I'm please to announce the return of an old friend. A friend who was omnipresent during my early years in employment, but in recent times has been exiled for reasons not of their own doing. However, this year has seen a resurgence, and we can all rest easy in our beds that the glory days are back again.
Of course, that laboured introduction refers to the debauched antics of my colleagues at the company Christmas party.
As I said above, in recent times, antics, tomfoolery and the varying levels of horseplay have been at a worrying low. Refusing to blame the credit crunch, I believe it's because the ratio of single-to-impressionable staff has been skewed by the sheer number of married and shamefully unadulterous folk we've recently employed.
Skip forward to this year, and we're back on form, fuelled by a heady injection of youngsters, singletons and recently-divorced arsehats bent on alcohol-fuelled redemption. The following events back up these outrageous claims:
- 1 chap drank a bottle of champagne and 2 cans of lager. On the bus on the way to the hotel at 4 in the afternoon
- Said chap hit the karaoke at 7:15, and threatened to knock someone 'spark out' who he believed had a better singing voice than he did*
- 1 young man was propositioned by a much older, bisexual male colleague, culminating in the question "Have you ever shagged a man?"
- A free bar was declared at 7:45. By 9:45, £2,500 of drinks had been ordered (but not necessarily consumed)
- The free bar was closed when somebody ordered 30 pints of Fosters
- 2 of the more attractive members of the female staff enjoyed the pleasures of 2 salesmen sharing a room. One in the bed and one in the bath
- 1 young lady, who is well-known to have a boyfriend, was propositioned by a young chap along the lines of "Fancy going up to your room?". She needed no second invitation.
* I was the man he threatened to knock out. I was well scared, I tells you.
Good times. Personally, I much prefer this kind of party as a married man, as you watch the myriad perpetuators of the above carnage making the walk of shame on the Monday morning (or in some cases, setting new records in non-plussed arrogance). Let's face it, they're not doing any harm (apart from maybe tearing the occasional trouser press off the wall in the throes of passion) but isn't that the point of an all-expenses-paid Christmas soiree - to wreck possessions, reputations and the trust of the free bar cardholder in as quick a time as possible?
It isn't? Cripes. I'd better have a word with a few of the more 'energetic' staff before next year then...
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Thursday, 2 December 2010
It's double standard-tastic!
A colleague of mine once sagely opined that if a woman was to enter his office, open her blouse and enquire as to the contents' quality, said chap would be more than delighted. If however, he was to offer her the same right to reply on his trouser furniture, the local constabulary would be involved quicker than you could say "love truncheon".
This morning, a chirpy southern lady spent a few minutes on the radio explaining and ultimately defending her new website, which allows wives who are bored with their marriages to gather, converse and ultimately brag about the affairs they're currently enjoying.
Hmm.
Imagine if you will a world where a website existed solely for blokes to boast about their extra-martial doings; all hell would break loose. Woman's rights groups would go off the chart, slagging off the menfolk and displaying levels of penis envy previously uncharted. There may already be a site dedicated to this particular niche, but its proprietor hasn't been in the national press bigging it up, to my extensive knowledge.
I'm not naive enough to suggest that women aren't capable of initiating affairs, but it is my experience that it's usually the bloke who is doing the dirty, while the wronged wife sits at home, none the wiser, poring over a BettaBuy catalogue. The existence of this new website bucks that particular notion, but it seems to have taken it beyond a simple support group for women who are stuck in loveless marriages, and instead seems to celebrate their adulterous ways. And that's just bogus.
It subsequently turned out that this woman was very happy in every aspect of her marriage except the bonking bit, but rather than approach her husband about it, she went off with some other chap then founded this website to document her progress. Ignoring the moral ambiguity of affairs, doesn't she think that encouraging this kind of behaviour via an online support group is more detrimental to marriages than suggesting they actually talk to each other and sort their shit out?
My attitude to affairs needs no further airing here, but my attitude to marriage is similar to people in jobs they don't like - if you don't like it, fuck off and find a new one. Don't just stick with what you've got and moan about it. And certainly don't broadcast the various ins and outs (arf) of your affairs for like-minded harridans to gorge on like the sex-starved morality vacuums that they clearly are. Jesus wept.
This morning, a chirpy southern lady spent a few minutes on the radio explaining and ultimately defending her new website, which allows wives who are bored with their marriages to gather, converse and ultimately brag about the affairs they're currently enjoying.
Hmm.
Imagine if you will a world where a website existed solely for blokes to boast about their extra-martial doings; all hell would break loose. Woman's rights groups would go off the chart, slagging off the menfolk and displaying levels of penis envy previously uncharted. There may already be a site dedicated to this particular niche, but its proprietor hasn't been in the national press bigging it up, to my extensive knowledge.
I'm not naive enough to suggest that women aren't capable of initiating affairs, but it is my experience that it's usually the bloke who is doing the dirty, while the wronged wife sits at home, none the wiser, poring over a BettaBuy catalogue. The existence of this new website bucks that particular notion, but it seems to have taken it beyond a simple support group for women who are stuck in loveless marriages, and instead seems to celebrate their adulterous ways. And that's just bogus.
