I’ve recently re-discovered The Thick of It, BBC 4’s brilliant comedy set in a fictitious government department. I caught a couple of episodes about two years ago, but lost track of it until the new series emerged last week. It is painfully funny, superbly executed and takes the most revealing and disturbing look at civil servants and politicians since Yes, Minister. The back-stabbing, the spin, the arse-licking and the cover-ups help worsen an already poor opinion of all who weald power or are trying to gain power in Westminster. So, it’s satire with a painfully real insight that helps us hate and scrutinize some of the bastards in Whitehall a little bit more; which is a good thing, I think.
But watching it did make me sad. Well, not sad really, just envious.
The main protagonist, Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications at Number 10, uses some of the most amazing put-downs and swear-riddled ‘verbal colonics’ I’ve ever witnessed. He specialises in spin and battering any minister or civil servant that aggravates him or doesn’t tow the party line. He tears people to shreds, whether they really ‘deserve’ it or not, and it’s a joy to watch. But I imagine it’s more fun to actually do it.
In my role in a call centre, I have to face a great deal of abuse, stupidity and utter tedium thanks to the callers and the procedures my company has to follow (to do with insurance claims, bonds, pensions etc). In the environment of customer service, you cannot, under any circumstances, point out just how wrong the customer is. It doesn’t matter if they talk like a lobotomized dog with a speech impediment and have all the common sense of a hedgehog crossing the M40; they are ‘always right’ and we have to treat them with respect.
I’d like just one day of amnesty where I can let my natural misanthropy flow and really put some of the utter cretins that call me in their place. Whether it’s the snooty Daily Mail reader who can’t seem to read or accept the small print (the ones that cry ‘Watchdog!’ the second something doesn’t go their way), or the financial advisor that talks like they know more about your own product than you do (a lot of IFAs are often work-shy, glorified car salesmen who are terrified of their clients). I just want one chance to really tear them a new one and make them understand just how stupid some of their questions are.
E.g. ‘If you don’t listen to what I’m saying and follow our reasonable instructions for making this claim, I will be forced to roll up your policy terms and conditions into a tight baton, then force it so far up your arse that you’ll be spitting paperclips when you blow out the candles on your 70th.’
Or something like that, it’ll come to me when I’ve actually got the unsuspecting dolt on the phone. Now, to anyone who sees what I just wrote as a little harsh; spend just one Monday morning in this office and see just how quickly your contempt for mankind will rise. You’ll be cursing an IFA’s unborn children before your first break at 11. I suppose I’m in the wrong business really. I can do the job more than competently and professionally, I just hate it.
On second thought, it would be dangerous to give me that ‘free-reign’ to abuse and put down even if it’s just for a day. For one thing, we’d receive more complaints the following day than a Jane Moir article after Elton John’s funeral. Worse still, I’d probably become addicted to the thrill of just saying what I want. I’d get hooked on letting the angst I normally have to mask just take flight, like some venomous bird from Hades.
I’d become unemployable in any public-facing role and I’d wind up in an office worker’s rehab facility; slowly chewing my own tongue off and swearing at all the radiators. Worst case scenario is I get a job in the civil service instead. Might not need to sew my tongue back on either; I could lick MPs arses and lie to the press at the same time.
Monday, 26 October 2009
An Ode to Nothing Much (a poem/song)
The average conversations or intimate relations,
Moves like an agony of wasps on a child’s bear foot,
Or they simply stay put,
The day to day person, or equivalent version,
Is as self-absorbed as a collapsed star most of the time,
Or just when killing mine,
The facts and statistics that are spewed by sophistics,
Tend to support whatever ‘values’ they’ve learnt recently,
Or read up on Wiki,
These bleak observations and hollow citations,
Go further to explaining myself than shedding much light.
On you or your life,
But so what? If you’ve got
Your own take, then fuck off and write.
Moves like an agony of wasps on a child’s bear foot,
Or they simply stay put,
The day to day person, or equivalent version,
Is as self-absorbed as a collapsed star most of the time,
Or just when killing mine,
The facts and statistics that are spewed by sophistics,
Tend to support whatever ‘values’ they’ve learnt recently,
Or read up on Wiki,
These bleak observations and hollow citations,
Go further to explaining myself than shedding much light.
On you or your life,
But so what? If you’ve got
Your own take, then fuck off and write.
Saturday, 24 October 2009
'The Awww Bless Factor'
It doesn't matter that Tony Blair dragged us into an illegal and immoral war, or that he smarmed up to 'big business' and hung the rest of us out to dry via New Labour because he had a winning smile and did that sketch with Catherine Tate. Awww bless!
It's much the same story with weekly bile fest The X Factor. Every week the search for a talented singer / performer with that special 'x factor' is over-shadowed by the search for the contestant we like the most. Am I wrong in thinking this isn't what a talent contest should be about?
The contestant's family / back story are focussed on as much as their actual ability, which makes the actual performance seem pointless. Why else would those hideous twins still be there!? They're 'entertaining' like Timmy Mallet is entertaining; might make you chuckle, but mostly just creeps you out. Then tonight we had Stacey singing a flat version of a Disney song...for Big Band week...hmmm. But the crappy song choice aside, all the judges seemed to comment on was how 'nice' she is. Then the adorable simpleton voice kicks in and everyone coos like they're watching a dumb puppy walking into a patio door.
I guess this is what counts now; likable characters, regardless of actual talent. Paul McCartney is referred to as being a bit of a twat (a friend of mine, a scouser, says he looks 'shifty and doesn't have a nice face'). But...he gave us 'Yesterday' and 'Let It Be'. If he turned up on a contest like The X Factor the fact that he is a musical genius would pale compared to whether he was likable or not. Maybe if he put on a thicker scouse accent and talked about his working class background, he'd get to the quarter finals. "This song is called 'Hey Jude'...and it's dedicated to me Ma". Awwwwww bless!!
