Do you think if you got talking to Osama bin Laden in a pub, you’d actually think he was an alright bloke?
I only ask because the one person I even remotely liked at my current job left last week. And he was a cunt.
It’s really not up for discussion. Empirically he was a cunt.
The man used to talk about the BNP having ‘the right idea’ and how he may have ‘accidentally’ hit his ex-girlfriend a couple of times.
See? Cunt.
But when he wasn’t saying these things, I really got on with the guy. He was one of the smartest people I’ve met since leaving university, and he had a very similar sense of humour to my own. You would not believe how difficult it is to find someone in my office who finds a blind kid running into a wall funny! The ill-advised Youtube clip I emailed around on my second day proved that.
And yet, as already stated, he was a cunt. Genuinely not a very nice person. So does this mean I’m not a very nice person? Is familiarity with wankers a symptom of one’s own wankishness? Essentially, do you have to be ‘nice’ to be agreeable?
I've been thinking about this a lot of late. Partly because I find it interesting, but mainly because it beats working. And I've decided that, with regards to my own specific predicament, this may have been an association born out of a lack of alternatives.
The people I work with are, for want of a better word, muppets. In fact that's the perfect word. They do share several characteristics with the actual Muppets: they’re infuriatingly wacky, they have limited appeal, and they’re heads are full of foam. Mayhaps a quick run down of the people I spend the majority of my working days with...
Like the indolent clock that hangs on the far wall, I’ll start at 12 o’clock; directly in front of me is essentially what you’d get if you took every Daily Mail reader in the country, decanted them into a baboon wearing a blonde wig and then kicked it through the cosmetics department at Debenham’s.
She is, to put it bluntly, the worst sort of person in the world; a moron who thinks they’re a genius.
People that are stupid are, generally speaking, aware of this fact and so, by and large, keep themselves to themselves. However with this particular specimen, there isn’t a single issue she doesn’t seem to relish weighing in on with her own particular brand of ignorant gob shite. It’s like listening to a fascist taxi-driver with Asperger’s. Statements like ‘I don’t believe in addiction to sex, it’s all in the head’ and ‘They shouldn’t be allowed to strike, they get paid enough already’ spew out of her mouth on a daily basis and grate the inside of my head like barbwire earbuds.
I think what really gave the game away with her, was when she told me with such sincere expression, totally devoid of irony, that she was currently writing a book of ‘philosophical musings’…
I truly hope she gets published. I could do with the laugh.
Then next to her, at 2 o’clock, is the walking cliché that is the ditsy pretty girl. As is so often the case, the combination of well proportioned features, slim figure and nice tits has created what is still fundamentally a super-evolved monkey, but one that has never needed to say anything either remotely intelligent or slightly interesting.
Instead, due to the aforementioned physical appearance of said homosapien, she manages to go through life squeaking things like ‘Oh my god! I had an entire pizza last night!’ and ‘Is £750 too much to spend on shoes?!’ and still be considered a functioning, worthwhile addition to the human race.
Alone, these two are enough to make you want to shove two pencils up your nose and head butt the desk. But together, the resulting exchange can only be described as an abomination to sense. When Barbie and Descartes start conducting their squeaky ill-informed discussions, extraordinary rendition suddenly seems like a happy alternative. Impossible to ignore, high-frequency conversations about calories and handbags perpetually fill the dull silence of the office, and make me consider hole-punching my eyelids in an effort to focus my concentration elsewhere.
It’s like sitting opposite two retards auditioning for Loose Women. Though in no way fun.
Next along, at sort of ten past two-ish, is my manager, who’s not actually that bad. He’s a smart guy and he doesn’t take things too seriously. Nevertheless, due to his direct proximity to the Venus de Thicko, he does turn into a bit of muppet when she speaks to him. In fact, not just a bit of a muppet. King of the muppets. Kermit the Frog himself.
This is understandable. This happens to men when a pretty girl talks to them. It’s genetics. Or something. However, about a month ago, the shell de jour split up with her boyfriend, and since then ‘the boss’ has upped his game to a truly vomit-inducing level. ‘What’s the matter? Did you lose your stapler? Ahhh…would you like a hug? There, there. It’ll be okay. Tell you what, I’ll go up to the stationary cupboard and get you another one. How about that? Is there a particular colour you’d like? I don’t think they do white, but I could always cover a black one in Tippex. No, no. Don’t mention it. Tell you what, just buy me a drink on Friday. Then I can have an excuse to buy you ten…’
So no help there, I’m afraid.
Then, opposite him (at about 15.00 hours) is the token office-weirdo. He’s in his fifties. He’s single. He has a pet tortoise called Penelope. And he holds his pint glass like a spastic. I could write a thousand words alone about this guy, but I’ll leave it at this: he looks like a disgraced geography teacher and very rarely provides evidence to suggest the contrary.
Next along, directly adjacent to me, still at 15.00 hours (but a closer one), is a Muslim woman who, presumably due to her cultural upbringing, does not speak unless spoken to. Un-funnily enough though, the times she does talk, she makes far more sense than the others. It’s a real shame she doesn’t speak more. And that she only works two days a week. And that she believes an illiterate, mass-murdering bigamist was a divine prophet. Still, can’t have everything.
