Is anyone really surprised that somebody finally took it upon themselves to engineer the result of the Christmas number one against X Factor? I doubt it.
For those moronic Luddites out there who live under a rock or draw their entire opinion base from a glossy magazine, a bloke started a FaceBook campaign to get Rage Against The Machine's festive ditty "Killing in the name" to number one, ahead of the perennial dirge-fest that Cowell's bitches barf into the charts.
Personally, I couldn't give a shit. The Mrs was apoplectic with anger at the result; not because she is a Factor fan, but instead that such a non-Yuletide tune made it to number one. She has a point, but as long as Cowell has been having a go at kids who can't sing, the number one spot has ceased to be a meaningful achievement. If he had any real confidence in the 'winner', or he wasn't considering his bank balance, he would release the record at a different time of the year. Of course, he's not in it to discover the next Buble or Rhianna (God help us); he's in it to make shitloads of cash.
That a normal bloke can start a FaceBook page urging people to download a record which gathers enough momentum to actually get to number one is as impressive as it is sad. Like I said, Mr Blobby aside, the Christmas number one was at one time seen as a genuine achievement, but the writing was on the wall when certain Irish 'boy' bands started engineering the release dates of their records to ensure they had a clear run at the top spot.
I've said before that including downloads is a daft idea, unless you only count those of records currently on new release. The ability to download your favourite tracks from yesterdecade is ace, but it's ridiculous that they should count towards a Hit Parade placing, meaning FaceBook stunts like this will be all the rage (geddit?) in the coming years.
At the end of the day, the chart is a dead concept. Yes, it's a sad day for music and genuine music acts when they realise that this once-great gauge of your musical standing is now as much use as Cliff Richard's johnny drawer, but think of it this way: it puts people like Fearne Cotton and Reggie Yates out of a job. Christmas or not, that ain't no bad thing.
Monday, 21 December 2009
Monday, 14 December 2009
Bottom Gear. (It's a play on words)
I like Top Gear - I've never made a secret of that fact. It's easy to watch and entertaining (if slightly over-staged) fare. Three men in their late 30's to late 40's arse about with cars the way we all would if we had the chance. Like it or loathe it, we'd all like to chuck a Bugatti Veyron about or drop a piano on a Morris Marina. And that's a scientific fact.
The problem is, as usual the BBC have realised there's a strong following for one of their products and rather than sit back and allow it just to be a TV programme, they've started milking it for all it's worth, all the while spectacularly debasing the integrity of the show.
I'm talking of course about merchandise.
First off, they're bastardising the image of The Stig. Bear in mind that he's essentially a faceless bloke in a white racing suit and helmet, but there's all manner of tat bearing his featureless visage. Shower gel for fuck's sake; what's that got to do with Top Gear? Unless it's made out of Castrol GTX I can't see the link. There's even a book like 'Where's Wally' which is basically 'Where's the bloody Stig'. Who's gonna buy that? In 2 minutes I found him on the first 3 pages, so I doubt you'll get much mileage out of it once you've farted out your sprouts on Christmas Day.
That's bad enough, but today I actually saw a make-your-own Cool Wall. For those not in the know, that's where Richard Hammond and Jeremy Clarkson have a scrap about whether certain cars are cool or not, usually ending in Clarkson putting it quite high up on the board. You know, because he's taller than Hammond. Anyway, this build-your-own affair appears to consist of a fold-out piece of cardboard, crudely adorned with the TG logo. You've then got a few dozen stickers so you too can pretend you're on the BBC gravy train and show people what you think about the latest Daihatsu. What a sack of shit.
Lest we forget that we've already paid once for the programme to be made. Like I said, I really like the show, but we mustn't forget I've already stumped up my licence fee to make it possible, then they go and release a load of Krusty-esque turd, trying to make a quick buck off the back of its popularity. I'm sorry but that stinks.
Where will it end? Eastender's-branded Prozac? A Miranda joke book (it'd make a change)? Songs of Praise condoms? 'Le mind boggels' as the French might say.
The problem is, as usual the BBC have realised there's a strong following for one of their products and rather than sit back and allow it just to be a TV programme, they've started milking it for all it's worth, all the while spectacularly debasing the integrity of the show.
I'm talking of course about merchandise.
First off, they're bastardising the image of The Stig. Bear in mind that he's essentially a faceless bloke in a white racing suit and helmet, but there's all manner of tat bearing his featureless visage. Shower gel for fuck's sake; what's that got to do with Top Gear? Unless it's made out of Castrol GTX I can't see the link. There's even a book like 'Where's Wally' which is basically 'Where's the bloody Stig'. Who's gonna buy that? In 2 minutes I found him on the first 3 pages, so I doubt you'll get much mileage out of it once you've farted out your sprouts on Christmas Day.