It's much the same story with weekly bile fest The X Factor. Every week the search for a talented singer / performer with that special 'x factor' is over-shadowed by the search for the contestant we like the most. Am I wrong in thinking this isn't what a talent contest should be about?
The contestant's family / back story are focussed on as much as their actual ability, which makes the actual performance seem pointless. Why else would those hideous twins still be there!? They're 'entertaining' like Timmy Mallet is entertaining; might make you chuckle, but mostly just creeps you out. Then tonight we had Stacey singing a flat version of a Disney song...for Big Band week...hmmm. But the crappy song choice aside, all the judges seemed to comment on was how 'nice' she is. Then the adorable simpleton voice kicks in and everyone coos like they're watching a dumb puppy walking into a patio door.
I guess this is what counts now; likable characters, regardless of actual talent. Paul McCartney is referred to as being a bit of a twat (a friend of mine, a scouser, says he looks 'shifty and doesn't have a nice face'). But...he gave us 'Yesterday' and 'Let It Be'. If he turned up on a contest like The X Factor the fact that he is a musical genius would pale compared to whether he was likable or not. Maybe if he put on a thicker scouse accent and talked about his working class background, he'd get to the quarter finals. "This song is called 'Hey Jude'...and it's dedicated to me Ma". Awwwwww bless!!
Thursday, 22 October 2009
'Don't Call it a "Comeback"'
Yeah, best not to refer to Robbie’s recent re-surfacing as a ‘comeback’; might make it sound like he’s got something new and exciting to offer. Never been a fan of his; there’s something about a prancing tit with mediocre vocals and average songs being pawed over by thick chav girls that just doesn’t quite do it for me, you know? The fact that Take That swooped back into chart success so easily, and with a few decent tunes, is testament to the fact that they have both talent and popularity. Robbie, on the other hand, has always seemed to thrive on the ‘popularity’ element, rather than being a consistently good artist.
In fact, he’s not an artist; he’s an ‘entertainer’. What does that mean exactly? Butlins Red Coats are entertainers, but I wouldn’t put them on a sold-out stadium tour. You can electrocute a small cat and it’ll bounce around in an entertaining way, but that doesn’t mean it should be encouraged. It seems the mantle of ‘entertainer’ has been applied by those who realise that he’s not that good vocally and his songs aren’t great, but he’s cocky and fun and oooh tickle his tummy he likes that! Who’s a good recovering depressed drug abuser? Who’s a good little pop star? You are! Yeeeees, you are!
His life / lifestyle will be commented on far more than his music, which might be sensible considering his music sucks the sweat off a dead gazelle’s bum. He’ll be photographed constantly and appear in Heat almost as often as Jordan or Cheryl Cole until he stops being weird or ‘on the edge’ and then they’ll dump him like a baby in a skip. The same tasteless, tacky chav girls will fawn over him they way they do over Peter Andre and he’ll have some success on the back of those fans who really think ‘Angels’ is a great and beautiful song. But within a few months, unless he gets a talent transplant ASAP, he’ll be back in the bargain bin of a late night garage before you can say ‘Rude Box’.
In fact, he’s not an artist; he’s an ‘entertainer’. What does that mean exactly? Butlins Red Coats are entertainers, but I wouldn’t put them on a sold-out stadium tour. You can electrocute a small cat and it’ll bounce around in an entertaining way, but that doesn’t mean it should be encouraged. It seems the mantle of ‘entertainer’ has been applied by those who realise that he’s not that good vocally and his songs aren’t great, but he’s cocky and fun and oooh tickle his tummy he likes that! Who’s a good recovering depressed drug abuser? Who’s a good little pop star? You are! Yeeeees, you are!
His life / lifestyle will be commented on far more than his music, which might be sensible considering his music sucks the sweat off a dead gazelle’s bum. He’ll be photographed constantly and appear in Heat almost as often as Jordan or Cheryl Cole until he stops being weird or ‘on the edge’ and then they’ll dump him like a baby in a skip. The same tasteless, tacky chav girls will fawn over him they way they do over Peter Andre and he’ll have some success on the back of those fans who really think ‘Angels’ is a great and beautiful song. But within a few months, unless he gets a talent transplant ASAP, he’ll be back in the bargain bin of a late night garage before you can say ‘Rude Box’.
BNP: Bloody Nonsense Party, Bigoted Nasty Prats etc
Too often, when it comes to the BNP, those of us with a rational mind and an average to high degree of intelligence are tempted to just hurl insults (or eggs). It is all too easy to just blow a raspberry in the face of such blinkered bigotry and hope it will go away. We need to challenge these idiots head on with facts, rationality and, well, the truth instead of their propaganda. This is the sensible and lasting way to destroy the ideas and ‘values’ of the BNP.
The trouble is, and I might be alone here but what the hell, every time I see, hear or read a single utterance from anyone who supports or is a part of the BNP, all I can think about is repeatedly bashing them across the head with a brick dipped in vomit and stale piss. All I want is for them to disappear, not necessarily to ‘die’, but just to not exist anymore. A puff of smoke and the bastard racist is gone. Magic.
