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Monday, 17 May 2010
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Make it stop...
Who else is bored of Jordan and Peter?
I am. I was bored after the first column inch the divorce received and I am still bored today, 6 months on. News of the couples war pervades into every mortal thing in my life. The Metro, a staple of morning commutes and mid afternoon toilet trips carries Team Peter headlines. The Internet, a lunch time safe haven of news sites and social networking all but orders you to view the days news on what Jordan has said about her lovers tackle, or to join this Group against Peter getting the kids. The Evening news reports are in on it. A slightly embarrassed looking Sir Trevor last night informed me that Team Jordan wanted to sit in a room and talk. Even morning TV, watched through blurry eyes and coffee carries 'My Side of the Story' reveals and other such nonsense.
The Paper are the worst. The Sun, Star, Mail and Mirror I expect it from, but even The Times carries the stories. This doesn't reflect on the media though. Be honest with yourselves Britain, the media prints it because people want to read it!!!
Instead of joining Team Peter ('because he's such a good father' and 'didn't she treat him so badly' and 'Oooo, he's got a surprisingly shit voice') or Team Jordan ('she deserves to do what ever she wants', 'he always dragged her down', 'she's got a great rack', 'she's misunderstood') Why not join Team 'I don't give a flying fuck about either Jordan or Peter and yearn for a more interesting press coverage'
They have got us all fooled. Aside from still being utterly convinced that it is all a big publicity stunt (yes, it's looking less likely 6 months on, but imagine!) look what they have achieved:
Peter Andrea, of Mysterious Girl fame (arguably the worst Pop song ever made) has just had a top 5 hit. His voice is weaker than a leprous power lifter, he looks like he has been hit with a spade and he has the stage presence of a gyrating slug.
Jordan AKA Katie Price of Big Chest fame has just released her 2000th autobiography in 5 years and whilst pictured drunk wearing a dress made from string in Ibiza groping a Brazilian student and romping with a cross dressing cage fighter named Roxanne, has been nominated for Mum of the Year 2009.
They take part in two 'fly on the wall' reality shows that gross 5 million viewers between them a week.
So the moral of the story to the countries kids is thus: Divorce is a fabulous institution that boosts the careers of even the most annoying, piss ant, talentless cretins. Give it a try.
I am. I was bored after the first column inch the divorce received and I am still bored today, 6 months on. News of the couples war pervades into every mortal thing in my life. The Metro, a staple of morning commutes and mid afternoon toilet trips carries Team Peter headlines. The Internet, a lunch time safe haven of news sites and social networking all but orders you to view the days news on what Jordan has said about her lovers tackle, or to join this Group against Peter getting the kids. The Evening news reports are in on it. A slightly embarrassed looking Sir Trevor last night informed me that Team Jordan wanted to sit in a room and talk. Even morning TV, watched through blurry eyes and coffee carries 'My Side of the Story' reveals and other such nonsense.
The Paper are the worst. The Sun, Star, Mail and Mirror I expect it from, but even The Times carries the stories. This doesn't reflect on the media though. Be honest with yourselves Britain, the media prints it because people want to read it!!!
Instead of joining Team Peter ('because he's such a good father' and 'didn't she treat him so badly' and 'Oooo, he's got a surprisingly shit voice') or Team Jordan ('she deserves to do what ever she wants', 'he always dragged her down', 'she's got a great rack', 'she's misunderstood') Why not join Team 'I don't give a flying fuck about either Jordan or Peter and yearn for a more interesting press coverage'
They have got us all fooled. Aside from still being utterly convinced that it is all a big publicity stunt (yes, it's looking less likely 6 months on, but imagine!) look what they have achieved:
Peter Andrea, of Mysterious Girl fame (arguably the worst Pop song ever made) has just had a top 5 hit. His voice is weaker than a leprous power lifter, he looks like he has been hit with a spade and he has the stage presence of a gyrating slug.
