Christmas is a big, steaming pile of shit

I know at this time of year that I should be full of cheer and putting aside any petty misgivings I have aside, as did those British and German soldiers during the Armistice in World War 1, where they kicked Franz Ferdinand's pickled head around a muddy field for 90 minutes. That they shot each other to pieces mere days later is insignificant. For Christmas is a special time.

But, reams of fat, spoiled little children will be sitting on their plump arses all day long caressing their latest touchscreen bit of tat which will no doubt be lost under the bed by this time next year. The elderly and mental relative who just will not die will soil 'dad's favourite chair'. Everyone else will be in a drunken stupor for the few days where we annually forced to spend time with relatives that we absolutely hate.

Somewhere, we have lost the true meaning of Christmas. The message has been smeared and distorted by our obsession with buying presents, and the huge commercial machine that keeps trundling along, picking up more money along the way. Sales start on Boxing day now instead of January. And a lot of sales even start before Christmas. We need to look at the meaning of Christmas in its purest form, and not be taken in by all the bright lights and fancy decorations that christmas has come to represent.

So let's reflect now, on the true reason for Christmas - domestic violence. There is nothing like being trapped in a house for several alcohol-fuelled days to inspire a good old fashioned bit of spousal fisticuffs. And the best thing is, the bruises will be healed before you have to go back to work! Rejoice! As you are pushed down the stairs. Laugh! as you are kicked in the groin. Be merry! as your teeth leave your mouth and scatter to the ground like little snowflakes.

To celebrate this fantastic British tradition, I have put a new spin on an old classic. I hope you enjoy it. Perhaps you could sing it while you punch your wife or husband repeatedly in the face. Merry Christmas! And remember, no weapons!

On the first day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
  A mouth full of broken teeth!

On the second day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth!

On the third day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth!

On the fourth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth!

On the fifth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth!

On the sixth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Six broken fingers,
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth!

On the seventh day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Seven pints of bloodloss,
Six broken fingers,
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth! 

On the eighth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Eight flying kneedrops,
Seven pints of bloodloss,
Six broken fingers,
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth! 

On the ninth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Nine roundhouse kicks,
Eight flying kneedrops,
Seven pints of bloodloss,
Six broken fingers,
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth! 

On the tenth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Ten spinning backfists,
Nine roundhouse kicks,
Eight flying kneedrops,
Seven pints of bloodloss,
Six broken fingers,
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth! 

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Eleven flailing elbows,
Ten spinning backfists,
Nine roundhouse kicks,
Eight flying kneedrops,
Seven pints of bloodloss,
Six broken fingers,
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth! 

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me
Twelve knockout blows,
Eleven flailing elbows,
Ten spinning backfists,
Nine roundhouse kicks,
Eight flying kneedrops,
Seven pints of bloodloss,
Six broken fingers,
Five bro-ken ribs,
Four broken toes,
Three dead legs,
Two black eyes,
And a mouth full of broken teeth!

Everyone who has ever presented T4 is an utter twat - Steve Jones Special!

Serial womaniser and walking STI Steve Jones seems to have but one claim to fame, and that is that he had sex with Pemela Anderson one time. Well congratufuckinglations Steve. You can now join the highly exclusive chapter of some 500,000 people who have had the misfortune to lie with the cadaverous, pneumatic-breasted old skank. They should start up a club for people who have nailed Pammy, and have patches like the Hell's Angels, as my hugely impressive rendition demonstrates below.


About the design: The center of the piece is a beautifully-rendered penis, pointing south. This is like an inverted crucifix, insomuch as any association of a penis with Pamela Anderson is evil. The penis is lovingly adorned with 3 condoms; 3 being the bare minimum required to remain disease-free when having a steamy encounter with the former Baywatch beauty. Either side of the shaft are Pamela's lovely breasts, which have been accurately recreated with off-center nipples and surgery scars. Behind the central motif is Pamela's lovely mane of white hair. This is all set on a Baywatch red background. You can order this badge for just £45.99

Steve Jones comes from Wales and is related to the other Joneses who are famous. It's hard to think that from his modest beginnings living under some leaves on a bed of mud in a mountain in Wales Steve now has a flat in London and hosts one of the best programmes on the television that no-one ever watches! Steve's family tree can be seen below where you can see how all of the famous Joneses relate to each other.


Steve Jones gets his suave sophistication from His Grandfather Tom Jones. He briefly married his sister, Catherine Zeta the Jones, and they sired a whole cricket team together. Then Catherine went to America to assist the elderly. Grampa Tom was a legendary swordsman, as was his Great Grampa, Indiana Jones senior (Also known as Sean O'Connory). Steve Jones has slept with every woman in the British Isles, at least once. His appendage is over 2 feet long when fully unravelled and he has been known to impregnate women by just looking at them. You go, Steve!

Everyone who has ever presented T4 is an utter twat

T4 is shown on Saturday and Sunday mornings on Channel 4. It really only exists to host the Hollyoaks Omnibus, a bit of Friends (worst show ever to grace television) and a collection of terrible live musical performances. Although not needed at all, there are normally 2 really cool presenters who introduce the programmes in as laid back and irritating a manner as possible. I have highlighted the most objectionable of these - a motley crew of reprobates who should be publicly flayed to death while being doused in grit and vinegar.

Alexa Chung

If her surname were 'Chang' then how much more fitting it would be. The girl never eats yet somehow seems to keep alive on vast quantities of Columbian marching powder and unicorn's tears. Labelled a fashionista because even model's clothes swamp her skeletal frame. Her head looks like it could snap off at any moment (If only)! Did some terrible shows in the USA which were summarily cancelled as they were even worse than the utter bilge that is T4.

Steve Jones

See The Steve Jones Special!

Simon Amstell

A horrible little vicious queen who is not, and never will be funny. Has the distinction of actually making Preston from big brother seem likeable, if only for the space of around 2 minutes. Type 'Cock' into google (with safe search on of course) and the first thing that should greet you ought to be a picture of Amstell's smirking gob with a fist rammed in it. An arse who will hopefully disappear from whence he came (somewhere posh and far too nurturing to his ego) soon.

June Sarpong

Owner of the must punchable face in human history, twinned with the worst voice ever. I have never managed to stay awake through a June Sarpong sentence. The CIA should sack off that warterboarding crap and get sarpong to chair the interrogations. A total non-entity, she fitted into the T4 family perfectly. Last seen playing herself in the dreadful Extras Christmas special. A fitting end to her ill-deserved career.

Miquita Oliver

How anyone can be so smug and overconfident while also being pudding-faced, chunky and ugly is beyond me. Oliver looks like a bag of mouldy spuds spattered in makeup yet still squeezes her generous frame into leggings and other ill-fitting clothes that only succeed in emphasising her ample bulk. Plus, she is an utter, utter, utter twat.

Vernon Kaye

What is it about Bolton and its ability to produce such utter bellends? Amir Khan, Peter Kay, Sarah Cockface, the list goes on. Vernon has never said anything funny, and that is a fact. The most interesting thing he ever did was allegedly cheat on his equally bland wife. An Oxygen thief with an accent that makes you want to ram a kipper down his gob. A lego-haired moron of the highest order.

Jameeelia Jameeelah

Or whatever she's called. Even more arrogant than Miquita, just where do C4 keep finding these arseholes?

The X-Factor is finally over. Woman Eaten by Shark - hilarity ensues

The marketing behemoth known as the X-Factor finally ground to a shuddering halt yesterday, as yet another instantly forgettable male vocalist got his grubby little hands on the coveted prize. Simon Cowell has a new bitch for the next couple of months before he disappears to LA via his own arse for the spring, like a camp migratory Walrus. A thoroughly unremarkable series full of contrived and paper thin caricatures masqueraded as 'artists' is now over, and we must all rebuild the shattered voids that have become our lives.

But the one beacon of light peering through the interminable soup of diarrhoea was the Xtra Factor, where Konnie Huq has been doing her level best to get sacked by Simon Cowell for some months now. Whether it be her wooden delivery, incredibly rude questions or bad taste jokes Huq has at least made one aspect of the X Factor experience entertaining this year. A walking car crash, Huq said on Saturday that the show "had more bite than an Egyptian shark". Cue groans from around the studio as various runners scarpered from the ensuing shitstorm like poorly-paid rats escaping the sinking ship.