Racism of any kind is something that I’ve just never understood; that capacity to hate based on nothing but someone’s outward appearance and ‘race’, stuff that they can’t help and shouldn’t need to apologise for. I watched the recent Panorama special ‘Hate on the Doorstep’, where two undercover Asian reporters posed as a couple who’ve recently moved into the Southmead estate in Bristol. They wore concealed cameras whenever they went outside and the house they were renting was rigged with cameras too. When I think about the stuff they filmed during the weeks they lived on that estate, my blood boils. I find that my fists clench in rage when I watch a random thug walk up to the male journalist and just punch him in the head without provocation. I want to scream in anger when the female journalist is threatened by a brick-wielding kid wanting to mug her. Every snide comment and shout of ‘Paki’ makes me want to cry. During their stay, they we verbally and physically abused over 50 times by kids and adults on that estate and on the St Anne’s estate a few miles away. The first day that they arrived at their rented house, there were BNP pamphlets on the doorstep. This estate and many like it are the BNP’s ‘target market’; ignorant and ‘working class’ racists looking to take out their frustrations on a blameless but easy scapegoat. A scapegoat the BNP are happy to point out in exchange for votes.
With Nick Griffin appearing on Question Time tonight, I hope some difficult and revealing questions are asked of him. If I was there, this question would be the one I’d like to ask him:
‘Mr Griffin, with the recent BBC Panorama special exposing extreme racism on an estate that your party has leafleted, would you say that the violent and abusive attitude the residents aimed at the Asian reporters is something you would condone or would find acceptable from supporters of your party?’
No doubt Griffin would condone the actions of those on the film and make out that any in his party that behave that way are certainly in a minority, despite the image ‘the press’ puts across.
‘I see, so any in your party that are outwardly racist are in a minority and shouldn’t tarnish the reputation of the party as a whole…much like the minority that make up the ‘ethnic’ population of this country. Or the minority of extremists that carry out terrorist attacks in the name of Islam. Or the MINORITY of ‘ethnic’ youths that commit crimes against ‘whites’. Yet this minority is such a danger, such a supposed threat to the ‘decent, white majority’ you think they should all be deported. That minority of extremists make Islam an “evil and wicked” religion, your own words. Does that same argument work with the Catholic Church and the clergyman convicted of child abuse? Is the irony of all that lost on you, Mr Griffin, or are you as ignorant and bigoted as the ‘minority’ that we saw on film?’
To be honest, I hope someone sneaks in a pool cue and cracks the smug fucker’s skull wide open, but a tricky question is just as good. It’s not that the BNP are something to fear really, or that they are a legitimate political force that must be challenged…they’re just too stupid and infuriating to live. Extreme, moi?
The trouble is, and I might be alone here but what the hell, every time I see, hear or read a single utterance from anyone who supports or is a part of the BNP, all I can think about is repeatedly bashing them across the head with a brick dipped in vomit and stale piss. All I want is for them to disappear, not necessarily to ‘die’, but just to not exist anymore. A puff of smoke and the bastard racist is gone. Magic.
Racism of any kind is something that I’ve just never understood; that capacity to hate based on nothing but someone’s outward appearance and ‘race’, stuff that they can’t help and shouldn’t need to apologise for. I watched the recent Panorama special ‘Hate on the Doorstep’, where two undercover Asian reporters posed as a couple who’ve recently moved into the Southmead estate in Bristol. They wore concealed cameras whenever they went outside and the house they were renting was rigged with cameras too. When I think about the stuff they filmed during the weeks they lived on that estate, my blood boils. I find that my fists clench in rage when I watch a random thug walk up to the male journalist and just punch him in the head without provocation. I want to scream in anger when the female journalist is threatened by a brick-wielding kid wanting to mug her. Every snide comment and shout of ‘Paki’ makes me want to cry. During their stay, they we verbally and physically abused over 50 times by kids and adults on that estate and on the St Anne’s estate a few miles away. The first day that they arrived at their rented house, there were BNP pamphlets on the doorstep. This estate and many like it are the BNP’s ‘target market’; ignorant and ‘working class’ racists looking to take out their frustrations on a blameless but easy scapegoat. A scapegoat the BNP are happy to point out in exchange for votes.
With Nick Griffin appearing on Question Time tonight, I hope some difficult and revealing questions are asked of him. If I was there, this question would be the one I’d like to ask him:
‘Mr Griffin, with the recent BBC Panorama special exposing extreme racism on an estate that your party has leafleted, would you say that the violent and abusive attitude the residents aimed at the Asian reporters is something you would condone or would find acceptable from supporters of your party?’
No doubt Griffin would condone the actions of those on the film and make out that any in his party that behave that way are certainly in a minority, despite the image ‘the press’ puts across.
‘I see, so any in your party that are outwardly racist are in a minority and shouldn’t tarnish the reputation of the party as a whole…much like the minority that make up the ‘ethnic’ population of this country. Or the minority of extremists that carry out terrorist attacks in the name of Islam. Or the MINORITY of ‘ethnic’ youths that commit crimes against ‘whites’. Yet this minority is such a danger, such a supposed threat to the ‘decent, white majority’ you think they should all be deported. That minority of extremists make Islam an “evil and wicked” religion, your own words. Does that same argument work with the Catholic Church and the clergyman convicted of child abuse? Is the irony of all that lost on you, Mr Griffin, or are you as ignorant and bigoted as the ‘minority’ that we saw on film?’
To be honest, I hope someone sneaks in a pool cue and cracks the smug fucker’s skull wide open, but a tricky question is just as good. It’s not that the BNP are something to fear really, or that they are a legitimate political force that must be challenged…they’re just too stupid and infuriating to live. Extreme, moi?
Monday, 19 October 2009
'Read All About It'
I delight in annoying certain people. I like to say or do things that would be considered ‘controversial’ because I simply don’t trust given / mainstream things; this goes for everything from religion to pop culture (not read a single Harry Potter book precisely because they are so arse-bleedingly popular). This attitude does make me come across as cruel, intolerant and elitist, which is only partly true. I’m not a very cruel person, though just like everyone else I am capable of thinking quite cruel and vicious things. I am extremely tolerant, up to a point; I’m not in any way racist, homophobic or bigoted, I’m not sexist and I don’t discriminate against anyone based on anything as shallow and stupid as their nationality. I’m not really elitist; in many ways I abhor the idea that anyone is superior to anyone else.
