagues regularly and has noted that when they believe any blame can be laid at your door, they don't hang around in telling you. When, however, it's actually their fault that the scheisse has hit das fan, they go all quiet and pretend they're in meetings to avoid having to be pleasant or diplomatic.
Not for a minute am I suggesting that all Germans act in this way, so get off your high horse, but can anybody suggest a country more likely to blame others for it's terrible plight before looking closer to home for the cause of their ills?
Us lot in the UK? Er, yeah. Good point.
But...
Can you think of another country more likely to blame others for an E.coli outbreak before realising it was actually their own products than Germany?
A couple of weeks ago, E.coli broke out in the Fatherland and killed 29 people. In a developed nation such as Germany that is a lot of folk, and they were quick to pin the blame on some innocent imported cucumbers, which were minding their own business waiting to be in rude films. Much stock was destroyed and bans imposed to curb the bother, while nobody noticed that the countries from where the produce was exported remained suspiciously death-free.
Skip forward to today and they've now decided to 'fess up that it might actually have been home-grown beans sprouts causing the carnage in the first place. A fabulously-named Mr. Burger has admitted as much today, although an apology to the nations who had the Jihad put on them is conspicuous by it's absence. I can hardly say I'm surprised. Someone I know works with German colleagues regularly and has noted that when they believe any blame can be laid at your door, they don't hang around in telling you. When, however, it's actually their fault that the scheisse has hit das fan, they go all quiet and pretend they're in meetings to avoid having to be pleasant or diplomatic.
Not for a minute am I suggesting that all Germans act in this way, so get off your high horse, but can anybody suggest a country more likely to blame others for it's terrible plight before looking closer to home for the cause of their ills?
Us lot in the UK? Er, yeah. Good point.
Friday 3 June 2011
Wanted: Half a chance to see the clean 'n' jerk
Imagine a supermarket where you could browse the myriad products available through that Internet and select which ones you so desired. Upon choosing your stuff, you submit your request and sit back, possibly to suck on a sweet, sweet cigar.
The supermarket tells you not to worry about payment right away; just make sure you've got enough brass in your account and within the next 6-8 weeks, we'll take a random amount, depending on how much of the stuff you wanted is actually available in stock.
But wait! After waiting the required time for your stuff, you don't actually have it. Instead, all you have is an email saying 'you've got some of the stuff you asked for, squire' and a hole in your bank balance with no reference to the products you've ended up with.
Skip forward a few more weeks and you finally receive your goods. But what's this? Where you asked for toilet paper, you have soap. Where you asked for a roast chicken, you have a single stock cube. Where you asked for a £15 bottle of Merlot, you have half a bottle of Lambrini with the lid missing.
'Shambolique', as the French definitely say.
OK, so such a supermarket probably doesn't exist, but this analogy more or less reflects the way in which tickets for the 2012 Olympics have been allocated. Put simply, you request all the possible tickets you might want, make sure you've got enough money to cover them all, then sit back and wait for fuck all to turn up. If you are one of the lucky ones, you get an email saying "Well done there, you have tickets" and your bank balance is shorn of the necessary funds. But they don't tell you what you've ended up with (almost certainly because you requested the 100 metres final and ended up with diving heats) so you have to wait until they turn up to find out how much of a swizz it was.
Surely there was a better way of handling this? Why did you have to put all your eggs in one basket and have enough money to cover every eventuality? Why couldn't you have a ranking system, where you put a 1, 2 or 3 against the tickets in the order of preference, and they tried to allocated priority 1 tickets first, then 2, then 3, instead of giving you everything available and assuming you've got the money to cover it? Most people cottoned on to the fact that the chances of getting anything were slim so requested just about everything, leaving them open to the possibility of tens of thousands of pounds being withdrawn, although naturally, that never happened.
For a games which has been touted as the greenest, as well as being ahead of schedule (although nowhere near budget) I find this element of the process pitiful. The organisers seem to have come up with the easiest possible system for them (to get rid of the tickets as quickly as possible) without actually considering the people behind the requests. Alright, there are 50-odd million of us in this country, but surely there could have been a better way of distributing them than this? You might as well have just stood on top of Nelson's Column, chucked all of the tickets into the air and shouted 'Scramble!'. At least there would have been a modicum of chance involved then. Shysters.
The supermarket tells you not to worry about payment right away; just make sure you've got enough brass in your account and within the next 6-8 weeks, we'll take a random amount, depending on how much of the stuff you wanted is actually available in stock.
But wait! After waiting the required time for your stuff, you don't actually have it. Instead, all you have is an email saying 'you've got some of the stuff you asked for, squire' and a hole in your bank balance with no reference to the products you've ended up with.
Skip forward a few more weeks and you finally receive your goods. But what's this? Where you asked for toilet paper, you have soap. Where you asked for a roast chicken, you have a single stock cube. Where you asked for a £15 bottle of Merlot, you have half a bottle of Lambrini with the lid missing.
'Shambolique', as the French definitely say.
OK, so such a supermarket probably doesn't exist, but this analogy more or less reflects the way in which tickets for the 2012 Olympics have been allocated. Put simply, you request all the possible tickets you might want, make sure you've got enough money to cover them all, then sit back and wait for fuck all to turn up. If you are one of the lucky ones, you get an email saying "Well done there, you have tickets" and your bank balance is shorn of the necessary funds. But they don't tell you what you've ended up with (almost certainly because you requested the 100 metres final and ended up with diving heats) so you have to wait until they turn up to find out how much of a swizz it was.