Now I guess the shark thing was unfortunate, and when I was in that sea I emerged unscathed (with the exception of a 3rd degree burn across my entire back) but if you have to die (which I understand that you do) then being mashed up by a giant fish with a thousand teeth is as good way to die as any I can think Of. Especially if you are elderly - it is infinitely better than dying in your own piss and shit, slowly slipping away as your brain turns into cheese and all your faculties go the same way as Lindsay Lohan's career. Much better to have your limbs ripped off and tossed into the air like people used to do with their mortarboards when they could afford university, ha ha ha!

As something of an aside, regarding the student 'protesters' who keep smashing up London, I hope the Police kick the shit out of all of you. If you spent less time commuting into London from your ivory towers in the suburbs - defiling war heroes and jabbing stupid members of the royal family with pointy sticks - and more time actually researching what and when you may actually have to pay after your degree is finished then perhaps these ugly scenes could be avoided. But as it stands, I hope that those silver spoons are knocked out of your mouths along with all of your teeth, you weak chinned 6th form politicians. The police should start using rubber bullets and boiling oil on you, you utter cretins.

Back to the point. While I do feel marginally sorry for a woman who probably only had 10 years left at best being eaten, there is still a positive to be taken from her death. How refreshing is it to have someone going to a middle eastern country and not meeting their maker by being robbed, Blown up, beheaded, kidnapped or flogged to death for the cardinal sin of consuming a moderate amount of alcohol, taking a photo or, worst of all, wearing sandals with socks. There's a message in there somewhere. A good old-skool mauling, with none of this political or religious bollocks.

Angry businessmen with broadsheet newspapers

The barrel-chested angry businessman (complexus superioritis) can be commonly seen on any suburban rail route heading out of London during a weekday evening. He is easily identified by the following characteristics:

A stern expression
A briefcase/Laptop
Middle-age spread
A broadsheet newspaper
An ill-fitting and careworn but expensive suit
An antiquated mobile phone or 1st generation Blackberry

Now that you know how to identify said specimen, it is probably prudent to develop an understanding of their behavioural patterns, so that you can avoid contact with them. He will invariably behave in the following fashion, and in fact, there is a little-known code of conduct, which I will reveal here:

If there is a spare seat next to you, always make it as uninhabitable as possible, by:
(i) Puffing up your chest, and sitting with legs akimbo.
(ii) Using your vast newspaper as a 'scum shield', open said newspaper to it's maximum length, and turn the pages at least once per minute.
(iii) Make at least one phone conversation to your downtrodden, rotund wife; blustering about tonight's dinner and your expected time of arrival, with a 5 minute interval of moaning/shouting about the trains for the benefit of your fellow commuters.

If someone does dare to sit next to you, make them as uncomfortable as possible, by:
(i) Using your fat, stubby legs to dig into theirs with as much force as your cholesterol-addled frame can muster
(ii) Adapting the aforementioned newspaper technique, thrust your elbow onto your opponent's solar plexus and leave it there for the duration of your journey
(iii) Mutter curses under your breath, sigh at least twice per minute

If you have the indignity of having to sit between 2 passengers on a row of 3 seats, make them as uncomfortable as possible, by:

(i) Navigate into the optimal landing position by using your knees to bat any inconveniently-placed legs aside
(ii) For bonus points, use your trailing leg to grind your heel into the top of someone's foot
(iii) Now that navigation is complete, drop to a sitting position, utilising as much of your dead weight as possible. The force of your descent will crush the person occupying the window seat (bastards) into the corner, and propel the person occupying the aisle seat into the aisle.


You big twat.

stupid cliched phrases people use that make me want to gouge their eyes out with a turd-encrusted spoon

"What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger"

Bollocks it does. It makes you considerably weaker. If you have your arm ripped off by a bear then you are at least 25% weaker. You might have a story to tell, but try tying your shoelaces, retard. Moral of the story - don't try and have sex with bears. If you lose half your intestines cutting through your midsection with a chainsaw then you will only ever be able to enjoy modest portions of crappy food and your tree surgery days will be over. This phrase is nonsensical, stupid. But I can actually think of one person this does apply to - Robocop. But then I think he technically died. So in his case, what did kill him made him stronger (or the bits that weren't reduced to mush)

"You're worth your weight in gold"

All this does is unfairly reward Obese people, who as we all know should be executed, minced and fed to cows. For gold is worth quite a lot these days. Someone should have told Gordon Brown before he sold all of ours. Dick.

"It's the thought that counts"

Said by stingy gits when challenged over buying a cheap, tacky and often second hand Christmas present. No, it's not the thought, it's the money that counts, actually. But let's pretend for one minute that we are in a parallel universe where thought actually counts for anything at all and consider how much thought it requires to pick out a terrible piece of tat and bestow it on a dear friend or relative. Not much, really. Thought counts for jack. "Well I thought about coming into work today, so you can't fire me" See how far that attitude gets you.

"There's no 'i' in team"

but there is a 't' in twat. 2 in fact.So f**k off.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me"

I think we can agree that this has been thoroughly debunked by all the teenagers who have topped themselves as a result of a bit of name-calling, whether it be through texting or one of the various available social networks. Bullying is so 21st century now. Some kids foolishly think uttering this defiant statement will somehow stop a bully in his tracks. But more often than not the bully will leave, and promptly return with sticks and stones. Never reveal your weakness. It would be like Superman saying "Let's have a fair fight, and NO Kryptonite"  to his adversaries.

"Neither a borrower nor a lender be"

So how do I go about getting my mortgage, you pious c**t

Global warming is broken

Nora, it's cold today. What's it all about? It just annoys me actually. Am I just getting old? I seem to remember being a child and playing out in the cold weather, the snow, falling over and generally having the time of my life, however sad that that is. I can't remember when I started to feel the cold. Perhaps I'm ill. I put all my various layers on, yet when I step outside I feel like there are legions of small daggers poking into me. Then I get into the warm and my hands and face feel like they're burning. I might try to hibernate. I had a beard last week, which my Wife decided made my face look fat so I got rid of it. Now my poor chin feels numb. And my ears, well I haven't had any feeling in them for days. It's not even below zero yet. I feel sorry for those Siberians. What really irks me is that the Greenhouse effect, whilst making a great deal of places hotter, will just flood England and make it a lot colder. Stupid gulf stream. I might just start pouring table salt into the gulf to keep it going. I could probably buy some salt in bulk from Netto, if it wasn't so cold. I hate  using the scraper on the car in the morning. All the ice from the windows falls onto your hands and makes them cold. Then you have to grip the freezing steering wheel, and wait a good 5 minutes for the car to get warm enough to sustain carbon-based life. Then after 1 minute of a quite pleasant temperature the interior becomes hotter than the great Satan's ringpiece. Then you have to go outside and you explode into a mass of bloody crystals because the temperature change is too extreme, like at the end of Alien 3. Apologies if you haven't seen Alien 3, but don't worry because it is poo, and I have just saved you 2 hours of your life. I suppose that the one upside of cold weather is Christmas, but then you have to go shopping which involves being outside, at least whilst in transit, and you have to spend money on people other than yourself. I vote that we commission Center Parcs to build a giant Biosphere over England (apart from Peckham, the smell would be unbearable) and then we could wear ill-fitting bermuda shorts and Ironic T-Shirts all year round. Cold weather also restricts me from employing the use of paragraphs or writing anything that makes sense. Sorry. In fact, If you haven't read this article then don't read it. It's shit.

Rewriting history, celebrity-style

I hate revisionism in all walks of life. Let facts be facts and never forget, I say. Whether it be the scurrilous crimes of Holocaust denial or ignoring Gary Glitter as a credible artist. Unfortunately as humans we are particularly fickle in this regard, especially so when applied to celebrity land. But in reality, if someone is an arsehole and dies, they do not become canonised. They are merely a dead arsehole. In the world of the celebrity, death is the ultimate PR boost. And on occasions, death is not even necessary to turn the polls of the proles back in your favour. You can rescue your reputation simply by signing a new contract.

