So ends the latest satirical swipe at a member of the celebrity fraternity; in this case, potato-faced razz-merchant Wayne "Always a Blue" Rooney.
I'm sure you've read by now that Mr Rooney has, borrowing from popular tabloid parlance, 'been up to his nuts in guts' extra-maritally. The lucky 'lady' in question is some high-class Mancunian prostitute (for 'high-class' read 'charges over a grand a night for her services and only hangs around in places were people are rich/stupid enough to fork out that kind of money for such a transaction'). Apparently, Roo (copyright: The Sun) met said tom in a casino in Manchester and, not to put too fine a point on it, fancied the arse off her. He subsequently paid for several nights with her, all around the time that both Coleen was up the stick with his firstborn and he was in the form of his life on the pitch (insert 'scoring', 'tackle' and 'in and around the box' gags here).
Of course, this is isn't on, as Coleen sat at home brewing his demon seed, while he allegedly chased this expensive piece of crumpet around, shagging her whenever his wallet allowed. And of course, she didn't say a dickie bird about it at the time, choosing only to bring it up once his interest had died down and the press were after someone else to go for in the event of John Terry's todger staying where it ought to.
Naturally, all hell has broken loose to the extent that he was dropped for the next league game (away to Everton; an event Sky would deem 'ironic' when it's merely coincidental) and the press have spent literally 10 days poring over his life, sticking up for the wronged wife (in no way linked to her status as a chav-level national treasure) whilst painting him to be the devil incarnate.
Now, he's done this kind of thing before. We all remember the infamous granny-shagging days when he was but a slip of a lad, and Coleen (rightly or wrongly) chose to forgive him and take him back. My lawyers instruct me to make it clear that her decision had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she was trying to forge a media career and would be effectively skint and a nobody without Rooney's status and brass at the time. So what's she going to do this time? The pair of them have asked for privacy in this difficult time (borrowing heavily from the '21st Century Celebrity Couple's Guide to Manipulating the Press') while she presumably gives him a bollocking and throws a series of revolting yet expensive plates at him. One can only guess. Personally, I think she should kick him into touch now, as he's proven that he respects her enough to shag grannies and prossies while she's pregnant behind her back. Cynical though it may be, she's now got enough money and fame to make it on her own, and she could easily claim half of his possessions due to his adulterous behaviour. Surely she can't love the balding Shrek-a-like enough to tolerate this kind of activity, and if she does, he knows he's got carte blanche to do anything and anyone he wants in the future, knowing he can just put on his puppy-dog eyes and come back with his tail between his legs (for a change).
Either way, it always ends up coming down to an uncomfortable truth. At the end of the day, Rooney's despicable, immature and unpleasant behaviour can be explained as follows.
The hooker is fitter than Coleen. Much, much fitter.
Monday, 13 September 2010
Sunday, 15 August 2010
Weddings: Ironic
When boys become men, they tend to be single, not least because the myriad disgusting habits they possess make them about as attractive as an acid enema to the fairer sex. However, as they 'mature', they change emotionally and physically, and often deliberately change their ways and appearance to make themselves more bonkable to the poontang.
Maybe, if they're lucky enough, they might snare themselves a comely broad, and with it the various carnal and argumentative delights relationships include. Eventually, the deafening tome of wedding bells may even ring out, as they stick on a whistle, say some vows and have a bit of a cry.
And this got me thinking; is their wedding day the ultimate ironic event for chaps?
Put it this way, what do women want?
- A man who dresses well
- A man in touch with his emotions and is not afraid to express them
- A man with a sense of humour who is able to mock himself and make others laugh
So on the big day, the groom is dressed in a killer suit, may be slightly tearful during the service (that would never happen to me, by the way) and give a speech displaying their humorous, easy-going nature. All in front of an assembled gaggle of mysterious and nubile women they've not yet had a opportunity to ruin their chances with.
What a gyp.
Maybe, if they're lucky enough, they might snare themselves a comely broad, and with it the various carnal and argumentative delights relationships include. Eventually, the deafening tome of wedding bells may even ring out, as they stick on a whistle, say some vows and have a bit of a cry.
And this got me thinking; is their wedding day the ultimate ironic event for chaps?
Put it this way, what do women want?
- A man who dresses well
- A man in touch with his emotions and is not afraid to express them
- A man with a sense of humour who is able to mock himself and make others laugh
So on the big day, the groom is dressed in a killer suit, may be slightly tearful during the service (that would never happen to me, by the way) and give a speech displaying their humorous, easy-going nature. All in front of an assembled gaggle of mysterious and nubile women they've not yet had a opportunity to ruin their chances with.
What a gyp.
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
60 grand? You've gone and given it all awaaaaaay
There was a hilarious story on the radio this morning from some, and I choose my words carefully here, monumental arsehead of a woman, who was highlighting her recent plight in an attempt to prevent others from falling into the same trap and suffering the same heartbreak and ridicule as she had.
But what had befallen her? Had her feet fallen off due to overuse of tanning beds? Had someone raped her handbag? Surely she hadn't purchased a Lady Gaga single?
No, it was much more amusing than that. Put simply, some bloke had used an online dating service to con her out of some money by claiming his daughter was ill and needed an operation.
A couple of minor points:
- They had only known each other a couple of weeks at the time.
- They hadn't actually met.
- He managed to wangle £60k out of her.
- She's a fucking Idiot.
To be fair, she will now face all manner of abuse, ridicule and being picked on for coming out and admitting to her slight error of judgment. Her angle was that there was nothing any of the listeners could call her which she hadn't already called herself. Now there's a gauntlet I wouldn't mind picking up, but she probably had a point. However, can you trust someone to be that annoyed with themselves if they allow such a level of hoodwinking to take place? I mean, it's not as if they'd been together for a couple of years, got engaged, then he made up some tall tale about needing £1500 to fix his bike. They'd literally never met, yet he managed to manipulate her into parting with sixty large without seemingly breaking sweat.
