Nestled snugly in Seat G5, eagerly awaiting the return of the Rhinestone Cowboy to the Colston Hall, the thought occurred to me that I really didn’t know what to expect from the Glen Campbell Final Farewell Tour. All the talk in the press had centred around the effects of the Alzheimer’s that had taken its icy grip on Mr Campbell’s faculties, an effect noticeable enough to make him go public with news of his affliction. In the shows prior to his sad announcement, Campbell’s monologues had become noticeably slurred and rambling, our hero increasingly reliant on a teleprompter feeding him the lyrics to songs he’d been singing for forty years. Something clearly wasn’t right. Sensibly, the Campbell clan acted quickly to quash any rumours of a return to his hellraising past of drink and drugs, breaking the bad news with the promise of The Final Farewell Tour, Glen’s last hurrah and a chance to say ‘so long’ to his devoted fans before riding off into the sunset in a star spangled rodeo. The question I asked myself was what sort of farewell would it be?
Glen Campbell, striking a pose.
Well, I’m thrilled to report that despite the cynical observations of some, The Final Farewell Tour is neither exploitation of an aging cash cow nor a voyeuristic peep into the mental decline of a legend. The show was a celebration pure and simple, a joyous knees up in honour of a fantastic career. At the centre of it all was a man who, whilst not exactly at the top of his game, was absolutely determined to send us home smiling – and that’s just what he did. Accompanied by a band comprised of family and friends (including his daughter and two sons keeping a watchful eye), the 75 year old Campbell bounded around the stage with the enthusiasm of a little boy, regularly expressing his astonishment at the quality of the songs he’s had the pleasure to have sung. And what songs they are; Wichita Lineman, Galveston, By The Time I Get To Phoenix – all the hits were present and correct, as well as a smattering of poignant numbers from his new record, Ghost On The Canvas; all of which sounded like classics in the making. As for the man himself, those famous pipes of his showed no sign of wear and tear despite the occasional mistake, and the joy in his voice as he shouted ‘let’s play one!” prior to wonderful guitar solo after wonderful guitar solo was a pleasure to behold. A force in decline? You could’ve fooled me!
Ultimately, the thing that impressed me most about Glen Campbell was his own smile, as wide as the great American Vistas he paints in song. Sod the usual clichés about nobility and triumph in the face of adversity that accompany Campbell wherever he goes; he might not always have been able to articulate what he wanted to say, but that smile did all the talking. Glen Campbell’s just happy to be up there doing his thing and for people to still be digging it after all this time. How dare anyone tell him to stop?
NAJPG
"Yesh, I make that eight boobiesh, even though the top lady has no head or arms sho technically doesn't count!"
You know, I’d forgotten just how enjoyable a good James Bond film can be? Whilst it’s generally agreed by the boys and men of this world that all of 007′s adventures have their merits (even proper stinkers like Die Another Day and Moonraker), the bad films (of which I’d say there are about 25%) and the formulaic ones (maybe 60%) tend to overshadow the very best entries in the series; those rarest of gems that offer a glimpse of Bond as he was always meant to be, the Bond of Ian Fleming.
There is really something to be said for James Bond done right, and From Russia With Love is quite possibly the donest rightiest of them all. For once, 007 behaves like the spy he is, espionaging it up to the max at every available opportunity in a complex battle of wills with SPECTRE, the deadiest criminal organisation of them all. Well, apart from FIFA that is.
Red wine with fish. Well that should have told me something.
Connery’s got his hands full here, with danger and boobies around every corner, and not necessarily in that order either! Whilst inevitably big Sean can (and does) handle whatever’s thrown at him, be it buxom fighting gippos, or a lesbo Russian minger with a poisoned knife in her shoe and a rather fetching red mullet, the real joy of this film is the sense that for once, 007 might have bitten off more than he can chew.
So let me get this straight, the castle is a rook?! I'll never get the hang of this.
Kronsteen, the chess playing criminal mastermind behind the plan to eliminate our hero is surely too thorough, too diabolical to let Bond slip through his elaborately laid trap, whilst Robert Shaw’s Red Grant is the Gold standard for menacing, psychopathic henchman who just won’t let it go. Add a sultry and quite possibly treacherous Russian cypher clerk into the mix, set the whole shebang in the impossibly exotic surroundings of Istanbul and Venice, and climax aboard the Orient Express with the most backbreaking, brutal fight of the series, and you’ve got yourself a winner. Surely Bond can’t escape this time? He bloody can you know!