Then on my left is the empty seat of my erstwhile colleague. You know, the cunt. His desk still cluttered with Nazi memorabilia and domestic abuse summonses, I occasionally glance over at it and remember the good times…
Finally, at about half ten in the evening, sitting next to 'the most annoying woman in the world', is 'the most boring man in the world'. What are the odds? I say he’s the most boring man in the world, I actually don’t know what he’s saying half the time because his voice seems incapable of reaching a volume above that of a vole tap-dancing in its socks. On a sponge. But then there’s the other half of the time…
A man much wiser than I once said: ‘A bore is a man who, when you ask him how he is, tells you’. This inference has never been more applicable than with this chap.
The first time I asked him how his weekend was, I was rewarded with a 20 minute spiel about how he had tried to organise a football match, but only 27 people turned up, and so he had to find another person so that they could play 14-a-side, and he phoned loads of people, but he couldn’t get anyone to play, and in the end someone else couldn’t make it, so they had an even number of players, so in the end it was all fine.
Once I’d poured my brain back through my ears, I asked him whether he’d won; ‘Oh, I didn’t play.’
Un-fucking-believable.
The people I work with are not bad people. Far from it. They are good, productive members of society. They’re just painfully, painfully average. Each of them content to live out their lives in the same way as the vast majority of people in this world; candidly, and with the minimum of impact. So pre-occupied with seeming 'nice', they are destined to continue this existence until the day they pop their insignificant clogs. They are boring and so, it's safe to say, not my kind of people.
Oscar Wilde said that 'every saint has a past and every sinner has a future’. And so it follows that the only person that remotely stood out in my office was an absolute arsehole, who now no longer works here.
So, does this make me an arsehole? God, I hope so!
And now my last day is almost here. Come 5pm Friday, it will be time for me to move on. Free to disassociate myself from bores and borderline paedophiles, I shall never again have to endure seven hours of mind-numbing small talk. That is, until I get another job.
No doubt, at the end of the week, I’ll be required at the pub for a couple of farewell drinks with my colleagues. All I can say is, I hope Osama's there.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
offcom!
Public dissatisfaction with the broadcasting watchdog Ofcom came to a head yesterday when over a million members of the British populace phoned the authority’s complaints-line to complain about it.
Numerous controversies ranging from the regulator’s funding structure to the ‘com’ part of its name sounding a bit rude, led to the UK’s largest bitch since records began, with 1.4 million consumers contacting the authority in what the tabloid media have dubbed ‘Moronic Blind Outrage-gate’.
Mother of nine, Mona Lot, was shocked to hear from her neighbour’s boyfriend’s cat that, in the previous financial year, Ofcom cost the individual British tax-payer over £35,000.
‘Well it’s outrageous, ‘aint it?’ she grumbled. ‘And what’s worse is I only pay £8,000 a year in tax! I had to give ‘em a piece of my mind, didn’t I?’
‘Luckily I’ve got their number on speed dial.’
Ivor Nolyfe, an unemployed cement-mixer from Deptford, lodged his complaint to the watchdog after seeing a documentary on Channel 5 that purportedly claimed that Ofcom employees spent their lunch breaks burning postage stamps and defecating over photos of Baby P.
‘Well it’s outrageous, ‘aint it?’ he grumbled. ‘There weren’t any footage of them doing it or nuffin’ but the reporter bloke said they’d done it and he looked like a really clever bloke.’
‘He was wearing a tie and that.’
In keeping with other public outcries, the vast majority of the yesterday's complainants were over 65 years-old and didn’t actually know what Ofcom was.
One such old-timer, when asked by the complaints-line operator what it was he was complaining about, screamed ‘the Blacks!’, before snoring loudly down the phone for the next twenty minutes and then informing the operator that he'd soiled himself.
In response to the various indictments, Ofcom CEO Jimmy Luffman this morning issued this statement: ‘We’re not entirely sure where these allegations have come from. Our best guess so far is that they are the result of escalating negative press about the authority, possibly stemming from last Wednesday, when my secretary told the person using the self-service check out in front of her if she wouldn’t mind hurrying it along a bit.’
However, the public outcry to ban the regulator has presented Mr. Luffman with an unprecedented dilemma. ‘Do we follow our mandate and act on the British consumers’ request and take away our authority? Because if we do that, we won’t have the authority to take away our authority. What a head fuck!’
‘It’s like that bit in the Back to the Future when all his relatives start disappearing from that photo! Sort of.’
Numerous controversies ranging from the regulator’s funding structure to the ‘com’ part of its name sounding a bit rude, led to the UK’s largest bitch since records began, with 1.4 million consumers contacting the authority in what the tabloid media have dubbed ‘Moronic Blind Outrage-gate’.
Mother of nine, Mona Lot, was shocked to hear from her neighbour’s boyfriend’s cat that, in the previous financial year, Ofcom cost the individual British tax-payer over £35,000.