Surely there was a better way of handling this? Why did you have to put all your eggs in one basket and have enough money to cover every eventuality? Why couldn't you have a ranking system, where you put a 1, 2 or 3 against the tickets in the order of preference, and they tried to allocated priority 1 tickets first, then 2, then 3, instead of giving you everything available and assuming you've got the money to cover it? Most people cottoned on to the fact that the chances of getting anything were slim so requested just about everything, leaving them open to the possibility of tens of thousands of pounds being withdrawn, although naturally, that never happened.
For a games which has been touted as the greenest, as well as being ahead of schedule (although nowhere near budget) I find this element of the process pitiful. The organisers seem to have come up with the easiest possible system for them (to get rid of the tickets as quickly as possible) without actually considering the people behind the requests. Alright, there are 50-odd million of us in this country, but surely there could have been a better way of distributing them than this? You might as well have just stood on top of Nelson's Column, chucked all of the tickets into the air and shouted 'Scramble!'. At least there would have been a modicum of chance involved then. Shysters.
Tuesday 24 May 2011
How super injunctions (don't) work
There's a story doing the rounds at the moment about a Premier League footballer who's had an affair with some classless bint keen to tell everybody about it. Using the legal power of the super injunction (like a normal injunction except it's mild mannered and wears glasses when it isn't called upon), said player has kept his name out of the popular press to avoid his wife cottoning on and the whole bally lot going up like a tinderbox.
There's a small problem however. Some blabbermouth politician used his legal right to mention that Ryan Giggs was the footballer in question. The speaker of the house went up the wall, as it may have been legal, but it was a bit on the snidey side, not least because of the whole super injunction caper. But his chagrin was too late, as the press went into absolute meltdown.
The politician's outburst gave them the loophole they were looking for, as they could now say that Giggs' name had been linked with the scandal, rather than holding their tongue when everybody knew who it was anyway. Thanks to the Scottish Sunday Herald publishing a laughably poor censored photo of Giggs (using the fact they were Scottish to get around the England-only injunction), the rumours which first circulated on Twitter last week took on a whole new level, as people could stop guessing (and finding a player's name to fit into the redacted black boxes on the various tweets) and start passing judgment on the Welsh wonder.
I personally think it's a real shame, as Giggs has been a fine ambassador for the game and good role model for most of the 20 years he's been a player. Yes he had dalliances with the likes of Dani Behr in his youth, but he was a single and much sought-after young man due to the explosion in popularity of top-flight football thanks to the Premier League's inception. Alex Ferguson kept his hand on the tiller with Giggs in a way that no other superstar had been controlled before, drip-feeding him to the press and ensuring his playing career was the only thing in the public eye. And given the fact Giggs just picked up his 12th league medal at the age of 37, you can probably argue that he had a point at the time.
Skip forward and now Giggs has been pursuing some nice-looking if morally misguided piece of crumpet, who couldn't wait to start gobbing off (no pun intended) to the press, although he got to the court in time to shield his name. He probably thought that was the end of it, but the dynamic in news consumption has altered a lot in recent years, and the Twitter feeds caught fire with suggestions who the player might be. As his name appeared more and more frequently, the press starting picking up on it, bringing the story to the attention of the masses without actually mentioning who it was. More and more rumours abounded, with various tweeters making thinly disguised references to him, safe in the knowledge that the law hadn't caught up with social networking yet, so they could say what they liked without fear of reprisal.
So where next? Giggs' arse is in the chopper at the moment, not least with his wife I should imagine, and we might see a Tiger-esque fall from grace in terms of sponsorship deals and general consensus. You probably know my opinion on adultery, so anything which happens to him now serves him right. All this after he had the cheek to parade his kids round Old Trafford during the end-of-season ceremony. The bigger story concerns Twitter though, and how to police it, when nobody appears legally liable for the stuff people put out there. Nobody has been censured or even banned from Twitter for naming names, and Twitter aren't about to carry the can. At this stage it looks like a better bet to approach every single famous person in the world to ask them politely to keep it in their drawers. Either that or shag someone who isn't looking for fame off the back of it. There must be someone like that out there somewhere...
There's a small problem however. Some blabbermouth politician used his legal right to mention that Ryan Giggs was the footballer in question. The speaker of the house went up the wall, as it may have been legal, but it was a bit on the snidey side, not least because of the whole super injunction caper. But his chagrin was too late, as the press went into absolute meltdown.
The politician's outburst gave them the loophole they were looking for, as they could now say that Giggs' name had been linked with the scandal, rather than holding their tongue when everybody knew who it was anyway. Thanks to the Scottish Sunday Herald publishing a laughably poor censored photo of Giggs (using the fact they were Scottish to get around the England-only injunction), the rumours which first circulated on Twitter last week took on a whole new level, as people could stop guessing (and finding a player's name to fit into the redacted black boxes on the various tweets) and start passing judgment on the Welsh wonder.
