New Years Resolutions for 2011 - A Retrospective

I made some pretty bullish claims about what I hoped to achieve during 2011 and predictably enough, I failed in almost every one of them. Share my incompetence in bite-sized chunks of disappointment below...

Hate more people for even pettier reasons - FAIL, HATRED HAS BECOME APATHY, ACCEPTANCE WILL FOLLOW

Kill myself - FAIL, ALTHOUGH I AM ONE YEAR OLDER THUS CLOSER TO DEATH

Hunt down and kill everyone who I have said I hate during 2010 - FAIL, I AM TOO FEEBLE TO KILL ALL BUT THE SMALLEST OF MAMMALS

Stop making silly internet death threats that might be misconstrued by any agencies with too much time on their hands - FAIL, MY BUMHOLE HAS NEVER BEEN THE SAME SINCE

Destroy Sony - FAIL, ALTHOUGH THEY ARE DOING THEIR LEVEL BEST TO KILL THEMSELVES ANYWAY

Burn my eyes out with a rusty poker so that I never have to watch Jools Holland smugly look back over his shoulder as he plays a terrible jazz fusion number with his sycophantic cronies EVER AGAIN - FAIL, I DON'T HAVE AN OPEN FIRE SO THE HOT POKER THING WAS A NON-STARTER

Vow to stop giving any money to TFL on a regular basis, they are all wankers - !!!PASS!!! I MAY HAVE BEEN A VICTIM OF THEFT AND NEARLY KILLED BY A DEER, BUT SO WHAT

Fix my car so it can propel itself with an engine instead of my legs - FAIL. IT IS STILL IN THE GARAGE, CAN SOMEONE STEAL IT FOR ME?

Spend less time with humans and more time with animals - FAIL. ALTHOUGH SOME HUMANS ARE SO FERAL NOW THAT THEY RESEMBLE MONGREL DOGS. BUT I DID GO ON SAFARI THIS YEAR, AND A ZOO AS WELL

Do some gay stuff  - !!!PASS!!! I SPOKE ABOUT MY FEELINGS FOR SEVERAL HOURS IN ALL OF 2011

Build an exoskeleton with loads of missiles and that on it, and then attack Primark - FAIL, SUPERGLUE LET ME DOWN AGAIN

Eat more soup - FAIL, I FORGOT TO BUY ANY

Learn to write joined up - FAIL, I AM EVEN FURTHER REMOVED FROM BEING ABLE TO WRITE SANS KEYBOARD. I AM FOREVER DESTINED TO BE BOTH A SHIT TYPIST AND A SHIT CALLIGRAPHER (AND A SHIT PERSON)

Fart more - FAIL, I FARTED 20% LESS THIS YEAR, MAINLY DUE TO NOT ENOUGH RED MEAT AND BEER

Play more XBox 360 - MASSIVE FAIL. I WAS NEVER GOING TO REALISTICALLY BEAT THE FALLOUT 3 AND GTA IV GLORY DAYS, GIVEN THAT GAMES LIKE 'MODERN WARFARE' AND THOSE KINECT GAMES ARE UTTER TOILET. THANKS FOR TRYING TO MAKE XBOX 360 AS SHIT AS A WII, MICROSOFT!

Merry Pissedmas everyone!

Christianity is dead. No-one who says that they are Christian actually are these days. The standard answer from your average Brit when asked about their own allegiances will be 'Church of England'. They will only say this because of the IRA and because they are retarded. It is laughable that our official religion was made up by a fat philandering cunt who, when it was revealed that the Pope decided not to bless his many carnal unions instead decided to do whatever the fuck he liked and make his own one up. Most people in this country only care about religion if you threaten to make something secular. Like every year, there's this clamour to take the 'Christ' out of 'Christmas' and people who have never been to church suddenly start bleating about 'political correctness gone mad' etc.

People pretend that Christianity is awesome and decry other religions on the grounds that they are barbaric and regressive. Proper Christianity is just mental as other religions. 'Adapt or die' was the mantra of the Catholic, as they rode roughshod over far-flung parts of the world bringing their 'crusades' with them. But Christianity is a total pussy these days. I have more respect for the loonies who still adhere to their batshit crazy religions to the letter - better that than a bunch of marginalised softies pandering to middle class idiots who are only there to get little Jake into the Catholic school around the corner. The church must be well pleased about their schools - it's the only way that they attract anyone into their churches who are not either octogenarian or disabled.

Do people really think about the supposed birth of a jewish baby who probably never existed when Christmas comes around? Or do they think about eating loads of food, getting wasted and arguing with the inlaws. If you are reading this and think the former, then you are a massive liar, or you are a hard liner who should probably not be on the internet with all its temptations in the first place. All the good things about Christmas have nothing to do with Christ, and everything to do with spending time with your friends and family, being nice and getting presents and stuff. The church occasionally whinges about Father Christmas, just because they know that kids would rather have videogames and stuff than mouldy bread and wine.

Let's just call Christmas pissedmas and be done with it. And ban all religion from our shores, because all any of them contribute to society is to present reasons to hate people from other religions. They are all laughable and built on 'faith' which is really a manipulated doctrine forced upon the proletariat to stop them asking tough questions and keep them in line, and it's about time that we all woke up and stopped pandering (or pretending to pander) to them. We should set aside aside our religious differences and instead argue about things that matter like oil and football.