That's bad enough, but today I actually saw a make-your-own Cool Wall. For those not in the know, that's where Richard Hammond and Jeremy Clarkson have a scrap about whether certain cars are cool or not, usually ending in Clarkson putting it quite high up on the board. You know, because he's taller than Hammond. Anyway, this build-your-own affair appears to consist of a fold-out piece of cardboard, crudely adorned with the TG logo. You've then got a few dozen stickers so you too can pretend you're on the BBC gravy train and show people what you think about the latest Daihatsu. What a sack of shit.
Lest we forget that we've already paid once for the programme to be made. Like I said, I really like the show, but we mustn't forget I've already stumped up my licence fee to make it possible, then they go and release a load of Krusty-esque turd, trying to make a quick buck off the back of its popularity. I'm sorry but that stinks.
Where will it end? Eastender's-branded Prozac? A Miranda joke book (it'd make a change)? Songs of Praise condoms? 'Le mind boggels' as the French might say.
Friday, 11 December 2009
'Up' rhymes with 'Up'. And 'Up'
Back in that halcyon summer of 1994 Scatman John (colloquially known as 'The Scatman'), released his seminal hit "I'm the Scatman". Never before in the history of the Internet has a sentence contained so many references to scat without attracting the attentions of the legal system.
I was at school when this stuttering masterpiece hit the airwaves, and despite its nonsensical lyrics, it pissed the Hit Parade and was number one in no time. Kids up and down the country were deemed socially acceptable if they could 'scat' like an American man in his 50's. The fact that the lyrics made no sense had little impact on our enjoyment of the record; we knew it wasn't a serious song and enjoyed it as such. Similarly 'Doop', by the creatively named 'Doop'; a right load of old rhubarb set to a Charleston beat which had schoolkids the length and breadth of this fair isle besotted with the word 'doop' for nearly 3 weeks.
Skip forward to the present day, and a group of chaps looking suspiciously like transsexuals have had a number one with their hit smash "Everybody in love". I'm told the band is called 'JLS' and that they emerged from X-Factor or somesuch, so you already know you're in safe hands musically. I happened upon this 'tune' last night and was staggered to hear the sheer craft in the lyrics. Bernie Taupin must shit himself when he reads the chorus:
Everybody in love, put your hands up
Everybody in love, put your hands up
Everybody in love, put your hands up
If you're in love, put your hands up
Fuck me, what's that about? I've shat better lyrics than that. As I stated above, the tunes we listened to growing up weren't all serious pieces of music, but I'm led to believe JLS are some kind of popular group, found sexually attractive by birds and respected within the industry. The fact that they came second to a woman who butchered 'Hallelujah' seems to be lost on today's youngsters, who'll happily part with 79p to download this twaddle from iTunes and listen to it on their Walkmans.
I have no issue with them pursuing their musical dream, but put a bit of effort in, eh? Maybe create rhyming couplets that aren't actually the exact same words repeated. And quite why putting your hands up if you're in love is required is beyond me, unless they're working for some kind of census company and are polling their fanbase (no jokes).
Presumably, most of today's songwriters are drawing inspiration from the music they grew up with, which makes such baffling tripe all the more surprising, given that they were likely to have listened to not only The Scatman, but East 17, Kylie Minogue, Peter Andre, Sinitta and The Outhere Brothers. If you've listened to "Toyboy" or "I should be so lucky" and still can't craft a decent lyric, then quite frankly you're dead inside.
Greetings of the season anyroad.
I was at school when this stuttering masterpiece hit the airwaves, and despite its nonsensical lyrics, it pissed the Hit Parade and was number one in no time. Kids up and down the country were deemed socially acceptable if they could 'scat' like an American man in his 50's. The fact that the lyrics made no sense had little impact on our enjoyment of the record; we knew it wasn't a serious song and enjoyed it as such. Similarly 'Doop', by the creatively named 'Doop'; a right load of old rhubarb set to a Charleston beat which had schoolkids the length and breadth of this fair isle besotted with the word 'doop' for nearly 3 weeks.
Skip forward to the present day, and a group of chaps looking suspiciously like transsexuals have had a number one with their hit smash "Everybody in love". I'm told the band is called 'JLS' and that they emerged from X-Factor or somesuch, so you already know you're in safe hands musically. I happened upon this 'tune' last night and was staggered to hear the sheer craft in the lyrics. Bernie Taupin must shit himself when he reads the chorus:
Everybody in love, put your hands up
Everybody in love, put your hands up
Everybody in love, put your hands up
If you're in love, put your hands up
Fuck me, what's that about? I've shat better lyrics than that. As I stated above, the tunes we listened to growing up weren't all serious pieces of music, but I'm led to believe JLS are some kind of popular group, found sexually attractive by birds and respected within the industry. The fact that they came second to a woman who butchered 'Hallelujah' seems to be lost on today's youngsters, who'll happily part with 79p to download this twaddle from iTunes and listen to it on their Walkmans.
I have no issue with them pursuing their musical dream, but put a bit of effort in, eh? Maybe create rhyming couplets that aren't actually the exact same words repeated. And quite why putting your hands up if you're in love is required is beyond me, unless they're working for some kind of census company and are polling their fanbase (no jokes).