‘Well it’s outrageous, ‘aint it?’ she grumbled. ‘And what’s worse is I only pay £8,000 a year in tax! I had to give ‘em a piece of my mind, didn’t I?’
‘Luckily I’ve got their number on speed dial.’
Ivor Nolyfe, an unemployed cement-mixer from Deptford, lodged his complaint to the watchdog after seeing a documentary on Channel 5 that purportedly claimed that Ofcom employees spent their lunch breaks burning postage stamps and defecating over photos of Baby P.
‘Well it’s outrageous, ‘aint it?’ he grumbled. ‘There weren’t any footage of them doing it or nuffin’ but the reporter bloke said they’d done it and he looked like a really clever bloke.’
‘He was wearing a tie and that.’
In keeping with other public outcries, the vast majority of the yesterday's complainants were over 65 years-old and didn’t actually know what Ofcom was.
One such old-timer, when asked by the complaints-line operator what it was he was complaining about, screamed ‘the Blacks!’, before snoring loudly down the phone for the next twenty minutes and then informing the operator that he'd soiled himself.
In response to the various indictments, Ofcom CEO Jimmy Luffman this morning issued this statement: ‘We’re not entirely sure where these allegations have come from. Our best guess so far is that they are the result of escalating negative press about the authority, possibly stemming from last Wednesday, when my secretary told the person using the self-service check out in front of her if she wouldn’t mind hurrying it along a bit.’
However, the public outcry to ban the regulator has presented Mr. Luffman with an unprecedented dilemma. ‘Do we follow our mandate and act on the British consumers’ request and take away our authority? Because if we do that, we won’t have the authority to take away our authority. What a head fuck!’
‘It’s like that bit in the Back to the Future when all his relatives start disappearing from that photo! Sort of.’
Thursday, July 9, 2009
extraordinary attrition
What with the intelligence agencies coming under fire again this week for employing ‘questionable’ tactics in eliciting information from suspected terrorists, I thought I might contribute to the debate by suggesting a few alternative interrogation techniques that do not contravene basic human rights laws.
- Put the suspect in a relaxed and friendly atmosphere with a bunch of intelligence agency employees, and ensure that every time he tells a joke or amusing anecdote, one of the agents loudly informs everyone else in the group that he nicked it from a stand-up act. [This will damage his ego far more than any form of sexual humiliation currently employed by the CIA.]
- Invite the suspect to attend a dinner party, then sit him between a teetotal, vegan sap, whose only frames of reference involve her job at Amnesty International and the shop where she buys her organic jumpers, and a pretentious, over-bearing fuckwit, who has decided prior to the party that he only wants to talk about how awful he found the last Bond movie. [This one is based on personal experience. Trust me; it’ll have him screaming the bomb location in no time.]
- In the, albeit unlikely, event that the prisoner is Muslim, get Ellen DeGeneres to lecture him on the rise of Israel and how much she hates Cat Stevens, whilst drunkenly attempting to draw a picture of Mohammed eating a hotdog. [Should sufficiently piss him off enough to reveal the codes in return for permission to chop her hands off.]
- And if he’s Christian, bring in a chimpanzee to demonstrate the use of its opposable thumbs by juggling fossils, whilst a stem cell scientist and an abortion clinic doctor take it in turns to recite all the passages from the Bible that make absolutely no sense. [Again, would almost certainly nark him off to such an extent that he would gladly offer up information in exchange for the opportunity to practice some of that famous Christian tolerance.]
- Strap the prisoner to a chair in front of a television screen and put on The Usual Suspects, Se7en and Planet of the Apes, turning all of them off before the last five minutes.
- Similarly, after this ordeal, put on Scream, Saving Private Ryan and Swordfish, without playing the first five minutes.
- Then just make him watch Battlefield Earth, The Postman and Revolver. Over and over and over again. [WARNING: if all three of these are employed, a bucket will be required to hold the subject's brain in, after it leaks out of his ears.]
- Force the prisoner to co-present a radio show with Zane Lowe. 24 hours a day. 7 days a week. Continue this until he a) talks, or b) kills himself (more likely).
- Place the potential terrorist in a silent, eye-gaugingly boring office environment with absolutely no work to do, so that he is forced to bear witness to the inevitably hopeless attempts of a sleazy, 50 year-old loser trying to pull a pert 20-something admin temp on an almost hourly basis. [Again, based on personal experience. It is the true definition of the word torture.]
Friday, June 12, 2009
why?
Jane Mandelson took the What perfume are you? quiz and the result is: Joop! Femme.
You’re an over-priced combination of alcohol and water that the manufacturer claims has ‘a spicy fragrance which bursts forth with lemon and has a lasting impression of patchouli oakmoss and vetiver’. Well done!
Flo Rider took the What car battery are you? quiz and the result is: Type 063 Varta Dynamic 12V 44Ah.
You’re a specific type of rechargeable device that supplies electricity to an automobile. You have a four year guarantee and are about the size of a large shoe box. Awesome!