But despite all this I can make the following statement:
‘I hope the editor of the Daily Mail chokes on his own vomit and rids the world of their filth and the readership gets incurable infections in their genitals’.
Now, this statement may seem to tick all of the offensive characteristics mentioned above and in many ways it does, I suppose. The only valid excuse or reason I can give for this is that my hatred, intolerance and feeling of superiority over these Fleet Street swill-merchants can be completely justified and explained (whereas most of their hate-mongering articles can’t).
One thing to say from the outset; now matter how much I hate these people and what they stand for, I don’t actually wish death on them. I wouldn’t care if they did drop dead tomorrow from a heart attack or a sniper’s bullet, but I certainly don’t want / wish for it to happen. I am a rational and sane human being and I couldn’t kill anyone. I just say I do as a way of conveying just how much anger the likes of the Daily Mail brings out in me. On the flip side, both the makers and faithful readers of this fine publication would print and read something like ‘Death By Stoning For All Paedophiles’ or ‘Asylum Seekers Responsible for 90% of Rapes’ and be completely serious!!! (had to add three exclamations to that one because it makes me so angry and confused that if I were I say this out loud I’d wind up screaming involuntarily).
This paper is the voice of the scared and stupid of Middle England, what Richard Nixon referred to as ‘the silent majority’ (you know, the ones who thought Vietnam was a good idea and spat at disabled veterans who disagreed). It’s fitting that they are called ‘the silent majority’ because they do tend to keep their mouths shut and get all their ideas and opinions fed to them through a straw by the likes of the Daily Mail. They are spine-less, ignorant and lacking basic common sense.
What makes my hatred of someone I don’t know different from theirs? Well, for one thing, you can bet that any immigrant-hating, prudish homophobe Tory who reads the Mail has never met an immigrant or homosexual in his life, but is more than willing to loathe them based on no factual information or first hand experience. Whereas I can spew acidic bile at the Daily Mail because I’ve read their articles and have enough intelligence to know an agenda-driven piece of populist propaganda when I see it.
Three articles in particular that highlight their obvious and absurd ‘values’.
1) The recent population boom: The Independent had a headline of ‘Population Goes Past 60 Million’. The Sun said ‘Randy Couples Push Population Over 60 Million’. The Mail said; ‘Immigrant Mothers Push Population Over 60 Million’. Hmmmm, I smell biased and prejudice.
2) The ‘Emo’ article: This piece focussed on the ‘suicide cult’ surrounding ‘emo’
rock music and it’s fans. Also mentioned how the music actively encouraged kids to kill themselves and self-harm. Well, speaking as someone who’s been a fan of that genre of music and an ex ‘self-harmer’, that analysis is utter crap and conjecture fuelled by parental paranoia. I cut myself for my own personal reasons and if anything, music like that helped me feel less alone and depressed.
3) The recent ‘Stephen Gately’ article: A hideous woman with a clearly homophobic
attitude had the gaul to say that Stephen Gately’s death was not from ‘natural causes’ as the coroner concluded but that it was a result of his ‘lifestyle’. (Basically, homosexuality and all that depravity that goes with it, kills young men, somehow…not sure how, but it does because it’s wrong…and bad…and I think)..
SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!! You vile, despicable bitch!! Fuck you and your rag! You are the poison that has infected this country and made us hate and fear each other for no good reason. You are dinosaurs that need to be made extinct!
So yeah, from me you get a degree of intolerance, plenty of cruel intentions and a sense of superiority to boot. But fucking hell, can you really blame me?? I think I have a case, yeah? If you don’t agree, you might want to check your nether regions tonight.
*Puts away voodoo dolls and newspaper clippings*
But despite all this I can make the following statement:
‘I hope the editor of the Daily Mail chokes on his own vomit and rids the world of their filth and the readership gets incurable infections in their genitals’.
Now, this statement may seem to tick all of the offensive characteristics mentioned above and in many ways it does, I suppose. The only valid excuse or reason I can give for this is that my hatred, intolerance and feeling of superiority over these Fleet Street swill-merchants can be completely justified and explained (whereas most of their hate-mongering articles can’t).
One thing to say from the outset; now matter how much I hate these people and what they stand for, I don’t actually wish death on them. I wouldn’t care if they did drop dead tomorrow from a heart attack or a sniper’s bullet, but I certainly don’t want / wish for it to happen. I am a rational and sane human being and I couldn’t kill anyone. I just say I do as a way of conveying just how much anger the likes of the Daily Mail brings out in me. On the flip side, both the makers and faithful readers of this fine publication would print and read something like ‘Death By Stoning For All Paedophiles’ or ‘Asylum Seekers Responsible for 90% of Rapes’ and be completely serious!!! (had to add three exclamations to that one because it makes me so angry and confused that if I were I say this out loud I’d wind up screaming involuntarily).
This paper is the voice of the scared and stupid of Middle England, what Richard Nixon referred to as ‘the silent majority’ (you know, the ones who thought Vietnam was a good idea and spat at disabled veterans who disagreed). It’s fitting that they are called ‘the silent majority’ because they do tend to keep their mouths shut and get all their ideas and opinions fed to them through a straw by the likes of the Daily Mail. They are spine-less, ignorant and lacking basic common sense.