Presumably, most of today's songwriters are drawing inspiration from the music they grew up with, which makes such baffling tripe all the more surprising, given that they were likely to have listened to not only The Scatman, but East 17, Kylie Minogue, Peter Andre, Sinitta and The Outhere Brothers. If you've listened to "Toyboy" or "I should be so lucky" and still can't craft a decent lyric, then quite frankly you're dead inside.
Greetings of the season anyroad.
Thursday, 3 December 2009
I don't want to talk about it...
A few years ago, a very good friend and I were visiting a couple of girls. I was seeing one of them with the other being her friend. Much drink was taken and merriment was had, and that was that.
The following morning I discovered my friend not to be on the sofa as expected. He eventually emerged from the friends' room, much to my amusement. Later that day, as we returned home, I quizzed him on the goings on. He sadly admitted that due to his copious alcoholic intake the previous evening, he couldn't 'rise to the occasion' and left the young wench unsatisfied.
I pissed myself laughing.
When we got home, my housemate asked us casually about the previous evening, and here's where it started to unwind for my aforementioned chum. Instead of saying "Nowt really, had a few jars. You know the drill" he instead said "I don't want to talk about it".
My housemate was understandably curious about the last night's occurrences and set about my mate like Amy Winehouse would a pre-gig rider, asking him all manner of questions to get the obviously juicy information out of him. With almost no help from me, he eventually concluded that The Droop Fairy must have visited, and from that day to this, borderline offensive jokes are still made at his expense for his moment of PR ambiguity.
Compare and contrast with Eldrick 'Tiger Woods' Woods.
Tiger, a world-famous snooker player and razor enthusiast, recently had a car accident outside his home. He was a bit injured and had to drop out of a couple of tournaments, and that was that. Except, instead of telling the press "What am I like? I was putting my seatbelt on and not paying attention to the tree which has been outside my house since I moved in. What a dunce" he instead said that there was nothing to see here, and the press should just leave it. Well played there.
Since this naive and intriguing statement, the press have been all over the story, and in the last 24 hours details of 2 fit-for-a-skank affairs have come to light, with Tiger neither confirming nor denying the events being portrayed in ever media outlet imaginable.
Again, he could've come out and either said "It's a fair cop, guv" or "It weren't me guv", but instead he's released a statement saying he's committed 'transgressions' for which he is sorry. Has the brother not learnt? Unless you explicitly declare or deny such events, you leave yourself open to all manner of conjecture and ridicule, rather than people just saying "The dirty devil. She was proper fit for a Vegas skank though".
David Letterman was recently held to ransom regarding a series of affairs he had had. Rather than being vague, he fronted up on his show and admitted his indiscretions. Yes, he was protecting himself for having to shell out, and he had committed multiple acts of adultery, but on some levels people respected his honesty, and the story pretty much died the day after because there was nothing else to talk about.
So Tiger, if you're reading, take heed. The next time you visit Jugs, think on; Either keep it in your drawers, or aim for the gap between the trees when you drive off in a huff. You daft apoth.
The following morning I discovered my friend not to be on the sofa as expected. He eventually emerged from the friends' room, much to my amusement. Later that day, as we returned home, I quizzed him on the goings on. He sadly admitted that due to his copious alcoholic intake the previous evening, he couldn't 'rise to the occasion' and left the young wench unsatisfied.
I pissed myself laughing.
When we got home, my housemate asked us casually about the previous evening, and here's where it started to unwind for my aforementioned chum. Instead of saying "Nowt really, had a few jars. You know the drill" he instead said "I don't want to talk about it".
My housemate was understandably curious about the last night's occurrences and set about my mate like Amy Winehouse would a pre-gig rider, asking him all manner of questions to get the obviously juicy information out of him. With almost no help from me, he eventually concluded that The Droop Fairy must have visited, and from that day to this, borderline offensive jokes are still made at his expense for his moment of PR ambiguity.
Compare and contrast with Eldrick 'Tiger Woods' Woods.
Tiger, a world-famous snooker player and razor enthusiast, recently had a car accident outside his home. He was a bit injured and had to drop out of a couple of tournaments, and that was that. Except, instead of telling the press "What am I like? I was putting my seatbelt on and not paying attention to the tree which has been outside my house since I moved in. What a dunce" he instead said that there was nothing to see here, and the press should just leave it. Well played there.
Since this naive and intriguing statement, the press have been all over the story, and in the last 24 hours details of 2 fit-for-a-skank affairs have come to light, with Tiger neither confirming nor denying the events being portrayed in ever media outlet imaginable.
Again, he could've come out and either said "It's a fair cop, guv" or "It weren't me guv", but instead he's released a statement saying he's committed 'transgressions' for which he is sorry. Has the brother not learnt? Unless you explicitly declare or deny such events, you leave yourself open to all manner of conjecture and ridicule, rather than people just saying "The dirty devil. She was proper fit for a Vegas skank though".