It's highly feasible that being on a dating website showed her to be something of a desperate character, and was therefore ripe for the picking. I'm not for a minute suggesting that Internet dating means you're desperate and/or a lardarse (in fact, I know 2 married couples of my age who met that way), but she did sound as soft as shite and had probably been hand-picked by an established confidence trickster. Even so, wouldn't you have thought she might say "Er, hold on a minute, squire. Bearing in mind we're yet to meet, and your photo looks like you're modelling ill-fitting shorts in a Littlewoods catalogue, provide me with sufficient documentation and/or visitation rights to your so-called ill daughter and we'll talk", surely? If he was genuine, I doubt he would have taken offence at being questioned when his daughter's health was at stake, in which case you draw up a contract, get both parties to sign it and give little Chastity the iron lung she so desperately needs.
Instead she went "60 grand? Yeah, go on then" which quite frankly, is the work or an epic tool. "Got what she deserved" doesn't seem adequate enough somehow.
But what had befallen her? Had her feet fallen off due to overuse of tanning beds? Had someone raped her handbag? Surely she hadn't purchased a Lady Gaga single?
No, it was much more amusing than that. Put simply, some bloke had used an online dating service to con her out of some money by claiming his daughter was ill and needed an operation.
A couple of minor points:
- They had only known each other a couple of weeks at the time.
- They hadn't actually met.
- He managed to wangle £60k out of her.
- She's a fucking Idiot.
To be fair, she will now face all manner of abuse, ridicule and being picked on for coming out and admitting to her slight error of judgment. Her angle was that there was nothing any of the listeners could call her which she hadn't already called herself. Now there's a gauntlet I wouldn't mind picking up, but she probably had a point. However, can you trust someone to be that annoyed with themselves if they allow such a level of hoodwinking to take place? I mean, it's not as if they'd been together for a couple of years, got engaged, then he made up some tall tale about needing £1500 to fix his bike. They'd literally never met, yet he managed to manipulate her into parting with sixty large without seemingly breaking sweat.
It's highly feasible that being on a dating website showed her to be something of a desperate character, and was therefore ripe for the picking. I'm not for a minute suggesting that Internet dating means you're desperate and/or a lardarse (in fact, I know 2 married couples of my age who met that way), but she did sound as soft as shite and had probably been hand-picked by an established confidence trickster. Even so, wouldn't you have thought she might say "Er, hold on a minute, squire. Bearing in mind we're yet to meet, and your photo looks like you're modelling ill-fitting shorts in a Littlewoods catalogue, provide me with sufficient documentation and/or visitation rights to your so-called ill daughter and we'll talk", surely? If he was genuine, I doubt he would have taken offence at being questioned when his daughter's health was at stake, in which case you draw up a contract, get both parties to sign it and give little Chastity the iron lung she so desperately needs.
Instead she went "60 grand? Yeah, go on then" which quite frankly, is the work or an epic tool. "Got what she deserved" doesn't seem adequate enough somehow.
Thursday, 8 July 2010
Make up: Wieners warpaint
In recent times, I've happened upon the Daily Mail's celebrity webpage. It is literally a collection of crappy stills of D-list celebrities and/or footballers going about their daily lives, while some paparazzo goon takes said photographs and flogs them to the Mail for idiots like me to gorge upon.
As usual, there are one or two flaws in their logic which need highlighting.
Put simply, if the paper likes a particular celebrity, then they are treated with respect and praised for their plight. If they're unliked for any reason though, they are praised slightly less. Case in point - the lovely Kelly Brook. Nobody can really say a bad word about her as she goes about her life which seemingly consists of walking towards photographers, past photographers, then away from photographers, as they photograph her. Being an exceptionally attractive young lady, such pictures are of greater interest to the public than others may be. Today, Miss Brook was pictured without make-up, having recently split up from egg-chasing injury-fan Danny Cipriani.
The headline - "Brave Kelly ventures out with no make-up"
Er, brave? What's particularly brave about not putting make-up on? I'm a fan of the New Romantic movement, but have never donned so much as fake eyelash. And where's my George Cross? It's who you know.
Another good example is tubby dick-magnet Kerry Katona. Bear in mind that her entire career spanned about 3 records 10 years ago, yet we still get to see what's she's up to on a day-to-day basis. Despite the fact that she drinks, smokes, turns up on national TV in a less than coherent state and was shown bawling at her kids on that car-crash documentary she participated in (for a small fee, I would imagine), the Mail believes we're desperate for footage of her walking down streets holding some odd-looking bloke's hand, while the reporter fawns over how thin she looks (she doesn't) and how happy she is (probably high, then).
Compare and contrast with ginger maniac Lindsay Lohan, who to a greater or lesser extent has had a similarly 'inconsistent' few years, yet the result is a massively sarcastic (and highly amusing) deconstruction of her cretinous existence, showing less-than-flattering press shots of her going flying or hanging around with Mark Ronson's brother. What? That's his sister? Never...
Anyway, the point is, these papers think they wield some kind of power, and seek to colour people's image of these various 'stars' to suit their own ends. They clearly don't have any sway over us normal folk, but some people seem to have an inability to form their own opinions of people until a right-wing rag has told them what to think. Let's face it, the majority of people who end up being photographed for this site don't actually contribute to society in an meaningful way, otherwise the pictures would be of them stacking shelves or cleaning oil off a cormorant. Instead, they get paid for doing fuck-knows-what and celebrate by pissing about in places where photographers frequent, sporting an outfit which somebody paid far more than you or I was employed to pick off a rail for them. Good luck to them as well; it's not as if they could actually do anything useful as a career if they wanted to. If you add up the brain cells available to every person on today's page (24 individuals by my count) the total is 17. And 15 of them are Kelly's. So brave and intelligent then.
