Yo-yo's, Global Hypercolour T-shirts, luminous snapping wristbands. All fads. All shite.
Throughout the ages, various odd practices and items have become famous for five minutes as people latch onto them as the latest craze. Tamagochi, for example, or adding alcohol to beverages, and for a few months it's all you hear about. Dusty middle-aged news reporters in sensible suits talk about them and are encouraged to participate with utterly hilarious results, and normal-thinking folk like myself fail to understand what all the fuss is about and end up crying in confusion.
The latest of these crazes is 'planking' and quite frankly, it's fantastic.
The premise is to lay face-down, arms by your sides, completely still and be photographed. No, that's it. That's all you have to do. Apparently the trick is to do it in as unusual a place as possible, then upload your antics to that Internet for people to look at. Now I've seen and heard of some stupid shit in my time, but this one puts the tin lid on it.
Often, such fads and crazes are easily suffixed with "But what's the point?", but this opens up a new can of pointless wormery. I never fully understood the RickRolling business (linking to Rick Astley footage under the pretence of a genuine link) so I was unlikely to get planking, but where's the fun in it? Where's the prestige? Where's the beef?
At the end of the day, it doesn't appear to be doing any harm (save for a couple of lads who've fallen off balconies for their art) and to be quite honest I couldn't give a shit what today's youth get up to, but it's a poor do when lying perfectly still outside of your local Oddbins passes as entertainment. Give me a diablo and some Pogs any day.
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
Friday, 10 June 2011
Ich bin got E.coli
Far be it from me to cast sweeping jingoistic generalisations across entire nations of people.
But...
Can you think of another country more likely to blame others for an E.coli outbreak before realising it was actually their own products than Germany?
A couple of weeks ago, E.coli broke out in the Fatherland and killed 29 people. In a developed nation such as Germany that is a lot of folk, and they were quick to pin the blame on some innocent imported cucumbers, which were minding their own business waiting to be in rude films. Much stock was destroyed and bans imposed to curb the bother, while nobody noticed that the countries from where the produce was exported remained suspiciously death-free.
Skip forward to today and they've now decided to 'fess up that it might actually have been home-grown beans sprouts causing the carnage in the first place. A fabulously-named Mr. Burger has admitted as much today, although an apology to the nations who had the Jihad put on them is conspicuous by it's absence. I can hardly say I'm surprised. Someone I know works with German colleagues regularly and has noted that when they believe any blame can be laid at your door, they don't hang around in telling you. When, however, it's actually their fault that the scheisse has hit das fan, they go all quiet and pretend they're in meetings to avoid having to be pleasant or diplomatic.
Not for a minute am I suggesting that all Germans act in this way, so get off your high horse, but can anybody suggest a country more likely to blame others for it's terrible plight before looking closer to home for the cause of their ills?
Us lot in the UK? Er, yeah. Good point.
But...
Can you think of another country more likely to blame others for an E.coli outbreak before realising it was actually their own products than Germany?
A couple of weeks ago, E.coli broke out in the Fatherland and killed 29 people. In a developed nation such as Germany that is a lot of folk, and they were quick to pin the blame on some innocent imported cucumbers, which were minding their own business waiting to be in rude films. Much stock was destroyed and bans imposed to curb the bother, while nobody noticed that the countries from where the produce was exported remained suspiciously death-free.
Skip forward to today and they've now decided to 'fess up that it might actually have been home-grown beans sprouts causing the carnage in the first place. A fabulously-named Mr. Burger has admitted as much today, although an apology to the nations who had the Jihad put on them is conspicuous by it's absence. I can hardly say I'm surprised. Someone I know works with German colleagues regularly and has noted that when they believe any blame can be laid at your door, they don't hang around in telling you. When, however, it's actually their fault that the scheisse has hit das fan, they go all quiet and pretend they're in meetings to avoid having to be pleasant or diplomatic.
Not for a minute am I suggesting that all Germans act in this way, so get off your high horse, but can anybody suggest a country more likely to blame others for it's terrible plight before looking closer to home for the cause of their ills?
Us lot in the UK? Er, yeah. Good point.
Friday, 3 June 2011
Wanted: Half a chance to see the clean 'n' jerk
Imagine a supermarket where you could browse the myriad products available through that Internet and select which ones you so desired. Upon choosing your stuff, you submit your request and sit back, possibly to suck on a sweet, sweet cigar.
The supermarket tells you not to worry about payment right away; just make sure you've got enough brass in your account and within the next 6-8 weeks, we'll take a random amount, depending on how much of the stuff you wanted is actually available in stock.
But wait! After waiting the required time for your stuff, you don't actually have it. Instead, all you have is an email saying 'you've got some of the stuff you asked for, squire' and a hole in your bank balance with no reference to the products you've ended up with.
Skip forward a few more weeks and you finally receive your goods. But what's this? Where you asked for toilet paper, you have soap. Where you asked for a roast chicken, you have a single stock cube. Where you asked for a £15 bottle of Merlot, you have half a bottle of Lambrini with the lid missing.