David Letterman was recently held to ransom regarding a series of affairs he had had. Rather than being vague, he fronted up on his show and admitted his indiscretions. Yes, he was protecting himself for having to shell out, and he had committed multiple acts of adultery, but on some levels people respected his honesty, and the story pretty much died the day after because there was nothing else to talk about.
So Tiger, if you're reading, take heed. The next time you visit Jugs, think on; Either keep it in your drawers, or aim for the gap between the trees when you drive off in a huff. You daft apoth.
Friday, 27 November 2009
He's on the BBC gravy train. I wish I was.
What the hell is Radio 1 'shock jock' Chris Moyles playing at, exactly?
Last night there was an advert for his hilarious new project, 'The Chris Moyles Parody Album'. That's right, for £9.71 of your hard-earned, you too can own a copy of musical history, as Moyles and his team slightly change the words to some recent pop records. Brilliant. It even says on the blurb online that as well as the parodies, he's written a series of new tunes exclusive to the album. I'm no pedant, but I'm pretty sure material you've written yourself doesn't constitute a parody, ergo it's not a chuffing parody album is it?
When he barrelled onto the scene in the mid-90's, he was labelled 'controversial' and other terms which make middle Englanders shit themselves, because he wasn't a banal airhead. I didn't mind Radio 1 back in the day, but after 4 or 5 years, I realised that they had absolutely no intention of keeping it fresh so I gave up and switched to FiveLive. From then on, my Radio 1 listening came via being a reluctant passenger in the car of someone who thought he was ace (such folk exist, apparently) and an interesting thing became clear. Over the years, not only did he bang out the same features (Carpark Catchphrase still? Really?), but he'd also become a corporate lackey, dropping his obviously fake shock persona in place of being a board-friendly inoffensive drivel-merchant. Gone are the edgy comments and low-level bad language, replaced with banality which would make a regional Real Radio operative feel grubby.
Now, a certain amount of blame can be levelled at the BBC itself, as broadcast guidelines were tightened in the light of the Brand/Ross scandal, meaning he had to scale down his supposedly controversial views to prevent someone wearing a cardigan having a panic attack. The thing is, though, he wasn't exactly Howard Stern at the worst of times, and his listenership knew what he was like and were unlikely to suddenly think he was offensive and call for him to be spectacularly terminated. All of which leads me to think that he's realised the sum total of his powers is to sit on his arse taking the piss out of his sycophantic team, so he's put his feet under the table and is staying for the duration. Classic gravy train material.
To be fair to him, he has tried to crack television, with a level of success comparable with Robbie Williams' attempts to break America. Despite James Corden paving the way, he doesn't exactly fit the profile of a hip and happening presenter, so maybe he's realised that his future lies in slightly rewriting tunes currently in the hit parade and ambling up a mountain because Gary Barlow told him to.
Either way, he'll end up a millionaire.
Last night there was an advert for his hilarious new project, 'The Chris Moyles Parody Album'. That's right, for £9.71 of your hard-earned, you too can own a copy of musical history, as Moyles and his team slightly change the words to some recent pop records. Brilliant. It even says on the blurb online that as well as the parodies, he's written a series of new tunes exclusive to the album. I'm no pedant, but I'm pretty sure material you've written yourself doesn't constitute a parody, ergo it's not a chuffing parody album is it?
When he barrelled onto the scene in the mid-90's, he was labelled 'controversial' and other terms which make middle Englanders shit themselves, because he wasn't a banal airhead. I didn't mind Radio 1 back in the day, but after 4 or 5 years, I realised that they had absolutely no intention of keeping it fresh so I gave up and switched to FiveLive. From then on, my Radio 1 listening came via being a reluctant passenger in the car of someone who thought he was ace (such folk exist, apparently) and an interesting thing became clear. Over the years, not only did he bang out the same features (Carpark Catchphrase still? Really?), but he'd also become a corporate lackey, dropping his obviously fake shock persona in place of being a board-friendly inoffensive drivel-merchant. Gone are the edgy comments and low-level bad language, replaced with banality which would make a regional Real Radio operative feel grubby.
Now, a certain amount of blame can be levelled at the BBC itself, as broadcast guidelines were tightened in the light of the Brand/Ross scandal, meaning he had to scale down his supposedly controversial views to prevent someone wearing a cardigan having a panic attack. The thing is, though, he wasn't exactly Howard Stern at the worst of times, and his listenership knew what he was like and were unlikely to suddenly think he was offensive and call for him to be spectacularly terminated. All of which leads me to think that he's realised the sum total of his powers is to sit on his arse taking the piss out of his sycophantic team, so he's put his feet under the table and is staying for the duration. Classic gravy train material.
To be fair to him, he has tried to crack television, with a level of success comparable with Robbie Williams' attempts to break America. Despite James Corden paving the way, he doesn't exactly fit the profile of a hip and happening presenter, so maybe he's realised that his future lies in slightly rewriting tunes currently in the hit parade and ambling up a mountain because Gary Barlow told him to.