It subsequently turned out that this woman was very happy in every aspect of her marriage except the bonking bit, but rather than approach her husband about it, she went off with some other chap then founded this website to document her progress. Ignoring the moral ambiguity of affairs, doesn't she think that encouraging this kind of behaviour via an online support group is more detrimental to marriages than suggesting they actually talk to each other and sort their shit out?
My attitude to affairs needs no further airing here, but my attitude to marriage is similar to people in jobs they don't like - if you don't like it, fuck off and find a new one. Don't just stick with what you've got and moan about it. And certainly don't broadcast the various ins and outs (arf) of your affairs for like-minded harridans to gorge on like the sex-starved morality vacuums that they clearly are. Jesus wept.
Friday, 19 November 2010
"I wouldn't mind Twittering your Skype into next week"
Is it too cynical to suggest that Jason Manford using this sex text 'scandal' to engineer a move away from The One Show?
In the latest of what is becoming a bizarre procession of mid-ranking celebrities using technology to achieve orgasm, Manford has owned up to sending risque and/or downright rude messages to women through Twitter and Skype and what have you. I say 'owned up', but last month the first bird with whom he'd shared some e-shenanigans shopped him to the popular press and he was left without a leg to stand on. His defence was that he was lonely in a hotel room, but I'm not buying that. I've been on my own in hotel rooms loads of times, and not once have I thought "I know, I'll go online and flirt outrageously with birds. My heavily-pregnant wife won't mind".
His behaviour isn't exactly deplorable, but it's not on is it? If he'd said the same things to a woman in the flesh, it would be deemed inappropriate, so it's no different just because it's virtual. He rises slightly above the usual 'celeb-gets-caught-with-kecks-down' mire simply because he came clean (grow up), rather than carrying it on for months, getting caught then saying "Woe is me - I was in a dark place" or other such dreck which ends up in the sleeve notes on their next album.
He says there were '10 or 12' women in total, so clearly the first woman was just the tip of the iceberg. Apparently he's told his wife and they're working through it, but he's also quit The Beeb just to be on the safe side. Personally I think that's the shot in the arm his career needed. His stand-up was doing fine until he jumped on the gravy train, asking The Fonz what he thought of knife crime and listening to Gyles Brandreth's camp droning. He can get his head down while he sorts out his martial status, then get back on the road, further his comedy career and get some street cred back. Might be an idea to leave the laptop at home though.
On a wider note, this is a further example of fame going to blokes' heads. I can categorically state that in a position of fame, I wouldn't stray from the wife, simply because I've got what I want at home, but it does surprise me about the choices some of these chaps make. Vernon Kaye, for example. Yes, he's got an enormous face, but the birds seem to like him. He too was embroiled in a childish sex text scandal, but he's got the lovely Tess Daly at home, so something's amiss there. Likewise Tony Parker, who plays basketball for some reason. He's gone as far as having an affair, but all the while he's got Eva Longoria washing his underpants. As I mused to a friend, she might be a pain in the arse and we're doing him a disservice, but if there's a better put-together Latino woman out there, I don't want to know about it. I'm not saying that just cos they're fit then the husband shouldn't stray (let's face it, they shouldn't be dabbling under any circumstances) but if they're that unhappy, they should man up, own up and split up. At least then us normal folk get to have a crack at their other halves (providing the Mrs doesn't find out).
In the latest of what is becoming a bizarre procession of mid-ranking celebrities using technology to achieve orgasm, Manford has owned up to sending risque and/or downright rude messages to women through Twitter and Skype and what have you. I say 'owned up', but last month the first bird with whom he'd shared some e-shenanigans shopped him to the popular press and he was left without a leg to stand on. His defence was that he was lonely in a hotel room, but I'm not buying that. I've been on my own in hotel rooms loads of times, and not once have I thought "I know, I'll go online and flirt outrageously with birds. My heavily-pregnant wife won't mind".
His behaviour isn't exactly deplorable, but it's not on is it? If he'd said the same things to a woman in the flesh, it would be deemed inappropriate, so it's no different just because it's virtual. He rises slightly above the usual 'celeb-gets-caught-with-kecks-down' mire simply because he came clean (grow up), rather than carrying it on for months, getting caught then saying "Woe is me - I was in a dark place" or other such dreck which ends up in the sleeve notes on their next album.
He says there were '10 or 12' women in total, so clearly the first woman was just the tip of the iceberg. Apparently he's told his wife and they're working through it, but he's also quit The Beeb just to be on the safe side. Personally I think that's the shot in the arm his career needed. His stand-up was doing fine until he jumped on the gravy train, asking The Fonz what he thought of knife crime and listening to Gyles Brandreth's camp droning. He can get his head down while he sorts out his martial status, then get back on the road, further his comedy career and get some street cred back. Might be an idea to leave the laptop at home though.