'Shambolique', as the French definitely say.
OK, so such a supermarket probably doesn't exist, but this analogy more or less reflects the way in which tickets for the 2012 Olympics have been allocated. Put simply, you request all the possible tickets you might want, make sure you've got enough money to cover them all, then sit back and wait for fuck all to turn up. If you are one of the lucky ones, you get an email saying "Well done there, you have tickets" and your bank balance is shorn of the necessary funds. But they don't tell you what you've ended up with (almost certainly because you requested the 100 metres final and ended up with diving heats) so you have to wait until they turn up to find out how much of a swizz it was.
Surely there was a better way of handling this? Why did you have to put all your eggs in one basket and have enough money to cover every eventuality? Why couldn't you have a ranking system, where you put a 1, 2 or 3 against the tickets in the order of preference, and they tried to allocated priority 1 tickets first, then 2, then 3, instead of giving you everything available and assuming you've got the money to cover it? Most people cottoned on to the fact that the chances of getting anything were slim so requested just about everything, leaving them open to the possibility of tens of thousands of pounds being withdrawn, although naturally, that never happened.
For a games which has been touted as the greenest, as well as being ahead of schedule (although nowhere near budget) I find this element of the process pitiful. The organisers seem to have come up with the easiest possible system for them (to get rid of the tickets as quickly as possible) without actually considering the people behind the requests. Alright, there are 50-odd million of us in this country, but surely there could have been a better way of distributing them than this? You might as well have just stood on top of Nelson's Column, chucked all of the tickets into the air and shouted 'Scramble!'. At least there would have been a modicum of chance involved then. Shysters.
The supermarket tells you not to worry about payment right away; just make sure you've got enough brass in your account and within the next 6-8 weeks, we'll take a random amount, depending on how much of the stuff you wanted is actually available in stock.
But wait! After waiting the required time for your stuff, you don't actually have it. Instead, all you have is an email saying 'you've got some of the stuff you asked for, squire' and a hole in your bank balance with no reference to the products you've ended up with.
Skip forward a few more weeks and you finally receive your goods. But what's this? Where you asked for toilet paper, you have soap. Where you asked for a roast chicken, you have a single stock cube. Where you asked for a £15 bottle of Merlot, you have half a bottle of Lambrini with the lid missing.
'Shambolique', as the French definitely say.
OK, so such a supermarket probably doesn't exist, but this analogy more or less reflects the way in which tickets for the 2012 Olympics have been allocated. Put simply, you request all the possible tickets you might want, make sure you've got enough money to cover them all, then sit back and wait for fuck all to turn up. If you are one of the lucky ones, you get an email saying "Well done there, you have tickets" and your bank balance is shorn of the necessary funds. But they don't tell you what you've ended up with (almost certainly because you requested the 100 metres final and ended up with diving heats) so you have to wait until they turn up to find out how much of a swizz it was.
Surely there was a better way of handling this? Why did you have to put all your eggs in one basket and have enough money to cover every eventuality? Why couldn't you have a ranking system, where you put a 1, 2 or 3 against the tickets in the order of preference, and they tried to allocated priority 1 tickets first, then 2, then 3, instead of giving you everything available and assuming you've got the money to cover it? Most people cottoned on to the fact that the chances of getting anything were slim so requested just about everything, leaving them open to the possibility of tens of thousands of pounds being withdrawn, although naturally, that never happened.
For a games which has been touted as the greenest, as well as being ahead of schedule (although nowhere near budget) I find this element of the process pitiful. The organisers seem to have come up with the easiest possible system for them (to get rid of the tickets as quickly as possible) without actually considering the people behind the requests. Alright, there are 50-odd million of us in this country, but surely there could have been a better way of distributing them than this? You might as well have just stood on top of Nelson's Column, chucked all of the tickets into the air and shouted 'Scramble!'. At least there would have been a modicum of chance involved then. Shysters.
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
How super injunctions (don't) work
There's a story doing the rounds at the moment about a Premier League footballer who's had an affair with some classless bint keen to tell everybody about it. Using the legal power of the super injunction (like a normal injunction except it's mild mannered and wears glasses when it isn't called upon), said player has kept his name out of the popular press to avoid his wife cottoning on and the whole bally lot going up like a tinderbox.
There's a small problem however. Some blabbermouth politician used his legal right to mention that Ryan Giggs was the footballer in question. The speaker of the house went up the wall, as it may have been legal, but it was a bit on the snidey side, not least because of the whole super injunction caper. But his chagrin was too late, as the press went into absolute meltdown.
The politician's outburst gave them the loophole they were looking for, as they could now say that Giggs' name had been linked with the scandal, rather than holding their tongue when everybody knew who it was anyway. Thanks to the Scottish Sunday Herald publishing a laughably poor censored photo of Giggs (using the fact they were Scottish to get around the England-only injunction), the rumours which first circulated on Twitter last week took on a whole new level, as people could stop guessing (and finding a player's name to fit into the redacted black boxes on the various tweets) and start passing judgment on the Welsh wonder.