I personally think it's a real shame, as Giggs has been a fine ambassador for the game and good role model for most of the 20 years he's been a player. Yes he had dalliances with the likes of Dani Behr in his youth, but he was a single and much sought-after young man due to the explosion in popularity of top-flight football thanks to the Premier League's inception. Alex Ferguson kept his hand on the tiller with Giggs in a way that no other superstar had been controlled before, drip-feeding him to the press and ensuring his playing career was the only thing in the public eye. And given the fact Giggs just picked up his 12th league medal at the age of 37, you can probably argue that he had a point at the time.
Skip forward and now Giggs has been pursuing some nice-looking if morally misguided piece of crumpet, who couldn't wait to start gobbing off (no pun intended) to the press, although he got to the court in time to shield his name. He probably thought that was the end of it, but the dynamic in news consumption has altered a lot in recent years, and the Twitter feeds caught fire with suggestions who the player might be. As his name appeared more and more frequently, the press starting picking up on it, bringing the story to the attention of the masses without actually mentioning who it was. More and more rumours abounded, with various tweeters making thinly disguised references to him, safe in the knowledge that the law hadn't caught up with social networking yet, so they could say what they liked without fear of reprisal.
So where next? Giggs' arse is in the chopper at the moment, not least with his wife I should imagine, and we might see a Tiger-esque fall from grace in terms of sponsorship deals and general consensus. You probably know my opinion on adultery, so anything which happens to him now serves him right. All this after he had the cheek to parade his kids round Old Trafford during the end-of-season ceremony. The bigger story concerns Twitter though, and how to police it, when nobody appears legally liable for the stuff people put out there. Nobody has been censured or even banned from Twitter for naming names, and Twitter aren't about to carry the can. At this stage it looks like a better bet to approach every single famous person in the world to ask them politely to keep it in their drawers. Either that or shag someone who isn't looking for fame off the back of it. There must be someone like that out there somewhere...
Thursday 12 May 2011
Put it this way: I wouldn't stand behind them in a scrap
Just last week, US Navy Seals (like the ones in movies who are retired but still retain all of their rad skills for the unlikely attempt on their life they inevitably suffer in suburbia) stormed a Pakistani house, found our old friend Osama and shot his shit up. In doing so, I don't think it's particularly outlandish to label the Seals as 'brave'.
On an unrelated note, there's a programme (in literally the broadest sense imaginable) called "The only way is Essex" which I am told is a quasi-soap opera, in which real, albeit slightly odd people are recorded in predetermined situations for our amusement. They're not actors (believe me) but are encouraged to work through a particular situation on film for the amusement of them orange lasses who wear furry boots to the shops.
Naturally, the people chosen to be in this programme aren't exactly hanging. Since its inception, several articles and column inches have been dedicated to showing them off in their undercrackers, as if we haven't got anything better to do than perv over top-heavy lovelies on that Internet. In addition, their every waking moment is recorded by the paparazzi and splashed across the red-tops quicker than you can say "I couldn't give a fuck what colour her shoes are, squire".
Now, fast-forward a few months and yet another article has been dreamt up by some braindead arsehat with too much time on their hands, in which said lovelies are shorn of make-up and photographed, under the premise that they are brave for doing so. So in their world, not putting some blusher on is the same as preventing terrorism.
Fuck. Off.
Don't get me wrong, they're not trying to draw that comparison (that I can see), but the meaning of the word 'brave' can only be stretched so far before it becomes a laughing stock, and labelling anyone bored enough to have their photo taken before putting lipstick on ain't brave. Pointless, maybe. Minging, certainly. But brave? No.
I've seen this kind of thing developing in the press for a while now, where we're in a position that our physical appearance has become so important to our worth that certain people really do think that going make-up free is a brave act. If that's the case, I'm Casey fucking Ryback in a polo shirt.
On an unrelated note, there's a programme (in literally the broadest sense imaginable) called "The only way is Essex" which I am told is a quasi-soap opera, in which real, albeit slightly odd people are recorded in predetermined situations for our amusement. They're not actors (believe me) but are encouraged to work through a particular situation on film for the amusement of them orange lasses who wear furry boots to the shops.
Naturally, the people chosen to be in this programme aren't exactly hanging. Since its inception, several articles and column inches have been dedicated to showing them off in their undercrackers, as if we haven't got anything better to do than perv over top-heavy lovelies on that Internet. In addition, their every waking moment is recorded by the paparazzi and splashed across the red-tops quicker than you can say "I couldn't give a fuck what colour her shoes are, squire".
Now, fast-forward a few months and yet another article has been dreamt up by some braindead arsehat with too much time on their hands, in which said lovelies are shorn of make-up and photographed, under the premise that they are brave for doing so. So in their world, not putting some blusher on is the same as preventing terrorism.
Fuck. Off.
Don't get me wrong, they're not trying to draw that comparison (that I can see), but the meaning of the word 'brave' can only be stretched so far before it becomes a laughing stock, and labelling anyone bored enough to have their photo taken before putting lipstick on ain't brave. Pointless, maybe. Minging, certainly. But brave? No.
I've seen this kind of thing developing in the press for a while now, where we're in a position that our physical appearance has become so important to our worth that certain people really do think that going make-up free is a brave act. If that's the case, I'm Casey fucking Ryback in a polo shirt.