What makes my hatred of someone I don’t know different from theirs? Well, for one thing, you can bet that any immigrant-hating, prudish homophobe Tory who reads the Mail has never met an immigrant or homosexual in his life, but is more than willing to loathe them based on no factual information or first hand experience. Whereas I can spew acidic bile at the Daily Mail because I’ve read their articles and have enough intelligence to know an agenda-driven piece of populist propaganda when I see it.
Three articles in particular that highlight their obvious and absurd ‘values’.
1) The recent population boom: The Independent had a headline of ‘Population Goes Past 60 Million’. The Sun said ‘Randy Couples Push Population Over 60 Million’. The Mail said; ‘Immigrant Mothers Push Population Over 60 Million’. Hmmmm, I smell biased and prejudice.
2) The ‘Emo’ article: This piece focussed on the ‘suicide cult’ surrounding ‘emo’
rock music and it’s fans. Also mentioned how the music actively encouraged kids to kill themselves and self-harm. Well, speaking as someone who’s been a fan of that genre of music and an ex ‘self-harmer’, that analysis is utter crap and conjecture fuelled by parental paranoia. I cut myself for my own personal reasons and if anything, music like that helped me feel less alone and depressed.
3) The recent ‘Stephen Gately’ article: A hideous woman with a clearly homophobic
attitude had the gaul to say that Stephen Gately’s death was not from ‘natural causes’ as the coroner concluded but that it was a result of his ‘lifestyle’. (Basically, homosexuality and all that depravity that goes with it, kills young men, somehow…not sure how, but it does because it’s wrong…and bad…and I think)..
SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!! You vile, despicable bitch!! Fuck you and your rag! You are the poison that has infected this country and made us hate and fear each other for no good reason. You are dinosaurs that need to be made extinct!
So yeah, from me you get a degree of intolerance, plenty of cruel intentions and a sense of superiority to boot. But fucking hell, can you really blame me?? I think I have a case, yeah? If you don’t agree, you might want to check your nether regions tonight.
*Puts away voodoo dolls and newspaper clippings*
Saturday, 17 October 2009
A Short Quiz
Here’s a novel idea (resisting urge to make a ‘book’ based joke); I’m gonna do a little quiz, but one that’s not reliant on salient facts. I do have a lot of useless facts stored in my head like so much ‘Cash in the Attic’ clutter, so I love doing quizzes of any kind to prove / fake how clever I am. But in this instance, I’m doing a quiz to see if anyone reading these pixilated scrawls shares my viewpoint of certain people (basically, it’s the first meeting of ‘Kill-joy Misanthropes Anonymous’, with a fun quiz to see if you’re eligible to join).
I’m going to describe some people in my own special way and see if you can spot who they are. Please comment or e-mail me your answers and I’ll post the actual answers at a later date.
On your marks, get set, stay sitting down and read!!
1) A bizarre combination of bailiff and vicar; a more severely split personality than Edward Norton’s character in ‘Fight Club’. He comes across as someone who would comfort his child after they’d wet the bed but then swiftly change gears to call them a ‘pissy pants Nancy’ if they said someone he didn’t like. Entertaining, but an ultimately a total cunt.
2) There have been many unsolved mysteries across human experience; such as the Marie Celeste, the Bermuda triangle and the identity of ‘the Stig’. But one of the biggest is why this woman is given ANY airtime at all. Considering her ‘credentials’ and her hideous, poison-filled mask of a face, I can’t understand why she’s in a position to judge anyone or have her opinion treated like gospel. Might be because she has a far more successful sister.
3) Looks like he has no soul; just a mannequin in a suit with a ‘Blair circa 1997’ winning smile. Seems to embody everything that can be wrong with middle England; self-interest, narrow-mindedness, eager to climb in social status at any cost (not that he could climb much higher already without becoming royalty). Plus he promotes the use of utter twats as city mayors.
4) Exactly what the country needs; a welcome tonic from years of ignorance and aggression. The public seem to fear / suspect his intelligence and see him as ‘elitist’. But it’s about time someone with actual intelligence and grace held that position. Besides, you can’t get more elitist than his predecessor (oil baron, multi-millionaire).
5) Exactly what this country doesn’t need. A vile, self-serving, bigoted opportunist with just one point of view that is tragically flawed and comically delivered by his faithful followers. Has all the sophistication of a tabloid headline with half the insight; I would grin ear to ear if I heard some sniper took him out while he was ‘campaigning’.
I’m going to describe some people in my own special way and see if you can spot who they are. Please comment or e-mail me your answers and I’ll post the actual answers at a later date.
On your marks, get set, stay sitting down and read!!
1) A bizarre combination of bailiff and vicar; a more severely split personality than Edward Norton’s character in ‘Fight Club’. He comes across as someone who would comfort his child after they’d wet the bed but then swiftly change gears to call them a ‘pissy pants Nancy’ if they said someone he didn’t like. Entertaining, but an ultimately a total cunt.
2) There have been many unsolved mysteries across human experience; such as the Marie Celeste, the Bermuda triangle and the identity of ‘the Stig’. But one of the biggest is why this woman is given ANY airtime at all. Considering her ‘credentials’ and her hideous, poison-filled mask of a face, I can’t understand why she’s in a position to judge anyone or have her opinion treated like gospel. Might be because she has a far more successful sister.
3) Looks like he has no soul; just a mannequin in a suit with a ‘Blair circa 1997’ winning smile. Seems to embody everything that can be wrong with middle England; self-interest, narrow-mindedness, eager to climb in social status at any cost (not that he could climb much higher already without becoming royalty). Plus he promotes the use of utter twats as city mayors.
4) Exactly what the country needs; a welcome tonic from years of ignorance and aggression. The public seem to fear / suspect his intelligence and see him as ‘elitist’. But it’s about time someone with actual intelligence and grace held that position. Besides, you can’t get more elitist than his predecessor (oil baron, multi-millionaire).