Jordan AKA Katie Price of Big Chest fame has just released her 2000th autobiography in 5 years and whilst pictured drunk wearing a dress made from string in Ibiza groping a Brazilian student and romping with a cross dressing cage fighter named Roxanne, has been nominated for Mum of the Year 2009.
They take part in two 'fly on the wall' reality shows that gross 5 million viewers between them a week.
So the moral of the story to the countries kids is thus: Divorce is a fabulous institution that boosts the careers of even the most annoying, piss ant, talentless cretins. Give it a try.
Love to Hate.
So, after months of early retirement, I have finally become wound up enough to get this hunk 'o junk moving again. Something has got me soooo worked up that I just had to rush out and blog to all 2 of my followers. Some heinous atrocity that has wreaked havoc across the nation has invaded every waking moment of my life and shaken me into impotent rage.
But what has done this to me? Is it the outrage sparked by the BNP's appearance on Question Time? Is it the mounting panic caused by the nations collective sigh of relief at the end of the recession (let's start borrowing again)? Have I suddenly become acutely aware of world debt? Or perhaps the plight of the rain forest? Has the recent spate of high profile celebrity deaths become to much to bear?
None of these things can compare to the horror that is John and Edward, of X-Factor fame.
Good god. Never, in the glorious history of broadcasting, has there been two more hated 'personalities'. Bernard Manning and Roy Chubby Brown once teamed up to be guest speakers at the Black Power Mother in Law's Gay Vegetarians annual general meeting. They were a bigger hit than John and Edward.
But no. They have now survived 3 weeks of the show. 3 Weeks?!?!?! If I had lost out to John and Edward I would seriously consider suicide. The British Public keep them in. But WHY? Because we Love to Hate.
The countries most recent 'public enemy number one's' were Russel Brand and Jonathon Ross. Driven on by the media frenzy that cottoned on to their horrendous faux pas, some 4 days after it happened - the great British public leapt out of their collective armchairs and made thousands of complaints. In the ensuing aftermath, Brand lost his show and Ross had a 'sabbatical'. Meanwhile, the hapless 'victims', Andrew Sachs and his Granddaughter were given a part in Coronation Street and their own topless calendar...I'll leave you to decide which way round that was.
Despite their crimes, Ross still stars in the BBC's most watched chat show and Brand gets more column inches for shagging Katie Perry and her massive chest than any plea against World Debt or suicide attack in Iraq.
The point is, as much as we HATE John and Edward, with their inexplicable hair, naive self belief and infectiously annoying personalities, they will no doubt win X-Factor and take home the prize. The Nation loves Idiots.
But what has done this to me? Is it the outrage sparked by the BNP's appearance on Question Time? Is it the mounting panic caused by the nations collective sigh of relief at the end of the recession (let's start borrowing again)? Have I suddenly become acutely aware of world debt? Or perhaps the plight of the rain forest? Has the recent spate of high profile celebrity deaths become to much to bear?
None of these things can compare to the horror that is John and Edward, of X-Factor fame.
Good god. Never, in the glorious history of broadcasting, has there been two more hated 'personalities'. Bernard Manning and Roy Chubby Brown once teamed up to be guest speakers at the Black Power Mother in Law's Gay Vegetarians annual general meeting. They were a bigger hit than John and Edward.
But no. They have now survived 3 weeks of the show. 3 Weeks?!?!?! If I had lost out to John and Edward I would seriously consider suicide. The British Public keep them in. But WHY? Because we Love to Hate.
The countries most recent 'public enemy number one's' were Russel Brand and Jonathon Ross. Driven on by the media frenzy that cottoned on to their horrendous faux pas, some 4 days after it happened - the great British public leapt out of their collective armchairs and made thousands of complaints. In the ensuing aftermath, Brand lost his show and Ross had a 'sabbatical'. Meanwhile, the hapless 'victims', Andrew Sachs and his Granddaughter were given a part in Coronation Street and their own topless calendar...I'll leave you to decide which way round that was.
Despite their crimes, Ross still stars in the BBC's most watched chat show and Brand gets more column inches for shagging Katie Perry and her massive chest than any plea against World Debt or suicide attack in Iraq.