Splashing: Erotic
There are many things used by movie moguls and executives to make their latest blockbuster a right old hoot. For example, creating a scenario where the key protagonist is put in difficult or unusual situations for our amusement. Dropping a 3-dimensional black trapezoid bearing the logo '10 tonnes' onto some poor sap's head is also a favourite. Employing Jonah Hill to be fat and socially awkward isn't without it's charms either.
However, chief among all of these is that great bastion of hilarity, cross-dressing. Get an actor (nearly always a bloke), stick him in a dress and ill-fitting syrup and that, my friends, is money in the bank. Never mind that it's been done before, and that it's actually slightly unpleasant and creepy; Man + Dress = Cha-ching!
However, when the more eccentric of our great nation's inhabitants decide to follow suit and re-enact their favourite scene from Tootsie of Big Momma's House 2, they're arrested before you can say "These heels are killing me, brother". That's a bit unfair, isn't it? We're always being told that the media influences today's youth into copycat acts, so how come it isn't those fat cats chewing on cigars in the film equivalent of City Hall being put in front of the beak? It's yet another example of one rule for one and one for another.
It was reported in the press recently that a young masters student was apprehended and stuck on the sex offender's register because he put on a rubber mask of a female face, topped it off with a jet-black wig, and wandered into the ladies bogs at Birmingham University and The Bullring to record audio of them having a wee. As you do.
It turned out that he'd been at it for ages, and it was only when a women reported a strange mannequin-like figure in the loo that the blag went tits up. There he was, bold as brass, listening to women shaking the lettuce and recording it for posterity. What gets me is that the mask and wig combo makes you look at best an understudy in a low-budget horror movie, and at worst a fucking freak, so how he'd got away with it for so long is a mystery. He was credited as being intelligent in court by the judge, but unless his degree is the study of urinal acoustics, I doubt he's anything of the sort.
I'm not condoning such acts, but he wasn't hurting anyone, so putting him on the register is a bit harsh I think. If he started touching himself or other folk, by all means chuck away the key, but surely he could be put on some kind of programme where he wears a blindfold and someone pours water into a bucket to desensitise him to the extremely unerotic act of having a piss? If it turns up on ITV1 on a Saturday evening, shoehorned into some kind of game show, don't say I didn't warn you.
However, chief among all of these is that great bastion of hilarity, cross-dressing. Get an actor (nearly always a bloke), stick him in a dress and ill-fitting syrup and that, my friends, is money in the bank. Never mind that it's been done before, and that it's actually slightly unpleasant and creepy; Man + Dress = Cha-ching!
However, when the more eccentric of our great nation's inhabitants decide to follow suit and re-enact their favourite scene from Tootsie of Big Momma's House 2, they're arrested before you can say "These heels are killing me, brother". That's a bit unfair, isn't it? We're always being told that the media influences today's youth into copycat acts, so how come it isn't those fat cats chewing on cigars in the film equivalent of City Hall being put in front of the beak? It's yet another example of one rule for one and one for another.
It was reported in the press recently that a young masters student was apprehended and stuck on the sex offender's register because he put on a rubber mask of a female face, topped it off with a jet-black wig, and wandered into the ladies bogs at Birmingham University and The Bullring to record audio of them having a wee. As you do.
It turned out that he'd been at it for ages, and it was only when a women reported a strange mannequin-like figure in the loo that the blag went tits up. There he was, bold as brass, listening to women shaking the lettuce and recording it for posterity. What gets me is that the mask and wig combo makes you look at best an understudy in a low-budget horror movie, and at worst a fucking freak, so how he'd got away with it for so long is a mystery. He was credited as being intelligent in court by the judge, but unless his degree is the study of urinal acoustics, I doubt he's anything of the sort.
I'm not condoning such acts, but he wasn't hurting anyone, so putting him on the register is a bit harsh I think. If he started touching himself or other folk, by all means chuck away the key, but surely he could be put on some kind of programme where he wears a blindfold and someone pours water into a bucket to desensitise him to the extremely unerotic act of having a piss? If it turns up on ITV1 on a Saturday evening, shoehorned into some kind of game show, don't say I didn't warn you.
Wednesday 20 April 2011
A right royal pain in the retina
Keep it under your hat, but there's a rumour going round that a member of the royal family is about to get married. I know - talk about a turn up for the books!
Back in November, when one of the least surprising stories of all time broke (balding man weds first fit-as-frig woman what takes an interest in his legacy), I made the point that some news outlets may go into meltdown as the final preparations take place and I begin work on a hole into which to climb during the whole charade. Alas, I was only half right. Yes, there has been wall-to-wall coverage, but it begun with more than a month to go.
"""""Highlights""""" include:
- Plotting Kate's every movement, using the clothes she is wearing to second-guess the dress she'll wear on the big day.
- Notable fashionistas designing their own versions of said dress, clearly arsed about not being given the gig.
- Novelty playing cards depicting the big day, which deteriorate into stock royal footage before you've got the to end of the spades.
- A serious documentary charting the everyday lives of people who are related to Kate Middleton. To think people not from royal stock have actual jobs. Amazing scenes.
- A correspondent outside Buck Palace 10 DAYS before the ceremony, watching the horses practicing and passing judgement on the street cleaning (bear in mind several thousands people charged up there on Sunday during the marathon. That's a lot of poo).