5) Exactly what this country doesn’t need. A vile, self-serving, bigoted opportunist with just one point of view that is tragically flawed and comically delivered by his faithful followers. Has all the sophistication of a tabloid headline with half the insight; I would grin ear to ear if I heard some sniper took him out while he was ‘campaigning’.
Friday, 16 October 2009
'Where is my mind?...No, seriously'
I literally cannot think of a specific topic to write about. What with my current exhausted state, combined with emotional upheaval at home and being interrupted every 2 minutes by ‘work’, it’s hard to focus and maintain one clear thought or idea. My mind is one long, tired sigh right now. Hmmmmm. (a written sigh, what you think?)
So, I’ll just type away and let whatever pops into my head become immortalised in written form (that is until this blog is deleted along with stockpiles of other supposedly ‘immortal’ works the world over; servers are not the same as scrolls). I’m like one of the infinite numbers of monkeys pulled out of their vivisection day-job to sit at a type-writer and pound the keys in earnest, pausing only to throw their own excrement at fellow primates then eat a banana without washing their hands.
This could be viewed as a very stretched metaphor for every office job there is. And before you take offense, that’s not just a dig at office workers and comparing them to chimps…but we are really, let’s face it. Hundreds, thousands, trillions of us all typing and clicking away; working hard on one tiny part of a far grander scheme. Like with each completed word on every typewriter, striving to make up a great novel by sheer will…or something.
Hmmm…OK, that wee metaphor collapsed like an emphysemic landlady climbing the stairs in winter. I’m not very good at writing am I? Never mind, plenty more fish in the sea. Grass is always greener on the other side. What doesn’t kill you just hurts like an acid–tipped dentist’s drill and makes you wish you were dead.
One annoying phrase that really pisses me off is ‘every cloud has a silver lining’; that bizarre notion that every shitty, soul-raping event in life has something good to offer too. It’s like being stabbed in the gut by a psychotic clown on Christmas morning in front of your whole family. The clown’s laughing and grinding his black, rotting teeth while your loved ones scream and reach out to your prostrate, bleeding body. But as your life ebbs away (pulse slowing, eye lids getting heavy) you suddenly realise; hey, now I can use that organ donor card! Years of that tatty slip of plastic just sitting in my wallet unused have come to an end; I’m going to die, but I’ll save someone else’s life with my organs (except for my bleeding liver of course). Take that Bono! Sod ya Geldof! I’m going to actively save fellow human beings by dieing and really giving something back…I AM JESUS! I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH AND THE L…..At which point you die, basking in the warm glow of that ‘silver lining’.
Except that wouldn’t happen. Your brutal death would not be any less awful knowing that your bits of muscle and plasma were going to a stranger who for all you know could be the killer clown’s best mate or uncle. Same as when you find a ticket on your windscreen from the patrolling traffic Nazis, you don’t stop and think ‘Well, at least I’ll be helping traffic warden junior pay for his braces’. Sometimes shit happens; and it’s nothing but shit.
On the subject of organ donation, I agree with something David Mitchell once said on ‘Mock the Week’; that when you die, your body should revert to the State to have the organs harvested. The problem of a shortage of donor organs would be solved right away and it might help us curb the ridiculous notion that what happens to your body after you aren’t using it anymore is important. If these organs weren’t harvested, they’d just rot in the ground or be turned to ash in an oven. I’ve always said I’d want to be cremated because I don’t like the idea of my remains being slowly eaten by worms. But when I think about it, I’d like my body to be harvested for all that can be useful then immediately burnt to cinders, all within hours of my death (because if there’s one thing I dislike more than being eaten by worms, it’s having my corpse fiddled with by medical students. I mean…where were they while I was alive? It’s just rude to only find me sexually appealing when I’m dead!). Your loved ones can still have the ritual of a funeral / remembrance service if they want, just no need to have your body there as far as I can see; it’s not like you’re gonna be propped up to make a speech at the end.
And now a brief interval, I’m gonna be rambling on for a bit longer so stop here and go and make a coffee…I’ll just kill time ‘til you’re done.
Go on!
GO!
Yes, I’m ordering you, assumed reader, to fuck off and have a drink…there’s too much pressure to perform right now…just want to have a few minutes peace, OK?...Why are you still reading??? I know some of you have got up for a drink or to slap your children, but the rest are still reading or have come back from said drink / slap and are reading back over what they’ve missed. FINE! You’ve wasted your chance to take an actual break from reading this drivel, be it on your own head. Word-reading shower of bastards…
Anywho, right now my mouth tastes like what I imagine the inside of a camel’s arse is like. Or a policeman’s used underwear. Or a shy turtle’s neckerchief. Basically, it doesn’t taste too good right now. I put this down to having a few cups of what our work’s free vending machine describes as ‘coffee’ and a couple of hand rolled cancer sticks which, as well as making my mouth rank, have also started to tinge my index finger with a yellowy glow; like I’ve had said finger up a tramps nose for 12 hours.
All this doesn’t bother me too much because I love coffee and cigarettes. They are cool, they are hip and I am a better person for having them in my life, so there! I know they’re just killing me, I know they stink and I know they can keep me up til 2 am shaking like a Polaroid picture, but I do not care. I am tired of the tobacco police, the secondary smoke brigade, the “don’t you realise what you’re doing to your body?” mob, the twats. I don’t care if you don’t like the smell; stand somewhere else. I don’t like your taste in shirts but I don’t insist you strip off there and then and go shopping. And yes, I know an ugly shirt and cigarette smoke are not in the same league, but the point is, I don’t care about your lungs. If it’s a choice between the head-fuck of withdrawal or slightly irritating a stranger…*mimes lighting up and blowing out smoke with glee*.