Consider the farrago surrounding Wayne Rooney - footballer, granny botherer, adulterer. The kind of ten-a-penny thug you see in pubs across the land starting fights; he would be a hod-carrier were it not for his natural gift. A gift he seems to be intent on squandering by eating lots of pies and contracting various STI's. Following half a season of injury and rancid form, he threatened to leave Manchester United and park his considerable backside on the treatment table of a bigger, shinier club. Some of the more mentally-challenged Manchester United fans turned up at his mansion to have a right good moan. Poor wee Sir Alex Ferguson made a weepy appeal in a press conference for the loveable little scamp to stay.

Manchester United's quandary was that Rooney has been dreadful for the best part of a year, meaning they had the choice of either letting him go for a fraction of his perceived worth, or paying him lots and lots (and lots) of money. They chose the latter. Not that I have any sympathy for that football club and if they go into administration and end up languishing in the lower echelons of the football league and Fergie ends up destitute and offering handjobs for haggis there will be few people happier than me about it. But I digress - they bit the bullet and paid up, plunging themselves into more debt and making their 'business model' even more laughable. Our plucky England hero 'Wazza' engineered a deal estimated to be worth in excess of 1 million pounds per month, and with a Scotsman at that. Quite some feat.

And what of the angry supporters? Well, the tub-thumping Manyoo morons are suddenly all giddy about him again. The fat waste of space has pulled their collective pants down and given his supporters a right good rogering. Surely the next step is yet another astronomical rise in season ticket prices to pay for Wazza's prostitutes, but all this is now forgotten, as Rooney has somehow displayed his 'loyalty' to the football club by leveraging a 100%+ pay rise and all is forgiven.When Rooneys' career is over (in approximately 2 years) the Manchester United fans will look back on his time with a nostalgic tear in the eye, and few will remember the utter greed the dirty little turncoat bastard displayed during that balmy October in 2010. No wonder the rest of the world hates us when we have little gits like him representing us on the world stage, swearing at the ref or getting sent off.

Moving onto dead people. A controversial topic being that it is considered insensitive to speak ill of the dead. But then people run Hitler down all the time, and he's pretty much dead, unless he's a cyborg who is biding his time in his secret base on the moon. One such example is the Deceased and Disgraced Big Brother 'star' Jade Goody, who went from social pariah to 'princess of hearts' and all she had to do was die. The foul-mouthed, arrogant, idiotic, argumentative bully was finally exposed on Celebrity Big Brother, but in truth she had been vile for years. She can be witnessed bullying contestants on her first stint in Big Brother and some other piece of shit on Channel 5. On the original Big Brother she was public enemy #1 until Channel 4 - so worried by the repercussions that her exit from the house would trigger - started to constructively edit her to be a loveable idiot as opposed to a vile one.

Yes she got cancer and cancer is a terrible thing. A terrible thing that roughly one third of us will have at some point in our lives (normally at the end) so there is nothing at all remarkable about a celebrity having it. Patrick Swayze had it. But then he came across as a decent human being who also had talent and therefore a right to be celebrated and remembered. He also didn't have cameras hovering around him as bits of his hair fell out or go through with a tokenistic wedding ceremony and as far as I know he didn't profit from his illness in any way. He lived his life as a decent man and he died a decent man, with his dignity intact. Jade never possessed dignity - living her life in front of the camera as an ignorant and nasty piece of work, her thin veil of goofiness exposed every time she disagreed with someone. Lest we forget her exploitation of cheap Indian labour to manufacture her pungent perfume twinned with her utter contempt for the inhabitants of the country, laid bare when she repeatedly abused a fellow Celebrity Big Brother contestant, branding her 'Shilpa Poppadum' and 'Shilpa Fuckawalla' amongst a retinue of other witty put-downs.

Somehow, a woman who encompassed all that is wrong with this country was championed. As we slide down the international league tables for standard of living and education, as we continue to recruit from abroad because people here are too bloody thick or bone idle to contribute to our society, as more and more irresponsible people continually procreate and thus perpetuate and grow the cycle of mediocrity, as the people who actually work and contribute to society become increasingly outnumbered by the dull-witted and unemployed, we should remember who we idolise and why we choose to do so. We're supposed to look up to Idols, not down on them. We're supposed to celebrate and nurture talent, diversity, excellence and ingenuity, not the opposite. And death should not redefine who we are or our accomplishments (or lack of them)

The headlines following her death were hilariously hyperbolic, such was the warmness with which she was suddenly regarded. The tabloids who had called for her head several times were fawning in their tributes to this great, great woman, who achieved nothing more than reducing the National average I.Q. There were hordes of fat, low-functioning women pushing their prams on a pilgrimage to Bermondsey to pay their last respects to their fallen hero.The England flags at BNP H.Q. were flown at half-mast. Chip wrappers blew across the road in eerie silence; perhaps a reminder of Jade's favourite dish. Britain was wounded; its heart ripped out by this tragic loss. Saint Jade was born.

Stop fannying around and just get to the point

In England, we like to pride ourselves on being polite. Surrounded by barbarians, Celts and the French, it is considered to be the last bastion of our once glorious and relentlessly cruel empire. With this in mind, several expressions exist which serve to smooth the passage of conversation, or to warn of an impending controversial opinion. I despise these expressions. they fill me with rage. For those of you who are not in England (sucks to be you) the following article may have no relevance. So you can all go if you want. Right, now they are gone, I will continue. Annoying and pointless conversation starters below.

I'm not being funny, but... 

Anyone who says this is incapable of being funny. They have never told a joke, or made a quip that anyone but themselves have laughed at. They find horrible, sick jokes and text them to their mates and this is what they think is funny. It's such a stupid expression. It is almost always followed up by a horribly sweeping and prejudiced statement.

At the end of the day... 

Apparently statements have more weight if said at the end of the day. Magical fairies ensure that the words are carried to the pixie god as dusk unfurls its spindly fingers across the landscape. Best when followed up by an insult. A classic would be, 'at the end of the day, you're talking bollocks.' So I guess anything that is said at a particular time of day can be dismissed as poppycock. Does anyone know what time the 'end of the day' is, and how long that state is in force before 'the beginning of the night' is more appropriate?

A lovely example of the natives using this expression can be found here

To be honest... 

If you don't prefix what you're saying with this disclaimer are you lying to me? Am I to discount everything you have ever said to me? Is that really even your name? Are you sure that it happens to all guys once in a while? Is it a good size? Now I just don't know.

To be fair...

Normally followed up by something very unfair. Classic usage: Saint Jade Goody's moronic other half towards unjustly bullied Bollywood actress Shilpa Shetty: "To be fair, she's a wanker" Shilpa's crime was apparently being Indian and not talking like a horrendous fishwife. People who use this expression don't know what fair is. You could probably find footage of this somewhere but I couldn't be bothered. Look for something like vile racist bully Jade Goody Celebrity Big Brother and you should find it. Lest we forget what a lovely woman she was. (R.I.P.)

If you ask/aks me... 

Did I ask/aks you? I either did or didn't. Did I just say to you, can I ask/aks you about this really interesting subject, and can I have your no doubt incisive and intelligent response to it? Or did I not ask/aks you and you are volunteering it? Either way, you know whether I asked/aksed you, don't you. So stop it.

Can I just interrupt you there...

You just did, so thanks for that. You said those words and stopped me speaking, so you did interrupt me. But at least you had the common courtesy to ask, albeit a bit late. I might eat your sandwich. And then say to you, in a patronising tone, Can I eat your sandwich? Maybe I'll ask you if I can burn down your village and rape your women, after burning down your village and raping your women. But at least you can't say I didn't ask.

People I hope to outlive

There is some satisfaction in outliving someone else. In fact, in order to become both bitter and old, I have to do a great deal of that. There are some people who are so annoying, that I can't help but wish death on them. Unfortunately a lot of them are younger than me. So more than likely they will win. But I'm going to start taking better care of myself, so at least a few of them may fall by the wayside before me. And then, needless to say, I'll have the last laugh.

Peaches Geldof

She's like a bad, turd-spattered penny that keeps turning up. Her loathsome, vacant and chubby features try to make sounds that approximate interesting statements and fail miserably. Quite what her dad did to deserve ending up with this spoiled, stupid and detestable brat is beyond comprehension, but it must have been bad. Especially because he had all that positive karma from Live Aid.