Either way, he'll end up a millionaire.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Nobody cares, 'Jordan'. Nobody cares
There was a time, at the back end of the nineties, when Jordan was fit. Human-sized tits and a human-shaped fizzog adorned a well-put-together chassis. Yes she was a she-chav, covered in pink tracksuits and enough make-up to mend a Cumbrian bridge, but everything was where it should be, and I liked it.
Skip forward to the present day, and she's done it all. Shagged Yorkie, been in a sex video with burger fan Dane Bowers, married the first bloke to show an ounce of interest in what was behind the plastic, divorced his ass and gone back to the jungle for 'closure'. I'm surprised she's had time to get under the knife during all that.
She faces something of a problem these days, however. Nobody gives a shit about her anymore.
Previously, people seemed to warm to her because she was a genuine (if massively dense) person. Yes, she was trading off her looks, but she seemed a decent sort and she wasn't averse to getting her cans out, so we left her be. However, over the years it's become clear that she's quite an astute businesswoman, using the Jordan brand to further her modelling, writing and, yes, singing career. With that came a certain amount of cynicism from the general public, who realised she's not as daft as she seems.
Her latest stunt was to return to the jungle post-Andre, and the public had a field day. Voted for 7 consecutive Bushtucker Trials (whatever the fuck they are), she lost her rag and quit the show. 'Who cares' quoth the masses, as she tried to glean sympathy for herself. She then decided to announce that she was dumping her latest squeeze via the medium of Ant 'n' Dec, rather than sitting the poor chap down and explaining her intentions. Now, I'm not entirely sure what she expected to happen here, but let's face it, most people wouldn't like being given the elbow on national telly, and have sided with the bloke. Nobody in their right mind could think "I know, I'll dump t'other half on the box and people will be like 'Aw, poor Katie. It must be well tough having millions in the bank and being in the press despite not being passably attractive since 2006. My deepest sympathies'"
Having weighed up the many pros and cons in this complex emotional case, I feel she needs to adopt a two-pronged strategy to sort out this mess.
1) Grow up
2) Fuck off out of the press
They say every dog has it's day. I doubt I need to waste time writing the punchline...
Skip forward to the present day, and she's done it all. Shagged Yorkie, been in a sex video with burger fan Dane Bowers, married the first bloke to show an ounce of interest in what was behind the plastic, divorced his ass and gone back to the jungle for 'closure'. I'm surprised she's had time to get under the knife during all that.
She faces something of a problem these days, however. Nobody gives a shit about her anymore.
Previously, people seemed to warm to her because she was a genuine (if massively dense) person. Yes, she was trading off her looks, but she seemed a decent sort and she wasn't averse to getting her cans out, so we left her be. However, over the years it's become clear that she's quite an astute businesswoman, using the Jordan brand to further her modelling, writing and, yes, singing career. With that came a certain amount of cynicism from the general public, who realised she's not as daft as she seems.
Her latest stunt was to return to the jungle post-Andre, and the public had a field day. Voted for 7 consecutive Bushtucker Trials (whatever the fuck they are), she lost her rag and quit the show. 'Who cares' quoth the masses, as she tried to glean sympathy for herself. She then decided to announce that she was dumping her latest squeeze via the medium of Ant 'n' Dec, rather than sitting the poor chap down and explaining her intentions. Now, I'm not entirely sure what she expected to happen here, but let's face it, most people wouldn't like being given the elbow on national telly, and have sided with the bloke. Nobody in their right mind could think "I know, I'll dump t'other half on the box and people will be like 'Aw, poor Katie. It must be well tough having millions in the bank and being in the press despite not being passably attractive since 2006. My deepest sympathies'"
Having weighed up the many pros and cons in this complex emotional case, I feel she needs to adopt a two-pronged strategy to sort out this mess.
1) Grow up
2) Fuck off out of the press
They say every dog has it's day. I doubt I need to waste time writing the punchline...
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Don't get up, love. I'll sort your mess out
Despite constabularies up and down the country now referring to the coming together of two motor vehicles as a "road traffic collision" as per their shiny new guidelines, it's still an "accident". Apart from that fella who got put away for hiding round corners in his car then suing for all manner of made-up physical complaints, a crash tends to be an accident, with blame attributable one way or the other.
Such a coming together occurred to me this morning.
I was literally stationary in a queue at a traffic light when this - and I choose my words carefully here - moronic gimp managed to punt me up the tailpipe. It wasn't exactly high-speed, but it proper shook me from my Pulse-of-West-Yorkshire-induced daze, I can tell you.
I looked in my mirror to see a blonde bird sat there, and for a second I thought I saw the rebellious glint of a runner in her eye, but by pulling across to the pavement in front of the other drivers I forced her hand and she duly followed.