I personally think it's a real shame, as Giggs has been a fine ambassador for the game and good role model for most of the 20 years he's been a player. Yes he had dalliances with the likes of Dani Behr in his youth, but he was a single and much sought-after young man due to the explosion in popularity of top-flight football thanks to the Premier League's inception. Alex Ferguson kept his hand on the tiller with Giggs in a way that no other superstar had been controlled before, drip-feeding him to the press and ensuring his playing career was the only thing in the public eye. And given the fact Giggs just picked up his 12th league medal at the age of 37, you can probably argue that he had a point at the time.
Skip forward and now Giggs has been pursuing some nice-looking if morally misguided piece of crumpet, who couldn't wait to start gobbing off (no pun intended) to the press, although he got to the court in time to shield his name. He probably thought that was the end of it, but the dynamic in news consumption has altered a lot in recent years, and the Twitter feeds caught fire with suggestions who the player might be. As his name appeared more and more frequently, the press starting picking up on it, bringing the story to the attention of the masses without actually mentioning who it was. More and more rumours abounded, with various tweeters making thinly disguised references to him, safe in the knowledge that the law hadn't caught up with social networking yet, so they could say what they liked without fear of reprisal.
So where next? Giggs' arse is in the chopper at the moment, not least with his wife I should imagine, and we might see a Tiger-esque fall from grace in terms of sponsorship deals and general consensus. You probably know my opinion on adultery, so anything which happens to him now serves him right. All this after he had the cheek to parade his kids round Old Trafford during the end-of-season ceremony. The bigger story concerns Twitter though, and how to police it, when nobody appears legally liable for the stuff people put out there. Nobody has been censured or even banned from Twitter for naming names, and Twitter aren't about to carry the can. At this stage it looks like a better bet to approach every single famous person in the world to ask them politely to keep it in their drawers. Either that or shag someone who isn't looking for fame off the back of it. There must be someone like that out there somewhere...
There's a small problem however. Some blabbermouth politician used his legal right to mention that Ryan Giggs was the footballer in question. The speaker of the house went up the wall, as it may have been legal, but it was a bit on the snidey side, not least because of the whole super injunction caper. But his chagrin was too late, as the press went into absolute meltdown.
The politician's outburst gave them the loophole they were looking for, as they could now say that Giggs' name had been linked with the scandal, rather than holding their tongue when everybody knew who it was anyway. Thanks to the Scottish Sunday Herald publishing a laughably poor censored photo of Giggs (using the fact they were Scottish to get around the England-only injunction), the rumours which first circulated on Twitter last week took on a whole new level, as people could stop guessing (and finding a player's name to fit into the redacted black boxes on the various tweets) and start passing judgment on the Welsh wonder.
I personally think it's a real shame, as Giggs has been a fine ambassador for the game and good role model for most of the 20 years he's been a player. Yes he had dalliances with the likes of Dani Behr in his youth, but he was a single and much sought-after young man due to the explosion in popularity of top-flight football thanks to the Premier League's inception. Alex Ferguson kept his hand on the tiller with Giggs in a way that no other superstar had been controlled before, drip-feeding him to the press and ensuring his playing career was the only thing in the public eye. And given the fact Giggs just picked up his 12th league medal at the age of 37, you can probably argue that he had a point at the time.
Skip forward and now Giggs has been pursuing some nice-looking if morally misguided piece of crumpet, who couldn't wait to start gobbing off (no pun intended) to the press, although he got to the court in time to shield his name. He probably thought that was the end of it, but the dynamic in news consumption has altered a lot in recent years, and the Twitter feeds caught fire with suggestions who the player might be. As his name appeared more and more frequently, the press starting picking up on it, bringing the story to the attention of the masses without actually mentioning who it was. More and more rumours abounded, with various tweeters making thinly disguised references to him, safe in the knowledge that the law hadn't caught up with social networking yet, so they could say what they liked without fear of reprisal.
So where next? Giggs' arse is in the chopper at the moment, not least with his wife I should imagine, and we might see a Tiger-esque fall from grace in terms of sponsorship deals and general consensus. You probably know my opinion on adultery, so anything which happens to him now serves him right. All this after he had the cheek to parade his kids round Old Trafford during the end-of-season ceremony. The bigger story concerns Twitter though, and how to police it, when nobody appears legally liable for the stuff people put out there. Nobody has been censured or even banned from Twitter for naming names, and Twitter aren't about to carry the can. At this stage it looks like a better bet to approach every single famous person in the world to ask them politely to keep it in their drawers. Either that or shag someone who isn't looking for fame off the back of it. There must be someone like that out there somewhere...
Thursday, 12 May 2011
Put it this way: I wouldn't stand behind them in a scrap
Just last week, US Navy Seals (like the ones in movies who are retired but still retain all of their rad skills for the unlikely attempt on their life they inevitably suffer in suburbia) stormed a Pakistani house, found our old friend Osama and shot his shit up. In doing so, I don't think it's particularly outlandish to label the Seals as 'brave'.