On a wider note, this is a further example of fame going to blokes' heads. I can categorically state that in a position of fame, I wouldn't stray from the wife, simply because I've got what I want at home, but it does surprise me about the choices some of these chaps make. Vernon Kaye, for example. Yes, he's got an enormous face, but the birds seem to like him. He too was embroiled in a childish sex text scandal, but he's got the lovely Tess Daly at home, so something's amiss there. Likewise Tony Parker, who plays basketball for some reason. He's gone as far as having an affair, but all the while he's got Eva Longoria washing his underpants. As I mused to a friend, she might be a pain in the arse and we're doing him a disservice, but if there's a better put-together Latino woman out there, I don't want to know about it. I'm not saying that just cos they're fit then the husband shouldn't stray (let's face it, they shouldn't be dabbling under any circumstances) but if they're that unhappy, they should man up, own up and split up. At least then us normal folk get to have a crack at their other halves (providing the Mrs doesn't find out).
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
Royalty: 100% gggrrrrrrreeeeeeeaaaaaat
Right, let's get a few things straight:
- I ain't no royalist, fool
- At best I'm ambivalent to their plight
- At no point could I be considered to share the views of the populace
With the joyous news that Prince Harry and Kate Middleton are going to tie the knot, some media outlets have gone into meltdown. The Daily Mail website, for example- usually a bastion of images depicting a myriad soap and music stars in their bikinis - has got its knickers in a right old twist, dedicating nearly all of its stories to the delectable Miss Middleton, lifting the lid on such fascinating stories such as which school she went to, what her parents do for a living and what her friends nicknamed her at school ('Kate Middlebum' incidentally - a new high for fans of creative wordplay).
As usual, such over-the-top hyperbole doesn't particularly bother me, as I couldn't give a shiny shite whether they got married, split up or performed complicated brain surgery on a maimed baboon (actually that's not true, the last one would be awesome). As always, there will be some people who are beside themselves with glee about it, others who will launch a series of well-aimed yet hopelessly vitriolic tirades against them and those (like me) in the middle ground, who pen overly wordy analyses of such events in the vain hope of become an Internet sensation.
The thing is though, it seems that all media coverage is implying that we were all gagging for this to happen; that we were counting down the days until he realised his hair has gone see-through and he looks like Uncle Eddie, so he'd better snare this dusky maiden before she does one to less plummy climes. More than one media outlet has written about how delighted the nation is, and how we're all bound to have spontaneous street parties to celebrate a soldier and an unemployed posh bird getting hitched. Call me a cynic if you will, but I'd be very surprised if all corners of this great nation are as fussed about it as the Home Counties and old ladies with plates depicting Charles and Di looking awkward in a garden.
What next? "Racist assault in London, the nation to put up white-only bunting"?
"Jordan tops "Best top bollocks on a broad' poll"?
"People watch 'I'm a celebrity' without vomiting in anger"?
You can't assume every part of the population feels the same way as you, you know.
At the end of the day, good luck to them. I'm sure all hell's going to break loose as people predict when and where they'll get hitched, and the media shit-storm on the day will do my head in, but I'd appreciate it, media types, if you specified exactly who will be wetting themselves about the news and who instead will be wearing a bowler hat and storming the stage at comedy gigs shouting 'Fuck the pound'*. You owe us that much.
* Visual gag borrowed from a politically switched-on friend.
- I ain't no royalist, fool
- At best I'm ambivalent to their plight
- At no point could I be considered to share the views of the populace
With the joyous news that Prince Harry and Kate Middleton are going to tie the knot, some media outlets have gone into meltdown. The Daily Mail website, for example- usually a bastion of images depicting a myriad soap and music stars in their bikinis - has got its knickers in a right old twist, dedicating nearly all of its stories to the delectable Miss Middleton, lifting the lid on such fascinating stories such as which school she went to, what her parents do for a living and what her friends nicknamed her at school ('Kate Middlebum' incidentally - a new high for fans of creative wordplay).
As usual, such over-the-top hyperbole doesn't particularly bother me, as I couldn't give a shiny shite whether they got married, split up or performed complicated brain surgery on a maimed baboon (actually that's not true, the last one would be awesome). As always, there will be some people who are beside themselves with glee about it, others who will launch a series of well-aimed yet hopelessly vitriolic tirades against them and those (like me) in the middle ground, who pen overly wordy analyses of such events in the vain hope of become an Internet sensation.
The thing is though, it seems that all media coverage is implying that we were all gagging for this to happen; that we were counting down the days until he realised his hair has gone see-through and he looks like Uncle Eddie, so he'd better snare this dusky maiden before she does one to less plummy climes. More than one media outlet has written about how delighted the nation is, and how we're all bound to have spontaneous street parties to celebrate a soldier and an unemployed posh bird getting hitched. Call me a cynic if you will, but I'd be very surprised if all corners of this great nation are as fussed about it as the Home Counties and old ladies with plates depicting Charles and Di looking awkward in a garden.
What next? "Racist assault in London, the nation to put up white-only bunting"?
"Jordan tops "Best top bollocks on a broad' poll"?
"People watch 'I'm a celebrity' without vomiting in anger"?
You can't assume every part of the population feels the same way as you, you know.