The point is, as much as we HATE John and Edward, with their inexplicable hair, naive self belief and infectiously annoying personalities, they will no doubt win X-Factor and take home the prize. The Nation loves Idiots.
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
Weekly Impaling Stick 2009
That's right, the stick is back in business!
Crazy Cat Lady - She has made several appearances in this blog thus far, so I see this as somewhat of an effort to find closure. If I don't have to mention her again it will be too soon. But her latest statement was a corker. She was discussing how she would react when her cats eventually died, and how she would feel. She has the funeral organized already. That's right, funeral. But the Cat's wouldn't be buried, oh no, they would be carbonised and crystallized. "I'm going to make a pair of earrings and a ring out of them when they die" she said. How lovely! Wow, Crazy cat lady, that's a lovely ring, where did you get that?" "Its my Cat."
Christmas Flu - This represents not just the sneezing, coughing and shitting fits you get every Christmas, but every cold and virus you get every time you are going on any kind of holiday - be it a bank holiday, Christmas, Easter or annual leave. You or your partner or someone in your office is bound to get something and gleefully pass it on to you. I somehow avoided it this year, which probably means I'm going to get a double dose when next I go on Holiday.
Lavish Proposal's - A few of my friends have got engaged recently and it seems to be a case of one-up-man-ship. It started with a nice silver ring with a diamond and a bended knee proposal in their favourite restaurant. This wasn't good enough for the 2nd friend. He went to Paris, took her up the Eiffel Tower on New Year's Eve and proposed to her amidst a back drop of fireworks as the clock struck 12 with a white gold ring and a diamond the size of my fist. The Gits! This makes everyone of us who hasn't popped the question yet look inadequate. What do we have to do to top that?
"If you would just peer out of the port side window my darling you will see I have arranged for the children of China to hold hands and light candles to spell out 'Will you Marry me?" Of course, I arranged all that before we took this shuttle to the moon to coincide with me presenting this Ring fashioned by St Valentine himself from platinum arrow heads which the King of the Cherubs donated and adorned with a diamond the size of a child's skull."
Crazy Cat Lady - She has made several appearances in this blog thus far, so I see this as somewhat of an effort to find closure. If I don't have to mention her again it will be too soon. But her latest statement was a corker. She was discussing how she would react when her cats eventually died, and how she would feel. She has the funeral organized already. That's right, funeral. But the Cat's wouldn't be buried, oh no, they would be carbonised and crystallized. "I'm going to make a pair of earrings and a ring out of them when they die" she said. How lovely! Wow, Crazy cat lady, that's a lovely ring, where did you get that?" "Its my Cat."
Christmas Flu - This represents not just the sneezing, coughing and shitting fits you get every Christmas, but every cold and virus you get every time you are going on any kind of holiday - be it a bank holiday, Christmas, Easter or annual leave. You or your partner or someone in your office is bound to get something and gleefully pass it on to you. I somehow avoided it this year, which probably means I'm going to get a double dose when next I go on Holiday.
Lavish Proposal's - A few of my friends have got engaged recently and it seems to be a case of one-up-man-ship. It started with a nice silver ring with a diamond and a bended knee proposal in their favourite restaurant. This wasn't good enough for the 2nd friend. He went to Paris, took her up the Eiffel Tower on New Year's Eve and proposed to her amidst a back drop of fireworks as the clock struck 12 with a white gold ring and a diamond the size of my fist. The Gits! This makes everyone of us who hasn't popped the question yet look inadequate. What do we have to do to top that?
"If you would just peer out of the port side window my darling you will see I have arranged for the children of China to hold hands and light candles to spell out 'Will you Marry me?" Of course, I arranged all that before we took this shuttle to the moon to coincide with me presenting this Ring fashioned by St Valentine himself from platinum arrow heads which the King of the Cherubs donated and adorned with a diamond the size of a child's skull."
Monday, 29 December 2008
So hurry down the chimney tonight...