Fred Rimmer took the What STD are you? quiz and the result is: Gonorrhea.
More often that not, you cause a yellowish discharge from the penis, resulting in frequent and painful uirination. If untreated you spread throughout the body, affecting joints and heart valves. Right on!
Alison Redbeard took the What BNP voter are you? quiz and the result is: Embittered Thicko.
You’re not very bright and have just lost your job to a beautiful Eastern-European girl who agreed to work for less money than you. You’re almost certainly poor, ugly and from the North. And, seeing as you don’t have a job anymore, you made it down to the polling booths the other day. You go girl!
Rupert Smeg-Badger took the What year of Josef Fritzl’s daughter’s captivity are you? quiz and the result is The 17th.
After the previous sixteen years of physical assault and sexual abuse at the hands of your father, you have no sense of humanity left and have given up on life in general. This year will also see you give birth to your son Stefan, who’s also your brother. Crazy! Hold on, just seven more years to go!
Jedediah Kane took the What made-up word are you? quiz and the result is Flumpretch.
You’re a real wristyjip, who knows how to have a good furkelsplat. Some people might find you a bit planetorb, but that’s just ‘spunkgrut. Bartelsplonk!
Sarah Engass took the What inconvenient time to need a shit are you? quiz and the result is: In the middle of seeing a movie at the cinema.
You’re REALLY inconvenient, because you don’t want to squeeze past all the other people in the aisle AND you don’t want to miss any of the film. Nightmare!
Timothy Simian took the What 20th century famine are you? quiz and the result is: The Great Chinese Famine.
You managed to take the lives of 20 million people during the rapid industrialisation of 1959-61. But you also increased iron production by 45%, so swings and roundabouts. Good times!
Jimmy Luffman took the What type of yellow are you? quiz and the result is: The kind of muddy one they use on the Veuve Clicquot label.
You’re not quite Academy Award gold, and you’re not quite daffodil yellow. You’re kind of in between. Fucking kick ass!
Joe Public took the What else should I be doing with my time? quiz and the result is Anything else!
You’re an over-priced combination of alcohol and water that the manufacturer claims has ‘a spicy fragrance which bursts forth with lemon and has a lasting impression of patchouli oakmoss and vetiver’. Well done!
Flo Rider took the What car battery are you? quiz and the result is: Type 063 Varta Dynamic 12V 44Ah.
You’re a specific type of rechargeable device that supplies electricity to an automobile. You have a four year guarantee and are about the size of a large shoe box. Awesome!
Fred Rimmer took the What STD are you? quiz and the result is: Gonorrhea.
More often that not, you cause a yellowish discharge from the penis, resulting in frequent and painful uirination. If untreated you spread throughout the body, affecting joints and heart valves. Right on!
Alison Redbeard took the What BNP voter are you? quiz and the result is: Embittered Thicko.
You’re not very bright and have just lost your job to a beautiful Eastern-European girl who agreed to work for less money than you. You’re almost certainly poor, ugly and from the North. And, seeing as you don’t have a job anymore, you made it down to the polling booths the other day. You go girl!
Rupert Smeg-Badger took the What year of Josef Fritzl’s daughter’s captivity are you? quiz and the result is The 17th.
After the previous sixteen years of physical assault and sexual abuse at the hands of your father, you have no sense of humanity left and have given up on life in general. This year will also see you give birth to your son Stefan, who’s also your brother. Crazy! Hold on, just seven more years to go!
Jedediah Kane took the What made-up word are you? quiz and the result is Flumpretch.
You’re a real wristyjip, who knows how to have a good furkelsplat. Some people might find you a bit planetorb, but that’s just ‘spunkgrut. Bartelsplonk!
Sarah Engass took the What inconvenient time to need a shit are you? quiz and the result is: In the middle of seeing a movie at the cinema.
You’re REALLY inconvenient, because you don’t want to squeeze past all the other people in the aisle AND you don’t want to miss any of the film. Nightmare!
Timothy Simian took the What 20th century famine are you? quiz and the result is: The Great Chinese Famine.
You managed to take the lives of 20 million people during the rapid industrialisation of 1959-61. But you also increased iron production by 45%, so swings and roundabouts. Good times!
Jimmy Luffman took the What type of yellow are you? quiz and the result is: The kind of muddy one they use on the Veuve Clicquot label.
You’re not quite Academy Award gold, and you’re not quite daffodil yellow. You’re kind of in between. Fucking kick ass!
Joe Public took the What else should I be doing with my time? quiz and the result is Anything else!
Friday, June 5, 2009
"step right up!"
9 pm. Channel 4. Time for the year’s biggest freak-show to begin. Here we go.
First in, it’s the 'poshy'. He’s called Freddie. He lives in a stately home. He’s an entrepreneur. And he’s a bell-end.
Well, so far so good. That certainly ticks all the stereotype boxes. And, surprise surprise, he’s being booed by the crowd. Hardly a shock really when you take into account the fact that most of them live in the estate down the road.
Next in, it’s the working-class bull dike. Brilliant.