At the end of the day, good luck to them. I'm sure all hell's going to break loose as people predict when and where they'll get hitched, and the media shit-storm on the day will do my head in, but I'd appreciate it, media types, if you specified exactly who will be wetting themselves about the news and who instead will be wearing a bowler hat and storming the stage at comedy gigs shouting 'Fuck the pound'*. You owe us that much.
* Visual gag borrowed from a politically switched-on friend.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Only fools and Jordan
It's that time of year again already. I know, it only seems like five minutes since the last one and now the next one is around the corner.
No, not Christmas, or the final of that fixed, mime-riddled freakshow X-Factor; I mean it's time for Jordan to get divorced again.
Jordan (real name Kenny Price) is a former glamour model and philanthropist whose relationships are routinely splashed across the pages of this great nation's red-top publications. Recall how she got hitched to New Zealand's greatest export Peter Andrew, after the pair met in the jungle (not a euphemism). Within 36 minutes, the pair were married, had a series of aesthetically-unfortunate children and were divorced again.
Not one to rest on her laurels, Jordan set her sights on Alex Reid, who specialises in being reasonably skilled at a number of martial arts, although not enough at any one discipline to pursue it professionally. They too got married, and reluctantly signed a TV deal to show us the very inner workings of their stable and well-considered marriage.
Fast forward a few short months and apparently he's had enough, and has demanded time apart. Now, I'm not privy to the internal machinations of their latest marital debacle (it's not been on telly yet) but can we really be surprised that they weren't meant to be together and will soon be on the scrap heap? Let's face it, Price is an epic pain in the arse, mixing a thick-as-pigshit demeanour with a face so mangled you wouldn't let your cat lick it. He on the other hand looks to have been carved from a piece of damaged soap and will appear on television for as little as £32. In previous blogs I've commented on her entrepreneurial promise, as she created the Jordan persona to trade off her looks and further her career, but that horse shot it's bolt many moons ago, so she's now only left with her pitiful home life, which she trawls across the airwaves to keep the brass coming in.
I'm not playing the 'marriage is sacred' card in light of my own recent nuptial shenanigans, but was it really necessary for them to immediately tie the knot? Couldn't they have dated for a bit, maybe got to second base, even mixed their CD's, before charging down the aisle? I doubt the public's respect for them would have improved (apart from those orange folk who have a haircut for every possible weather phenomenon) but surely people would have realised that she wasn't just looking to feather her nest with more TV money and maybe even had genuine feelings for The Reidinator.
Don't get me wrong; I couldn't give two fucks either way, but you have to wonder who has any sympathy for her these days as she lurches from one impotent disaster to the next.
Jordan - if you're listening love, just because he liked it he didn't have to put a ring on it. It's not a fucking competition.
No, not Christmas, or the final of that fixed, mime-riddled freakshow X-Factor; I mean it's time for Jordan to get divorced again.
Jordan (real name Kenny Price) is a former glamour model and philanthropist whose relationships are routinely splashed across the pages of this great nation's red-top publications. Recall how she got hitched to New Zealand's greatest export Peter Andrew, after the pair met in the jungle (not a euphemism). Within 36 minutes, the pair were married, had a series of aesthetically-unfortunate children and were divorced again.
Not one to rest on her laurels, Jordan set her sights on Alex Reid, who specialises in being reasonably skilled at a number of martial arts, although not enough at any one discipline to pursue it professionally. They too got married, and reluctantly signed a TV deal to show us the very inner workings of their stable and well-considered marriage.
Fast forward a few short months and apparently he's had enough, and has demanded time apart. Now, I'm not privy to the internal machinations of their latest marital debacle (it's not been on telly yet) but can we really be surprised that they weren't meant to be together and will soon be on the scrap heap? Let's face it, Price is an epic pain in the arse, mixing a thick-as-pigshit demeanour with a face so mangled you wouldn't let your cat lick it. He on the other hand looks to have been carved from a piece of damaged soap and will appear on television for as little as £32. In previous blogs I've commented on her entrepreneurial promise, as she created the Jordan persona to trade off her looks and further her career, but that horse shot it's bolt many moons ago, so she's now only left with her pitiful home life, which she trawls across the airwaves to keep the brass coming in.
I'm not playing the 'marriage is sacred' card in light of my own recent nuptial shenanigans, but was it really necessary for them to immediately tie the knot? Couldn't they have dated for a bit, maybe got to second base, even mixed their CD's, before charging down the aisle? I doubt the public's respect for them would have improved (apart from those orange folk who have a haircut for every possible weather phenomenon) but surely people would have realised that she wasn't just looking to feather her nest with more TV money and maybe even had genuine feelings for The Reidinator.
Don't get me wrong; I couldn't give two fucks either way, but you have to wonder who has any sympathy for her these days as she lurches from one impotent disaster to the next.
Jordan - if you're listening love, just because he liked it he didn't have to put a ring on it. It's not a fucking competition.
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
Cat + Bin = Medicine?