On an unrelated note, there's a programme (in literally the broadest sense imaginable) called "The only way is Essex" which I am told is a quasi-soap opera, in which real, albeit slightly odd people are recorded in predetermined situations for our amusement. They're not actors (believe me) but are encouraged to work through a particular situation on film for the amusement of them orange lasses who wear furry boots to the shops.
Naturally, the people chosen to be in this programme aren't exactly hanging. Since its inception, several articles and column inches have been dedicated to showing them off in their undercrackers, as if we haven't got anything better to do than perv over top-heavy lovelies on that Internet. In addition, their every waking moment is recorded by the paparazzi and splashed across the red-tops quicker than you can say "I couldn't give a fuck what colour her shoes are, squire".
Now, fast-forward a few months and yet another article has been dreamt up by some braindead arsehat with too much time on their hands, in which said lovelies are shorn of make-up and photographed, under the premise that they are brave for doing so. So in their world, not putting some blusher on is the same as preventing terrorism.
Fuck. Off.
Don't get me wrong, they're not trying to draw that comparison (that I can see), but the meaning of the word 'brave' can only be stretched so far before it becomes a laughing stock, and labelling anyone bored enough to have their photo taken before putting lipstick on ain't brave. Pointless, maybe. Minging, certainly. But brave? No.
I've seen this kind of thing developing in the press for a while now, where we're in a position that our physical appearance has become so important to our worth that certain people really do think that going make-up free is a brave act. If that's the case, I'm Casey fucking Ryback in a polo shirt.
On an unrelated note, there's a programme (in literally the broadest sense imaginable) called "The only way is Essex" which I am told is a quasi-soap opera, in which real, albeit slightly odd people are recorded in predetermined situations for our amusement. They're not actors (believe me) but are encouraged to work through a particular situation on film for the amusement of them orange lasses who wear furry boots to the shops.
Naturally, the people chosen to be in this programme aren't exactly hanging. Since its inception, several articles and column inches have been dedicated to showing them off in their undercrackers, as if we haven't got anything better to do than perv over top-heavy lovelies on that Internet. In addition, their every waking moment is recorded by the paparazzi and splashed across the red-tops quicker than you can say "I couldn't give a fuck what colour her shoes are, squire".
Now, fast-forward a few months and yet another article has been dreamt up by some braindead arsehat with too much time on their hands, in which said lovelies are shorn of make-up and photographed, under the premise that they are brave for doing so. So in their world, not putting some blusher on is the same as preventing terrorism.
Fuck. Off.
Don't get me wrong, they're not trying to draw that comparison (that I can see), but the meaning of the word 'brave' can only be stretched so far before it becomes a laughing stock, and labelling anyone bored enough to have their photo taken before putting lipstick on ain't brave. Pointless, maybe. Minging, certainly. But brave? No.
I've seen this kind of thing developing in the press for a while now, where we're in a position that our physical appearance has become so important to our worth that certain people really do think that going make-up free is a brave act. If that's the case, I'm Casey fucking Ryback in a polo shirt.
Splashing: Erotic
There are many things used by movie moguls and executives to make their latest blockbuster a right old hoot. For example, creating a scenario where the key protagonist is put in difficult or unusual situations for our amusement. Dropping a 3-dimensional black trapezoid bearing the logo '10 tonnes' onto some poor sap's head is also a favourite. Employing Jonah Hill to be fat and socially awkward isn't without it's charms either.
However, chief among all of these is that great bastion of hilarity, cross-dressing. Get an actor (nearly always a bloke), stick him in a dress and ill-fitting syrup and that, my friends, is money in the bank. Never mind that it's been done before, and that it's actually slightly unpleasant and creepy; Man + Dress = Cha-ching!
However, when the more eccentric of our great nation's inhabitants decide to follow suit and re-enact their favourite scene from Tootsie of Big Momma's House 2, they're arrested before you can say "These heels are killing me, brother". That's a bit unfair, isn't it? We're always being told that the media influences today's youth into copycat acts, so how come it isn't those fat cats chewing on cigars in the film equivalent of City Hall being put in front of the beak? It's yet another example of one rule for one and one for another.
It was reported in the press recently that a young masters student was apprehended and stuck on the sex offender's register because he put on a rubber mask of a female face, topped it off with a jet-black wig, and wandered into the ladies bogs at Birmingham University and The Bullring to record audio of them having a wee. As you do.
It turned out that he'd been at it for ages, and it was only when a women reported a strange mannequin-like figure in the loo that the blag went tits up. There he was, bold as brass, listening to women shaking the lettuce and recording it for posterity. What gets me is that the mask and wig combo makes you look at best an understudy in a low-budget horror movie, and at worst a fucking freak, so how he'd got away with it for so long is a mystery. He was credited as being intelligent in court by the judge, but unless his degree is the study of urinal acoustics, I doubt he's anything of the sort.