Michael Buble

Standing atop the pantheon of twattish music, he is only liked by women of a certain age and really stupid men, who are trying to impress women of a certain age. Seems like a nice enough chap, but he just keeps perpetuating and re-hashing a musical genre that should have died along with 'old blue eyes'. So now, Buble has to die too.

Lily Allen

Her stupid life is consumed with little personal dilemmas that no-one apart from her wants to know about. But she keeps using her shouty stupid gob to spout off whenever she's in range of a laptop. So with this in mind, hopefully she can decide the following and make her bloody mind up. Has she stopped making awful music, or is will she continue making awful music ? Was she dragged up on the mean streets of north London, having to blow Albanian gangsters to survive, or was she pampered and preened and schooled in one of the finest private institutions in the country? Is she thin and titless, or fat and titless? The world needs to know.

Justin Bieber

Owner of the worst haircut in the history of the universe. But he's not a one-trick pony, oh no. His worryingly unbroken voice (perhaps he is a eunuch) sounds like a cat being violated by a horse to my ears. I'd be lucky to outlive him, given that he is about 12. His death may be unnecessary, as he may well fade into obscurity once he starts getting pubes and gets all spotty and awkward.

Fearne Cotton

Who likes Fearne Cotton? What is she for? Destined to be a spinster forever? Maybe she should talk less and listen more. I would never have thought that the BBC could manage find a less favourable replacement for Jo Whiley, but manage it they did. Even annoying best pal Holly Wheelbarrow has a husband and kid for company, and incredibly lucrative contracts with ITV. Poor little Fearne has nothing. Nothing but being mercilessly picked on by Keith Lemon.

Matt Horne

He somehow achieves the impossible task of making James Corden appear funny. He was unfunny in Gavin and Stacey, unfunny in that dreadful sitcom, and unfunny in that dreadful film. He thought he was going to be the new Simon Pegg, but unfortunately Simon Pegg is funny. Matt Horne will never, ever be funny. He is awful. He tries to be quirky by dressing as an Italian exchange student. Just to reiterate, he is not funny. The only funny thing he will ever do, is to die in a spectacular and unlikely way. Preferably fired out of a cannon into an enraged Rhinoceros's anus, who will then run off a cliff, get sliced into small pieces by a low-flying plane's propeller and land in a vat of hydrochloric acid. That would be funny.

How to get through a boring morning at work

From: XXXXX, Vam
Sent: 06 October 2010 11:11
To: XXXXX, Alex
Subject:

Yo do you have any good music collection that I could borrow ??

Vam

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Alex
Sent: 06 October 2010 11:11
To: XXXXX, Vam
Subject: RE: 

What do you mean by borrow?

Thanks,

Alex

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Vam
Sent: 06 October 2010 11:14
To: XXXXX, Alex
Subject: RE: 

Well I could copy them to my hard disk at home

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Alex
Sent: 06 October 2010 11:17
To: XXXXX, Vam
Subject: RE: 

No, that’s both illegal and immoral

Thanks,

Alex

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Vam
Sent: 06 October 2010 11:18
To: XXXXX, Alex
Subject: RE: 

Jeez you’ re such an … never mind  thanks anyway

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Alex
Sent: 06 October 2010 11:19
To: XXXXX, Vam
Subject: RE: 

Do you want me to help you rob a bank as well?

Thanks,

Alex

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Vam
Sent: 06 October 2010 11:24
To: XXXXX, Alex
Subject: RE: 

No thank you ,,, that’s immoral  lending music to a work mate isn’t

Vam

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Alex
Sent: 06 October 2010 11:26
To: XXXXX, Vam
Subject: RE: 

Maybe we could burgle a house, my mum’s neighbour is on holiday. I draw the line at killing, though.

Thanks,

Alex

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Vam
Sent: 06 October 2010 11:28
To: XXXXX, Alex
Subject: RE: 

Some people like you are still alive just because shooting is illegal

No thanks

Vam

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Alex
Sent: 06 October 2010 11:32
To: XXXXX, Vam
Subject: RE: 

You’re right, that’s too ambitious. We could go to Hounslow HMV, I can distract the staff while you take some CDs?

Thanks,

Alex

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Vam
Sent: 06 October 2010 12:10
To: XXXXX, Alex
Subject: RE: 

It’s a great plan but we swap role … I will distract the staff and you steal the CDs for me ..what say

Vam

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Alex
Sent: 06 October 2010 12:12
To: XXXXX, Vam
Subject: RE: 

Ok what sort of music were you after?

Thanks,

Alex

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Vam
Sent: 06 October 2010 12:13
To: XXXXX, Alex
Subject: RE: 

Pop …please J

Thanks

Vam

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Alex
Sent: 06 October 2010 12:16
To: XXXXX, Vam
Subject: RE: 

Sorry, I hate pop. The job’s off

Thanks,

Alex

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Vam
Sent: 06 October 2010 12:19
To: XXXXX, Alex
Subject: RE: 

Okay get me anything nice that you have got … I bought a new home cinema system so I wanna  try on it  so get what ever you can . the job’s still on

Vam

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Alex
Sent: 06 October 2010 12:54
To: XXXXX, Vam
Subject: RE: 

Blu ray or DVD?

Thanks,

Alex

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Vam
Sent: 06 October 2010 13:21
To: XXXXX, Alex
Subject: RE: 

DVD 

Vam

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: XXXXX, Alex
Sent: 06 October 2010 13:24
To: XXXXX, Vam
Subject: RE: 

no

Thanks,

Alex

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After all that …….. Grrrr  you re sick

Vam

The Z Factor

Having spent another uneventful weekend entombed in my house, I elected to watch the X Factor again. My joy was palpable on Saturday as I witnessed 2 of my least favourite people on the entire Earth disintegrate before my very eyes. First, Katie - the bastard lovechild of Marie Antoinette and Desperate Dan - failed to impress Cheryl Cole, and then 'Cher' totally fell to pieces. Watching these 2 cry as their facade of competence went the way of their copious mascara was the best piece of television I have seen for a long time. I slept soundly on Saturday night, knowing that by Sunday evening the pair of no-hopers would be ejected from the competition. You can judge their dreadful performances for yourself below!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2qy36g81pvU

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HtXK9HW4yLw

So imagine my despair on Sunday when Cheryl elected to keep them both in! In a rare moment of lucidity, Cheryl declared that some people might find Katie annoying. Some people? Surely everyone will despise her by week 3. Her performance was a shambles. She forgot her words but made out it was because the song she was singing was 'emotional'. No doubt a sob story will make into the papers soon enough. She probably knows someone who died or was a bit poorly once or was denied a pony when she turned 12. She looks like a Lady Di drag act with a pineapple on her head. Her kooky act is already wearing thinner than her vocal range. But her performance was a masterclass when compared to 'Cher's' effort. 'Cher' got 3 chances to sing her song, I say sing when really all she did was a half-arsed rap in her irritating midlands/LA drawl. She even got a trademark hug from wor Cheryl but even that couldn't stop her just giving up, and all in front of that nice William chap.

Yet, for all their apparent foibles, both gals have been taken into the live stages next week. I wonder why they were chosen. I think in 'Cher's' case it is Cheryl's vanity at work. For 'Cher' has almost the same name, and is the mirror image of Cheryl (if the mirror had been smashed with a brick and sprayed with 1,000 litres of foundation). She also seems to like her R&B, which is the only type of 'music' that Cheryl can understand. Katie is obviously the new Diana Vickers or that dumpy Laura one, being both annoying, pretentious and guilty of massively overestimating her ability.

I do feel a bit sorry for Cheryl , though. For while she was laying about for months on end 'recovering' from 'malaria' the girls were chosen without her input. So imagine her dismay when she was confronted with 6! black contestants and had to put at least one of them through. My heart goes out the brave little geordie people's princess. She managed to dispatch 5 of them though, making it the largest black exodus since a bunch of hooray Henrys turned up in Africa with muskets and a bunch of fishing nets. In the end, she chose the whitest and weepiest black girl and let her continue her dream. With a bit of mood lighting, she can pass for white, just like that Leona one! I don't even know her name and have no inclination to find it out, what with her being so dull and forgettable. I remember she cried a lot though, but that is par for the course these days. If a girl doesn't cry, she must be an ice maiden. Even nails-hard Cheryl managed to squeeze out a few tears on cue.