This is a perfect simulacrum of the show: put people with absolutely nothing in common together in close proximity for an extended period of time.
Shake. Mock. And repeat.
This would indeed be an admirable pursuit if it were done with the aim of intergrating people from different social stratums.
But it’s not. It’s done with the ambition of seeing the limit of human tolerance. Or, to be more specific, intolerance.
And if they induce a housemate to have a nervous breakdown, then all the better for the ratings.
Needless to say, Freddie and 'Punky von Deep-Pockets' are struggling to make conversation, so in goes another staple of any Big Brother: 'Blondy McHuge-Tits'.
She’s a model (i.e. she gets snapped with her top off), and she’s got the kind of figure/personality ratio that ensures her future career after the show: Nuts, Loaded, FHM, sex video, obscurity, I'm A Celebrity...
You almost feel sorry for her.
Almost.
Well, the unpopular (and surely only) 'posh bloke' thinks he’s in there with the totty, so let’s put the dampers on him again by following her entrance with her male equivalent.
Kris spells his name with a K. Obviously.
Why not with C? Who knows? Plenty of good words begin with C etc.
Anyway, despite the fact that he fancies himself, he actually seems the most normal one in there so far, so can't have too much of a go. Plus, in the introduction video they played, he did do a David Brent impersonation, and that’s…
'Man-totty' is followed in by 'Slightly-racial totty'. She’s sort-of Irish and apparently a bit of a bible-basher. Although her first word upon entering the house is ‘fuck’. Which is interesting.
She’s incredibly pretty and doesn’t come off too bad in the video, but as soon as she steps out of the car she’s greeted with a tidal-wave of boos from the crowd.
Now, I know the sort of people who are going to queue for hours to hold up signs such as ‘Wiggly Butt’ and ‘RAF Deptford’ outside a reality-television studio aren’t particularly representative of Britain as a whole (or at least I hope not), but what clearer demonstration do you need for the rise of the far right in this country? Presumably an increase in people voting for them in local/European elections...
Then it’s time for the first of, what I assume will be, a number of people calling themselves ‘students’ but actually don’t look like they could not even spell ‘book’, let alone open one.
This spindly gobshite tells us that his name is Cairon, and he is apparently British, regardless of the fact that he sounds like an extra in Pearl Harbour.
Unfortunately, it’s this sort of watery twat that instils the public opinion of students as time-wasting, MTV-watching, free-loading gits, due to the fact that they look like they've spent their entire student loan on trainers and trendy slang.
It’s at this point in the broadcast that I realised that a posh person, when surrounded by a bunch of ‘normal people’, just comes across as gay.
Freddie sidles up to Cairon and informs him that he’s not to worry because ‘he’s rubbish at remembering names as well’. Perfectly amicable and socially-conscious phrase, you might say. But Freddie, in this setting, sounds like Mr. Humphries with a bad cold, coming on to a underage bellboy. Bizarre.
Speaking of bizarre, the next contestant is bordering on being institutionalised. We are told that she’s called Angel. She’s Russian. She’s a professional boxer. And is 35 years-old.
Okay, so born in 1974, and the wall came down in 1989, so…15 years old? That’s old enough to have secured some Soviet-sponsored steroid injections, surely?
She’s certainly looks deranged enough during her intro video. And this initial insanity is further substantiated when she exits her car looking like a cross between Liza Minnelli in Cabaret and a breeze block.
She, too, is treated ill by the crowd. Although it's predominantly harmless, as she doesn’t understand the cries of ‘Get off!’ generated by the mob, because she’s foreign. Bless.
Still, at least the dyke’s got come company.
Then it’s Scottish totty, who the Channel 4 producers are desperately trying to portray as a ‘bitch’ , so as to distance herself from the other two identical birds in there so far, even though she’s EXACTLY the same but has bigger tits than the Christian and smaller than the future porn star. Which I suppose is how it should be really.
Some bloke who has chubby sideburns is up next, who we are led to believe, again thanks to the classic editing skills of Zeppotron, thinks he looks like Wolverine. He likes comic-books and, judging by his appearance, burgers. I like him.
He is quickly proceeded by the show's token Muslim for this series, who claims to want to be on Big Brother in order to ‘dispel the view of Muslims in Britain today’.
However, within thirty seconds of being in the house, the Essex-girl trio unanimously decide that 'Benazir’ is too complicated to say, so they're going to call her ‘Benny’.
Looks like she’s got a long way to go.
Next, it’s a midget…well…yes…quite…see previous blog for comments on that one.
Then a Hispanic bi-sexual who, like most people who claim to be bi-sexual, is just a big gay.
Then a massive gay.
[Note to producers: space the gays out please. If I wanted to be inundated with campness on primetime television, I’d watch the news.]
Then it’s supposedly another ‘bitch’, who actually just seems to be a relatively intelligent woman that prefers to cut through all the bullshit.
Why she’s entered herself in this competiton, fuck knows!
But she’s a single mum, twice divorced and relatively safe, so we can’t be too hard on her, can we?...Oh, apparently we can. Well, at least it’s not just the ethnic contestants getting a pasting from the crowd.