So. Rupert Murdoch. Turns out he’s a bit of a twat. Who’d have thought it eh? Not me. Never in a million years. I’m in shock. I ask you, how can a nice old gentleman like that build a multi billion pound empire on foundations that are essentially rotten to the core? Does he realise what he’s done for the reputation of pensioners worldwide?* Next thing, you’ll be telling me there are elderly Nazis still at large, living in South America in luxuriously appointed Italianate Villas, funded by the life savings of a decimated race, or OAPaedos doing their best impression of a kindly Priest whilst copping a feel of a choirboy in the confession box, all the while protected by the loving embrace of the Roman Catholic Church! I refuse to believe it!
Nazi Paedo Priests?!!!!! This is all too much.
No seriously, there’s a valuable lesson to be learned here. You know Rupert’s problem? He has no understanding of the basic principals of engineering. When constructing a large above-surface structure/multi billion pound empire, a monopole footing is absolutely vital. To base your organisation on material that is decayed, corrupt, and frankly criminal; well, it’s a schoolboy error in extremis. And when you throw hacking into the mix…..
Honestly though, I just can’t believe it. All that hard hitting stuff in the News Of The World over the years, illegally obtained. Words fail me. I feel, well, betrayed. Yeah, maybe. As bad as all of this is (and it is pretty bad, right?), I can’t help thinking that The News Of The World hacked the wrong phones. If I’d been in charge, there’d have been none of this sorry Milly Dowler, 7/7 victims business. Oh no. If I were a cackling, corduroy clad, clove cigarette consuming media mogul (A. I really couldn’t be any other kind, and B. that really should’ve been a cackling, clove cigarette consuming, cedia cogul shouldn’t it?), I’d be searching for the answers to the questions we all want, uh, answered. Questions like…Do aliens exist?
Holy Christ, they have met! Where's the News Of The World when you need it?!
If so, are the Cheeky Girls in fact neither cheeky, nor girls, but Intergalactic Ambassadors from a galaxy far, far away? Are the Chuckle Brothers kiddie fiddlers (and therefore possibly in league with the church)? Have the Cheeky Girls and The Chuckle Brothers ever met (or worse/better still, you decide, made love in the most grotesque incestual orgy of all time)? Will there ever be another Zulu War so I can fight in it? Will Steps ever reform? Ok, just me with that last one, but you get the point. You don’t do you? That makes two of us buddy, join the goddamn club.
The News Of The World Editorial Team. Rupert's the black guy.
Oh yeah, I remember. Murdoch. Rupert that is, not the deranged ace combat pilot from the A Team. Lock ‘im in the Tower and chop off his goolies, that’s what I say. Fuck it, hack his goolies. Hack ‘em like they’ve never been hacked before. Hack ‘em like a Polaroid picture. Let’s put a bug down his Japs eye and find out what it’s got to say for itself. “Do you expect me to talk?” “Uh, yeah actually Mr Murdoch’s Japs eye, I do.” Failing that, strip him of his assets and give them to me. His assets, not his goolies.
*In fairness, absolutely nothing. They always have been and always will be, absolutely fucking useless. I mean, what do they do, really? They get in my way, shit themselves silly (in public I might add), and talk bank cashiers to death with their unceasing complaints or/and inane anecdotes…If I were them, I’d take my bus pass to my wrists and slash those bad boys ASAP**
**I am of course pulling your pisser. I like many old people, including Clint Eastwood, Jimmy Greaves, Prince Philip, Roger Moore and my own dear, departed Grandparents. Oh, and you Mum.
For the love of God Johan, put your armpits down!
When the brothers Mael of Sparks fame sat down to write their classic ode to facial hair, Moustache, which namechecks Pancho Villa, Fu Manchu, Ronald Coleman and Adolf Hitler amongst others, there was one notable wearer of the hairy lip they forgot to mention. Yes ladies and gentlemen, it’s the one and only Burt Reynolds!
Burt reynolds, avec tache, sans pantalons
Now Burt Reynolds without a moustache is a bit like a dog without poo on its bum, or a teenager with half a brain and no STD’s – it’s virtually unthinkable.
You see Burt and His Moustache™ go way back, enjoying a symbiotic relationship that’s lasted for aeons; sort of like The Rolling Stones but much, much hairier. Actually Burt and His Moustache™ are very much like The Rolling Stones. Take Mick away from Keith and what have you got? A diabolical solo album and the mother of all benders; but put ‘em together and they’re capable of minor miracles.