In other news, Louis Walsh shockingly broke from convention and let massive Irish Mary through, who is Irish and is from Ireland, which afforded her no advantage whatsoever with the Irish judge Louis Walsh, who resides in a mansion in Ireland. She seems nice enough but I detect a very unpleasant undercurrent, which I am sure will make itself known should any criticism come her way. Which should really be in live show #1 considering her lack of versatility. All she can do is bellow. It's a given that anyone with a chest cavity that big should have a powerful voice. Doesn't mean it's any good though. Louis also put 'Storm' through who would have looked dated if it were still the late '80's. The other little fella is pretty good but unremarkable, and will get the boot within the first couple of weeks. Dannii chose some forgettable blokes who are not as good as they think they are and Simon chose 2 groups that he had put together himself, the egomaniac. At least the girlband fronted by the bleached blonde zebra didn't get through, which helped me sleep a little easier last night. I hated them. Thanks Simon.

The white van man

The White Van Man has been on these shores for a long time and even predate the white van by centuries. Back when there were no white vans available, they would instead sport white horses and carts and spend their days cutting up other cart drivers and generally complaining about all the Romans 'taking our jobs'. The Sun newspaper can be blamed for propelling the White Van Man into popular culture, with their celebrated 'White Van Man' column.

Up until this development, there was little information available about the White Van Man, but what was known was frightening. The White Van Men, being plumbers, plasterers, thieves etc. have long regarded themselves as a 5th emergency service, hence their conduct on Britain's roads. Most people who drive a white van must also be owners of a Porsche 911, as they wrench their van around corners like they are driving one. White Van Men also always have priority on roundabouts, whether they be to your right or otherwise. Just let them go. They are driving a 2-tonne lump which they probably purchased under dubious circumstances and any ensuing collision will render your vehicle Edith Bowman ugly.

What wasn't known about the White Van Man was that they possess a keen political conscience, until this was exhibited by the column in the Sun. The 'White Van Man' column asks the important political questions of the day to - you guessed it - the White Van Man. Topics up for discussion invariably cover such diverse elements as immigrants, people taking our jobs and nonces. The sun prides itself on the 'readership' of the White Van Man, and even dilutes the paper to a single column which sums up all the important news, known as 'The Sun Says'.

Perhaps you're unfamiliar with 'The Sun Says' but no doubt you have heard the column regurgitated in pubs across the country. You know you're in White Van Man territory when every sentence is preceded by "I ain't being funny" or variations thereof. A typical conversation with the White Van Man can be a political hot potato, and could lead to injury should you prove to be the lone dissenting voice. I have designed a table to allow you to navigate any potential potholes, with the common social commentary and a range of suitable responses. You can even select different combinations of the second and third columns to come up with new and exciting prejudicial slurs!

Opening Gambit Section of society to attack Groundless accusation
I ain't being funny, but Seems like all the immigrants are Taking our jobs
Seems like all the foreigners are Raping our women
Seems like all the pedos 'ave moved down my street
Seems like all the Muslims are Trying to blow us up
Seems like all the gays are Takin' the piss
Seems like all the call centres Can't speak english these days


Safe Response Person responsible In closing
Yeah well I blame Tony Blair Meself
The Islams Don't I
The teachers Ain't it
The NHS
The gays
The foreigners
The illegals


Good luck.

Got no talent? Do a cover version

Seeing as I do my level best to never go outside, I spent my Saturday night watching the X Factor. I love the X Factor. Every year it comes up with a few gems, who are somehow more objectionable than those the year before. My favourite this year is 'Cher'; A Cheryl Cole wannabe who may actually prove to be more annoying than Cheryl Cole herself. Only time can tell really. Yesterday she raped and murdered Viva La Vida by Coldplay - not my favourite band or song by any means but surely they deserve better than for her to shit unceremoniously all over their song. She took to the stage with her wonky sideways smile, gurning like a stroke victim. Whippet thin and strutting up and down the stage like a demented marionette, she attempted to rap some of the words, and just forget the others altogether. I have provided a link to the affront to music below. I could write a novel and still never catch the killer combination of smugness and hammy awfulness she manages to produce in just minutes, but I can't be bothered so see for yourself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jooLnnhTrbE

Curiously, adding comments for the video has been disabled. I wonder why.

It got me thinking about other examples of terrible cover versions. I hate cover versions at the best of times. Is there anything more lazy then singing someone else's song? They are always inferior, and in some cases, downright insulting. I have listed the ones I hate the most below.

Florence and the Machine - You got the love

Florence, alongside her 'machine' whatever that means are quite good sometimes. But they are at their worst here, ruthlessly dry-humping the cadaver of Candi Staton's 'You got the love' over and over again. In a textbook case of oversinging, her voice flutters and undulates like 2 fat people copulating. It is all very unnecessary. Her voice is like a foghorn at the best of times, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the face. Here is is entirely inappropriate and makes me want to burst my eardrums with a rusty nail.

Jamie Cullum - High and Dry

Generally speaking, it is not wise to cover Radiohead. Radiohead are good and intensely depressing and therefore fit my mantra perfectly. Jamie Cullum is not good. He is an arse-faced midget who champions the worst genre ever. Witness his light-jazz infused destruction of High and Dry and recoil in horror, unless you are a complete simpleton in which case you will crow on about his 'arrangement', while reclining in a terrible Stevenage winebar. You are a moron.

Professor Green Feat. Lily Allen - Just be good to me

I know that the Beats International version was also a cover, but it was good. Norman Cook is good. This version has Lily Allen in it. That's more than enough to make me want to shit my own brain out.

Mariah Carey - I can't live

I can't live after hearing this interpretation. 3 minutes of Manatee-faced Mariah singing her ample lungs out. Another example of completely unnecessary vocal gymnastics. Subtlety - so subtle you don't say the 'b'. Look it up, Mariah. Less is more.

All Saints - Under the Bridge

The Red Hot Chilis may be an overrated pile of tosh beloved only by South Africans, but this is yet another case of having a decent song desecrated by a bunch of vapid whores with no regard for or understanding of the source material. For about 5 minutes, people liked the All Saints, until they realised that they were crap, and one of the American ones was clearly bonkers. To add insult to injury, this version, which closer resembled a send-up than a homage was their breakthrough single.

Westlife Feat. Mariah Carey - Against all odds 

Another appearance for the charmless slab of soul-diva, this time garnished with Westlife sauce. In fact, Westlife have ruined loads of songs, having no originality or talent within their ranks. This cover version is made exponentially worse by having both contribute their meagre 'talents'. This is the most damaging collaboration since the Nazis and Japs had a little pow-wow.

Bo Diddley Feat. Faith Evans - Missin' Y'all

When the sweary, woman-hating butterball known as Notorious B.I.G. was finally shot with enough bullets to finish him off, most right-minded folk were quite happy at the prospect of never having to hear his 'East Coast-West Coast' rhetoric again. But it presented a problem for Puff Daddy (as he was known at the time) as the only rapper in his little stable with any discernible talent was now a bloated and rotting corpse. Thankfully, the entrepreneurial Puffy struck while the iron was hot and released a tribute record for his murdered colleague, which fittingly murdered 'Every Breath You Take' by the Police. B.I.G.'s widow, Faith Evans, bravely stopped crying for just long enough to add her squawky vocals to the track. Luckily she was able to dry her eyes with all the dollar bills that were to come flooding her way as a result shifting millions of Copies. Puff Daddy, who is now known as 'Diddy' (except in the U.K.) is definitely NOT a criminal and profited enormously from the venture.

Madonna - American Pie

There was a time when Madonna was regarded as something other than a veiny old whore. During this period, she recorded a cover version of Don McLean's 'American Pie' which, if it were quantifiable, may lay claim to be the worst cover version of all time. Part-time prostitute and full-time arsehole, even Madonna's thin veneer of 'credibility' could not prevent this from being dreadful. Ostensibly about the death of Buddy Holly, Madonna managed to kill music with it instead.

Anyone can get a gig on TV these days

There are many mysteries in our world. The Bermuda Triangle. The Disappearance of Lord Lucan. Why people find the fat one out of Gavin and Stacey funny. But one mystery which eclipses all of these is a case which defies all logic. The case of a man whose distinct lack of credibility has made him something of a media darling. A man, who, presiding over a particularly obnoxious reign of an nasty tabloid which ended in a final, desperate belch of non-apology and utter disgrace has somehow been escalated to celebrity status. I speak, of course, of Piers Morgan.

