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...
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
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.
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Bed-hops and Lunatics
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...
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...
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.
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