I'm not condoning such acts, but he wasn't hurting anyone, so putting him on the register is a bit harsh I think. If he started touching himself or other folk, by all means chuck away the key, but surely he could be put on some kind of programme where he wears a blindfold and someone pours water into a bucket to desensitise him to the extremely unerotic act of having a piss? If it turns up on ITV1 on a Saturday evening, shoehorned into some kind of game show, don't say I didn't warn you.
However, chief among all of these is that great bastion of hilarity, cross-dressing. Get an actor (nearly always a bloke), stick him in a dress and ill-fitting syrup and that, my friends, is money in the bank. Never mind that it's been done before, and that it's actually slightly unpleasant and creepy; Man + Dress = Cha-ching!
However, when the more eccentric of our great nation's inhabitants decide to follow suit and re-enact their favourite scene from Tootsie of Big Momma's House 2, they're arrested before you can say "These heels are killing me, brother". That's a bit unfair, isn't it? We're always being told that the media influences today's youth into copycat acts, so how come it isn't those fat cats chewing on cigars in the film equivalent of City Hall being put in front of the beak? It's yet another example of one rule for one and one for another.
It was reported in the press recently that a young masters student was apprehended and stuck on the sex offender's register because he put on a rubber mask of a female face, topped it off with a jet-black wig, and wandered into the ladies bogs at Birmingham University and The Bullring to record audio of them having a wee. As you do.
It turned out that he'd been at it for ages, and it was only when a women reported a strange mannequin-like figure in the loo that the blag went tits up. There he was, bold as brass, listening to women shaking the lettuce and recording it for posterity. What gets me is that the mask and wig combo makes you look at best an understudy in a low-budget horror movie, and at worst a fucking freak, so how he'd got away with it for so long is a mystery. He was credited as being intelligent in court by the judge, but unless his degree is the study of urinal acoustics, I doubt he's anything of the sort.
I'm not condoning such acts, but he wasn't hurting anyone, so putting him on the register is a bit harsh I think. If he started touching himself or other folk, by all means chuck away the key, but surely he could be put on some kind of programme where he wears a blindfold and someone pours water into a bucket to desensitise him to the extremely unerotic act of having a piss? If it turns up on ITV1 on a Saturday evening, shoehorned into some kind of game show, don't say I didn't warn you.
Wednesday, 20 April 2011
A right royal pain in the retina
Keep it under your hat, but there's a rumour going round that a member of the royal family is about to get married. I know - talk about a turn up for the books!
Back in November, when one of the least surprising stories of all time broke (balding man weds first fit-as-frig woman what takes an interest in his legacy), I made the point that some news outlets may go into meltdown as the final preparations take place and I begin work on a hole into which to climb during the whole charade. Alas, I was only half right. Yes, there has been wall-to-wall coverage, but it begun with more than a month to go.
"""""Highlights""""" include:
- Plotting Kate's every movement, using the clothes she is wearing to second-guess the dress she'll wear on the big day.
- Notable fashionistas designing their own versions of said dress, clearly arsed about not being given the gig.
- Novelty playing cards depicting the big day, which deteriorate into stock royal footage before you've got the to end of the spades.
- A serious documentary charting the everyday lives of people who are related to Kate Middleton. To think people not from royal stock have actual jobs. Amazing scenes.
- A correspondent outside Buck Palace 10 DAYS before the ceremony, watching the horses practicing and passing judgement on the street cleaning (bear in mind several thousands people charged up there on Sunday during the marathon. That's a lot of poo).
- Daily updates on Kate's weight.
- Invitations to street parties and people getting upset because their application to host one has been turned down.
- All manner of channels fighting for your viewing figure when it all finally kicks off.
My stance hasn't altered, you'll be surprised to learn. Good for them, I say, as they tie the knot. The thing is, it's got knob all to do with 99.9 percent of the population, so why we have to have every second of the day (and a lot of those leading up to it) broadcast on a continuous loop is beyond me. I get that some people like to see a nice frock and people being happy, but surely a comprehensive highlights package in the evening with Steve Claridge and Jennie Bond would be more than enough to get the point across?
If I was Kate, I would pull rank to see what would happen. Tell hubbie-to-be that under no circumstances is it to be broadcast live, and watch as 'Wills' charges about trying to get his gran to ring Rupert Murdoch to pull the plug, and for Nicholas Witchell to be topped before he's had a chance to put his wedding suit on.
Personally, I'm hoping for a good day weather-wise. Not for them, but for me, so I can sit in the garden, drinking beer in a right royal sulk. And if that isn't in the spirit of a Public Holiday, then excuse me for being too real.
Back in November, when one of the least surprising stories of all time broke (balding man weds first fit-as-frig woman what takes an interest in his legacy), I made the point that some news outlets may go into meltdown as the final preparations take place and I begin work on a hole into which to climb during the whole charade. Alas, I was only half right. Yes, there has been wall-to-wall coverage, but it begun with more than a month to go.
"""""Highlights""""" include:
- Plotting Kate's every movement, using the clothes she is wearing to second-guess the dress she'll wear on the big day.