Maybe it's his fawning little face, his ruddy cheeks or his beady eyes. It could be his jolly, roly poly physique or his wet charm that has particularly stupid housewives wrapped around his stubby little fingers. Then again, it could be the savvy of Simon Cowell, who on appointing Morgan as a judge on Britain's Got Talent not only made himself appear slightly less pompous, but also managed to bestow upon aspergers' android Amanda Holden the vague facade of being human. Morgan is so smug about his unexpected and fully undeserved success he probably blows a kiss when he sees himself in the mirror.

Quite why a 'resigned' former editor of a salacious redtop is adjudged to be in any position to assess talent is beyond me but there you go. It's the world we live in. Not only this, 'Pierce' as tupperware-titted waste of oxygen Katie Price/Reid/Andre/Bowers/Yorke likes to call him has his own show, where he interviews people who are not so disgusted on first sight of him as to vomit their intestines all over his smarmy face. I can see why Parky resigned, as he obviously got wind that a new, young maverick would be blazing a trail in the chat world, redefining the genre forever. Or maybe just having a chinwag with his ever-decreasing pool of mates.

But what's this! Morgan has somehow landed Larry King's vacant seat. I have it all wrong! Perhaps I should take a leaf out of Mr.Morgan's book. I would start by royally screwing up my job to the point where an international incident was stirring. Then, after laying low for a couple of years I would not only return to the previous level of fame I had attained, but eclipse it by actually being invited onto the TV! I'm off to curl out a turd onto my boss's desk.

Piers 'Leaves' the Daily Mirror

Between puberty and adulthood, things get odd

I really dislike young people. Not all of them, mind. just about 90% of them. I dislike them because they're even more cocksure than I remember people my age being at the time. The ones that are not cocksure are forming suicide pacts and ending it all over some major life travail, such as not getting the exact Land Rover sport that they wanted, or having to live in Wales. I have compiled a list of young people that I dislike, just because I can. And I don't have to do homework or study so there. In fact I never have to learn anything again in my life, ever. And I won't. Put that in the bong under your bed and smoke it.

Skinny jean wearers. I hate you all. It used to be that skinny legs were a sign that your mum didn't feed you, and were to be covered up at all costs. I owned the baggiest pair of jeans imaginable and wore them from 10 to 16, just so social services didn't put me in care. Now emaciated legs are jauntily worn like a badge of honour. It must be considered attractive if you have never had to convey yourself under your own steam. Do you kids have stairlifts at home? Atrophied, lanky spider limbs shoehorned into jeans barely roomy enough for an Olsen twin.Where do you put their genitals?

Girls with too much hair. You're so stupid you make me want to throw you in the river. Overly long tresses, back-combed to within an inch their life, and then dragged through the world's biggest hedge, backwards, by a pack of wolves. A flock of Albatrosses could be perched in your ridiculous bouffants and you wouldn't know. In fact, best check your hair now, if you can see past your fringe into the mirror. And you have a mirror big enough to see your entire barnet at once. Space telescopes have big mirrors. They're used for looking at space.

Delinquents. You are the fastest growing young person demographic. You have grandparents younger than me. You have uncles 10 years younger than you. You have cousins that are also aunties. You have enough siblings to fill an entire football team, plus substitutes. Your families are all broken. Your fishwife mums are occasionally rutted by the local villain who may or may not have fathered one of your numerous offspring - they are permanently pregnant between the ages 13 and 45. In short, you kids are dragged up by nasty, drunken, illiterate, violent and uncaring benefit thieves and the world is shocked when you also grow up to be nasty, drunken, illiterate, violent and uncaring benefit thief. Stop looking at my car.

Goths. An absurd way to single yourself out as an individual, by wearing what is essentially a uniform. Conformity personified by a group who have no desire to conform. You would appreciate the irony if you knew what irony was. And don't ask Alanis Morisette, because she don't know either. Emos, If I knew what you were, perhaps you'd get your own paragraph. But I don't. But you look like a slightly less dirty Goth to me. So all that applies to Goths applies to you . You are all tools, and you all look ridiculous.

Precocious rich kids. I hate you most of all. I hate your noses that end at impossible angles, your giant ears and prematurely balding pates. I hate your double-barreled names almost as much as I hate the pullovers you drape over your popped-collar polo shirts. You swim in a gene pool so shallow it's a wonder you can reproduce at all, Descendents of colonial bastards who cracked the whip to the tune of Jerusalem. Using the facade of charity so you can go on a jolly jaunt sailing around Europe or back-packing through Rhodesia, or whatever the local savages call it now. Always praised for your endeavour and spirit by the Daily Mail. That just gives sane folk another reason to hate the Daily Mail. Tarquin, Foie Gras, China White, Chinos and one thousand pound loafers. Cressida, of course you can borrow daddy's old Yacht to sail around the Med. Perhaps you can get a duke of Edinburgh out of it. He's our third cousin after all, so it's the least he could do. Give mummy and daddy a bit of alone time. Boarding school terms are just far too short.

So, to summarise, if you are a teenager I probably hate you. Sorry about that.

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me.

For some reason, a lot of intelligent, law-abiding citizens have a blind spot on their moral compass the size of Peru when it comes to one particular act of lawlessness, and that is the act of piracy. Whether it be music, videogames or films, all are considered fair game by these mavericks, the swashbuckling heroes sticking 2 fingers up to 'the man' and showing the rest of us up for the conformist, capitalist fools we are. These selfless Robin Hoods rape and stifle the creativity of others in the name of freedom. God bless 'em.

I would be better able to abide pirates if they were able to admit that they were thieves. But despite the fact they are thieves, who may as well run out of HMV with a shedload of CDs stuffed under their jumpers, they refuse to acknowledge this fact. Instead, the same old tired, cliched mitigations and justifications are reeled out by people, disgusted at the fact that they are considered thieves when in fact, they are thieves. And they're not even good or intelligent thieves. They sit there, in their underpants, dribbling all over their keyboard as their withered hands dart back and forth, mouse in hand, randomly downloading everything they can. Below are some of the more common justifications for these acts of theft, that you may hear when dealing with these turgid individuals.

"Other people pay for it, so I don't need to" - If everyone had this attitude, then all these industries would cease to exist tomorrow. Just because other people are propping up your greedy, thieving lifestyle does not justify its continuation. It would be like me strolling up to Curries, wrenching a massive 3D TV off the wall and walking out with it, all the while wearing a smug grin, sniggering at all the other poor fools who actually elect to pay for things they want, rather than just steal them.

"I go to concerts, so it's OK for me to download music for free" - Hmmm. Let's suspend for a minute the disbelief that these cretins who download every new album have seen even 10 percent of the artists whose work they have stolen live, and take it on face value that for all the hundreds of artists they have stolen off of, they have paid to see them all at least once. Even if that was the case, how many of those were seen at festivals where the individual artists get an infinitesimally small percentage of the takings? And what if artists don't want to do in excess of 200 gigs per year, playing in Romford to gurning simians, dodging plastic bottles of Bacardi Breezer? That second album isn't going to happen any time soon. But it's not as if anyone would bother buying it, anyway. Why bother spending all that money on producing and tweaking an album for optimal aural performance, when the only time you will see any money for it is if you play over thousands of grunting morons on a terrible sound system in Norwich?

"Videogames cost too much, that's why I don't pay" - Obviously, the days of paying upwards of 60 pounds in 1989 for a game that lasts mere hours are long forgotten, then. Games take longer, involve more staff and require more of a budget to produce than most movies. They can provide months of entertainment. But that doesn't stop gibbering baboon-brained morons from paying nowt for them. Then they have the audacity to complain when their Xbox 360 is blocked from Xbox Live. Diddums, you cretinous, cro-magnon pikey idiots.

"Film stars are paid too much money, so why should I pay to see them?" - No-one is holding a gun to your head, forcing you to watch these films. If you have such a strong moral objection to the obscene salaries paid out, why not stay at home, and read a book instead, or do all those words and lack of explosions confuse you. You see, the only films that really suffer from your belligerent and quite ridiculous attitude are those from the smaller studios, where low takings for one movie can mothball other forthcoming projects, or close studios altogether. The blockbuster films that pay the silly wages will always prosper, because there will always be intellectually bankrupt retards who will pay top dollar to see Twilight 12 or Fastest and the Furiousest.