A diabolical solo album
Which brings me back to Burt Reynolds and his Moustache™. Imagine my surprise when I sat down to watch the classic thriller Deliverance, starring Burt Reynolds and His Moustache™, only to discover that His Moustache™ had in fact failed to show? I should have known when I bought the bloody thing, a cursory glance at the DVD case would have revealed that this was a film starring Burt Reynolds and Jon Voight, and not Burt Reynolds and His Moustache™. Good job I didn’t look, because if I’d known the moustache had gone AWOL then I surely wouldn’t have bought it, which would’ve been a shame because Deliverance is actually rather good.
Burt Reynolds sans tache, avec um, waistcoat
I won’t spoil it for those of you who haven’t seen it, but basically it tells the story of three city types and their macho moustacheless friend, who decide to take a canoeing trip deep in the heart of Hicksville, USA. Suffice to say it doesn’t quite go according to plan. Screw it I’m gonna spoil it for you. Jon Voight gets tied to a tree with his own belt and has to watch helplessly as two randy hillbilly’s rape his poor gormless friend, but not before making him squeal like a pig, boy. Nice. Action man Burt intervenes killing one of the toothless wonders with a well placed arrow like Kevin Costner in a chest wig, in the process saving Jon Voight’s ass from a serious pounding. The fourth friend, we’ll call him Gaylord, is frankly appalled by this sudden turn of events, Burt’s necessary show of murderous violence tipping him over the edge and thus sparking the moral dilemma at the heart of the narrative. Is the killing of the homicidal bum bandit justified? Can their lives ever return to normal? Will Burt Reynolds’s Moustache ever grow back?
Reunited and it feels so good!
Having seen both Smokey and The Bandit and The Cannonball Run, I am delighted to confirm that Burt and his furry friend do eventually reunite and hit top form together once again, his hairy mojo helping him to lure both Sally Field and Farrah Fawcett back to the comforts of his motor ve-hicle.
Nice work.
As for the questions posed by Deliverance, I can’t help feeling that everything I’ve described and all that happens subsequently is a direct result of Burt’s decision to remove the Mooch. Bum rape, murder, broken lives – it’s all Burt’s fault. When Samson lost his power it was because of a quick nap, a jezebel and some industrial strength sheep shears, but Burt – he shaved it off himself. It’s practically Biblical!
“And during the making of the classic thriller Deliverance when Burt decided to shave off his moustache and venture into the wilderness, God did smite Burt’s character with a broken collarbone and a drastically reduced role in the film’s climax.”
The Book of Burt 13: 19 – 24
None of this, none of it would have happened had Burt stayed true to himself, had he worn his facial hair with the pride it so clearly deserves. But in undergoing this epic test of human endurance sans ‘tache, he learnt a valuable lesson, a lesson I believe he carries with him to this day. How do I know? Well, you didn’t ever see The Bandit breaking his collarbone. Or getting bum raped. I rest my case.
What’s wrong with mulling wine?
That's one big ventriloquist's dummy you got there Mo....
This weekend, Mohammed Al Fayed officially unveiled a statue of Fulham FC’s newest hero – the incomparable footballing genius that was Michael Jackson. As predicted by this very website waaaay back in the heady days of mid March, the loving tribute to the man affectionately dubbed by millions (well, me) as ‘Mad Mike’, was in fact a bit shit. Actually, to my utter delight, it was worse than that; it was a lot shit. Resembling a pound shop action figure painted by a blind simpleton, blown up to nightmarish proportions by some hellish voodoo spell, the ‘monstrosity besides the Thames’ manages the astonishing feat of making the late, great Paedo of Pop seem somehow restrained in comparison. That’s right, Michael Jackson and restrained in the same sentence! Who’d have thunk it? Anyway, back to the statue, the ghastly thing is so damn tacky, I’m sure even M J would’ve found it all ‘a bit much’. But not Mohammed Al Fayed. Oh no; he bloody loves it. But then again, he is the blind simpleton who commissioned it in the first place.