Then it's another fuckwit student.
He's a bit geeky and will, presumably, turn out to lose his virginity on the show.
And last, but not least…(please be an amputee, please be an amputee)…it’s...an Iranian Russell Brand.
Well I wasn’t expecting that.
Although the boo’s he’s getting, I was.
So, that’s it.
Another load of freaks have been delivered onto our tellies to entertain us through the those shallow summer days.
And what have we learned?
Britain is:
a) full of freaks
b) disproportionately racist
c) ultimately doomed
Right, I’m off to bed.
First in, it’s the 'poshy'. He’s called Freddie. He lives in a stately home. He’s an entrepreneur. And he’s a bell-end.
Well, so far so good. That certainly ticks all the stereotype boxes. And, surprise surprise, he’s being booed by the crowd. Hardly a shock really when you take into account the fact that most of them live in the estate down the road.
Next in, it’s the working-class bull dike. Brilliant.
This is a perfect simulacrum of the show: put people with absolutely nothing in common together in close proximity for an extended period of time.
Shake. Mock. And repeat.
This would indeed be an admirable pursuit if it were done with the aim of intergrating people from different social stratums.
But it’s not. It’s done with the ambition of seeing the limit of human tolerance. Or, to be more specific, intolerance.
And if they induce a housemate to have a nervous breakdown, then all the better for the ratings.
Needless to say, Freddie and 'Punky von Deep-Pockets' are struggling to make conversation, so in goes another staple of any Big Brother: 'Blondy McHuge-Tits'.
She’s a model (i.e. she gets snapped with her top off), and she’s got the kind of figure/personality ratio that ensures her future career after the show: Nuts, Loaded, FHM, sex video, obscurity, I'm A Celebrity...
You almost feel sorry for her.
Almost.
Well, the unpopular (and surely only) 'posh bloke' thinks he’s in there with the totty, so let’s put the dampers on him again by following her entrance with her male equivalent.
Kris spells his name with a K. Obviously.
Why not with C? Who knows? Plenty of good words begin with C etc.
Anyway, despite the fact that he fancies himself, he actually seems the most normal one in there so far, so can't have too much of a go. Plus, in the introduction video they played, he did do a David Brent impersonation, and that’s…
'Man-totty' is followed in by 'Slightly-racial totty'. She’s sort-of Irish and apparently a bit of a bible-basher. Although her first word upon entering the house is ‘fuck’. Which is interesting.
She’s incredibly pretty and doesn’t come off too bad in the video, but as soon as she steps out of the car she’s greeted with a tidal-wave of boos from the crowd.
Now, I know the sort of people who are going to queue for hours to hold up signs such as ‘Wiggly Butt’ and ‘RAF Deptford’ outside a reality-television studio aren’t particularly representative of Britain as a whole (or at least I hope not), but what clearer demonstration do you need for the rise of the far right in this country? Presumably an increase in people voting for them in local/European elections...
Then it’s time for the first of, what I assume will be, a number of people calling themselves ‘students’ but actually don’t look like they could not even spell ‘book’, let alone open one.
This spindly gobshite tells us that his name is Cairon, and he is apparently British, regardless of the fact that he sounds like an extra in Pearl Harbour.
Unfortunately, it’s this sort of watery twat that instils the public opinion of students as time-wasting, MTV-watching, free-loading gits, due to the fact that they look like they've spent their entire student loan on trainers and trendy slang.
It’s at this point in the broadcast that I realised that a posh person, when surrounded by a bunch of ‘normal people’, just comes across as gay.
Freddie sidles up to Cairon and informs him that he’s not to worry because ‘he’s rubbish at remembering names as well’. Perfectly amicable and socially-conscious phrase, you might say. But Freddie, in this setting, sounds like Mr. Humphries with a bad cold, coming on to a underage bellboy. Bizarre.
Speaking of bizarre, the next contestant is bordering on being institutionalised. We are told that she’s called Angel. She’s Russian. She’s a professional boxer. And is 35 years-old.
Okay, so born in 1974, and the wall came down in 1989, so…15 years old? That’s old enough to have secured some Soviet-sponsored steroid injections, surely?
She’s certainly looks deranged enough during her intro video. And this initial insanity is further substantiated when she exits her car looking like a cross between Liza Minnelli in Cabaret and a breeze block.
She, too, is treated ill by the crowd. Although it's predominantly harmless, as she doesn’t understand the cries of ‘Get off!’ generated by the mob, because she’s foreign. Bless.
Still, at least the dyke’s got come company.
Then it’s Scottish totty, who the Channel 4 producers are desperately trying to portray as a ‘bitch’ , so as to distance herself from the other two identical birds in there so far, even though she’s EXACTLY the same but has bigger tits than the Christian and smaller than the future porn star. Which I suppose is how it should be really.
Some bloke who has chubby sideburns is up next, who we are led to believe, again thanks to the classic editing skills of Zeppotron, thinks he looks like Wolverine. He likes comic-books and, judging by his appearance, burgers. I like him.