No punishment is too great for these thieving gits. Hopefully, in the future there will be harsher sentences bestowed upon these individuals. Perhaps some method of bisecting fingers with inbuilt lasers, should someone attempt to download copyrighted music. Or obliterating the abodes of those downloading the latest shoot-em-up with a Gatling gun. Maybe confiscating all films and TV programmes of a movie download whore, and forcing them to watch episodes of Friends back to back for eternity would work.

In closing, if you don't pay for stuff and just take it, I hate you. All of you, with your smug and somehow morally superior attitude when it comes to your cowardly acts of theft. Here's what will become of our arts if you carry on. In 10 years the music singles chart will be full of X Factor winners, and X Factor runners-up. Attaining a number one will require around a thousand copies sold. Aspiring musicians and people with talent will be forever stuck, stacking shelves at Tesco, waiting for the call that never comes. In cinemas, there will be no films that are not sequels or do not star Shia LeDouche. Videogames will regress to smaller and simpler titles which are cheap to produce, with the exception of FIFA, which will continue to sell billions of copies to the knuckle-draggers. For this is our future, and you retarded arseholes are making sure it happens. Congratulations, you thieving, smug, idiotic bastards.

Watch 'Idiocracy', for this is our future

The latest 'A' Level results have been announced, and, shock horror, there has been another increase in overall pass rates, despite a concerted effort to make the exams and courses more challenging. This means that there has been not one dip in the rising pass rates over the last 20 years. Now, there are 2 conclusions that can be reached from this. The first is that young Britons are mutating into a master race of the world, who will soon be escalated to the very pinnacle of society. In time, they will do away with speech altogether and instead use telepathy to communicate. They will also move things with their very minds. Us older and obviously developmentally challenged relics will be employed as slaves and human chairs. The other conclusion is that the qualifications are becoming easier.

Unfortunately, lots of people seem to believe that the former conclusion is more likely than the latter. There was a time when the 'A' in 'A' Levels referred to 'Advanced'. Now it seems to represent the average grade attained. 'A' levels have been devalued thoroughly over the last 20 years, to a point where the universities are left flummoxed by students receiving 'A' grades when they are, quite clearly, thick as Lily Allen's ankles. Prospective students often lack the rudimentary skills to wash their own clothes or brush their hair, let alone apply abstract thought to a conundrum. Thankfully the interviewing process normally sorts the adept from the retarded, so the complete gibbering loons have to settle for a job as a tube driver or Big Brother contestant.

Idiots assume that the current bunch of sixth formers are much more intelligent that a decade or so ago, despite the lack of any compelling evidence whatsoever. In fact both universities and workplaces regularly complain about the declining standards of basic literacy and numeracy. I found some frightening statistics on the BBC website which I may have re-contextualised slightly to demonstrate that improved 'A' level pass rates are inversely proportionate to actual intelligence.You may notice the lack of data post-2005: this is because the incumbent university students were no longer able to operate a computer with sufficient skill to perform the analysis required, and were instead given some crayons to play with.

A-LEVEL PASS RATE: UK LEVEL OF DIMNESS SMUGNESS LEVEL
2001: 89.6% Blink 182 Average
2002: 94.3% Plank Big smarmy grin
2003: 95.4% 5-watt bulbAnnoying
2004: 96.0% Jade Goody (then)Think their parents are dim because they did not pass 6 A/S levels in Media Studies
2005: 96.2% Jade Goody (now)The world owes them a living. The intellectually bleak shall inherit the Earth

A* at 'A' Level has now been introduced, which is pretty much an admission that they are broken. I see this cycle continuing in perpetuity. I predict by 2030 what would have been an A in 1980 would now look like this: A******************************************************************************************************

Some facts about how much clevarar the new generations is than what my lot was

Autobots. Transform, and sell out.

Kids like Ben 10. Before that they liked Digimon. Then Pokemon (bit of a Jamaican flavour to that era) so on and so forth. In my era it was all about the Transformers. The cartoon was concocted to cynically market the toys, but I knew little of those machinations at the time. I just knew I had to have Optimus Prime. Had to. If the Internet was around then, I would have put my little sister on eBay to raise the funds. Eventually I got my wish. My mum bought it for me for Christmas, but she did so in October because they were so scarce. On a couple of occasions, I was allowed to play with him while he was still in the box. I was that pleased with him.

Optimus prime is an icon. Everyone knew who he was. He had the highest Tech Specs in almost every respect. Tech Specs were a jagged graph, printed onto the back of the cardboard boxes, next to the barcode and underneath a vista of various robots doing battle. You could distinguish the purple peaks and troughs through the pinkish grid if you wanted to, but why do that when you could use your decoder. A piece of red acetate endowed with magical properties. Pop that in front of the graph and hey presto. Those toys were the dictionary definition of awesome. So awesome that I have spent nearly a paragraph talking about a bit of packaging. They even had heat stickers, entirely pointless but wonderful badges that would only show the robots allegiance when rubbed or blown on. They were pointless because each figure had at least 4 or 5 Autobot or Decepticon badges so the need for subterfuge on one particular badge was never adequately (or at all) explained. I still have my transformers, and their Tech Specs. They are currently on loan, being exhibited to some lucky mice in my mum's loft.

So without really having to make much sense, the toys were great. The early ones in particular were incredibly well made. Chunky, metal and solid. Although anyone of my age who did not break or lose most of Megatron is either a liar, or didn't have Megatron. There was something abut the gadget-centric 80s that made transformers such a perfect fit. Ghetto blasters, Walkmen and Lamborghinis were all beautifully rendered. But in all honesty, the cartoons themselves do not bear up to close inspection today. All plots were the same. A bunch of planes tear across the Atlantic looking for Energon (Glowing, urine-coloured sugar cubes) pursued by a bunch of cars and trucks, who battle and randomly change into robots and back. (I think there was a contractual obligation to demonstrate both toy modes several times per episode) The evil ones (Decepticons) were always duffed up and sent packing. Occasionally a luckless human got a black eye. But it was all harmless fun. That was until the movie.

I was lucky enough to be in Disney World at 8 years old. Did I want to go on rides? No. Did I want to be molested by Mickey Mouse? Not particularly. I knew that we were in the states at the time that the Transformers movie had been released. In the 80's, it used to take roughly 20 years for movies that had opened in the states to appear in Britain, for some hitherto unexplained reason. So I whined, complained bitterly and basically just behaved like the spoilt bastard that I am until my Dad relented and took me to see the movie. There are 3 peculiarities about the movie, looking back on it. 1) it was well animated and had a plot that made some sense. 2) Leonard Nimoy and Orson Welles! lent their voices to it. 3) They killed Optimus Prime. They actually killed Optimus Prime and that was that. He was dead. I kept thinking that his resurrection would be forthcoming but it wasn't. Optimus was dead and the new Autobot leader was a knobend.

It takes real bravery to kill an icon like that. Especially with no real fanfare or advanced warning. In actual fact, I later learned that most of the old toyline was killed, to encourage us to buy the newer toys. They weren't sent to Swansea on a peace-keeping mission or something, they were all killed, on screen. Half of them were ripped to pieces. The replacement toys were bigger, noisier, but more plasticy and a lot less charming. The golden era of Transformers was over, and Transformers slowly went the way of other fads. I kept buying the comic in the UK all the way to it's bitter end, when it had been forced to print mostly in black and white. About 6 people noticed its demise. Optimus Prime had been bought back in the late '80's as a bigger and much uglier incarnation, and he couldn't arrest the decline. Then a garish relaunch of the old toys failed. Then they started fannying around with monkeys and dinosaurs.

In the intervening decade things were quiet. There were still Transformer toys and cartoons being made, and some of them weren't bad, but they were now considered niche instead of all-conquering. So I greeted the news of a new live action Transformers with cautious optimism. The old characters would be in it. I knew that CG could now beautifully render the old forms I knew so well. And then my initial optimism turned to sheer dread when I realised that Michael Bay had been appointed to helm the picture. What a disaster. That's Michael Bay the awful director, not some hitherto unknown Michael Bay who was not an awful director. Then the first character models emerged. I obviously doubted their authenticity at first, given how bad they were. But then the movie drew ever closer and I realised that they were the actual designs. I still had enough curiosity to see the movie, but I had to wait until I could see it gratis. I have a policy (If it's Michael Bay, don't pay) that has served me well in life.