- Daily updates on Kate's weight.
- Invitations to street parties and people getting upset because their application to host one has been turned down.
- All manner of channels fighting for your viewing figure when it all finally kicks off.
My stance hasn't altered, you'll be surprised to learn. Good for them, I say, as they tie the knot. The thing is, it's got knob all to do with 99.9 percent of the population, so why we have to have every second of the day (and a lot of those leading up to it) broadcast on a continuous loop is beyond me. I get that some people like to see a nice frock and people being happy, but surely a comprehensive highlights package in the evening with Steve Claridge and Jennie Bond would be more than enough to get the point across?
If I was Kate, I would pull rank to see what would happen. Tell hubbie-to-be that under no circumstances is it to be broadcast live, and watch as 'Wills' charges about trying to get his gran to ring Rupert Murdoch to pull the plug, and for Nicholas Witchell to be topped before he's had a chance to put his wedding suit on.
Personally, I'm hoping for a good day weather-wise. Not for them, but for me, so I can sit in the garden, drinking beer in a right royal sulk. And if that isn't in the spirit of a Public Holiday, then excuse me for being too real.
Back in November, when one of the least surprising stories of all time broke (balding man weds first fit-as-frig woman what takes an interest in his legacy), I made the point that some news outlets may go into meltdown as the final preparations take place and I begin work on a hole into which to climb during the whole charade. Alas, I was only half right. Yes, there has been wall-to-wall coverage, but it begun with more than a month to go.
"""""Highlights""""" include:
- Plotting Kate's every movement, using the clothes she is wearing to second-guess the dress she'll wear on the big day.
- Notable fashionistas designing their own versions of said dress, clearly arsed about not being given the gig.
- Novelty playing cards depicting the big day, which deteriorate into stock royal footage before you've got the to end of the spades.
- A serious documentary charting the everyday lives of people who are related to Kate Middleton. To think people not from royal stock have actual jobs. Amazing scenes.
- A correspondent outside Buck Palace 10 DAYS before the ceremony, watching the horses practicing and passing judgement on the street cleaning (bear in mind several thousands people charged up there on Sunday during the marathon. That's a lot of poo).
- Daily updates on Kate's weight.
- Invitations to street parties and people getting upset because their application to host one has been turned down.
- All manner of channels fighting for your viewing figure when it all finally kicks off.
My stance hasn't altered, you'll be surprised to learn. Good for them, I say, as they tie the knot. The thing is, it's got knob all to do with 99.9 percent of the population, so why we have to have every second of the day (and a lot of those leading up to it) broadcast on a continuous loop is beyond me. I get that some people like to see a nice frock and people being happy, but surely a comprehensive highlights package in the evening with Steve Claridge and Jennie Bond would be more than enough to get the point across?
If I was Kate, I would pull rank to see what would happen. Tell hubbie-to-be that under no circumstances is it to be broadcast live, and watch as 'Wills' charges about trying to get his gran to ring Rupert Murdoch to pull the plug, and for Nicholas Witchell to be topped before he's had a chance to put his wedding suit on.
Personally, I'm hoping for a good day weather-wise. Not for them, but for me, so I can sit in the garden, drinking beer in a right royal sulk. And if that isn't in the spirit of a Public Holiday, then excuse me for being too real.
Tuesday 19 April 2011
The thing what makes juggling look worthwhile
I've done it. I've found something more pointless than being a skilled juggler or participating in Secret Santa.
Regional news teams being on FaceBook. What's the fucking point in that?
Let's not dress it up - Look North is bollocks. A series of poorly-dressed, comically-alternative buffoons traipse across the length and breadth of Yorkshire finding interesting stories, before discarding them and telling us about how many jobs have been lost this week or that a giraffe saved the life of a penguin at a zoo. All presented with the journalistic finesse of a pub fight.
Their latest brainwave is to put themselves on that FaceBook, and in some cases, the Twitter. Apparently there must be people interested in getting behind the scenes on this great denizen of broadcasting to learn about what these simple folk like to eat for tea, or their opinions on lifesaving giraffes. How else can you explain this bunch of nerds promoting their pages at every touch and turn during broadcasts?
Now, it's been said I have something of a cynical streak, but surely I can't be the only one expecting these pages to become the sounding board for a series of violent and/or sexual threats against these fine folk? There are a couple of (borrowing from modern parlance) stick-on honies on the staff who will surely be subjected to the combined sexual force of a myriad middle-aged men with tattoos called Sean who deem such flirtatious behaviour appropriate.
Then there's those correspondents whose job it is to tell us about the latest inbred half-wit who's been sent down for smuggling drugs or sedating their own child in a bizarre kidnap plot. Surely relatives of those cell-friendly morons will pass on their well-considered thoughts about how it's not fair or unjust or bang out of fucking order, and how if you ever come round our end again will stab you to death or kick you to death or get you in a headlock to death. Clearly, putting your details online is only asking for trouble.
My own personal ire is that it's all a bit wanky. These are not celebrities (in any sense), nor are they particularly interesting (in any sense). Or famous. They are merely the purveyors of other people's misfortune who have decided to jump on the latest e-bandwagon on some vain quest for popularity. And the sooner these goons realise we're not even remotely interested in them aside from the occasional upskirt shot or sideboob action, the better, says I.