In summary, anybody with a brain uses the site to have a look at the latest 11-out-of-10 bird Ashley Cole's 'dating', or to see the cellulite on Alesha Dixon's arse. And if that's not what the Internet was made for, I don't know what is.
As usual, there are one or two flaws in their logic which need highlighting.
Put simply, if the paper likes a particular celebrity, then they are treated with respect and praised for their plight. If they're unliked for any reason though, they are praised slightly less. Case in point - the lovely Kelly Brook. Nobody can really say a bad word about her as she goes about her life which seemingly consists of walking towards photographers, past photographers, then away from photographers, as they photograph her. Being an exceptionally attractive young lady, such pictures are of greater interest to the public than others may be. Today, Miss Brook was pictured without make-up, having recently split up from egg-chasing injury-fan Danny Cipriani.
The headline - "Brave Kelly ventures out with no make-up"
Er, brave? What's particularly brave about not putting make-up on? I'm a fan of the New Romantic movement, but have never donned so much as fake eyelash. And where's my George Cross? It's who you know.
Another good example is tubby dick-magnet Kerry Katona. Bear in mind that her entire career spanned about 3 records 10 years ago, yet we still get to see what's she's up to on a day-to-day basis. Despite the fact that she drinks, smokes, turns up on national TV in a less than coherent state and was shown bawling at her kids on that car-crash documentary she participated in (for a small fee, I would imagine), the Mail believes we're desperate for footage of her walking down streets holding some odd-looking bloke's hand, while the reporter fawns over how thin she looks (she doesn't) and how happy she is (probably high, then).
Compare and contrast with ginger maniac Lindsay Lohan, who to a greater or lesser extent has had a similarly 'inconsistent' few years, yet the result is a massively sarcastic (and highly amusing) deconstruction of her cretinous existence, showing less-than-flattering press shots of her going flying or hanging around with Mark Ronson's brother. What? That's his sister? Never...
Anyway, the point is, these papers think they wield some kind of power, and seek to colour people's image of these various 'stars' to suit their own ends. They clearly don't have any sway over us normal folk, but some people seem to have an inability to form their own opinions of people until a right-wing rag has told them what to think. Let's face it, the majority of people who end up being photographed for this site don't actually contribute to society in an meaningful way, otherwise the pictures would be of them stacking shelves or cleaning oil off a cormorant. Instead, they get paid for doing fuck-knows-what and celebrate by pissing about in places where photographers frequent, sporting an outfit which somebody paid far more than you or I was employed to pick off a rail for them. Good luck to them as well; it's not as if they could actually do anything useful as a career if they wanted to. If you add up the brain cells available to every person on today's page (24 individuals by my count) the total is 17. And 15 of them are Kelly's. So brave and intelligent then.
In summary, anybody with a brain uses the site to have a look at the latest 11-out-of-10 bird Ashley Cole's 'dating', or to see the cellulite on Alesha Dixon's arse. And if that's not what the Internet was made for, I don't know what is.
Child naming: Easy for chavs
Apropos to nothing, the Mrs and I have recently been going through potential baby names (calm down Mum, it was just a preparatory exercise). Anyway, we were taking it seriously at first, but by the time we'd got to H and I suggested 'Horace', we knew it wasn't going to end well.
You may recall in the past how I spoke of the dangerously low number of Marks and Graemes left, as new parents seek to name their offspring after celebrities or electrical items. With the greatest will in the world, I don't think many parents will be naming their children Colin or Brian any more. Don't get me wrong; I think they're good, solid names, but they appear dated now and I think we all know a Colin who's a bit of a weapon.
It is therefore now a case of finding a name which is both up to date and not cuntish, which is a minefield to say the least. Not for the first time, I feel myself peering enviously over to our cousins from the social underclass ('chavs' to the layman) who've managed to neatly sew up an entire genre of names by enforcing them on the adolescent fumblings they laughingly refer to as 'children'.
Apologies in advance if you've been burdened by one of the following monikers, but names like Kai, Tyler, Madison, Lewis, Morgan, Finlay, Kian, Kyle, Ashton, Taylor, Ellis, Paige and Lexi are all 100%, bona fide, SHIT. My surname doesn't particularly lend itself well to names anyway, so when you remove the aforementioned council names, plus those considered out of date, what are you left with? Andrew? Gavin? Adolf? It's slightly less difficult to name girls, but if you end up with a boy, you're screwed. The current top 100 names is a combination of biblical names, pet names and those associated with Channel 4's cretin-fest Big Brother. Strip that lot out and you're left with 'John'.
I think the only solution is to get your double-barrel on, and combine two previously unjoined names to form a new supername. I appreciate The Waltons had the idea first, but they can fuck off. How's about these for some envelope pushing trailblazers:
Duncanjohn
Billysteve
Alanian
Mollyholly
Carolalice
On second thoughts, some of these sound like creams to combat vaginal discharge. I'll just call them all Mork.
You may recall in the past how I spoke of the dangerously low number of Marks and Graemes left, as new parents seek to name their offspring after celebrities or electrical items. With the greatest will in the world, I don't think many parents will be naming their children Colin or Brian any more. Don't get me wrong; I think they're good, solid names, but they appear dated now and I think we all know a Colin who's a bit of a weapon.