After several discussions over the festive period with certain family members, most of which were held over several pints of ale, we are yet to come to a conclusion with regards to one of life's eternal questions..."When and how should a child be made aware that Santa Claus doesn't exist?"
To bring you all up to date, several theories have been batted about so far and even some serious suggestions, believe it or not. A common age that keeps being brought up is 7. At 7 you have been at school for 2 years, have made the break out of reception and free playtime milk and are firmly on course to learning joined up writing, pasta art and your 9 times table, which lets face it are all the life skills you will need to cope with learning that Mr Claus isn't real. By the age of 7 you have lost that facade of innocence that allows children to repeat the rude word their Grandad said when he stubbed his toe and be found cute and adorable. It has been crushed out of you by the realisation that you have at the very least 10 more years of school, homework, detentions, playground politics, 'see me' comments and lumpy mashed potato before you can start making something of your life.
Equally, by the time the child gets to 8 or 9 shockingly, they are only 1 or 2 years away from going to High school. High school leads to Teenagers which as we all know, leads to Hoodies, weed and ASBO'S. 8 or 9 is also the age where you realise that belief in Ol'Kringle is inextricably linked with the quality and indeed quantity of the presents that you receive. At this age the more switched on kids have seen the episode of The Simpson's that deals with the existence of Santa Claus, or some such TV programme and have continued the pretence in order to make the most of his bounty. It wont be until they hit High School or a year before, where it becomes 'uncool' to believe in St Nick that they give up the charade and call you down.
So, we have established the optimum age to disclose the lie you have been telling your child for all of their short life. But hang on, there is a worry here, something we haven't taken into account. What if the child finds out before you tell it? His (for the sake of this argument, the child is male) whole life you have been telling him not to lie or cheat, whilst at the same time continuing to insult his intelligence year in year out at Christmas, Easter and every time one of his teeth falls out. Oh the irony!! No wonder we have bred a generation of Hooligans. Myself, I was told when I was 6 by my parents whilst I was still young enough for it to hurt, but not old enough to associate the realisation with my parents telling me lies every Christmas. Had I been older however, it would almost certainly have been different. If they had waited a couple more years before they either told me or I found out through the Box, there would have been hell to pay...
"So you are telling me, Mummy dearest, that in actual fact a fat old man wearing red pyjamas with a penchant for having small children sit on his knee pleading their case as to whether they have been a naughty boy or not, does not creep into our house either via the chimney or as smoke that passes through the letterbox and dish out the huge mounds of presents that you have actually been buying me because you feel guilty for lying to me my whole life? So I assume the fairy that builds castles out of my teeth in exchange for a 50 pence piece's and the giant bunny who shits Easter eggs all over the lawn every spring are out of the window as well?!?!?!?!" I would of course be livid, as would any child, so timing is crucial.
The next question is, how? How do you tell them? The best suggestion I have heard so far (apart from the ethnic cleansing of all make believe children's annual characters by some evil tyrant (if you want to indoctrinate your child further then make the bad guy something that will reflect on him in later life; Graham Norton, Gordon Brown and Jim Davidson for example, would ensure that you child grows up to be a Heterosexual, ethnically friendly Tory)) is 'The Car Accident'. The Reindeer are tired after a hard Christmas of flying, the global population of children is increasing and Rudolph is getting on a bit. Santa has dropped them off at home and is the designated driver for the annual Make Believe Christmas Party and has picked up his good friends, the Tooth fairy and Easter Bunny. On route, they are all having a sing song, with the Bunny providing some chocolate snacks and the tooth fairy paying for the red bull at the service station with a big stack of 50 pence pieces. From nowhere an 18 wheeler full of Petrol driven by the Bogeyman ploughs into Santa's car, killing the lot of them in a blazing inferno. This achieves two things - No more midnight calls to check under the bed and in the wardrobe for signs of the Bogeyman, as 'no one could have escaped that crash son' and most importantly in a kind of Ocean Finance style lie; it cancels out all of the little lies you told your son and replaces it with one big one. Here's hoping your son doesn't cotton on until he is old enough to realise the irony in this and think kindly of you for creating such a humorous story. Otherwise he is going to hate your guts. And rightly so.