- Notable fashionistas designing their own versions of said dress, clearly arsed about not being given the gig.
- Novelty playing cards depicting the big day, which deteriorate into stock royal footage before you've got the to end of the spades.
- A serious documentary charting the everyday lives of people who are related to Kate Middleton. To think people not from royal stock have actual jobs. Amazing scenes.
- A correspondent outside Buck Palace 10 DAYS before the ceremony, watching the horses practicing and passing judgement on the street cleaning (bear in mind several thousands people charged up there on Sunday during the marathon. That's a lot of poo).
- Daily updates on Kate's weight.
- Invitations to street parties and people getting upset because their application to host one has been turned down.
- All manner of channels fighting for your viewing figure when it all finally kicks off.
My stance hasn't altered, you'll be surprised to learn. Good for them, I say, as they tie the knot. The thing is, it's got knob all to do with 99.9 percent of the population, so why we have to have every second of the day (and a lot of those leading up to it) broadcast on a continuous loop is beyond me. I get that some people like to see a nice frock and people being happy, but surely a comprehensive highlights package in the evening with Steve Claridge and Jennie Bond would be more than enough to get the point across?
If I was Kate, I would pull rank to see what would happen. Tell hubbie-to-be that under no circumstances is it to be broadcast live, and watch as 'Wills' charges about trying to get his gran to ring Rupert Murdoch to pull the plug, and for Nicholas Witchell to be topped before he's had a chance to put his wedding suit on.
Personally, I'm hoping for a good day weather-wise. Not for them, but for me, so I can sit in the garden, drinking beer in a right royal sulk. And if that isn't in the spirit of a Public Holiday, then excuse me for being too real.
Tuesday, 19 April 2011
The thing what makes juggling look worthwhile
I've done it. I've found something more pointless than being a skilled juggler or participating in Secret Santa.
Regional news teams being on FaceBook. What's the fucking point in that?
Let's not dress it up - Look North is bollocks. A series of poorly-dressed, comically-alternative buffoons traipse across the length and breadth of Yorkshire finding interesting stories, before discarding them and telling us about how many jobs have been lost this week or that a giraffe saved the life of a penguin at a zoo. All presented with the journalistic finesse of a pub fight.
Their latest brainwave is to put themselves on that FaceBook, and in some cases, the Twitter. Apparently there must be people interested in getting behind the scenes on this great denizen of broadcasting to learn about what these simple folk like to eat for tea, or their opinions on lifesaving giraffes. How else can you explain this bunch of nerds promoting their pages at every touch and turn during broadcasts?
Now, it's been said I have something of a cynical streak, but surely I can't be the only one expecting these pages to become the sounding board for a series of violent and/or sexual threats against these fine folk? There are a couple of (borrowing from modern parlance) stick-on honies on the staff who will surely be subjected to the combined sexual force of a myriad middle-aged men with tattoos called Sean who deem such flirtatious behaviour appropriate.
Then there's those correspondents whose job it is to tell us about the latest inbred half-wit who's been sent down for smuggling drugs or sedating their own child in a bizarre kidnap plot. Surely relatives of those cell-friendly morons will pass on their well-considered thoughts about how it's not fair or unjust or bang out of fucking order, and how if you ever come round our end again will stab you to death or kick you to death or get you in a headlock to death. Clearly, putting your details online is only asking for trouble.
My own personal ire is that it's all a bit wanky. These are not celebrities (in any sense), nor are they particularly interesting (in any sense). Or famous. They are merely the purveyors of other people's misfortune who have decided to jump on the latest e-bandwagon on some vain quest for popularity. And the sooner these goons realise we're not even remotely interested in them aside from the occasional upskirt shot or sideboob action, the better, says I.
Regional news teams being on FaceBook. What's the fucking point in that?
Let's not dress it up - Look North is bollocks. A series of poorly-dressed, comically-alternative buffoons traipse across the length and breadth of Yorkshire finding interesting stories, before discarding them and telling us about how many jobs have been lost this week or that a giraffe saved the life of a penguin at a zoo. All presented with the journalistic finesse of a pub fight.
Their latest brainwave is to put themselves on that FaceBook, and in some cases, the Twitter. Apparently there must be people interested in getting behind the scenes on this great denizen of broadcasting to learn about what these simple folk like to eat for tea, or their opinions on lifesaving giraffes. How else can you explain this bunch of nerds promoting their pages at every touch and turn during broadcasts?
Now, it's been said I have something of a cynical streak, but surely I can't be the only one expecting these pages to become the sounding board for a series of violent and/or sexual threats against these fine folk? There are a couple of (borrowing from modern parlance) stick-on honies on the staff who will surely be subjected to the combined sexual force of a myriad middle-aged men with tattoos called Sean who deem such flirtatious behaviour appropriate.