Apart from being a man of wealth and taste, Mohammed is also pretty handy with easily digestible chunks of wisdom, which happily, he’s willing to dispense at the drop of a hat (or the flash of a camera more appropriately). Take this little gem, aimed at Fulham FC’s loyal supporters:
“‘If some stupid fans don’t understand and appreciate such a gift this guy gave to the world they can go to hell. I don’t want them to be fans. If they don’t understand and don’t believe in things I believe in, they can go to Chelsea, they can go to anywhere else.’
The words ‘PR’ and ‘disaster’ spring inevitably to mind. But in a strange way, I can see where he’s coming from…..the dark depths of total derangement.
‘The fucking idiots, questioning the relevance of a Michael Jackson statue outside of a football ground he visited once in 1999…Impudent dimwits! Honestly, I ask you! Who is this ‘Bobby Moore’ of whom they speak and why is he so deserving of a nice nice statue out of my pocket?? The philistines!’
The Fulham Youth Mob. That's 'Animal', and that's blood on 'is face. Someone else's blood.
Or something like that.
Ultimately, the man is a fucktard. I sure hope Mo Mo’s got strong locks on his doors, because he’s practically down on his knees and begging for trouble by riling Fulham’s legendarily violent, Michael Jackson statue disliking, firm. Rather him than me….
Seriously now. It’s a farce.
- Arnie’s still got it, but Danny Devito looks more albino than I remember….
Think about it. It’s a tough one, I’ll give you that. You give up? Ok, I’ll tell you.
Even better than a picture of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Boris Johnson together, is a picture of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Boris Johnson together riding bikes, whilst hugging, that’s bloody what! Look to your right and marvel! I’ve only gone and got it for you! That’s me, Jeremy Selwyn, bottom left. Ahem…. I’m like a cord wearing genie with more hair and practical shoes. Hell, sometimes I even wear a shirt. Will wonders never cease?
Speaking of wonders, isn’t it a wonder that both Arnold and Boris can ride a bicycle? Who’d have thought it? Before seeing this picture, I’d have staked my left testicle that neither of them had mastered the old Penny Farthing. It’s a good job then that Ladbrokes threw me out before I made a bloody mess of myself!
After a recent visit from three well meaning (read mirthless) spirits, I have adopted a new policy whereby I shall henceforth refrain from my natural inclination to criticize the hell out of anything charitable, but essentially shit. Take Comic Relief. No really, take it, it’s your’s. Now in previous years, Laughfest for Africa would have been a prime target for me, I mean, where else will I find so many people I don’t find funny crammed onto the same stage?
Chris Moyles, looking better than I remember.
Fucking Children In Need, that’s where, another grand opportunity for me to indulge in scurrilous slander. I’m not advocating fucking children in need by the way, that was your own dirty mind doing the thinking, you goddamn filthy pervert! Why I’ve got half a mind to call the cops right this instant… Back to Comic Relief, this year the target got even bigger, with talking kebab Chris Moyles raising £2.4 million for charity by dominating the airwaves for an epic 52 hours, which surely begs the question, “What was the RAF doing for those 52 hours?”. Bombing Libya apparently. That’s for another time…
Ok, so I haven’t entirely learned my ‘be nice’ lesson by heart yet. Let’s call it a work in progress. To demonstrate that I can play nicely, I bring the people of Japan news to warm their devastated cockles; news that will surely delight music fans all over the world. According to the BBC “Justin Bieber and U2 are among artists who have agreed to contribute songs to an album to raise funds for victims of the Japanese earthquake and tsunami. Bon Jovi and Rihanna have also been confirmed for the album, which will raise money for the Japanese Red Cross.”
So let me get this straight.
A ginger horseman! Clearly the harbingers of doom don't discriminate.
In the last two weeks, the Japanese people have had an earthquake and a tsunami to deal with, they’ve got a death toll of 9,079 with a further 12,645 listed as missing, they face the threat of nuclear meltdown every single day and now this, the final ignominy to a proud people. Bieber, U2, Bon Jovi and Rihanna. On the same album. The Four Horsemen of The Apocalypse, riding roughshod over what passes for civilization these days. When it rains it really fucking pours right?
That said, despite my intense dislike for the insipid warblings of Conquest, War, Famine and Death (you decide who is whom), I hope they raise an obscene amount of money for their noble cause and I sincerely congratulate each and every one for their humanitarian efforts. See? I can be nice.
Chris Moyles is still a twat though.
The End
"If you don't mind me saying Michael, you're looking a bit pale..."
Princess Diana, Dodi Al Fayed and feathered friend. Words fail me.