I suppose one thing is fairly obvious in all of this. Belief in these characters is linked to innocence and naivety, a quality that soon disappears from our children these days to be replaced by Hood's and WkD drinks on a park bench. If you let it take its natural course, I assume the idea of a rabbit that not only defecates chocolate, but does it in egg form as well, would be the first to go, closely followed by the Tooth Fairies dental turrets. Santa will always be the last one to go, and whilst he is perhaps the strangest and possibly most disturbing idea of them all, his death will also see the death of your young, smiling happy child and will be the dawn and herald of the terrible teens.
To bring you all up to date, several theories have been batted about so far and even some serious suggestions, believe it or not. A common age that keeps being brought up is 7. At 7 you have been at school for 2 years, have made the break out of reception and free playtime milk and are firmly on course to learning joined up writing, pasta art and your 9 times table, which lets face it are all the life skills you will need to cope with learning that Mr Claus isn't real. By the age of 7 you have lost that facade of innocence that allows children to repeat the rude word their Grandad said when he stubbed his toe and be found cute and adorable. It has been crushed out of you by the realisation that you have at the very least 10 more years of school, homework, detentions, playground politics, 'see me' comments and lumpy mashed potato before you can start making something of your life.
Equally, by the time the child gets to 8 or 9 shockingly, they are only 1 or 2 years away from going to High school. High school leads to Teenagers which as we all know, leads to Hoodies, weed and ASBO'S. 8 or 9 is also the age where you realise that belief in Ol'Kringle is inextricably linked with the quality and indeed quantity of the presents that you receive. At this age the more switched on kids have seen the episode of The Simpson's that deals with the existence of Santa Claus, or some such TV programme and have continued the pretence in order to make the most of his bounty. It wont be until they hit High School or a year before, where it becomes 'uncool' to believe in St Nick that they give up the charade and call you down.
So, we have established the optimum age to disclose the lie you have been telling your child for all of their short life. But hang on, there is a worry here, something we haven't taken into account. What if the child finds out before you tell it? His (for the sake of this argument, the child is male) whole life you have been telling him not to lie or cheat, whilst at the same time continuing to insult his intelligence year in year out at Christmas, Easter and every time one of his teeth falls out. Oh the irony!! No wonder we have bred a generation of Hooligans. Myself, I was told when I was 6 by my parents whilst I was still young enough for it to hurt, but not old enough to associate the realisation with my parents telling me lies every Christmas. Had I been older however, it would almost certainly have been different. If they had waited a couple more years before they either told me or I found out through the Box, there would have been hell to pay...
"So you are telling me, Mummy dearest, that in actual fact a fat old man wearing red pyjamas with a penchant for having small children sit on his knee pleading their case as to whether they have been a naughty boy or not, does not creep into our house either via the chimney or as smoke that passes through the letterbox and dish out the huge mounds of presents that you have actually been buying me because you feel guilty for lying to me my whole life? So I assume the fairy that builds castles out of my teeth in exchange for a 50 pence piece's and the giant bunny who shits Easter eggs all over the lawn every spring are out of the window as well?!?!?!?!" I would of course be livid, as would any child, so timing is crucial.
The next question is, how? How do you tell them? The best suggestion I have heard so far (apart from the ethnic cleansing of all make believe children's annual characters by some evil tyrant (if you want to indoctrinate your child further then make the bad guy something that will reflect on him in later life; Graham Norton, Gordon Brown and Jim Davidson for example, would ensure that you child grows up to be a Heterosexual, ethnically friendly Tory)) is 'The Car Accident'. The Reindeer are tired after a hard Christmas of flying, the global population of children is increasing and Rudolph is getting on a bit. Santa has dropped them off at home and is the designated driver for the annual Make Believe Christmas Party and has picked up his good friends, the Tooth fairy and Easter Bunny. On route, they are all having a sing song, with the Bunny providing some chocolate snacks and the tooth fairy paying for the red bull at the service station with a big stack of 50 pence pieces. From nowhere an 18 wheeler full of Petrol driven by the Bogeyman ploughs into Santa's car, killing the lot of them in a blazing inferno. This achieves two things - No more midnight calls to check under the bed and in the wardrobe for signs of the Bogeyman, as 'no one could have escaped that crash son' and most importantly in a kind of Ocean Finance style lie; it cancels out all of the little lies you told your son and replaces it with one big one. Here's hoping your son doesn't cotton on until he is old enough to realise the irony in this and think kindly of you for creating such a humorous story. Otherwise he is going to hate your guts. And rightly so.