It is therefore now a case of finding a name which is both up to date and not cuntish, which is a minefield to say the least. Not for the first time, I feel myself peering enviously over to our cousins from the social underclass ('chavs' to the layman) who've managed to neatly sew up an entire genre of names by enforcing them on the adolescent fumblings they laughingly refer to as 'children'.
Apologies in advance if you've been burdened by one of the following monikers, but names like Kai, Tyler, Madison, Lewis, Morgan, Finlay, Kian, Kyle, Ashton, Taylor, Ellis, Paige and Lexi are all 100%, bona fide, SHIT. My surname doesn't particularly lend itself well to names anyway, so when you remove the aforementioned council names, plus those considered out of date, what are you left with? Andrew? Gavin? Adolf? It's slightly less difficult to name girls, but if you end up with a boy, you're screwed. The current top 100 names is a combination of biblical names, pet names and those associated with Channel 4's cretin-fest Big Brother. Strip that lot out and you're left with 'John'.
I think the only solution is to get your double-barrel on, and combine two previously unjoined names to form a new supername. I appreciate The Waltons had the idea first, but they can fuck off. How's about these for some envelope pushing trailblazers:
Duncanjohn
Billysteve
Alanian
Mollyholly
Carolalice
On second thoughts, some of these sound like creams to combat vaginal discharge. I'll just call them all Mork.
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
Aggressive, even for me
I apologise in advance because I might fly off the handle language-wise as I prepare my latest literary masterpiece.
Sarah Fucking Ferguson. John Cocking Terry. Ronan Wanking Keating. Great people all, gracing society with their class, high moral code and rad skills.
All of them this year have been the 'victim' of either an undercover sting or having their personal lives dragged through the media. Being recognisable figures, it seems some 'people' out there actually give 2 fucks about in their dreary private lives when they're not hoofing a football vertically, lisping their way through a rancid piece of cock-pop or, er, whatever the hell it is that Fergie gets up to these days.
Now, my opinions on the methods by which this information is gleaned aren't what I'm trying to get across here. Just because these people are famous doesn't mean they deserve to be entrapped or stung or what have you. Sadly though, certain sections of this great nation's public think otherwise.
My ire has instead been raised by the way they react when they're finally brought to book after happily blagging, fucking and cheating their way through life for a few months, blissfully unaware that their uppence will come. At no point during these misdemeanours do they question themselves or their motives, instead enjoying the sights, sounds and, yes, smells of their adulterous behaviour.
Eventually, the great British press catch up with them and emblazon their antics across a myriad red-topped 'papers', complete with lurid alliteration and grainy photography. White Van Man nearly shits himself with excitement at the lid-lifting on show, while overtanned females in ill-fitting underwear decry the antics relying heavily upon words like 'slag' and 'he's still fit though'.
What gets me though is the next stage in this pantomime. Instead of saying "Bollocks - I've had a right laugh shagging this pneumatic dancer. Fair's fair though, I've been in the wrong since day one" they actually say "Oh woe is me. I'm devastated and regretful of my actions. It's totally out of character for me to do this, and I thoroughly regret any hurt or anguish caused to my family and friends"
Rough translation - "Shite, I've been caught"
Nobody can seriously believe that these cretins are actually sad about their actions. If they were so morally charged they wouldn't have been at it in the first place. It's about time they either stopped mid-affair and came clean to their other half and suffer the consequences, or when they are caught, admit they've been in the wrong but opine that they "would have got away with it, if it wasn't for those pesky journalists". Being caught isn't the same as having a moral epiphany, it just means the game's up. Nobody believes you, nobody likes you, so fuck off back to whence you came and admit that you just like sex and money. Bullshitters.
Sarah Fucking Ferguson. John Cocking Terry. Ronan Wanking Keating. Great people all, gracing society with their class, high moral code and rad skills.
All of them this year have been the 'victim' of either an undercover sting or having their personal lives dragged through the media. Being recognisable figures, it seems some 'people' out there actually give 2 fucks about in their dreary private lives when they're not hoofing a football vertically, lisping their way through a rancid piece of cock-pop or, er, whatever the hell it is that Fergie gets up to these days.
Now, my opinions on the methods by which this information is gleaned aren't what I'm trying to get across here. Just because these people are famous doesn't mean they deserve to be entrapped or stung or what have you. Sadly though, certain sections of this great nation's public think otherwise.
My ire has instead been raised by the way they react when they're finally brought to book after happily blagging, fucking and cheating their way through life for a few months, blissfully unaware that their uppence will come. At no point during these misdemeanours do they question themselves or their motives, instead enjoying the sights, sounds and, yes, smells of their adulterous behaviour.
Eventually, the great British press catch up with them and emblazon their antics across a myriad red-topped 'papers', complete with lurid alliteration and grainy photography. White Van Man nearly shits himself with excitement at the lid-lifting on show, while overtanned females in ill-fitting underwear decry the antics relying heavily upon words like 'slag' and 'he's still fit though'.
What gets me though is the next stage in this pantomime. Instead of saying "Bollocks - I've had a right laugh shagging this pneumatic dancer. Fair's fair though, I've been in the wrong since day one" they actually say "Oh woe is me. I'm devastated and regretful of my actions. It's totally out of character for me to do this, and I thoroughly regret any hurt or anguish caused to my family and friends"
Rough translation - "Shite, I've been caught"
Nobody can seriously believe that these cretins are actually sad about their actions. If they were so morally charged they wouldn't have been at it in the first place. It's about time they either stopped mid-affair and came clean to their other half and suffer the consequences, or when they are caught, admit they've been in the wrong but opine that they "would have got away with it, if it wasn't for those pesky journalists". Being caught isn't the same as having a moral epiphany, it just means the game's up. Nobody believes you, nobody likes you, so fuck off back to whence you came and admit that you just like sex and money. Bullshitters.