Now, I've been in this situation before when I was the bumper and some poor soul the bumpee, and the protocol is thus:
- You both get out
- You throw yourself a their mercy, begging on your knees for automotive repentence
- You swap insurance details
- You fuck off
But not this washed-out harpie. Instead:
- I got out
- She peered out of her window and asked "Is mine alright?"
- I bit my tongue lest I set about her with a tyre iron
- She said "I'm really sorrer" which I'm told is the local dialect equivlant of "My deepest apologies, squire"
- Bereft of speech, I left the scene
There was no damage to either car that I could see, so I wasn't that arsed about her not giving the shiniest of shites about the situation, but you'd have thought she could have got off her backside and had a quick butcher's, if only to check her hairdressermobile was unscathed. I thought I was reasonably diplomatic (which may or may not be deemed by others as 'overly assertive') but I didn't swear or take her to task when she wouldn't get out of the car, so she didn't really have an excuse not to get involved.
I think we've all learnt from this. She's learnt that, yes, there are people out there daft enough to clear up her mess for her, meaning she'll probably trundle through life using her ample bosom (possibly) and loose sexual morals (almost certainly) to get what she wants. I've learnt that sometimes violence isn't the answer. It's a good day.
Such a coming together occurred to me this morning.
I was literally stationary in a queue at a traffic light when this - and I choose my words carefully here - moronic gimp managed to punt me up the tailpipe. It wasn't exactly high-speed, but it proper shook me from my Pulse-of-West-Yorkshire-induced daze, I can tell you.
I looked in my mirror to see a blonde bird sat there, and for a second I thought I saw the rebellious glint of a runner in her eye, but by pulling across to the pavement in front of the other drivers I forced her hand and she duly followed.
Now, I've been in this situation before when I was the bumper and some poor soul the bumpee, and the protocol is thus:
- You both get out
- You throw yourself a their mercy, begging on your knees for automotive repentence
- You swap insurance details
- You fuck off
But not this washed-out harpie. Instead:
- I got out
- She peered out of her window and asked "Is mine alright?"
- I bit my tongue lest I set about her with a tyre iron
- She said "I'm really sorrer" which I'm told is the local dialect equivlant of "My deepest apologies, squire"
- Bereft of speech, I left the scene
There was no damage to either car that I could see, so I wasn't that arsed about her not giving the shiniest of shites about the situation, but you'd have thought she could have got off her backside and had a quick butcher's, if only to check her hairdressermobile was unscathed. I thought I was reasonably diplomatic (which may or may not be deemed by others as 'overly assertive') but I didn't swear or take her to task when she wouldn't get out of the car, so she didn't really have an excuse not to get involved.
I think we've all learnt from this. She's learnt that, yes, there are people out there daft enough to clear up her mess for her, meaning she'll probably trundle through life using her ample bosom (possibly) and loose sexual morals (almost certainly) to get what she wants. I've learnt that sometimes violence isn't the answer. It's a good day.
Monday, 16 November 2009
It's not my fault, so soz
It appears that when you're in politics, at any one time you're only a few minutes away from someone having a go at you. I don't mean mouthing 'wanker' while you're on the phone to the President of Burundi, or flushing your head down the bog at dinner. Instead, I mean members of the opposition making you look like a right royal fool in order to undermine your political standing whilst making themselves look like super-cool happening dudes.
You may have noticed the government has taken a bit of a battering of late. With the credit crunch, the various wars we're involved in and the expenses 'row', there's always something going on which the Tories and the Lib Dems can use to say "See, they're rubbish at governing. Put us in charge and you'll get free doughnuts for life".
Now, if Gordon Brown was going round kicking kittens up the arse or shouting "Homosexuals are gay", I could understand the abuse he gets, but the latest attempt to pick on him is a bit lame to say the least.
I'm sure you've seen the story; he hand-wrote a letter of condolence to the mother of a soldier killed in Afghanistan, but managed to make a right hash of it, making several spelling mistakes and even getting her name wrong. Quite frankly, it's a disgrace, and the mother in question had every right to have a go at him in the popular press as she comes to terms with her terrible loss.
The thing is though, it's got nowt to do with anyone else, but for some reason papers and news outlets have decided it's another stick to beat him with. I'm pretty sure the only 'crime' he's committed is disrespect, but you'd think he'd been putting babies on spikes the way the press are carrying on. It was even breaking news when the mother accepted his apology. I have every sympathy for her and her plight, but can you honestly say, hand on heart, that you give a shit about the ongoing dialogue between them both? He's not the Prime Minister of Spelling, so if he makes a couple of mistakes, by all means roll your eyes, but don't start having a go at him like he's some kind of evil-doer. Let those who he's treated badly sort it out.
I'm no Brown sympathiser and I don't vote, so there's no political agenda here, but I do find it a bit ridiculous the amount of cack he has to put up with because he's in charge. The latest gripe is from these poor buggers who were shipped to Australia against their will decades ago, where they were separated from their siblings and abused and allsorts. It's a harrowing story, not least because it was carried out in living memory, with most of the victims in their 50's and 60's. It seems incredible that a country which sees itself as advanced would treat its people this way, but there you go.