I suppose one thing is fairly obvious in all of this. Belief in these characters is linked to innocence and naivety, a quality that soon disappears from our children these days to be replaced by Hood's and WkD drinks on a park bench. If you let it take its natural course, I assume the idea of a rabbit that not only defecates chocolate, but does it in egg form as well, would be the first to go, closely followed by the Tooth Fairies dental turrets. Santa will always be the last one to go, and whilst he is perhaps the strangest and possibly most disturbing idea of them all, his death will also see the death of your young, smiling happy child and will be the dawn and herald of the terrible teens.
Wednesday, 17 December 2008
He's the most tip top - Top Cat...
I used to actually quite like our feline friends. Cat's, I've found tend to fall into two categories, those who spit and scratch at you and those who like to wrap themselves around your legs as you are trying to walk down stairs.
Crazy cat lady has killed it for me. If I never hear a story about her Cats again it will be too soon. Now, pictures like the above leave me in fits of giggles. After the 4Th morning in a row with nothing but endless, 'You'll never guess what Molly was up to last night, or Tilly has chewed through my Christmas tree wires again..." I have had enough. She seems to have spent huge amounts of money constantly buying new mobile chargers and Christmas tree lights because her cats have chewed through them. As they were pedigree cats (which I assume means they are even more stuck up and up their own arses than normal cats) and cost £600 each, and, I have heard her mention 3 new sets of lights plus 4 phone chargers, I estimate that with food, injections, insurance and toys / collars etc these cats cost her over £3,000 a year. THREE GRAND A YEAR!?!?!?!?!?!?! (Insert your own Pussy related joke here). If you want to spend £3k a year on something that will give you undying love, constant dependence and undying affection then have a baby. Or are you too socially inept, fat, ugly and jaded to find someone that is crazy enough to want to conceive a child with you in the same house that is covered with tiny cat Santa outfits and bits of chewed wire, where you can never charge your phone and have to put up with constant cat facts and miaow based ring tones?
So, in order to channel my anger into something useful - here are my 'top 5 ways to kill a cat'
(5) Impaling Stick - What kind of an Impaling Stick Aficionado would I be if I didn't make sure the Stick made an appearance in this list. The only difference being that It would be 3 meters high and I would rough up the side so there was maximum splinterage on impact. You could get about 30 on there if you tried hard enough...
(4) Psychology Matters - A vaguely remembered Psychology A-Level lesson in which Kittens were put on minimal surfaced plant pots in a bathtub full of water and kept constantly away to test the results of sleep deprivation. If the cat fell asleep it fell of its perch and drowned. One of the key hypothesis was - "Will cats learn from their fellows mistakes".
(3) Chicken - Put a cat in a basket. Take the basket to the side of the M1 motorway. Spin the basket around as fast as possible whilst placing bets with your Friends on how many lanes of busy rush hour traffic the cat will make it across when you suddenly sound a fog horn and open the basket...
(2) Herro? Chi-neese Tek-away? - Quite simply, tie the cat up to a bush outside a Chinese takeaway. Come back the next day. In the meantime order a Sweet and Sour Chicken. When you come back, if it has survived, take it to the next one. Have bests on how many it will last.
(1) Real Life Whack - attack - What it says on the tin. Plus you can take out more than one. I recommend a sledge hammer.
Of course, I genuinely do like cats. But I couldn't eat a whole one.
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