Fascinating Pop Story Alert!
Finally, after weeks, months and years of drudgery, non-stories and "RudeBox", I can finally bring you a genuinely interesting story from the world of British pop. This recently-broken story concerns scores of high-ranking members of British pop royalty, and will shake the UK music scene to it's very core with it's shocking revelations.
I can barely bring myself to type the words.
"The Sugababes are in a legal battle over their name."
There it is - I said it. I feel exhausted just re-reading it.
For fuck's sake, really? I mean, how does such epic non-storyness get anywhere near the popular press? In these times of coalition governments and protesters and cops having a scrap in the centre of Bangkok, do we really need to hear about the adolescent wranglings of a bunch of failed harpies?
Having forced my way through the 'article', it appears that since none of the original 'babes are in the group now, plate-faced former member Mutya Buena has decided she wants to register the name as a trademark. The current line-up (Alan, Derek and Colin) have complained about this, and new levels of pointless debate have been dredged up as a result.
First question - why does she want to register the name? Is she about to release a range of face wipes depicting their logo? I can't believe there is much money to be made from exploiting the brand, not least because it's synonymous with a rotating door policy to band members and employing the most vacuous, maladjusted talent vacuums as singers that it's possible to get. "You what, she used to be in Atomic Kitten? She failed to win Eurovision? Get her signed"
Secondly - why don't the latest incarnation of this once-great pop institution just start again with a new name. "Angels with dirty faeces" is available.
Thirdly - who gives a donkey's cock what happens either way? They're hardly giving Ivor Novello sleepless nights with their pop offerings; a collection of music so turgid and bland Sarah Harding considers them a waste of good eyeliner. And it's not as if they've got a message. When asked who she'd like to win the Monaco Grand Prix (while stood in the pit lane, it has to be said), the Scouse one with the fat arse giggled and said "I don't know". Then the piano-faced one tried to force a gag out of Jenson Button and their 'song' "Push the button" which was beyond cringeworthy. It nearly made Martin Brundle cry.
In conclusion, I've nothing against these odorous buffoons. If someone wants to employ them to squawk their way through another piece of musical dog dirt, that's up to them. But if Mutya was so bothered about the original line-up's good name being dragged through the mud when she left, she should have said summat at the time. It's no good coming back when you're skint to ask for your name back. And besides, why would you want it now? I'd rather trademark "Adolf Sutcliffe's Bumtouchers" these days.
I can barely bring myself to type the words.
"The Sugababes are in a legal battle over their name."
There it is - I said it. I feel exhausted just re-reading it.
For fuck's sake, really? I mean, how does such epic non-storyness get anywhere near the popular press? In these times of coalition governments and protesters and cops having a scrap in the centre of Bangkok, do we really need to hear about the adolescent wranglings of a bunch of failed harpies?
Having forced my way through the 'article', it appears that since none of the original 'babes are in the group now, plate-faced former member Mutya Buena has decided she wants to register the name as a trademark. The current line-up (Alan, Derek and Colin) have complained about this, and new levels of pointless debate have been dredged up as a result.
First question - why does she want to register the name? Is she about to release a range of face wipes depicting their logo? I can't believe there is much money to be made from exploiting the brand, not least because it's synonymous with a rotating door policy to band members and employing the most vacuous, maladjusted talent vacuums as singers that it's possible to get. "You what, she used to be in Atomic Kitten? She failed to win Eurovision? Get her signed"
Secondly - why don't the latest incarnation of this once-great pop institution just start again with a new name. "Angels with dirty faeces" is available.
Thirdly - who gives a donkey's cock what happens either way? They're hardly giving Ivor Novello sleepless nights with their pop offerings; a collection of music so turgid and bland Sarah Harding considers them a waste of good eyeliner. And it's not as if they've got a message. When asked who she'd like to win the Monaco Grand Prix (while stood in the pit lane, it has to be said), the Scouse one with the fat arse giggled and said "I don't know". Then the piano-faced one tried to force a gag out of Jenson Button and their 'song' "Push the button" which was beyond cringeworthy. It nearly made Martin Brundle cry.
In conclusion, I've nothing against these odorous buffoons. If someone wants to employ them to squawk their way through another piece of musical dog dirt, that's up to them. But if Mutya was so bothered about the original line-up's good name being dragged through the mud when she left, she should have said summat at the time. It's no good coming back when you're skint to ask for your name back. And besides, why would you want it now? I'd rather trademark "Adolf Sutcliffe's Bumtouchers" these days.
Saturday, 15 May 2010
It's a round-up
It's been ages since I've said anything noteworthy on the blog (some gag-merchants may wager I'm yet to do so). So have a round-up:
Why I could never be a teacher
You've got to feel sorry for that teacher who got so wound up by his class that he ended up trying to stove one of their heads in while bellowing "Die, die, die". It's yet to be proven whether he was using an unusually aggressive method of teaching him German for 'The', but you've got to wonder what they did to get him to react like this.
Apparently he'd recently been off with depression and had even warned his superiors that he'd gone a bit mad and might not be the best person to be teaching these reprobates, but they didn't listen and here we are. He was good enough to admit he meant to do it, and has subsequently been cleared of attempted murder, but he'll be doing bird anyway, because the powers that be (or 'nazis' as I would label them) frown upon kicking kids' heads in. It's who you know.