I eventually got to see the Transformers movie, and Bay's reputation for ruining everything didn't disappoint. I was greeted with approximately 2 hours of insectoid, Picasso-inspired automatons clanging into each other in either so slow a speed that I dozed off, or so fast that for approximately a third of the movie I had no idea who was fighting who, where they were and what for. To say it was a crushing disappointment was an understatement. A fairly decent cast (including John Turturro for some reason - hope he sacked his agent) plus Megan fox gamely tried to paper over the quadruple chasms of infantile script, woeful direction, dreadful character design and excessive slow motion, but could do little to arrest the picture from stunning mediocrity.

Why am I writing about this now, you may ask, not very topical is it. Transformers was donkeys years ago. But no. If you remember my aforementioned rule regarding Michael Bay, I must never part ways with any money when watching his films. So last week, I was stuck in a room with a telly equipped with an 'On Demand' service and the choice was either wrist-slittingly depressing daytime TV or the Transformers sequel, Revenge Of The Fallen. Despite a million alarm bells going off in my head, I watched Revenge Of the Fallen. Could Bay and the production team arrest the myriad issues with the first movie? Of course not. In fact there are several reasons why Revenge Of The Fallen is even worse than its' predecessor. Even poorer plot. More confusing. Uglier robots. More silly little robots. More silly big robots (why does a stealth bomber need a walking stick, and where does it conceal it when in plane mode?) Shia LeBoeuf more irritating than before. Optimus Prime dies, and is promptly resurrected.

That last point is what prompted me to write this, so you can't blame me for wasting your time. Blame the heathens who chanelled the awful script via Satan's fiery ringpiece. At least in the original cartoon movie, there existed the kind of ruthless mentality to actually kill a hero and not pretty much instantly bring them back. It may have been for cynical reasons but then you're not relying on cheap tricks as a plot device. You can have a death scene that actually invokes emotion, rather than a death which you know will be followed up by a resurrection before the credits roll. So Prime is bought back to life by virtue of a shard of something being stuck into his chest, and then the aforementioned pensioner robot, Jetfire, kind of rips himself to pieces and sticks bits onto Optimus. That somehow does the trick and then Megatron, who in his latest incarnation resembles a turd wrapped in scrunched-up tinfoil, is vanquished.

Now that the inevitable sequel is in the works, who knows where this franchise will end. Despite the terrible reaction to the 2nd movie (kudos for that, critics) another film is now guaranteed. Michael Bay, a man constructed entirely of  Teflon, the narcissistic, ill-equipped and talentless hack, will direct again. This is despite the fact that even Megan Fox (whose sole contribution in the first 2 installments was removing and putting on clothing very slowly whilst pouting) has realised that Bay is an utter arse, opened her gob and has been kicked off the film. She allegedly compared him to Hitler. Now I'm no fan, but I think that is a bit over the top. Sure, Adolf was evil incarnate, but he never ruined Transformers.

Jordan - don't go there

Jordan. Dry, arid and unbearable during the day. Ice cold at night. Mile upon mile of featureless dusty orange, sparsely populated with giant dunes. A barren, unforgiving landscape, devoid of character or hope. Also known as Katie Price, she has been many a feckless girls' role model for some 10 years now. 10 years in which she has transformed from a pretty and harmless bongo mag staple to a dried up, emaciated cynical old husk, who has an innate belief in her intellect and god-given right to forever be the most famousest woman ever.

If we go back 10 years we can see where the issues started. Jordan was pretty and glamorous. A pin-up you might say. But when she first opened her mouth a wave of crushing disappointment swept across the males of our fair isle, in much the same way David Beckham's first interviews made women a little bit sick in their mouths. Her voice is so dull, lifeless and relentless, she could verbalise the cure for cancer and no-one would listen. Her voice has no lustre, no life. If Stephen Hawking wanted to sound more robotic, then he should wheel himself over to chez Jordan with a tape recorder.

Did you know that Katie Price has a speech impediment? She actually can't say the letter r. The rotund, floppy-haired and perma-adolescent comic fetishist Johnathan Ross has made a career out of not being able to pronounce his own surname; yet 'Pwicey's' less than expert use of her tongue (something of a first there) goes un-noticed. This is because never has one person spoken so much bilge and gained so many column inches for doing so. We are so baffled and befuddled by the latest stream of verbal diarrhoea exiting her gob that she could lisp like Chris Eubank and no-one would pick it up.

She manages to be insensitive, rude and crass while all the time possessing zero charisma. Even her attempts at public crying seem to be more akin to initiating a software program rather than any genuine emotion. My theory is that Jordan is a cyborg. She has had so many nips, tucks and alterations she is now about as organic as Tesco Value giant mutant tomatoes (10p for 6). All of her life decisions seem to be determined by her relentlessly stupid, yet cold and calculating brain; her selfish synapses firing once every couple of months, telling her to dispense of someone or something in her vapid life and replace with a more pliable/hunkier/less intelligent substitute.

She is literally surrounded by sycophants now, having ousted any actual friends who may dare to suggest that, actually she is wrong all of the time, and quite the disgusting human being to boot. Surely it is only a matter of time before the town of Hove is permanently scarred by a giant, stalinesque statue of her effigy, giant breasts hewn from disused gasworks. Lately she has been expressing the difficulty she has had in being 'Reidinated', by classily informing various media outlets of her struggles, as every woman with a modicum of self-respect in her situation would do. She is acutely aware that another unfortunate sprog would momentary shore up the rapidly disintegrating walls of her 'career'.

However, at least having children to various fathers isn't her only talent. Oh no. This is a woman who professes to have written in excess of a dozen books, yet I'd be amazed if she could name a dozen she has read. In fact, I'd be stupefied if she could name a dozen titles of any book ever written, even if allowing her to name her 'own'. Putting this aside, at least she has her looks. Oh Dear. She now resembles a Harpy dreamt up by H.P. Lovecraft on acid. The bottom-half of a 10-year-old boy. A Top half that even Beavis and Butthead in their chromosome-deficient horny pomp would be hard-pressed to make such a mess of. A duck-like, emotionless face, punctuated by soulless black beads for eyes, and all crowned by a huge, synthetic mane of the deepest ebony, she really is a 'stunna'.

Her last remaining vestige of hope is television. Ever since she was filmed lazily noshing on Dane Bower's chub-on it was obvious that the small screen was her natural home. Her 'fly on the wall' television series continues to be syndicated by various low-brow cable channels which you find by accident when looking for Porn. Tawdrily serialising the black widow-like mental destruction of her latest luckless male, the show somehow succeeds in painting her in an even worse light than usual. And this is a show of which she has editorial control, so who knows how bad she really is? Poor old Alex Reid, I’ll wager. No wonder he was so pumped to be on Shooting Stars, even if he had no clue what was happening.

I don't like wednesdays (tell me why)

I hate Wednesdays. Wednesdays are neither here nor there. Trapped between the optimism of a forthcoming fantastic weekend and the crushing reality of yet another disappointing weekend. I'm not even with Orange so no free cinema tickets for me. 

If I believed in the absolute absurdity that the earth was created by a divine entity in 7 days, then the Daily Mail, electrical 'lifestyle' products prefixed with a little 'i' and Katie Price were all created on a Wednesday. Such is the banal nature of the day that we could easily scrap it from the calendar altogether. At least then we could 'enjoy' Christmas in the summer once in a while.

So it is on this Wednesday, sitting here listening to yet another conference call where words meld into one lengthy, undulating string of bilge, which I decide to create this 'blog'. I hope that it is the cathartic kick up the arse I need to actually achieve something, even if that something is making someone else as miserable as me, if but for a fleeting moment of time.

So look forward! to being regaled with unremarkable tales about things that vaguely annoy me. Which, as has been pointed out by some real life people to me is pretty much anything. Suspend your disbelief! as I grumpily and somewhat futilely have a strop about not much at all. And most of all Enjoy! not being as petty and mincing as me.

Roll on next Wednesday.