He is quickly proceeded by the show's token Muslim for this series, who claims to want to be on Big Brother in order to ‘dispel the view of Muslims in Britain today’.
However, within thirty seconds of being in the house, the Essex-girl trio unanimously decide that 'Benazir’ is too complicated to say, so they're going to call her ‘Benny’.
Looks like she’s got a long way to go.
Next, it’s a midget…well…yes…quite…see previous blog for comments on that one.
Then a Hispanic bi-sexual who, like most people who claim to be bi-sexual, is just a big gay.
Then a massive gay.
[Note to producers: space the gays out please. If I wanted to be inundated with campness on primetime television, I’d watch the news.]
Then it’s supposedly another ‘bitch’, who actually just seems to be a relatively intelligent woman that prefers to cut through all the bullshit.
Why she’s entered herself in this competiton, fuck knows!
But she’s a single mum, twice divorced and relatively safe, so we can’t be too hard on her, can we?...Oh, apparently we can. Well, at least it’s not just the ethnic contestants getting a pasting from the crowd.
Then it's another fuckwit student.
He's a bit geeky and will, presumably, turn out to lose his virginity on the show.
And last, but not least…(please be an amputee, please be an amputee)…it’s...an Iranian Russell Brand.
Well I wasn’t expecting that.
Although the boo’s he’s getting, I was.
So, that’s it.
Another load of freaks have been delivered onto our tellies to entertain us through the those shallow summer days.
And what have we learned?
Britain is:
a) full of freaks
b) disproportionately racist
c) ultimately doomed
Right, I’m off to bed.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
"roll up! roll up!"
Well, it’s that time of year again. The streets are filling up with first-time parents out of school for summer break, the weather’s beginning to make you sweat like a paedophile at Disneyland, and, to place a great big turd-coloured cherry on the cake, Big Brother is getting ready to grace our screens once more.
Channel 4 producers have promised that this series will prove the ‘most diverse and cosmopolitan ever’ and will include contestants from ‘the four corners of the world’. So, a bunch of freaks then. Brilliant.
Still, The Apprentice is coming to an end and I do need something to laugh at. So I feel that this season I shall succumb to the secretly inherent compulsion we all have to gawp at people lower on the social-scale than ourselves. And in light of this, I’d like to put forward my suggestions for members of the Big Brother house this year:
Billy Felch: a cheeky chirpy chappy, he always wears zany hats, continually says what’s on his mind no matter how outrageous it is, and has no arms.
Lefreak C’estchic: utterly 'mad' and outrageously gay, Lefreak loves gaymen, being gay and everything about gay culture. He makes no secret of his own particular proclivities and hopes to be responsible for the first ever Cleveland steamer delivered live on Channel 4.
Twig: Twig doesn’t believe in surnames. Nor does he believe in western imperialism, neo-conservative capitalism or washing his balls.
Susan Boyle: not THE Susan Boyle, but a woman so obsessed with Susan Boyle that she's legally changed her name to emulate her idol. The twenty six year-old now also wears frumpy dresses, eats battered kebabs and swears like a sailor.
George Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall de Mellier: ‘posh boy’ George comes from a very distinguished family, who have owned most of Derbyshire since the time of the Restoration. He is characterised by his dry wit, clipped accent and tendency to say that the Holocaust is a global Jewish conspiracy and never happened.
Achmed Smith: 'crazy old Achmed' is always getting himself into scrapes. Whether it be locking himself outside the house without any clothes on or being arrested for plotting to blow up a tube train, Achmed is sure to be the centre of some sort of shenanigans.
Sheryl Pinstripe: gorgeous poll-dancer Sheryl has a fun bubbly personality, a body to die for, all topped off with the world’s most perfect smile. She also has a cock.
Robert Éclair: a born-again Christian and father of twelve, Robert is the embodiment of religious morality, tradition and goodwill. He plays the church organ every Sunday, coaches the church football team and regularly shags his pet goat, Gertrude. He also fucks cows.
Sarah Tall: a midget, but she's called Sarah Tall. Big Brother viewers will NEVER get tired of this. She will definitely win.
Jeffrey Higgins: a sales manager from East Sussex, Jeffrey enjoys discussing current events with his friends, plays rugby for his local village team, and spends his weekends with his wife and two young children. Ladbrokes have given him a 2:1 chance of walking out of the house on the second day.
Channel 4 producers have promised that this series will prove the ‘most diverse and cosmopolitan ever’ and will include contestants from ‘the four corners of the world’. So, a bunch of freaks then. Brilliant.
Still, The Apprentice is coming to an end and I do need something to laugh at. So I feel that this season I shall succumb to the secretly inherent compulsion we all have to gawp at people lower on the social-scale than ourselves. And in light of this, I’d like to put forward my suggestions for members of the Big Brother house this year:
Billy Felch: a cheeky chirpy chappy, he always wears zany hats, continually says what’s on his mind no matter how outrageous it is, and has no arms.