The dopey cow who thought it would be a good idea to sling that cat into a wheelie bin has been charged today. And rightly so, says I. There isn't really any justification for doing something quite as retarded as that, despite her cast-iron excuse that it was a 'joke'. Bearing in mind she checked both ways before doing it, and clearly didn't realise she was on CCTV at the time, it seems unlikely she was trying to draw too much comedy from it, especially when you consider that she didn't actually tell anyone about it, thus missing out on the inevitable bragging rights such a clever piece of japery guarantees.
As you might imagine, I find the lady in question to be a bit of a dick-end. You don't expect such behaviour from a middle-aged person, and you can bet your bollocks (top ones if you're a bird) that if a similar level of offence had befallen her (like pushing her owl into a wheelbarrow), she would have kicked off, dragging the local constabulary in to feel someone's collar and/or hit them with a truncheon. Presumably.
What really gets on my gears though is her lame-arse excuse-mongering in court. Recall my brilliantly-argued blog recently, where I decried the attitude of 'celebrities' when caught with their pants down. Instead of holding their hands up to their wrongdoing, they witter on about how sorry they are and how much of a nightmare it's been pummelling some buxom wench into next week in a TravelLodge. While I can never truly say I would have anything approaching respect for Ronan Keating, if he'd just said "To be sure I'm sorry about the old adultery thing there. Tis a fair cop" at least I would consider him a realistic, if slightly wanky, human being. But when they start wheeling out these ridiculous reasons to justify their actions, it raises my ire like you wouldn't believe.
Anyway, the point I'm labouring is that this woman claimed she was in a state of stress at the time of CatBinSlingGate (TM) because her father was gravely ill. Now, if your old man's under the weather, I can totally understand you feeling sad, but I'm struggling to find the correlation between paternal illness and feline disposal. Why didn't she just say "Yeah, I'm a bit mental to be fair. I thought it would be a gag to lob the moggy in the bin, although right now I'm finding it hard to fully justify it"? Instead it's all "Woe is me, me Dad's poorly. If only there was some way to make him feel better involving next door's cat and a wheelie bin..."
As you might imagine, I find the lady in question to be a bit of a dick-end. You don't expect such behaviour from a middle-aged person, and you can bet your bollocks (top ones if you're a bird) that if a similar level of offence had befallen her (like pushing her owl into a wheelbarrow), she would have kicked off, dragging the local constabulary in to feel someone's collar and/or hit them with a truncheon. Presumably.
What really gets on my gears though is her lame-arse excuse-mongering in court. Recall my brilliantly-argued blog recently, where I decried the attitude of 'celebrities' when caught with their pants down. Instead of holding their hands up to their wrongdoing, they witter on about how sorry they are and how much of a nightmare it's been pummelling some buxom wench into next week in a TravelLodge. While I can never truly say I would have anything approaching respect for Ronan Keating, if he'd just said "To be sure I'm sorry about the old adultery thing there. Tis a fair cop" at least I would consider him a realistic, if slightly wanky, human being. But when they start wheeling out these ridiculous reasons to justify their actions, it raises my ire like you wouldn't believe.
Anyway, the point I'm labouring is that this woman claimed she was in a state of stress at the time of CatBinSlingGate (TM) because her father was gravely ill. Now, if your old man's under the weather, I can totally understand you feeling sad, but I'm struggling to find the correlation between paternal illness and feline disposal. Why didn't she just say "Yeah, I'm a bit mental to be fair. I thought it would be a gag to lob the moggy in the bin, although right now I'm finding it hard to fully justify it"? Instead it's all "Woe is me, me Dad's poorly. If only there was some way to make him feel better involving next door's cat and a wheelie bin..."
Friday, 24 September 2010
Ironic complaint alert
Before we start, and in the words of Sideshow Bob, "I'm aware of the irony of decrying people complaining in this blog, so there's no need to point it out".
Who are these people who complain to watchdogs when somebody says or does something apparently inappropriate? The latest is skinny hilarity-peddler Chris Moyles, who went on a limp-wristed rant about not being paid for 2 months. 61 people complained.
My question is, why?
First off, what do they think they will achieve? I'm all for free speech, and you can't please everyone all the time, but do they really think ringing in to say they didn't like it will make a blind bit of difference? In this case, Moyles won't even by disciplined, so how do they expect to change the BBC's charter with their hand-wringing and whining?
Second, and this is a long-standing bug-bear of mine, if you don't like it, turn it off. Nobody's making you listen to him (although I understand the CIA use it as a torture technique). Instead of sitting there waiting to be offended, put something banal and inoffensive off to avoid hurting your sensitive ears. I can't stand Moyles; I think he's a talentless toerag who uses shouting to mask his lack of humour, but I don't listen to him and bitch all the way through; I just don't listen.
Thirdly, what was so offensive about this anyway? If he'd littered his diatribe with a series of four-letter and/or swear words, fair enough, but he didn't. Personally I don't care what the fuck you say in any form of communication (subtle gag there), but I get how some people don't want to hear coarse language and mentions of 'frothing at the gash' while they're listening to their favourite disc jockeys. However, all he did was moan about not being paid; he didn't swear, he didn't have a go at the listeners, so I really don't see the need to complain. Ironically, the complaints should have been directed at him instead, as he used the position afforded to him by the British taxpayer to whinge about not being paid, instead of knocking on his gaffer's door to discuss it in private, like any normal person.