Hehehe, I’m such a bastard sometimes, but who isn’t? We all tut and roll our eyes the second someone’s phone goes off in a lift and they answer it loudly. We all look over at that person and try and will the phone to melt in their hand mid-sentence; reducing the offending dialing fingers to bloody, plastic–coated stumps. We all give a heavy sigh when a family is seated behind us on a bus and the pissy toddler starts kicking our seat and whining at full volume. We turn and glance at the mother, saying with our eyes ‘Sorry, but would you mind slashing that kid’s throat? Twatting him with a brick, maybe? Thanks’. If the roles were reversed, we’d all react the same way; ‘Fuck off, I’m just taking a phone call’ or ‘Fuck off, he’s a child!’ We’re all stressed and wrapped up in our own lives and problems (as it should be really, can’t care and worry about everyone else all the time). We all think we’re the only ones being inconvenienced during the morning commute, we’re the only ones that are tired or frustrated or constipated. We’re all in exactly the same boat most of the time, but we’ve got our heads over the side so much we can’t see that…
Ouch! Another bad metaphor dies without dignity.
Sod it, I’m off. Laterzzzz.
So, I’ll just type away and let whatever pops into my head become immortalised in written form (that is until this blog is deleted along with stockpiles of other supposedly ‘immortal’ works the world over; servers are not the same as scrolls). I’m like one of the infinite numbers of monkeys pulled out of their vivisection day-job to sit at a type-writer and pound the keys in earnest, pausing only to throw their own excrement at fellow primates then eat a banana without washing their hands.
This could be viewed as a very stretched metaphor for every office job there is. And before you take offense, that’s not just a dig at office workers and comparing them to chimps…but we are really, let’s face it. Hundreds, thousands, trillions of us all typing and clicking away; working hard on one tiny part of a far grander scheme. Like with each completed word on every typewriter, striving to make up a great novel by sheer will…or something.
Hmmm…OK, that wee metaphor collapsed like an emphysemic landlady climbing the stairs in winter. I’m not very good at writing am I? Never mind, plenty more fish in the sea. Grass is always greener on the other side. What doesn’t kill you just hurts like an acid–tipped dentist’s drill and makes you wish you were dead.
One annoying phrase that really pisses me off is ‘every cloud has a silver lining’; that bizarre notion that every shitty, soul-raping event in life has something good to offer too. It’s like being stabbed in the gut by a psychotic clown on Christmas morning in front of your whole family. The clown’s laughing and grinding his black, rotting teeth while your loved ones scream and reach out to your prostrate, bleeding body. But as your life ebbs away (pulse slowing, eye lids getting heavy) you suddenly realise; hey, now I can use that organ donor card! Years of that tatty slip of plastic just sitting in my wallet unused have come to an end; I’m going to die, but I’ll save someone else’s life with my organs (except for my bleeding liver of course). Take that Bono! Sod ya Geldof! I’m going to actively save fellow human beings by dieing and really giving something back…I AM JESUS! I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH AND THE L…..At which point you die, basking in the warm glow of that ‘silver lining’.
Except that wouldn’t happen. Your brutal death would not be any less awful knowing that your bits of muscle and plasma were going to a stranger who for all you know could be the killer clown’s best mate or uncle. Same as when you find a ticket on your windscreen from the patrolling traffic Nazis, you don’t stop and think ‘Well, at least I’ll be helping traffic warden junior pay for his braces’. Sometimes shit happens; and it’s nothing but shit.
On the subject of organ donation, I agree with something David Mitchell once said on ‘Mock the Week’; that when you die, your body should revert to the State to have the organs harvested. The problem of a shortage of donor organs would be solved right away and it might help us curb the ridiculous notion that what happens to your body after you aren’t using it anymore is important. If these organs weren’t harvested, they’d just rot in the ground or be turned to ash in an oven. I’ve always said I’d want to be cremated because I don’t like the idea of my remains being slowly eaten by worms. But when I think about it, I’d like my body to be harvested for all that can be useful then immediately burnt to cinders, all within hours of my death (because if there’s one thing I dislike more than being eaten by worms, it’s having my corpse fiddled with by medical students. I mean…where were they while I was alive? It’s just rude to only find me sexually appealing when I’m dead!). Your loved ones can still have the ritual of a funeral / remembrance service if they want, just no need to have your body there as far as I can see; it’s not like you’re gonna be propped up to make a speech at the end.
And now a brief interval, I’m gonna be rambling on for a bit longer so stop here and go and make a coffee…I’ll just kill time ‘til you’re done.
Go on!
GO!
Yes, I’m ordering you, assumed reader, to fuck off and have a drink…there’s too much pressure to perform right now…just want to have a few minutes peace, OK?...Why are you still reading??? I know some of you have got up for a drink or to slap your children, but the rest are still reading or have come back from said drink / slap and are reading back over what they’ve missed. FINE! You’ve wasted your chance to take an actual break from reading this drivel, be it on your own head. Word-reading shower of bastards…
Anywho, right now my mouth tastes like what I imagine the inside of a camel’s arse is like. Or a policeman’s used underwear. Or a shy turtle’s neckerchief. Basically, it doesn’t taste too good right now. I put this down to having a few cups of what our work’s free vending machine describes as ‘coffee’ and a couple of hand rolled cancer sticks which, as well as making my mouth rank, have also started to tinge my index finger with a yellowy glow; like I’ve had said finger up a tramps nose for 12 hours.