I have no urge to ever be a teacher, and have respect for those who opt to do it. I don't have what you'd call an explosive temper, but I could feasibly see a situation where a bit of 'meet K and O' would be better than making them sit in the corner or sending them to the head. The way I see it, work out who the ringleader is, take them down (possibly to Chinatown) and the rest will toe the line and behave. Yes, you might have to explain why one of your flock has suddenly lost certain letters from their alphabet, or has an irrational fear of bunsen burners, but that's a risk I'd be prepared to take to get a bit of discipline.
Little (interest) People
There's a documentary on at the moment called Little People, which basically follows the lives of a newly-married couple, both of whom suffer from some kind of dwarfism. They're perfectly nice people and seem to have a happy life, but the documentary makers seemed to have confused their unusual physical traits with an interesting life. Indeed, aside from them visiting a fertility expert to determine the medical ramifications of childbirth, they're just like any other normal couple, and as such are monumentually tedious to the layman. I can't confess to watching this programme avidly, having accidentally caught an episode the Mrs was watching, but there comes a point when you say "But they're not doing anything; they're just small". They don't deal with the hardships of being short, or face any discrimination or are seemingly held back in any way, so I fail to see what the interest is in them. After you get over the initial novelty of them both being shorter than average, the whole thing becomes an exercise in watching someone's home videos. And you would only ever do that if someone gets their tits out.
Give that lad a clap (test)
Having employed an incredibly complex scientific equation based heavily on me having a guess, the average age of staff at my place of work must be late 20's at least. In fact, when I think of the various simpletons who've carved a perfectly serviceable career here, it's highly possible that that age is nearer mid-thirties.
Coupled with that is the fact most people are either married or in long-term relationships, which makes the appearance of posters offering free chlamydia tests all the more puzzling. If this was a store specialising in young, single Saturday staff I could understand it, but it seems rather unnecessary here. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure a number of the clientele like to indulge in a bit of extra-marital slap and/or tickle of an evening, but they're likely to be careful enough not to get their fingers (or other extremities) burnt, and are even less likely to trudge down to our laughable first aid room put their names forward for a free scrape.
Why I could never be a teacher
You've got to feel sorry for that teacher who got so wound up by his class that he ended up trying to stove one of their heads in while bellowing "Die, die, die". It's yet to be proven whether he was using an unusually aggressive method of teaching him German for 'The', but you've got to wonder what they did to get him to react like this.
Apparently he'd recently been off with depression and had even warned his superiors that he'd gone a bit mad and might not be the best person to be teaching these reprobates, but they didn't listen and here we are. He was good enough to admit he meant to do it, and has subsequently been cleared of attempted murder, but he'll be doing bird anyway, because the powers that be (or 'nazis' as I would label them) frown upon kicking kids' heads in. It's who you know.
I have no urge to ever be a teacher, and have respect for those who opt to do it. I don't have what you'd call an explosive temper, but I could feasibly see a situation where a bit of 'meet K and O' would be better than making them sit in the corner or sending them to the head. The way I see it, work out who the ringleader is, take them down (possibly to Chinatown) and the rest will toe the line and behave. Yes, you might have to explain why one of your flock has suddenly lost certain letters from their alphabet, or has an irrational fear of bunsen burners, but that's a risk I'd be prepared to take to get a bit of discipline.
Little (interest) People
There's a documentary on at the moment called Little People, which basically follows the lives of a newly-married couple, both of whom suffer from some kind of dwarfism. They're perfectly nice people and seem to have a happy life, but the documentary makers seemed to have confused their unusual physical traits with an interesting life. Indeed, aside from them visiting a fertility expert to determine the medical ramifications of childbirth, they're just like any other normal couple, and as such are monumentually tedious to the layman. I can't confess to watching this programme avidly, having accidentally caught an episode the Mrs was watching, but there comes a point when you say "But they're not doing anything; they're just small". They don't deal with the hardships of being short, or face any discrimination or are seemingly held back in any way, so I fail to see what the interest is in them. After you get over the initial novelty of them both being shorter than average, the whole thing becomes an exercise in watching someone's home videos. And you would only ever do that if someone gets their tits out.
Give that lad a clap (test)
Having employed an incredibly complex scientific equation based heavily on me having a guess, the average age of staff at my place of work must be late 20's at least. In fact, when I think of the various simpletons who've carved a perfectly serviceable career here, it's highly possible that that age is nearer mid-thirties.
Coupled with that is the fact most people are either married or in long-term relationships, which makes the appearance of posters offering free chlamydia tests all the more puzzling. If this was a store specialising in young, single Saturday staff I could understand it, but it seems rather unnecessary here. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure a number of the clientele like to indulge in a bit of extra-marital slap and/or tickle of an evening, but they're likely to be careful enough not to get their fingers (or other extremities) burnt, and are even less likely to trudge down to our laughable first aid room put their names forward for a free scrape.
Friday, 16 April 2010
Ashes to Crashes
"Did you know the Government is using the Icelandic volcano as an excuse to keep planes from flying?"
"Why?"
"Er....er...dunno. But you know what the Government's like"
"Do I?"
"Like, totally dude"
No, you're not reading an excerpt from the latest Dan Brown thriller, nor are you getting a sneak peek at the next Judd Apatow movie ("It's about a lazy jewish guy who's in an infeasible situation, then a stunning bird fancies him and his gang of stoner mates hang around. Nobody's done that before"), What you're reading is admittedly made up, but is a good example of the kind of cack being peddled by tired, annoyed travellers stuck in the nation's airports due to the aforementioned volcanic gubbins.
Put simply, planes + ash = dead. There's no hidden agenda; no cost-cutting exercise; it's just a scientific fact. Ash gets in the engines, melts, solidifies and (borrowing from the official Boeing 747 handbook) "proper fucks up the engines".