The thing is, Brown is now expected to stand up and say sorry for what a previous government did. Pardon the potential outrage, but why should he? By all means get up and express your disgust at their plight, but in no way was he responsible for it, so he's got no need to apologise. If any of the original decision-makers are still alive, drag them out and hold them to account. I doubt the victims want an apology anyway, as no amount of saying 'Soz' will repair the damage or bring back the years, but even if they did, they wouldn't want it from someone who wasn't reponsible for it. You might as well get Simon Cowell to say sorry for the good it was do.
Besides, he's got enough to apologise for. X-Factor indeed.
You may have noticed the government has taken a bit of a battering of late. With the credit crunch, the various wars we're involved in and the expenses 'row', there's always something going on which the Tories and the Lib Dems can use to say "See, they're rubbish at governing. Put us in charge and you'll get free doughnuts for life".
Now, if Gordon Brown was going round kicking kittens up the arse or shouting "Homosexuals are gay", I could understand the abuse he gets, but the latest attempt to pick on him is a bit lame to say the least.
I'm sure you've seen the story; he hand-wrote a letter of condolence to the mother of a soldier killed in Afghanistan, but managed to make a right hash of it, making several spelling mistakes and even getting her name wrong. Quite frankly, it's a disgrace, and the mother in question had every right to have a go at him in the popular press as she comes to terms with her terrible loss.
The thing is though, it's got nowt to do with anyone else, but for some reason papers and news outlets have decided it's another stick to beat him with. I'm pretty sure the only 'crime' he's committed is disrespect, but you'd think he'd been putting babies on spikes the way the press are carrying on. It was even breaking news when the mother accepted his apology. I have every sympathy for her and her plight, but can you honestly say, hand on heart, that you give a shit about the ongoing dialogue between them both? He's not the Prime Minister of Spelling, so if he makes a couple of mistakes, by all means roll your eyes, but don't start having a go at him like he's some kind of evil-doer. Let those who he's treated badly sort it out.
I'm no Brown sympathiser and I don't vote, so there's no political agenda here, but I do find it a bit ridiculous the amount of cack he has to put up with because he's in charge. The latest gripe is from these poor buggers who were shipped to Australia against their will decades ago, where they were separated from their siblings and abused and allsorts. It's a harrowing story, not least because it was carried out in living memory, with most of the victims in their 50's and 60's. It seems incredible that a country which sees itself as advanced would treat its people this way, but there you go.
The thing is, Brown is now expected to stand up and say sorry for what a previous government did. Pardon the potential outrage, but why should he? By all means get up and express your disgust at their plight, but in no way was he responsible for it, so he's got no need to apologise. If any of the original decision-makers are still alive, drag them out and hold them to account. I doubt the victims want an apology anyway, as no amount of saying 'Soz' will repair the damage or bring back the years, but even if they did, they wouldn't want it from someone who wasn't reponsible for it. You might as well get Simon Cowell to say sorry for the good it was do.
Besides, he's got enough to apologise for. X-Factor indeed.
Wednesday, 28 October 2009
The man who couldn't sue God
Yes, yes, I'm getting married. Stop going on about it, OK?
Despite it being 10 months away, we're very much in the throes of wedding fever at my house. Most surfaces are covered in a thin layer of wedding magazines and/or flyers for photographers, so I have little option but to go along with it, at least until I've got my suit anyway.
Last night, the topic on everyone's lips, wedding insurance, reared its ugly head. It transpires that you need to insure you wedding in case the church is closed down due to illness or you all die or somesuch. For a reasonable fee you can make sure you get your money back if the nuptial shit hits the fan.
Fair enough says I, but an interesting aside struck me during this discussion. It turns out that acts of God are explicitly not covered by insurance. Now, when you're buying a car, I sort of understand that your insurer can't be held responsible for a bolt of lightning melting the paintwork or a plague of locusts clogging up the manifold. However, I'm pretty sure that marriage (especially those held in a church as ours is) is some kind of religious affair where your love and commitment and demonstrated before...wait for it....you're gonna love this...only God!
So let me get this straight - you rock up at the church in your gladrags and go "Oi, God, look at us getting married. What do you reckon?" and he decides he doesn't like you and sets fire to the Roller parked outside. You haven't got a leg to stand on legally, plus you'll have a job on getting to the reception.
I'm not suggesting God is in the habit of exploiting loopholes in insurance policies, but given that at the very core of the marital process is presenting it before Him Upstairs (disregarding your particular religious leanings) you'd have thought the insurance company would give you a bit of leeway in case it rained for 40 days and 40 nights in the run-up to your special day. Obviously not.
Despite it being 10 months away, we're very much in the throes of wedding fever at my house. Most surfaces are covered in a thin layer of wedding magazines and/or flyers for photographers, so I have little option but to go along with it, at least until I've got my suit anyway.