At the end of the day, there will always be people out there who can't wait to be offended, just so they can get on their high horse about it. With that in mind, feel free to comment on this and I'll give you a whole new perspective on what it is to be offended. Toodle oo.
Who are these people who complain to watchdogs when somebody says or does something apparently inappropriate? The latest is skinny hilarity-peddler Chris Moyles, who went on a limp-wristed rant about not being paid for 2 months. 61 people complained.
My question is, why?
First off, what do they think they will achieve? I'm all for free speech, and you can't please everyone all the time, but do they really think ringing in to say they didn't like it will make a blind bit of difference? In this case, Moyles won't even by disciplined, so how do they expect to change the BBC's charter with their hand-wringing and whining?
Second, and this is a long-standing bug-bear of mine, if you don't like it, turn it off. Nobody's making you listen to him (although I understand the CIA use it as a torture technique). Instead of sitting there waiting to be offended, put something banal and inoffensive off to avoid hurting your sensitive ears. I can't stand Moyles; I think he's a talentless toerag who uses shouting to mask his lack of humour, but I don't listen to him and bitch all the way through; I just don't listen.
Thirdly, what was so offensive about this anyway? If he'd littered his diatribe with a series of four-letter and/or swear words, fair enough, but he didn't. Personally I don't care what the fuck you say in any form of communication (subtle gag there), but I get how some people don't want to hear coarse language and mentions of 'frothing at the gash' while they're listening to their favourite disc jockeys. However, all he did was moan about not being paid; he didn't swear, he didn't have a go at the listeners, so I really don't see the need to complain. Ironically, the complaints should have been directed at him instead, as he used the position afforded to him by the British taxpayer to whinge about not being paid, instead of knocking on his gaffer's door to discuss it in private, like any normal person.
At the end of the day, there will always be people out there who can't wait to be offended, just so they can get on their high horse about it. With that in mind, feel free to comment on this and I'll give you a whole new perspective on what it is to be offended. Toodle oo.
Monday, 20 September 2010
Bigots: Presumptious
We've all been in a position where we've said something out loud assuming the others in attendance were in agreement, only to realise we'd completely misread the feelings of everyone else, making us look like a right royal doughnut.
Usually such an occurrence revolves around your opinion of the popular music scene, or maybe you're a Glee fan in the company of a group of normal people. Such events must be highly embarrassing for the bollock-dropper, so imagine how bad you would feel when you thought you were surrounded by like-minded bigots, only to realise you're actually amongst human beings.
Case in point - this past weekend. Long story short, the DJ at a leaving party I went to was a transvestite cabaret act. He was very entertaining, had a nice arse and gave the party the oomph it needed when it was going a bit flat. He was very well accepted (apparently he was a friend of the family) but there was no unpleasantness directed at the lad, and he ended the evening with most party goers on the dancefloor screeching 'New York, New York' in their regional dialect.
When we got back to the hotel afterwards, the bartender was asking another couple if they'd had a nice evening, and they were talking about this DJ:
Chap: "Yeah, it was....er....interesting"
Bartender: "Oh yeah?"
Chap: "Yeah..."
Silence, so I butt in
Me: "He was a transvestite cabaret act"
Bartender: "Right. Was he any good?"
Me: "He was great"
Chap: "I'll tell you something though, this kind of thing is becoming acceptable these days"
Bartender and I look at each other then him, wondering where it's about to go
Chap: "Er, which is good"
What a goon. He genuinely expected us to go "Bummers are gay" or something else suitably vitriolic, just because the DJ was from a social minority. Who gives a shit what he looks or dresses like? As he was drumming up dancers, he asked my friend and I if we wanted to join in, but upon hearing 'no' from us, he left us to it. He didn't overdo it, he didn't attempt to drag us up, and in the words of a world-class innuendoist, he didn't try to ram it down out throats.
On a serious note, people like the bar bigot need to be stamped out, and I'm glad he wasn't joined in his opinions by any of the other protagonists. Hopefully this episode made him realise how much of a weapon he is for a) expressing such opinions and b) having them in the first place. Maybe in time he might even learn to be tolerant of people just because their different to him, but given that includes right-minded people with morals, that could take some time. Dickhead.
Usually such an occurrence revolves around your opinion of the popular music scene, or maybe you're a Glee fan in the company of a group of normal people. Such events must be highly embarrassing for the bollock-dropper, so imagine how bad you would feel when you thought you were surrounded by like-minded bigots, only to realise you're actually amongst human beings.
Case in point - this past weekend. Long story short, the DJ at a leaving party I went to was a transvestite cabaret act. He was very entertaining, had a nice arse and gave the party the oomph it needed when it was going a bit flat. He was very well accepted (apparently he was a friend of the family) but there was no unpleasantness directed at the lad, and he ended the evening with most party goers on the dancefloor screeching 'New York, New York' in their regional dialect.