You can understand the airlines' reluctance to fly under these conditions. Ignoring the fact their planes might get a bit exploded in a firey pile, there's also the matter of the relatives of the dead, who'll quite reasonably enquire why they risked flying when volcanic ash "proper fucks up the engines". It's not worth the risk to life or hardware, so they're reluctantly having to sit tight on the apron until the ash clears and they can crack on.
It is an unprecedented event in aviation history to have a complete lock-down of air traffic. Even in the aftermath of 9/11 at least one plane carrying material removed due to Bush administration cover-up squad was allowed to fly, so this is something completely new.
Of course, that means the square root of knob all to the British public.
Quite rightly, they're annoyed, but I'd bet a sizeable chunk of money that they'd be a shite side more annoyed if they met their untimely doom thanks to engine up-fuckage. As I stated earlier, it's nobody's fault, but these tools are using the airtime afforded to them by bored BBC correspondents to have a right old moan. Multiple people have asked why they don't just fly a bit lower. That's a good idea, squire; it's not like there are any obstacles down here. The airlines fly extra high on purpose as a gag. In fact, why don't we go the whole hog and drive down the motorways, then sail across the Channel, Sullenberg-style?
The piece de resistance, however, was some no-mark suggesting that this was somehow a deliberate act by the Icelanders. No word of a lie, his quote was "first they ruined our banks, now they've taken our holidays". Such an ill-considered view was this that the newsreader had to apologise and clarify that they weren't suggesting the natural phenomenon of a volcano was some kind of vengeance for us asking for our money back (in case that's what we were thinking). Jesus Christ.
Now, I wasn't the interviewer of that simpleton, but I'm reasonably sure that had I been there, my succinct response would have been along these lines:
"Look, I'm sorry that your holiday's been royally buggered, but there's nowt you can do about it, and whinging to the press only seems to result in someone writing about it in a poorly-visited blog, so sit down, shut up and have a four quid cup of tea. Dick."
"Why?"
"Er....er...dunno. But you know what the Government's like"
"Do I?"
"Like, totally dude"
No, you're not reading an excerpt from the latest Dan Brown thriller, nor are you getting a sneak peek at the next Judd Apatow movie ("It's about a lazy jewish guy who's in an infeasible situation, then a stunning bird fancies him and his gang of stoner mates hang around. Nobody's done that before"), What you're reading is admittedly made up, but is a good example of the kind of cack being peddled by tired, annoyed travellers stuck in the nation's airports due to the aforementioned volcanic gubbins.
Put simply, planes + ash = dead. There's no hidden agenda; no cost-cutting exercise; it's just a scientific fact. Ash gets in the engines, melts, solidifies and (borrowing from the official Boeing 747 handbook) "proper fucks up the engines".
You can understand the airlines' reluctance to fly under these conditions. Ignoring the fact their planes might get a bit exploded in a firey pile, there's also the matter of the relatives of the dead, who'll quite reasonably enquire why they risked flying when volcanic ash "proper fucks up the engines". It's not worth the risk to life or hardware, so they're reluctantly having to sit tight on the apron until the ash clears and they can crack on.
It is an unprecedented event in aviation history to have a complete lock-down of air traffic. Even in the aftermath of 9/11 at least one plane carrying material removed due to Bush administration cover-up squad was allowed to fly, so this is something completely new.
Of course, that means the square root of knob all to the British public.
Quite rightly, they're annoyed, but I'd bet a sizeable chunk of money that they'd be a shite side more annoyed if they met their untimely doom thanks to engine up-fuckage. As I stated earlier, it's nobody's fault, but these tools are using the airtime afforded to them by bored BBC correspondents to have a right old moan. Multiple people have asked why they don't just fly a bit lower. That's a good idea, squire; it's not like there are any obstacles down here. The airlines fly extra high on purpose as a gag. In fact, why don't we go the whole hog and drive down the motorways, then sail across the Channel, Sullenberg-style?
The piece de resistance, however, was some no-mark suggesting that this was somehow a deliberate act by the Icelanders. No word of a lie, his quote was "first they ruined our banks, now they've taken our holidays". Such an ill-considered view was this that the newsreader had to apologise and clarify that they weren't suggesting the natural phenomenon of a volcano was some kind of vengeance for us asking for our money back (in case that's what we were thinking). Jesus Christ.
Now, I wasn't the interviewer of that simpleton, but I'm reasonably sure that had I been there, my succinct response would have been along these lines:
"Look, I'm sorry that your holiday's been royally buggered, but there's nowt you can do about it, and whinging to the press only seems to result in someone writing about it in a poorly-visited blog, so sit down, shut up and have a four quid cup of tea. Dick."
Thursday, 8 April 2010
Facebook: The fallout
In recent months I've noticed that a great many social occasions were passing me by, as I saw on my Mrs' Facebook page images of my friends in various pubs and clubs seemingly having a right old whale of a time. I was initially put out at the notion of being discarded from my peer group, then I realised I'm not that arsed.
In the end, it transpired that the reason I miss these events isn't out of petulant hatred on the part of my friends (although that isn't helping matters). No, the issue is that they collude and instigate these events via the medium of that Internet, specifically Facebook. With me not being a member (in any sense of the word before you comedians get to work), I was missing out on vital social gatherings.
So I joined.
And what an epic waste of time it was.
Initially I have to admit I enjoyed the novelty of it. In the first day or so, I befriended all of the people I would usually speak to via text messages, plus one or two other 'friend of a friend' types who I'd met in the past. What was perhaps cleverest about it though was its ability to put you in touch with people you might not have seen for yonks, by matching your whereabouts and educational history to find people of a similar ilk. Indeed, within the first hour of joining I had remade the acquaintance of 2 University friends who I literally haven't seen or heard from in 10 years. The conversations went like this:
Me: "Alright"
Them: "Alright"
Me: "So what have you done in the last 10 years then?"