Either way, I guess Roy ain’t getting a statue anytime soon. If I was him I wouldn’t be too fussed, afterall, Al Fayed’s got previous when it comes to commissioning tasteful monuments….
It was the dead of night and an owl sat in the old oak tree, hooting for all it was worth. Maybe it knew a storm was coming, maybe it smelt trouble lingering on the wholesome country breeze, maybe it was just randy? The sound of a car door slamming shut and the subsequent roar of a V8 engine stirring proudly to life couldn’t silence the owl, but it could drown the little fella out. Fuck the human race it thought, shitting out its disgust onto the carefully tended begonias far below. The Rolls Royce Silver Wraith had only one occupant when usually there were two. A heavyset man in the October of his years filled the driver’s seat, his sole source of companionship the vicious looking knobkerrie (look it up!) resting on the back seat with all the latent menace of a sleeping cobra. Somebody will pay for this abomination.
Murder? These two couldn't even solve a fucking jigsaw puzzle!
So begins my Midsomer Murders: Trouble in Eden Special. I was going to call it Midsomer Murders: Trouble In The Ghetto but I just thought, why not let the ghetto come to Eden?! In the wake of Brian True-May-Gate (try saying that when you’re three sheets to the wind!), where the producer of Midsomer Murders pretty much declared a “no blacks, no Irish” policy for the show, I thought I’d try and redress the balance by coming up with an episode that tackles all of the themes and issues raised by the situation. Now I want to be honest and upfront with you; I haven’t written much so far. In fact, it’s just a synopsis really, plus the little intro you just read. It was good though wasn’t it? Shitting owls (how dirty!), a Rolls Royce (how glamorous!), a fat man with a knobkerrie (for Chrissakes look it up!), and that’s just for starters darling! Yes ladies and gentlemen, Midsomer Murders: Trouble in Eden has got it all. If you’re fascinated by the difficulties facing ethnic minorities integrating into a traditional fictional community then look no further! If you want simmering racial tension and muchos mutual distrust, well you’ve got it by the bucketload! And if murderous ladyboys are your thing….
Sir Rodney Galthwaite-Jenkins, featuring his moustache.
Set in the fictional village of Midsomer Eden, my episode depicts an ancient settlement in a state of transition. The modern world is beginning to encroach on the village, disturbing the age old equilibrium at a rate of knots. First and foremost amongst the portents of impending doom springing up all over the place is a council estate, to be called Green Meadows. Recently approved for development on the edge of the village by a faceless cooperate type, Councillor David Sneer (who comes complete with transgendered Thai bride), it brings with it the threat of a new generation of settlers to Midsomer Eden. Naturally, the prospect of a council estate in this sleepy hamlet isn’t universally popular. Sir Rodney Galthwaite-Jenkins for one, is appalled at the prospect of ‘invasion by more disreputable johnny foreigners’, after the recent acquisition of the local post office (and it’s subsequent conversion into a 24hr store) by Mr Patel, whose own livelihood is threatened by the fact his business occupies the exact site where Green Meadows will soon stand.
Mr Patel on the left, Mr Patel's Mum on the right.
Meanwhile, bitter spinster Ms Penelope Pendleton loathes the fact her cherished view of the unspoilt countryside is about to be ruined by a “concrete monstrosity paid for with my money”, whilst the beautiful and quite possibly psychopathic Pang Ning Sneer fears her husband is having an affair. With a woman!
Everyone has a motive, I’ve no idea what the crime was, and nearly everyone dies. Turns out it was Colonel Mustard in the library with the lead pipe. Again. What a twat. For the grand finale, the entire cast and crew join hands for a rousing rendition of Ebony and Ivory, culminating in a non sexy embrace between Sir Rodney and Mr Patel. It was just an idea…
Brian Fake-May
Brian True-May, producer of popular televisual detective series Midsomer Murders, has been suspended pending an internal investigation following comments made in an interview with the Radio Times. Brian The-Real-Authentic-May-Not-Like-That-Big-Haired-Twat-From-Queen referred to the show as “the last bastion of Englishness”, telling the Radio Times, “We just don’t have ethnic minorities involved because it wouldn’t be the English village with them. It just wouldn’t work.” Naturally his oversensitive bosses misheard that as “dago wop chinky darky bastards, bloody Poles coming over ‘ere and stealing all our jobs and taking all our women”, and as a result, Mr True-May is now sat at home watching repeats of Midsomer Murders rather than being on-set making it.