Then there's those correspondents whose job it is to tell us about the latest inbred half-wit who's been sent down for smuggling drugs or sedating their own child in a bizarre kidnap plot. Surely relatives of those cell-friendly morons will pass on their well-considered thoughts about how it's not fair or unjust or bang out of fucking order, and how if you ever come round our end again will stab you to death or kick you to death or get you in a headlock to death. Clearly, putting your details online is only asking for trouble.
My own personal ire is that it's all a bit wanky. These are not celebrities (in any sense), nor are they particularly interesting (in any sense). Or famous. They are merely the purveyors of other people's misfortune who have decided to jump on the latest e-bandwagon on some vain quest for popularity. And the sooner these goons realise we're not even remotely interested in them aside from the occasional upskirt shot or sideboob action, the better, says I.
Thursday, 14 April 2011
"MasterBullshitters" more like
For reasons that I'm too embarrassed to go into, I ended up sitting through an entire episode of over-dramatised cook-fest MasterChef last night.
Now, this programme - in various formats - has been around for years, where members of the general public, with a penchant for making quality grub battle it out to be crowned MasterChef. That is, the master of all available chefs.
Now, however, the whole thing seems to be an exercise in who is the most inept and/or who deals with stress in the worst manner. Bear in mind we're at the semi-final stage in this illustrious contest, this is what is saw with my mince pies (topical reference):
- They were asked to make some elaborate German pastry tower, and more than one of them confessed they'd never made pastry before. Don't forget this is MasterChef.
- One of the women had damaged herself with knives to such an extent that she had 2 entirely-plastered thumbs and had to operate a lot of the equipment with her palms. Don't forget this is MasterChef.
- When asked to prepare a series of sandwiches for afternoon tea, not one of them was ready in time. Don't forget this is MasterChef
- One of the contestants had to remake some biscuits after the fan oven (to my mind, one of the fundamental tools in a chef's armoury) literally blew the biscuits to pieces during the baking process. Don't forget...oh you know what point I'm labouring by now.
What am I missing? Why are such basic errors occurring at this stage of the contest? If it was the early rounds of the competition, I could understand the occasional chef succumbing to the pressure and accidentally make a dog turd tartlet, or lashing out at those fat lads looking over their shoulder with one of those extra sharp fish-gutting knives. Which leads me onto my next point...
Those two fat clowns who call themselves experts. Basically, a scientist took the sweat from Doctor "Neil" Fox, dissected its genetic make-up and reconstructed it in two equal measures to form John Torode and Greg Wallace. They then added a sense of self-worth to both which I've seldom seen outside of The Only Way Is Essex. They spend the entire show either talking to the director (utilising the staple tool in cooking programmes - the 'talk to the director off-camera rather that the fucking audience' routine) or make snide comments while these very unmasterly chefs shit their pants making egg and chips. One can only assume that the drama isn't all that dramatic, so these dicks ramp up the pressure by going "come on, only ten minutes to boil that partridge" and "eugh, that smells like wank" while the chefs secretly harbour intentions to cook their fat heads if they don't back off.
Ultimately, this isn't my cup of tea, viewing-wise, but surely I'm not the only one who's noticed that these chefs are not even remotely masterful? Maybe they should change the format, and call it 'Britains's got chefs' or 'Chef Idol', and get Jono Coleman and Linda Lusardi to present it. At least then the baying idiots who call themselves viewers won't be hoodwinked into thinking there's a modicum of skill on display.
Now, this programme - in various formats - has been around for years, where members of the general public, with a penchant for making quality grub battle it out to be crowned MasterChef. That is, the master of all available chefs.
Now, however, the whole thing seems to be an exercise in who is the most inept and/or who deals with stress in the worst manner. Bear in mind we're at the semi-final stage in this illustrious contest, this is what is saw with my mince pies (topical reference):
- They were asked to make some elaborate German pastry tower, and more than one of them confessed they'd never made pastry before. Don't forget this is MasterChef.
- One of the women had damaged herself with knives to such an extent that she had 2 entirely-plastered thumbs and had to operate a lot of the equipment with her palms. Don't forget this is MasterChef.
- When asked to prepare a series of sandwiches for afternoon tea, not one of them was ready in time. Don't forget this is MasterChef
- One of the contestants had to remake some biscuits after the fan oven (to my mind, one of the fundamental tools in a chef's armoury) literally blew the biscuits to pieces during the baking process. Don't forget...oh you know what point I'm labouring by now.
What am I missing? Why are such basic errors occurring at this stage of the contest? If it was the early rounds of the competition, I could understand the occasional chef succumbing to the pressure and accidentally make a dog turd tartlet, or lashing out at those fat lads looking over their shoulder with one of those extra sharp fish-gutting knives. Which leads me onto my next point...