All this doesn’t bother me too much because I love coffee and cigarettes. They are cool, they are hip and I am a better person for having them in my life, so there! I know they’re just killing me, I know they stink and I know they can keep me up til 2 am shaking like a Polaroid picture, but I do not care. I am tired of the tobacco police, the secondary smoke brigade, the “don’t you realise what you’re doing to your body?” mob, the twats. I don’t care if you don’t like the smell; stand somewhere else. I don’t like your taste in shirts but I don’t insist you strip off there and then and go shopping. And yes, I know an ugly shirt and cigarette smoke are not in the same league, but the point is, I don’t care about your lungs. If it’s a choice between the head-fuck of withdrawal or slightly irritating a stranger…*mimes lighting up and blowing out smoke with glee*.
Hehehe, I’m such a bastard sometimes, but who isn’t? We all tut and roll our eyes the second someone’s phone goes off in a lift and they answer it loudly. We all look over at that person and try and will the phone to melt in their hand mid-sentence; reducing the offending dialing fingers to bloody, plastic–coated stumps. We all give a heavy sigh when a family is seated behind us on a bus and the pissy toddler starts kicking our seat and whining at full volume. We turn and glance at the mother, saying with our eyes ‘Sorry, but would you mind slashing that kid’s throat? Twatting him with a brick, maybe? Thanks’. If the roles were reversed, we’d all react the same way; ‘Fuck off, I’m just taking a phone call’ or ‘Fuck off, he’s a child!’ We’re all stressed and wrapped up in our own lives and problems (as it should be really, can’t care and worry about everyone else all the time). We all think we’re the only ones being inconvenienced during the morning commute, we’re the only ones that are tired or frustrated or constipated. We’re all in exactly the same boat most of the time, but we’ve got our heads over the side so much we can’t see that…
Ouch! Another bad metaphor dies without dignity.
Sod it, I’m off. Laterzzzz.
Thursday, 15 October 2009
'What's in a name?'
"Madonna and Jesus to Wed"
Last week, I caught a glimpse of the headline above on the cover of…I dunno, Hiya!! Magazine or some other glossy bog roll. Two things struck me straight away. Firstly, did the magazine editors realise just how funny and ridiculous a headline it is; specifically the fact that the name ‘Madonna’ is a reference to the Virgin Mary, so it might as well have said ‘Holy Incest Wedding Shocker!’ ‘Mrs Mary Christ!’ Of course that wouldn’t be too out of place as a headline nowadays. Look over the covers of That’s Life or Take A Break or any other rubber-necker’s weekly and any Jerry Springer show ends up looking like an early edition of Rainbow. (‘I ate my lover on our wedding night!’, ‘Man who raped me is dating my sister and she’s OK with it!’, ‘Abandoned in a shoebox outside Dixons; I confront my birth mother!’)**
Anyway, it’s an absurd headline about an absurd couple.
The other thing that struck me was the names themselves. Whether given by their parents or chosen by them, Madonna and Jesus are quite revealing names. Madonna’s was chosen of course, which is to do with her pop career; turning herself into more than a person and into a brand / symbol. Same goes for Prince, Bono or any other fuckwit who’s above mere surnames.
Pah! Family name? Legacy? I spit gold on them from a great height! I piss champagne over their hair! MuahahahahaaaanewalbumoutMondaychaching.
Then there are the celebrity’s kids. Fruit, colours, references to celestial bodies; nothing seems off limits or too daft for the jet-setting celebrity classes. It used to be that both for the celebites and us lowly muck-chuckers, the Bible or other ancient texts were the biggest reference for common names. Mark, John, Matthew, Luke…and the occasional Moses or Jesus, and the Muslims have Mohammeds to spare.
Now the new ‘Bible’ for the shit-kickers is the celebrity world. The darlings of daytime chat and maggot eating are the new apostles (Preston, Robbie, Jordan, Chantelle, Britney blah blah blah). And the celebs can take any word from the English language, make the first letter a capital and presto! we have a newly christened heir to the Coldplay millions.
But in the end, what really is in a name? Of course you can’t call your child ‘Piss Flap’ or ‘Doggy Whiff Bum’, because kids are cruel little bastards who fear and attack anything unusual (just having the name ‘Nick’ got me hundreds of references to ‘dick’ ‘prick’ ‘stick’ ‘thick’ and so on. Incidentally, don’t call your kid ‘Lunt’ or ‘Bunty’). But maybe we should take a leaf out of the unafraid celeb book and just go with whatever we like; after all, if the kid is unhappy with it, they can just get it changed. It’s only a label to print on a badge that they’ll wear on a crappy uniform in a shit job they’ll be in til they die or get lucky, so who cares??
So for my kids; the name ‘Optimus’ for my son and for my daughter the name ‘Syphilis’ (a bid to keep her away from stupid, rutting boys for a while and at the very least, it may help remind any dumb boyfriends she does get to ‘suit up’ before the main event).
** Saw a genuine story on cover of just such a magazine in the office today. ‘Mum sentenced to death has 8 kids – “How will I tell them all I’m going to die?” ’. My first thought was ‘If you haven’t got much time, just e-mail the oldest and CC the other 7’.
Welcome...good, now we've got that out of the way, on with the ranting.
I am a 24 year old male, I live and work in Liverpool (but born in Kent). Middle-class, caucasian, liberal and opinionated; a Guardian editor's wet-dream. I've tried to hold off from joining the nauseatingly termed 'blogosphere', but I have far too many opinions and senseless rants taking refuge in the back of my mind. I must let them loose on here before they chew into my conscious mind and set up a squat of neuroses and I can't be bothered to continue this metaphor.
...anywho, if you agree / disagree / have any kind of opinion on what I say, do share. I quite enjoy debates and arguments, in the absense of a social life, so don't be shy.
...anywho, if you agree / disagree / have any kind of opinion on what I say, do share. I quite enjoy debates and arguments, in the absense of a social life, so don't be shy.
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