When we got back to the hotel afterwards, the bartender was asking another couple if they'd had a nice evening, and they were talking about this DJ:
Chap: "Yeah, it was....er....interesting"
Bartender: "Oh yeah?"
Chap: "Yeah..."
Silence, so I butt in
Me: "He was a transvestite cabaret act"
Bartender: "Right. Was he any good?"
Me: "He was great"
Chap: "I'll tell you something though, this kind of thing is becoming acceptable these days"
Bartender and I look at each other then him, wondering where it's about to go
Chap: "Er, which is good"
What a goon. He genuinely expected us to go "Bummers are gay" or something else suitably vitriolic, just because the DJ was from a social minority. Who gives a shit what he looks or dresses like? As he was drumming up dancers, he asked my friend and I if we wanted to join in, but upon hearing 'no' from us, he left us to it. He didn't overdo it, he didn't attempt to drag us up, and in the words of a world-class innuendoist, he didn't try to ram it down out throats.
On a serious note, people like the bar bigot need to be stamped out, and I'm glad he wasn't joined in his opinions by any of the other protagonists. Hopefully this episode made him realise how much of a weapon he is for a) expressing such opinions and b) having them in the first place. Maybe in time he might even learn to be tolerant of people just because their different to him, but given that includes right-minded people with morals, that could take some time. Dickhead.
Sunday, 19 September 2010
My E-tribute to a good man
When I started this blog, it was intended to be an amusing and thought-provoking study into the emotional overtones of owning one pair of shoes, which see you through all manner of life's big events (christenings, weddings, funerals, etc), and how they become synonymous with those events. I then realised what a crock of shit that was for an idea and settled on something far more worthy instead.
Kev Buckley was the manager of the Sunday league football team I played for in the nineties and early noughties, and this week I went to his funeral. He was 44.
I hadn't seen him for a couple of years, but I was informed of his incredibly untimely death whilst he was on holiday and made arrangements to be at his funeral. I'm glad I could be there to express my condolences and pay my respects, and am happy to report that a great many others did likewise.
He was a good man was Kev. Generous, amusing (often unintentionally), fiercely loyal and a strong family and community man. He leaves behind a wife and three children in their late teens and early twenties, and will be keenly missed by all around him.
His was a life you could measure by the amount of people there to pay their respects. More than 200 people crammed themselves into his local church, each one touched by him in some way. Away from football I barely knew him, but I was surprised at the impact he'd had upon me when I found out he'd died. I've known friend-of-a-friend types die before and I haven't made an effort to attend their funerals, but this was an event I wanted to be there for.
Sadly, with the service being on a Friday, a lot of people had to work in the afternoon so we didn't get a chance to fully celebrate his life. However, in the short time we were together, a few things were said about him, all of them good. It is a fitting tribute to him that I find it much harder to think of him not being at that kind of event than that he isn't around any more; at any other time he would have been in the centre of that get-together, having organised it at his own inconvenience.
If there's one thing I will always remember about him, it's his sense of humour, summed up when he said this to me shortly before coming on as a substitute (again):
"Go out there and use your pace"
If that's not a man capable of telling jokes, I don't know what is.
Rest in peace, Kev.
Kev Buckley was the manager of the Sunday league football team I played for in the nineties and early noughties, and this week I went to his funeral. He was 44.
I hadn't seen him for a couple of years, but I was informed of his incredibly untimely death whilst he was on holiday and made arrangements to be at his funeral. I'm glad I could be there to express my condolences and pay my respects, and am happy to report that a great many others did likewise.
He was a good man was Kev. Generous, amusing (often unintentionally), fiercely loyal and a strong family and community man. He leaves behind a wife and three children in their late teens and early twenties, and will be keenly missed by all around him.
His was a life you could measure by the amount of people there to pay their respects. More than 200 people crammed themselves into his local church, each one touched by him in some way. Away from football I barely knew him, but I was surprised at the impact he'd had upon me when I found out he'd died. I've known friend-of-a-friend types die before and I haven't made an effort to attend their funerals, but this was an event I wanted to be there for.
Sadly, with the service being on a Friday, a lot of people had to work in the afternoon so we didn't get a chance to fully celebrate his life. However, in the short time we were together, a few things were said about him, all of them good. It is a fitting tribute to him that I find it much harder to think of him not being at that kind of event than that he isn't around any more; at any other time he would have been in the centre of that get-together, having organised it at his own inconvenience.
If there's one thing I will always remember about him, it's his sense of humour, summed up when he said this to me shortly before coming on as a substitute (again):
"Go out there and use your pace"
If that's not a man capable of telling jokes, I don't know what is.
Rest in peace, Kev.
Monday, 13 September 2010
"One's dirty, the other's Coleen"
So ends the latest satirical swipe at a member of the celebrity fraternity; in this case, potato-faced razz-merchant Wayne "Always a Blue" Rooney.