Those two fat clowns who call themselves experts. Basically, a scientist took the sweat from Doctor "Neil" Fox, dissected its genetic make-up and reconstructed it in two equal measures to form John Torode and Greg Wallace. They then added a sense of self-worth to both which I've seldom seen outside of The Only Way Is Essex. They spend the entire show either talking to the director (utilising the staple tool in cooking programmes - the 'talk to the director off-camera rather that the fucking audience' routine) or make snide comments while these very unmasterly chefs shit their pants making egg and chips. One can only assume that the drama isn't all that dramatic, so these dicks ramp up the pressure by going "come on, only ten minutes to boil that partridge" and "eugh, that smells like wank" while the chefs secretly harbour intentions to cook their fat heads if they don't back off.
Ultimately, this isn't my cup of tea, viewing-wise, but surely I'm not the only one who's noticed that these chefs are not even remotely masterful? Maybe they should change the format, and call it 'Britains's got chefs' or 'Chef Idol', and get Jono Coleman and Linda Lusardi to present it. At least then the baying idiots who call themselves viewers won't be hoodwinked into thinking there's a modicum of skill on display.
Monday, 31 January 2011
Sexism: Not 'triffic, Richard
We're pretty much at the arse end of the Sky Sports sexism scandal now, so I feel I can comment without all hell breaking loose again and seeing once respected pundits having their heads put on spikes.
This particular issue is a classic case of having 2 easy to argue sides, thus:
"These clowns are professional broadcasters and shouldn't be seen or heard making comments and/or gestures like that. They make me sick. It's just another example of how men think they can objectify women and treat them like things to be looked at and judged rather than respected"
or
"At the end of the day, we all say stuff like this when in private company. They weren't on air at the time so it's a bit unfair that something they kept between themselves has come back to bite them on their well-upholstered behinds"
Basically, there's no real point arguing the toss with each other because you're bound to fall into one of these categories and you'll be in your cold, cold grave before you reach a satisfactory conclusion on the matter.
Personally, I think it's utterly disgraceful that people still think that way in modern society. I'm not going to pretend that occasionally I see an attractive women and don't think of her in anything other than sexual terms, but I do draw the line at talking about 'smashing it' with my mates. Yes, they were off air, but they were also in a bloody great studio, which tends to be littered with all manner of recording equipment, so it might have been a good idea to keep it to themselves until they were out of earshot.
Richard Keys talked of 'dark forces' at work to oust them, which appears to have been translated into some kind of smear campaign against him and Andy Gray; as if there are people who don't like them and have been recording their myriad indiscretions for the opportunity to hang them out to dry. If that is the case, then they've only got themselves to blame for a) saying the things what incriminated them and b) rubbing people up the wrong way to such an extent that they were smeared in the first place.
Sky's speed to deal with the situation can only be deemed a good thing. Regardless of which side of the fence you sit on on this debate, if they had left them in their jobs it would have set a precedent that this kind of behaviour is tolerated. Then again, these two have been in this position for nearly 20 years now, so maybe Sky used the opportunity to kick them out and bring a bit of fresh, hopefully politically-correct talent into the studio (hopefully with a nice rack)*.
No matter which way you've looked at this issue, however, we can all agree on one thing. That it's a damn shame that it wasn't Jamie Redknapp caught doing it. For he is the crappest pundit there has ever been.
* Only joking. I'm a leg man.
This particular issue is a classic case of having 2 easy to argue sides, thus:
"These clowns are professional broadcasters and shouldn't be seen or heard making comments and/or gestures like that. They make me sick. It's just another example of how men think they can objectify women and treat them like things to be looked at and judged rather than respected"
or
"At the end of the day, we all say stuff like this when in private company. They weren't on air at the time so it's a bit unfair that something they kept between themselves has come back to bite them on their well-upholstered behinds"
Basically, there's no real point arguing the toss with each other because you're bound to fall into one of these categories and you'll be in your cold, cold grave before you reach a satisfactory conclusion on the matter.
Personally, I think it's utterly disgraceful that people still think that way in modern society. I'm not going to pretend that occasionally I see an attractive women and don't think of her in anything other than sexual terms, but I do draw the line at talking about 'smashing it' with my mates. Yes, they were off air, but they were also in a bloody great studio, which tends to be littered with all manner of recording equipment, so it might have been a good idea to keep it to themselves until they were out of earshot.
Richard Keys talked of 'dark forces' at work to oust them, which appears to have been translated into some kind of smear campaign against him and Andy Gray; as if there are people who don't like them and have been recording their myriad indiscretions for the opportunity to hang them out to dry. If that is the case, then they've only got themselves to blame for a) saying the things what incriminated them and b) rubbing people up the wrong way to such an extent that they were smeared in the first place.
Sky's speed to deal with the situation can only be deemed a good thing. Regardless of which side of the fence you sit on on this debate, if they had left them in their jobs it would have set a precedent that this kind of behaviour is tolerated. Then again, these two have been in this position for nearly 20 years now, so maybe Sky used the opportunity to kick them out and bring a bit of fresh, hopefully politically-correct talent into the studio (hopefully with a nice rack)*.
No matter which way you've looked at this issue, however, we can all agree on one thing. That it's a damn shame that it wasn't Jamie Redknapp caught doing it. For he is the crappest pundit there has ever been.
* Only joking. I'm a leg man.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)