Regional news teams being on FaceBook. What's the fucking point in that?
Let's not dress it up - Look North is bollocks. A series of poorly-dressed, comically-alternative buffoons traipse across the length and breadth of Yorkshire finding interesting stories, before discarding them and telling us about how many jobs have been lost this week or that a giraffe saved the life of a penguin at a zoo. All presented with the journalistic finesse of a pub fight.
Their latest brainwave is to put themselves on that FaceBook, and in some cases, the Twitter. Apparently there must be people interested in getting behind the scenes on this great denizen of broadcasting to learn about what these simple folk like to eat for tea, or their opinions on lifesaving giraffes. How else can you explain this bunch of nerds promoting their pages at every touch and turn during broadcasts?
Now, it's been said I have something of a cynical streak, but surely I can't be the only one expecting these pages to become the sounding board for a series of violent and/or sexual threats against these fine folk? There are a couple of (borrowing from modern parlance) stick-on honies on the staff who will surely be subjected to the combined sexual force of a myriad middle-aged men with tattoos called Sean who deem such flirtatious behaviour appropriate.
Then there's those correspondents whose job it is to tell us about the latest inbred half-wit who's been sent down for smuggling drugs or sedating their own child in a bizarre kidnap plot. Surely relatives of those cell-friendly morons will pass on their well-considered thoughts about how it's not fair or unjust or bang out of fucking order, and how if you ever come round our end again will stab you to death or kick you to death or get you in a headlock to death. Clearly, putting your details online is only asking for trouble.
My own personal ire is that it's all a bit wanky. These are not celebrities (in any sense), nor are they particularly interesting (in any sense). Or famous. They are merely the purveyors of other people's misfortune who have decided to jump on the latest e-bandwagon on some vain quest for popularity. And the sooner these goons realise we're not even remotely interested in them aside from the occasional upskirt shot or sideboob action, the better, says I.
Thursday 14 April 2011
"MasterBullshitters" more like
For reasons that I'm too embarrassed to go into, I ended up sitting through an entire episode of over-dramatised cook-fest MasterChef last night.
Now, this programme - in various formats - has been around for years, where members of the general public, with a penchant for making quality grub battle it out to be crowned MasterChef. That is, the master of all available chefs.
Now, however, the whole thing seems to be an exercise in who is the most inept and/or who deals with stress in the worst manner. Bear in mind we're at the semi-final stage in this illustrious contest, this is what is saw with my mince pies (topical reference):
- They were asked to make some elaborate German pastry tower, and more than one of them confessed they'd never made pastry before. Don't forget this is MasterChef.
- One of the women had damaged herself with knives to such an extent that she had 2 entirely-plastered thumbs and had to operate a lot of the equipment with her palms. Don't forget this is MasterChef.
- When asked to prepare a series of sandwiches for afternoon tea, not one of them was ready in time. Don't forget this is MasterChef
- One of the contestants had to remake some biscuits after the fan oven (to my mind, one of the fundamental tools in a chef's armoury) literally blew the biscuits to pieces during the baking process. Don't forget...oh you know what point I'm labouring by now.
What am I missing? Why are such basic errors occurring at this stage of the contest? If it was the early rounds of the competition, I could understand the occasional chef succumbing to the pressure and accidentally make a dog turd tartlet, or lashing out at those fat lads looking over their shoulder with one of those extra sharp fish-gutting knives. Which leads me onto my next point...
Those two fat clowns who call themselves experts. Basically, a scientist took the sweat from Doctor "Neil" Fox, dissected its genetic make-up and reconstructed it in two equal measures to form John Torode and Greg Wallace. They then added a sense of self-worth to both which I've seldom seen outside of The Only Way Is Essex. They spend the entire show either talking to the director (utilising the staple tool in cooking programmes - the 'talk to the director off-camera rather that the fucking audience' routine) or make snide comments while these very unmasterly chefs shit their pants making egg and chips. One can only assume that the drama isn't all that dramatic, so these dicks ramp up the pressure by going "come on, only ten minutes to boil that partridge" and "eugh, that smells like wank" while the chefs secretly harbour intentions to cook their fat heads if they don't back off.
Ultimately, this isn't my cup of tea, viewing-wise, but surely I'm not the only one who's noticed that these chefs are not even remotely masterful? Maybe they should change the format, and call it 'Britains's got chefs' or 'Chef Idol', and get Jono Coleman and Linda Lusardi to present it. At least then the baying idiots who call themselves viewers won't be hoodwinked into thinking there's a modicum of skill on display.
Now, this programme - in various formats - has been around for years, where members of the general public, with a penchant for making quality grub battle it out to be crowned MasterChef. That is, the master of all available chefs.
Now, however, the whole thing seems to be an exercise in who is the most inept and/or who deals with stress in the worst manner. Bear in mind we're at the semi-final stage in this illustrious contest, this is what is saw with my mince pies (topical reference):
- They were asked to make some elaborate German pastry tower, and more than one of them confessed they'd never made pastry before. Don't forget this is MasterChef.
- One of the women had damaged herself with knives to such an extent that she had 2 entirely-plastered thumbs and had to operate a lot of the equipment with her palms. Don't forget this is MasterChef.