Lefreak C’estchic: utterly 'mad' and outrageously gay, Lefreak loves gaymen, being gay and everything about gay culture. He makes no secret of his own particular proclivities and hopes to be responsible for the first ever Cleveland steamer delivered live on Channel 4.
Twig: Twig doesn’t believe in surnames. Nor does he believe in western imperialism, neo-conservative capitalism or washing his balls.
Susan Boyle: not THE Susan Boyle, but a woman so obsessed with Susan Boyle that she's legally changed her name to emulate her idol. The twenty six year-old now also wears frumpy dresses, eats battered kebabs and swears like a sailor.
George Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall de Mellier: ‘posh boy’ George comes from a very distinguished family, who have owned most of Derbyshire since the time of the Restoration. He is characterised by his dry wit, clipped accent and tendency to say that the Holocaust is a global Jewish conspiracy and never happened.
Achmed Smith: 'crazy old Achmed' is always getting himself into scrapes. Whether it be locking himself outside the house without any clothes on or being arrested for plotting to blow up a tube train, Achmed is sure to be the centre of some sort of shenanigans.
Sheryl Pinstripe: gorgeous poll-dancer Sheryl has a fun bubbly personality, a body to die for, all topped off with the world’s most perfect smile. She also has a cock.
Robert Éclair: a born-again Christian and father of twelve, Robert is the embodiment of religious morality, tradition and goodwill. He plays the church organ every Sunday, coaches the church football team and regularly shags his pet goat, Gertrude. He also fucks cows.
Sarah Tall: a midget, but she's called Sarah Tall. Big Brother viewers will NEVER get tired of this. She will definitely win.
Jeffrey Higgins: a sales manager from East Sussex, Jeffrey enjoys discussing current events with his friends, plays rugby for his local village team, and spends his weekends with his wife and two young children. Ladbrokes have given him a 2:1 chance of walking out of the house on the second day.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
denied and prejudice
American shock jock Michael Savage has today confirmed that he is to continue with legal proceedings against Jackie Smith, after he was included on a list of undesirables banned from entering the UK that she published last month before the Telegraph expenses-shitstorm, when everything was dandy.
Savage has labelled the government decision as ‘crazy’, claiming that the list, which was designed to prevent people who ‘stir up hatred and promote extreme views’ from entering Britain, was ‘probably compiled by a bunch of immigrant benders’ and that he ‘clearly shouldn’t be on it’.
‘How in the world can she allege that my words are zealous and offensive?’ he asked during an interview on BBC Radio 5 Live this morning.
‘Anyway, I understand she’s now out of a job. Dumb bitch was asking for it. God punishes the wicked. Not the Islamic God, you understand. He doesn't exist. And even if he did, he'd probably be committing benefit fraud'.
Savage, who hosts right-wing radio show The Savage Nation, has vehemently defended the views he has expressed during his fifteen years on air. ‘For example’, he said. ‘When I said that homosexuality made me want to puke, I wasn’t referring
to the act itself, but merely the word. I simply can’t stand the letter H. Makes my stomach turn just thinking about it’.
‘And don’t get me stared on M’.
When questioned over his assertion that transsexuals were ‘not normal’, Savage claimed that he was misquoted, and actually said ‘not formal’. ‘They rarely dress in Black Tie, that’s all I was saying’.
‘Similarly, when I said that Muslims could take their religion and shove it up their behinds, I was actually being sarcastic. Duhhhh!’
Savage is confident of his success in the impending defamation proceedings, arguing that ‘any rational-minded individual can tell I should not be denied entry to the UK’.
‘Unless the judge is a fag or a wog. In that case, I’m screwed’.
Savage has labelled the government decision as ‘crazy’, claiming that the list, which was designed to prevent people who ‘stir up hatred and promote extreme views’ from entering Britain, was ‘probably compiled by a bunch of immigrant benders’ and that he ‘clearly shouldn’t be on it’.
‘How in the world can she allege that my words are zealous and offensive?’ he asked during an interview on BBC Radio 5 Live this morning.
‘Anyway, I understand she’s now out of a job. Dumb bitch was asking for it. God punishes the wicked. Not the Islamic God, you understand. He doesn't exist. And even if he did, he'd probably be committing benefit fraud'.
Savage, who hosts right-wing radio show The Savage Nation, has vehemently defended the views he has expressed during his fifteen years on air. ‘For example’, he said. ‘When I said that homosexuality made me want to puke, I wasn’t referring
to the act itself, but merely the word. I simply can’t stand the letter H. Makes my stomach turn just thinking about it’.‘And don’t get me stared on M’.
When questioned over his assertion that transsexuals were ‘not normal’, Savage claimed that he was misquoted, and actually said ‘not formal’. ‘They rarely dress in Black Tie, that’s all I was saying’.
‘Similarly, when I said that Muslims could take their religion and shove it up their behinds, I was actually being sarcastic. Duhhhh!’
Savage is confident of his success in the impending defamation proceedings, arguing that ‘any rational-minded individual can tell I should not be denied entry to the UK’.
‘Unless the judge is a fag or a wog. In that case, I’m screwed’.
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