Brian True-May
Now me, I ain’t sure what the problem is. I lived in an English village for nigh on 10 years, a picturesque number complete with post office, village green and quaint little church, and I can confirm that in all that time I didn’t see a single ethnic face. Not one. The closest the place came to multiculturalism was in the portly shape of the Vicar and he was from Devon. Never could trust him….
Of course I exaggerate for comic effect. It wasn’t as bad as all that, but the fact remains that apart from one Chinese family, the village was entirely devoid of the cosmopolitan flavor so prescient in the big city. As that was in the 1980’s, can you imagine the reaction to a genuine ‘foreigner’ 40 years before that? Let’s face it, back then the locals were only just getting used to the idea of iron horses with wheels, so I’m sure the sight of a painted man strolling past the duck pond would’ve been heart attack inducing. Taking into account all the elderly people who had never seen a black person in their entire lives, the village population would’ve halved on the spot with OAP’s dropping dead from shock; and those who remained would’ve reached for the crucifixes, burning torches and pitchforks!
The Village People
Of course, it isn’t like that anymore. The old folk for whom a banana was a definite sign of alien life are mostly dead, along with the old customs and eccentricities stored in their heads; their rustic homes now occupied by bankers and stock brokers in love with the idea of a place in the country and twice weekly farmers markets. Hell, these days some of those bankers and stock brokers might even be of a non-white persuasion. Fancy that! No, in 2011 the concept of an English village in its traditional sense exists only on the screen, as depicted by the likes of Miss Marple and indeed, Midsomer Murders. Perhaps it only ever existed there in the first place, I mean, Agatha Christie was hardly known for her gritty realism was she? And neither is Midsomer Murders.
Who wants to see Murder On The Delayed 12:09 From Didcot Parkway anyway? Realism is so overrated. When I lived in a village, homicidal country squires, psychopathic spinsters and incestual siblings were about as regular a sight as a tribe of Apache wandering across the fields, but in Midsomer Murders those characters are a daily occurrence which is precisely the reason why some people like it! The show is a work of fiction pure and simple, sticking to a tried and trusted formula that’s served the English crime genre well since before the Second World War.
Why should it change now?
Come on guys, I mean its only a battery fer chrissakes!
Just how big is the Bath???
Dumb and dumber and dumber still. As for the other one....
Yes dear readers it’s true. Blue are reforming to represent the UK at this year’s Eurovision Song Contest in Dusseldorf. And very nice of them it is too. I haven’t been this excited since my mouth ulcer cleared up. Coming on a treat it is. No seriously now, that’s good news that is; I mean we haven’t had anyone that shit representing us since last year.
Naturally they have high hopes for their little ditty entitled “I Can”, presumably subtitled (Come Last At The Eurovision Song Contest). “We don’t see this as career suicide even if a lot of people will see it that way” says band member and inventor of Simon Says, Simon Webbe. No, I wouldn’t call it career suicide Simon, afterall, how can something that’s already dead commit suicide? Unless of course the members of Blue are all depressed zombies? Is that what you’re trying to tell us Simon, bearing in mind that a depressed zombie has to my knowledge never won Eurovision?
Josh Dubovie; UK Entry 2010. Christ, no wonder he bloody lost!
Always amongst the great thinkers of turn of the century British pop, Blue were quick to rule out any potential conspiracy theories relating the UK’s failure in recent competitions to its percieved international unpopularity. Simon says™ ”Eurovision is about the music and bringing people together!” Amen to that brother! “People just want to have fun and I hope the politics doesn’t get in the way.” Damn straight Si!
Meanwhile bandmate Lee Ryan takes a more bullish approach to the pitiful showing of 2010′s entry Josh Dubovie, who finished the contest in a miserable last place with nul point. “It’s nothing to do with being English,” he insisted. “It’s because we haven’t put a good song in for a long time.” Some things never change huh Lee?
Good luck Blue.
Right, two things. A) There appears to be a goblin in a conical hat behind the birthday girl and B) Who invited William Tell on the right?
Well it makes a change from pass the parcel I suppose.
I sure hope musical chairs is still going ahead….
It’s a bit late for that don’t you think? If they’ve managed to get by for this long without ‘em….
The dictionary definition of a redneck!