- When asked to prepare a series of sandwiches for afternoon tea, not one of them was ready in time. Don't forget this is MasterChef
- One of the contestants had to remake some biscuits after the fan oven (to my mind, one of the fundamental tools in a chef's armoury) literally blew the biscuits to pieces during the baking process. Don't forget...oh you know what point I'm labouring by now.
What am I missing? Why are such basic errors occurring at this stage of the contest? If it was the early rounds of the competition, I could understand the occasional chef succumbing to the pressure and accidentally make a dog turd tartlet, or lashing out at those fat lads looking over their shoulder with one of those extra sharp fish-gutting knives. Which leads me onto my next point...
Those two fat clowns who call themselves experts. Basically, a scientist took the sweat from Doctor "Neil" Fox, dissected its genetic make-up and reconstructed it in two equal measures to form John Torode and Greg Wallace. They then added a sense of self-worth to both which I've seldom seen outside of The Only Way Is Essex. They spend the entire show either talking to the director (utilising the staple tool in cooking programmes - the 'talk to the director off-camera rather that the fucking audience' routine) or make snide comments while these very unmasterly chefs shit their pants making egg and chips. One can only assume that the drama isn't all that dramatic, so these dicks ramp up the pressure by going "come on, only ten minutes to boil that partridge" and "eugh, that smells like wank" while the chefs secretly harbour intentions to cook their fat heads if they don't back off.
Ultimately, this isn't my cup of tea, viewing-wise, but surely I'm not the only one who's noticed that these chefs are not even remotely masterful? Maybe they should change the format, and call it 'Britains's got chefs' or 'Chef Idol', and get Jono Coleman and Linda Lusardi to present it. At least then the baying idiots who call themselves viewers won't be hoodwinked into thinking there's a modicum of skill on display.
Monday 31 January 2011
Sexism: Not 'triffic, Richard
We're pretty much at the arse end of the Sky Sports sexism scandal now, so I feel I can comment without all hell breaking loose again and seeing once respected pundits having their heads put on spikes.
This particular issue is a classic case of having 2 easy to argue sides, thus:
"These clowns are professional broadcasters and shouldn't be seen or heard making comments and/or gestures like that. They make me sick. It's just another example of how men think they can objectify women and treat them like things to be looked at and judged rather than respected"
or
"At the end of the day, we all say stuff like this when in private company. They weren't on air at the time so it's a bit unfair that something they kept between themselves has come back to bite them on their well-upholstered behinds"
Basically, there's no real point arguing the toss with each other because you're bound to fall into one of these categories and you'll be in your cold, cold grave before you reach a satisfactory conclusion on the matter.
Personally, I think it's utterly disgraceful that people still think that way in modern society. I'm not going to pretend that occasionally I see an attractive women and don't think of her in anything other than sexual terms, but I do draw the line at talking about 'smashing it' with my mates. Yes, they were off air, but they were also in a bloody great studio, which tends to be littered with all manner of recording equipment, so it might have been a good idea to keep it to themselves until they were out of earshot.
Richard Keys talked of 'dark forces' at work to oust them, which appears to have been translated into some kind of smear campaign against him and Andy Gray; as if there are people who don't like them and have been recording their myriad indiscretions for the opportunity to hang them out to dry. If that is the case, then they've only got themselves to blame for a) saying the things what incriminated them and b) rubbing people up the wrong way to such an extent that they were smeared in the first place.
Sky's speed to deal with the situation can only be deemed a good thing. Regardless of which side of the fence you sit on on this debate, if they had left them in their jobs it would have set a precedent that this kind of behaviour is tolerated. Then again, these two have been in this position for nearly 20 years now, so maybe Sky used the opportunity to kick them out and bring a bit of fresh, hopefully politically-correct talent into the studio (hopefully with a nice rack)*.
No matter which way you've looked at this issue, however, we can all agree on one thing. That it's a damn shame that it wasn't Jamie Redknapp caught doing it. For he is the crappest pundit there has ever been.
* Only joking. I'm a leg man.
This particular issue is a classic case of having 2 easy to argue sides, thus:
"These clowns are professional broadcasters and shouldn't be seen or heard making comments and/or gestures like that. They make me sick. It's just another example of how men think they can objectify women and treat them like things to be looked at and judged rather than respected"
or
"At the end of the day, we all say stuff like this when in private company. They weren't on air at the time so it's a bit unfair that something they kept between themselves has come back to bite them on their well-upholstered behinds"
Basically, there's no real point arguing the toss with each other because you're bound to fall into one of these categories and you'll be in your cold, cold grave before you reach a satisfactory conclusion on the matter.
Personally, I think it's utterly disgraceful that people still think that way in modern society. I'm not going to pretend that occasionally I see an attractive women and don't think of her in anything other than sexual terms, but I do draw the line at talking about 'smashing it' with my mates. Yes, they were off air, but they were also in a bloody great studio, which tends to be littered with all manner of recording equipment, so it might have been a good idea to keep it to themselves until they were out of earshot.
Richard Keys talked of 'dark forces' at work to oust them, which appears to have been translated into some kind of smear campaign against him and Andy Gray; as if there are people who don't like them and have been recording their myriad indiscretions for the opportunity to hang them out to dry. If that is the case, then they've only got themselves to blame for a) saying the things what incriminated them and b) rubbing people up the wrong way to such an extent that they were smeared in the first place.