Last night, the topic on everyone's lips, wedding insurance, reared its ugly head. It transpires that you need to insure you wedding in case the church is closed down due to illness or you all die or somesuch. For a reasonable fee you can make sure you get your money back if the nuptial shit hits the fan.
Fair enough says I, but an interesting aside struck me during this discussion. It turns out that acts of God are explicitly not covered by insurance. Now, when you're buying a car, I sort of understand that your insurer can't be held responsible for a bolt of lightning melting the paintwork or a plague of locusts clogging up the manifold. However, I'm pretty sure that marriage (especially those held in a church as ours is) is some kind of religious affair where your love and commitment and demonstrated before...wait for it....you're gonna love this...only God!
So let me get this straight - you rock up at the church in your gladrags and go "Oi, God, look at us getting married. What do you reckon?" and he decides he doesn't like you and sets fire to the Roller parked outside. You haven't got a leg to stand on legally, plus you'll have a job on getting to the reception.
I'm not suggesting God is in the habit of exploiting loopholes in insurance policies, but given that at the very core of the marital process is presenting it before Him Upstairs (disregarding your particular religious leanings) you'd have thought the insurance company would give you a bit of leeway in case it rained for 40 days and 40 nights in the run-up to your special day. Obviously not.
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Quick: Someone phone the cock doc
Given that the company I work for also employs a healthy quota of battleaxes, women's magazines are in plentiful supply around the building. Personally, I like to read them because there's just not enough information on the weekly goings on of Jordan and Katona in the real world, plus they often include stories about psychic horses or grim tales of incestuous rape. All in the name of menopausal entertainment.
One particular feature of one of these publications is the Sex Advice page, where your shag-related queries are answered by Kiwi uber-fox Tracey Cox. Now, given that this isn't a top-shelf magazine, some of the material covered is a bit near the knuckle. They stop short of saying "frothing at the gash", but details of size, tightness and, yes, wetness have been discussed in a mature and professional manner.
Yesterday I was leafing through their latest epic offering and the following letter was included from a distressed harlot. Almost verbatim, it read:
"My boyfriend recently banged his penis on my thigh during sex and it really hurt him. He says it still hurts when he pees. Did he break his penis?"
Now, give yourself a few seconds to let this information sink in, then consider the following:
1) How do this couple have sex that involves him inadvertently hitting her thigh?
2) Why are they asking a clearly medical question to a sex therapist, not a qualified quack?
3) At what point did the bloke say "I tell you what love, it's still killing. Never mind nipping down to the docs though; grab a pen and paper and we'll write to that bird in your magazine and ask her what we should do."
Not for a minute am I suggesting they make these letters up, but who in their right mind would rely upon the advice of not only someone whose expertise lies elsewhere, but moreover write in to a magazine on the off-chance that their letter is published and they find out what to do? Being a chap myself, I can safely say that, embarrassment aside, if I was in this kind of pain I wouldn't be reaching for my notepad; I'd be off the doctors quicker than you can say "careful, that's my thigh".
What happens if she doesn't answer it? Do they just keep bothering the denizens of middle-aged entertainment? Do they write to Richard and Judy? Paul O'Grady? Loose Women? The mind boggles.
Anyway, I can't stop. I think I'm getting a brain tumour so I need to email Russell Grant. Laters.
One particular feature of one of these publications is the Sex Advice page, where your shag-related queries are answered by Kiwi uber-fox Tracey Cox. Now, given that this isn't a top-shelf magazine, some of the material covered is a bit near the knuckle. They stop short of saying "frothing at the gash", but details of size, tightness and, yes, wetness have been discussed in a mature and professional manner.
Yesterday I was leafing through their latest epic offering and the following letter was included from a distressed harlot. Almost verbatim, it read:
"My boyfriend recently banged his penis on my thigh during sex and it really hurt him. He says it still hurts when he pees. Did he break his penis?"
Now, give yourself a few seconds to let this information sink in, then consider the following:
1) How do this couple have sex that involves him inadvertently hitting her thigh?
2) Why are they asking a clearly medical question to a sex therapist, not a qualified quack?
3) At what point did the bloke say "I tell you what love, it's still killing. Never mind nipping down to the docs though; grab a pen and paper and we'll write to that bird in your magazine and ask her what we should do."
Not for a minute am I suggesting they make these letters up, but who in their right mind would rely upon the advice of not only someone whose expertise lies elsewhere, but moreover write in to a magazine on the off-chance that their letter is published and they find out what to do? Being a chap myself, I can safely say that, embarrassment aside, if I was in this kind of pain I wouldn't be reaching for my notepad; I'd be off the doctors quicker than you can say "careful, that's my thigh".
What happens if she doesn't answer it? Do they just keep bothering the denizens of middle-aged entertainment? Do they write to Richard and Judy? Paul O'Grady? Loose Women? The mind boggles.
Anyway, I can't stop. I think I'm getting a brain tumour so I need to email Russell Grant. Laters.
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