How very careless. I suppose my first question for Spiderman Musical (if indeed that is your real name) is, where did you see her last? Was it in the kitchen, the lounge, the garden? You don’t remember? Very helpful I’m sure! Well then, is she in your coat pocket, thats always a favourite with the losers of this world? No? Are you sure? Ok, have you checked down the sides of the chairs? Oh you have. We’re running out of options here… hang on a cotten picking second, I’ve got it by jove! What trousers were you wearing when you saw her last? Waddya mean you weren’t wearing any trousers?! Oh you sick puppy.
Sometimes, just sometimes in life I am eternally grateful to be a fully paid up member of the rat race, complete with uninspiring packed lunch and a head-full of shattered dreams. On those rare, auspicious occasions, I momentarily forget all the times I think I’m having a nervous breakdown 15 times a day at my desk, based in an office I resent sitting on a chair I detest staring at a computer I frankly fucking loathe, and thank my lucky stars that I’m not sat at home glued to the BBC Iplayer watching Homes Under The Hammer.
Dipshits Under The Hammer
Not what you thought I was going to say? Well I hate to be predictable, plus I think I have a valid point.
“Homes Under The Hammer? A valid point?! How extraordinary! What sad sicko would watch such a thing? Not I!”, I hear you say with mock indignation.
Well I can’t say for sure (although to my mind the finger of suspicion falls firmly on my Mother – please feel free to make your own jokes!), but one thing is certain; somebody must be watching it because in a statistic to chill the blood, the BBC homepage lists the latest program as Series 14 Episode 83. If I do the maths, that means based on there being 83 episodes in a series, there have now been at least 1162 episodes of Homes Under The Hammer scripted, filmed and broadcast. Or, to put it another way, 34,860 minutes worth of utter fucking drivel. How miserable.
The movie of my working life. That's me, the fat woman with the lipstick and the glum expression.
If it’s misery you want then you might as well put a camera on top of my work PC and film me moping for 42 and a half hours a week in a state of constant depression. It’d be a darn sight cheaper than paying a couple of dipshits to look at houses and arguably much more compelling. Think about it, you could market it as the bleakest program ever made. Actually scrap that. It can’t be any bleaker than Series 14 Episode 83 of Homes Under The Hammer. Or The Nazis: A Warning From History. That was pretty bleak now I come to think of it.
Me and my 21st Century woes.
To the morons responsible for Homes Under The Hammer, I beg of you, please make it stop.
To the man in charge of the BBC’s daytime schedule, what is the point of you?
According to reports today a new study has found that using cannabis as a teenager can result in an increased risk of psychosis in later life.
Try telling that to these boys!
"Er, you've got mud on your willy mate..." "He he he, that ain't mud!"
They are Sadhus, holy men from Nepal who live in caves and forests and smoke the maryjoanna because it brings them closer to their dooby loving hero, sorry I mean to their God, the legendary Hindu caner Shiva. Fair enough. In my experience, smoking cannabis only brings me closer to a late night rendezvous with the biscuit aisle, so if they’re meeting Shiva then good on ‘em. I wonder if they play Call Of Duty when their stoned? I bet they’d kick my ass.
Now being a Sadhu ain’t exactly a sure-fire route to riches beyond your wildest dreams, so in the past to supplement their meagre earnings some Sadhu’s have dabbled in a little dealing at the Hindu festival of Shivaratri. No harm in that right? I mean they wouldn’t be the first religious organisation to indulge in a spot of criminal activity and they won’t be the last; it’s just a shame those spoilsport policemen in Kathmandu don’t feel the same! This year the Sadhus are banned from selling drugs to the extent that plain clothed policemen are mingling amongst them to see the law is properly enforced. So far 20 Sadhus have been arrested and removed to a place somewhere outside the city; which is funny because I thought I saw one walking along the seafront the other day. …They’re very professional these Nepalese coppers. If the Italian Polizia showed such diligence to duty, then half the Catholic Church would be occupying prison cells for far worse infringements. I digress….
Coming Soon To Channel 5: The Man With A Football For A Foot
It’s a tough life being a Sadhu; no money and persecuted for your beliefs, yet nobody believes you because they think you’re a paranoid freak! Still, I wouldn’t worry too much about the risk of cannabis psychosis; from the looks of these fellas I think they’ve lived with it for quite some time! Nevermind, I suppose they’ll get by one way or another, probably by smoking joints the size of bratwursts, growing GIGANTIC beards, covering themselves from head to toe in white paint and playing football really, really badly. God, I want to be a Sadhu!