Sky's speed to deal with the situation can only be deemed a good thing. Regardless of which side of the fence you sit on on this debate, if they had left them in their jobs it would have set a precedent that this kind of behaviour is tolerated. Then again, these two have been in this position for nearly 20 years now, so maybe Sky used the opportunity to kick them out and bring a bit of fresh, hopefully politically-correct talent into the studio (hopefully with a nice rack)*.
No matter which way you've looked at this issue, however, we can all agree on one thing. That it's a damn shame that it wasn't Jamie Redknapp caught doing it. For he is the crappest pundit there has ever been.
* Only joking. I'm a leg man.
Friday 7 January 2011
Suing the NHS? Fat chance, son
Oh dear.
Put simply, the former world's fattest man is to launch a legal action against the NHS, because they apparently failed to help him when he went to them for assistance. We're talking about a man who was putting away 20,000 calories a day at one point. That's twenty THOUSAND calories, yet he believes that it's the NHS's fault that he's such a fat wanker.
Apparently he was told when he clocked 30 stone that he should 'ride his bike more'. Now, I'm not a professional dietician, but I would have thought that doing some kind of physical exercise that didn't involve the use of a rag on a stick would have gone some way to helping him lose weight, but instead he decided to carry on scoffing in his pursuit of some kind of macabre world record.
He further claims that he was referred to a dietician instead of an eating disorder specialist which further exacerbated things. You may be surprised to learn that I don't fully buy into this eating disorder caper. I'm not saying that some people don't have issues with food in the same way they might with alcohol, but you'd do well to convince me that this pie-arse had a disorder to the extent that he was using lard as toothpaste (probably not true, but you get the idea). To suggest that his problems are entirely the fault of someone else is ludicrous, but sadly not unique in today's blame culture, where you can walk under a ladder, have a bucket drop on your head and successfully sue the butter-fingered window cleaner, regardless of the number of 'look out - falling buckets' signs you deploy.
Personally, I hope this is taken through the courts, and he is laughed out on his special fat man buggy. He spectacularly fails to spot that he costs the taxpayer an absolute shitload each year (I've seen the price of nappies these days) and although he vows to put any compensation he makes towards anti-obesity campaigns, he had to understand that his condition is pretty much of his own making. I doubt a nurse (scantily-clad or otherwise) paid him regular visits to force feed him 11 pizzas and a Pepparami. Surely when he got to 25 stone he must have thought "Crikey, I'm proper piling it on. Maybe I should think about changing my diet and/or doing some kind of physical activity to shed the pounds. Nah, I'll wait 'til I'm 30 stone then get offended when someone tells me the bleeding obvious"
In conclusion, there is no place for this kind of person in society (almost literally). If he wants to eat himself to death, he can be my guest; it's free country. However, if he thinks I'm paying my taxes to fly a series of WWE wrestlers over to carry his fat arse into the crematorium when the inevitable happens, he's got another think coming.
Put simply, the former world's fattest man is to launch a legal action against the NHS, because they apparently failed to help him when he went to them for assistance. We're talking about a man who was putting away 20,000 calories a day at one point. That's twenty THOUSAND calories, yet he believes that it's the NHS's fault that he's such a fat wanker.
Apparently he was told when he clocked 30 stone that he should 'ride his bike more'. Now, I'm not a professional dietician, but I would have thought that doing some kind of physical exercise that didn't involve the use of a rag on a stick would have gone some way to helping him lose weight, but instead he decided to carry on scoffing in his pursuit of some kind of macabre world record.
He further claims that he was referred to a dietician instead of an eating disorder specialist which further exacerbated things. You may be surprised to learn that I don't fully buy into this eating disorder caper. I'm not saying that some people don't have issues with food in the same way they might with alcohol, but you'd do well to convince me that this pie-arse had a disorder to the extent that he was using lard as toothpaste (probably not true, but you get the idea). To suggest that his problems are entirely the fault of someone else is ludicrous, but sadly not unique in today's blame culture, where you can walk under a ladder, have a bucket drop on your head and successfully sue the butter-fingered window cleaner, regardless of the number of 'look out - falling buckets' signs you deploy.
Personally, I hope this is taken through the courts, and he is laughed out on his special fat man buggy. He spectacularly fails to spot that he costs the taxpayer an absolute shitload each year (I've seen the price of nappies these days) and although he vows to put any compensation he makes towards anti-obesity campaigns, he had to understand that his condition is pretty much of his own making. I doubt a nurse (scantily-clad or otherwise) paid him regular visits to force feed him 11 pizzas and a Pepparami. Surely when he got to 25 stone he must have thought "Crikey, I'm proper piling it on. Maybe I should think about changing my diet and/or doing some kind of physical activity to shed the pounds. Nah, I'll wait 'til I'm 30 stone then get offended when someone tells me the bleeding obvious"
In conclusion, there is no place for this kind of person in society (almost literally). If he wants to eat himself to death, he can be my guest; it's free country. However, if he thinks I'm paying my taxes to fly a series of WWE wrestlers over to carry his fat arse into the crematorium when the inevitable happens, he's got another think coming.
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