I'm sure you've read by now that Mr Rooney has, borrowing from popular tabloid parlance, 'been up to his nuts in guts' extra-maritally. The lucky 'lady' in question is some high-class Mancunian prostitute (for 'high-class' read 'charges over a grand a night for her services and only hangs around in places were people are rich/stupid enough to fork out that kind of money for such a transaction'). Apparently, Roo (copyright: The Sun) met said tom in a casino in Manchester and, not to put too fine a point on it, fancied the arse off her. He subsequently paid for several nights with her, all around the time that both Coleen was up the stick with his firstborn and he was in the form of his life on the pitch (insert 'scoring', 'tackle' and 'in and around the box' gags here).
Of course, this is isn't on, as Coleen sat at home brewing his demon seed, while he allegedly chased this expensive piece of crumpet around, shagging her whenever his wallet allowed. And of course, she didn't say a dickie bird about it at the time, choosing only to bring it up once his interest had died down and the press were after someone else to go for in the event of John Terry's todger staying where it ought to.
Naturally, all hell has broken loose to the extent that he was dropped for the next league game (away to Everton; an event Sky would deem 'ironic' when it's merely coincidental) and the press have spent literally 10 days poring over his life, sticking up for the wronged wife (in no way linked to her status as a chav-level national treasure) whilst painting him to be the devil incarnate.
Now, he's done this kind of thing before. We all remember the infamous granny-shagging days when he was but a slip of a lad, and Coleen (rightly or wrongly) chose to forgive him and take him back. My lawyers instruct me to make it clear that her decision had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she was trying to forge a media career and would be effectively skint and a nobody without Rooney's status and brass at the time. So what's she going to do this time? The pair of them have asked for privacy in this difficult time (borrowing heavily from the '21st Century Celebrity Couple's Guide to Manipulating the Press') while she presumably gives him a bollocking and throws a series of revolting yet expensive plates at him. One can only guess. Personally, I think she should kick him into touch now, as he's proven that he respects her enough to shag grannies and prossies while she's pregnant behind her back. Cynical though it may be, she's now got enough money and fame to make it on her own, and she could easily claim half of his possessions due to his adulterous behaviour. Surely she can't love the balding Shrek-a-like enough to tolerate this kind of activity, and if she does, he knows he's got carte blanche to do anything and anyone he wants in the future, knowing he can just put on his puppy-dog eyes and come back with his tail between his legs (for a change).
Either way, it always ends up coming down to an uncomfortable truth. At the end of the day, Rooney's despicable, immature and unpleasant behaviour can be explained as follows.
The hooker is fitter than Coleen. Much, much fitter.
I'm sure you've read by now that Mr Rooney has, borrowing from popular tabloid parlance, 'been up to his nuts in guts' extra-maritally. The lucky 'lady' in question is some high-class Mancunian prostitute (for 'high-class' read 'charges over a grand a night for her services and only hangs around in places were people are rich/stupid enough to fork out that kind of money for such a transaction'). Apparently, Roo (copyright: The Sun) met said tom in a casino in Manchester and, not to put too fine a point on it, fancied the arse off her. He subsequently paid for several nights with her, all around the time that both Coleen was up the stick with his firstborn and he was in the form of his life on the pitch (insert 'scoring', 'tackle' and 'in and around the box' gags here).
Of course, this is isn't on, as Coleen sat at home brewing his demon seed, while he allegedly chased this expensive piece of crumpet around, shagging her whenever his wallet allowed. And of course, she didn't say a dickie bird about it at the time, choosing only to bring it up once his interest had died down and the press were after someone else to go for in the event of John Terry's todger staying where it ought to.
Naturally, all hell has broken loose to the extent that he was dropped for the next league game (away to Everton; an event Sky would deem 'ironic' when it's merely coincidental) and the press have spent literally 10 days poring over his life, sticking up for the wronged wife (in no way linked to her status as a chav-level national treasure) whilst painting him to be the devil incarnate.
Now, he's done this kind of thing before. We all remember the infamous granny-shagging days when he was but a slip of a lad, and Coleen (rightly or wrongly) chose to forgive him and take him back. My lawyers instruct me to make it clear that her decision had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she was trying to forge a media career and would be effectively skint and a nobody without Rooney's status and brass at the time. So what's she going to do this time? The pair of them have asked for privacy in this difficult time (borrowing heavily from the '21st Century Celebrity Couple's Guide to Manipulating the Press') while she presumably gives him a bollocking and throws a series of revolting yet expensive plates at him. One can only guess. Personally, I think she should kick him into touch now, as he's proven that he respects her enough to shag grannies and prossies while she's pregnant behind her back. Cynical though it may be, she's now got enough money and fame to make it on her own, and she could easily claim half of his possessions due to his adulterous behaviour. Surely she can't love the balding Shrek-a-like enough to tolerate this kind of activity, and if she does, he knows he's got carte blanche to do anything and anyone he wants in the future, knowing he can just put on his puppy-dog eyes and come back with his tail between his legs (for a change).
Either way, it always ends up coming down to an uncomfortable truth. At the end of the day, Rooney's despicable, immature and unpleasant behaviour can be explained as follows.
The hooker is fitter than Coleen. Much, much fitter.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)