Them: "Not much. You?"
Me: "Ditto"
Them: "Seeya then"
It was at this point that cracks began to appear in the world of the Facebook.
Firstly, a very small percentage of the people you know actually act like they do in real life, which I don't get. I saw male friends saying "Fab", people quoting films, songs and self-help material, and all other manner of pointlessness. I was both bemused and disappointed at the sheer pretension and smoke and mirrors used by some frequenters to paint themselves in an alternative light. No amount of pointing out the error of their ways, beliefs or grammar seemed to change that either.
Then there's the games. I'm taken to believe there are various online games you can take part in, which seem to occupy the darkest, wankest corners of the gaming market, usually involving building a farm or finding a dinosaur or somesuch. If that's your bag, help yourself. However, Facebook's propensity to broadcast the player's achievements in said games all over your page do get on your tits slightly after a worryingly short space of time. Who gives a fuck if you have built a farm? Piss off and get a life, you square.
Again, offering my opinions on both the game and their character did little to dislodge their faith in such pursuits.
In the end, the straw what broke the camel's back was the willingness for people to tell you literally anything that occurs to them, mentally, physically or psychologically. I'm not kidding; the base premise of the site is to tell people what's going on in your life, but I stopped at "I think Facebook is unnecessary twaddle", while other protagonists told us of their tea, who they were missing, what they were watching on telly, even what time they were due at work tomorrow. Now, I'm not known for my human interest at the best of times, but I struggle to envisage a situation when you would visit or call a person on the premise of finding out what they had for tea. I doubt even the most feeble-minded of folk would struggle to give the shiniest of shites about such matters. WE DON'T CARE, IT's NOT IMPORTANT, YOU'RE NOT IMPORTANT SO FUCK OFF TELLING US YOUR EVERY WAKING THOUGHT, YOU POINTLESS IDIOT.
After a month of cock gags and grammatical pedantry I had to knock it on the head, if only for my own sanity. I'd given it a try, found it to be the biggest load of stagnant horseshit in Internet history, and quickly drew a line under the whole shameful saga. I'm not sorry I did it, cos at least then when somebody decides I'm wrong for not doing what several million people think is a right hoot, I'm armed with knowledge and experience to argue back in my inimitable, erudite style.
"Nope, it's shit" is what I'll say. "And it's got a stupid name"...
In the end, it transpired that the reason I miss these events isn't out of petulant hatred on the part of my friends (although that isn't helping matters). No, the issue is that they collude and instigate these events via the medium of that Internet, specifically Facebook. With me not being a member (in any sense of the word before you comedians get to work), I was missing out on vital social gatherings.
So I joined.
And what an epic waste of time it was.
Initially I have to admit I enjoyed the novelty of it. In the first day or so, I befriended all of the people I would usually speak to via text messages, plus one or two other 'friend of a friend' types who I'd met in the past. What was perhaps cleverest about it though was its ability to put you in touch with people you might not have seen for yonks, by matching your whereabouts and educational history to find people of a similar ilk. Indeed, within the first hour of joining I had remade the acquaintance of 2 University friends who I literally haven't seen or heard from in 10 years. The conversations went like this:
Me: "Alright"
Them: "Alright"
Me: "So what have you done in the last 10 years then?"
Them: "Not much. You?"
Me: "Ditto"
Them: "Seeya then"
It was at this point that cracks began to appear in the world of the Facebook.
Firstly, a very small percentage of the people you know actually act like they do in real life, which I don't get. I saw male friends saying "Fab", people quoting films, songs and self-help material, and all other manner of pointlessness. I was both bemused and disappointed at the sheer pretension and smoke and mirrors used by some frequenters to paint themselves in an alternative light. No amount of pointing out the error of their ways, beliefs or grammar seemed to change that either.
Then there's the games. I'm taken to believe there are various online games you can take part in, which seem to occupy the darkest, wankest corners of the gaming market, usually involving building a farm or finding a dinosaur or somesuch. If that's your bag, help yourself. However, Facebook's propensity to broadcast the player's achievements in said games all over your page do get on your tits slightly after a worryingly short space of time. Who gives a fuck if you have built a farm? Piss off and get a life, you square.
Again, offering my opinions on both the game and their character did little to dislodge their faith in such pursuits.
In the end, the straw what broke the camel's back was the willingness for people to tell you literally anything that occurs to them, mentally, physically or psychologically. I'm not kidding; the base premise of the site is to tell people what's going on in your life, but I stopped at "I think Facebook is unnecessary twaddle", while other protagonists told us of their tea, who they were missing, what they were watching on telly, even what time they were due at work tomorrow. Now, I'm not known for my human interest at the best of times, but I struggle to envisage a situation when you would visit or call a person on the premise of finding out what they had for tea. I doubt even the most feeble-minded of folk would struggle to give the shiniest of shites about such matters. WE DON'T CARE, IT's NOT IMPORTANT, YOU'RE NOT IMPORTANT SO FUCK OFF TELLING US YOUR EVERY WAKING THOUGHT, YOU POINTLESS IDIOT.
After a month of cock gags and grammatical pedantry I had to knock it on the head, if only for my own sanity. I'd given it a try, found it to be the biggest load of stagnant horseshit in Internet history, and quickly drew a line under the whole shameful saga. I'm not sorry I did it, cos at least then when somebody decides I'm wrong for not doing what several million people think is a right hoot, I'm armed with knowledge and experience to argue back in my inimitable, erudite style.
"Nope, it's shit" is what I'll say. "And it's got a stupid name"...
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