Stop, Look, Pray

There were two prevailing messages which were drummed into kids in the '80's. One was to not talk to or accept sweets from strangers, and especially, never, ever, go and see any puppies for you shall be RAPED and KILLED. The other was being safe when crossing the road. There were numerous campaigns featured during my formative years from the sublime (a cracking egg being used to symbolise a careless child's shattered skull) to the ridiculous (A huge David Prowse accompanied by a R2D2 ripoff who to my tender brain seemed to tick ALL the boxes associated with message #1).

Learning to cross the road was considered to be very important. You might not think so today, given that most teenagers cross the road as slowly and nonchalantly as possible, kissing their teeth and staring at you as your right foot threatens to accidentally mow them down if they don't get the FUCK out of the road, but it used to be drummed into our tiny brains on an hourly basis. Everyone knew the rules - even the special needs kids in school who could barely say their own name knew them. They were like religious commandments. Of the rules, there were three, as I shall now tell thee. STOP, LOOK, AND LISTEN.

STOP - pretty obvious, because just bowling out onto the road like a drunken Mancunian fishwife would inevitably get you flattened by an XR2 racing a Renault 5 turbo. LOOK - because you need to look at things to know that they are there, innit. And laugh as an acne-ridden boy racer stacks their Metro into the nearest bus shelter. And LISTEN. Listen used to be the easiest, which your ears could attest to as a poor 1.3 litre engine was thrashed to 7000 rpm by an aftermarket turbo charger, while being amplified by an exhaust wider than a sewage pipe. Or savour the nostalgic sound of wheel arches crunching into huge alloy wheels as a lowered, fibreglass deathtrap was forced over a speedbump at 70 miles per hour.

Of these, Listening is destined to become a problem. Even Petrol and Diesel Cars are much quieter than they were 20 years ago. Not to mention larger and significantly heavier. Fear the undignified demise awaiting those who insist on using those trendy 'Ear Violator' (TM) headphones - death by electric car. Electric cars are nearly silent - all you can hear emanating from them is a low electric hum coupled with the expletives uttered by the occupants who have just realised that they are down to 2% battery life and face a 12-hour recharge. More and more of these cars are now afflicting our roads, trundling along like the pieces of shit that they are, and this will soon be a very real problem.

One solution proposed to address this issue is to add speakers to the engine bay so that pretend car sounds can be heard, which is fantastic - for as well as having to actually drive the axles and operate all the electrical systems, these retarded cars will have to use their meagre reserves of power to run an extra loud stereo in the bloody bonnet. And why stop with actual car sounds? What if I wanted to make my car sound like a Harrier Jump Jet, or better yet, a constipated walrus? Is there any reasonable argument to suggest that this won't happen? But, for the time being, I urge everyone to be extra vigilant because the silent killer is already on our roads. And having your existence ended by a pious wanker in a glorified milkfloat is perhaps the worst way to die of all.

Leave me alone. I don't want it. Whatever it is. Please. Go away.

I never answer the home phone. I don't know why we bothered getting one. Whenever the home phone rings, it is invariably bad news. It is always someone trying to extract money or free information from me via various means. It will be a gadget that I can't possibly live without. Or perhaps sir would like to throw 2 grand down the drain in exchange for double glazing today? Some shingle for the roof? Whatever it is, I just don't care. I am never, and will never be interested. When pressed, I always answer surveys wrong on purpose, just to render their market research useless. Victory to me!!

I went to America recently and something very disconcerting happened to me. The people who work in the shops talk to you. If you spot them in your way as you approach and deviate they crab walk to intercept you. They act so nice. They ask if you require any help. Then you politely decline. So they inform you of their name and other interesting factoids, along with the fact that they are available should you need assistance for anything at all. Which I suppose is OK. I mean, they're not too in your face. But I find it really creepy and odd. "Leave me strange people!" I think as I embarrassingly spurn their advances. I'd even rather your average British shop worker, chewing gum and sulkily kissing their teeth when you aks them where to find some jeans to try on that don't immediately render you infertile.

If I could be bothered, I 'd do a graph or something but suffice to say that it will show that the more I am hassled the less likely I am to buy something. It could be the best thing ever. If I was a gay porn star and you were selling me an assmaster 3000 hydraulically-actuated dildo for 10 quid I would hang up, simply because I don't like having things shoved down my throat. Boom boom. I can't stand salesmen. I wish they'd go away and die, like Miley Cyrus's career. Boom boom. 

I understand that times are hard. I understand that we are in an economic downturn. But please understand this: If I feel I want or need something, I will, of my own volition, research it. I am fully aware of the existence of loans, double glazing, mortgages, cleaning products and every other piece of tat you are trying to hock. So ask yourself this before you badger someone at home when they are enjoying being LEFT THE FUCK ALONE - have you just invented or are you selling an entirely new product? Something that isn't already common knowledge? Something revolutionary that hasn't been reported or widely advertised or already done a trillion times before? No? Then please feel free to fuck off and LEAVE ME ALONE.

I know that this is a rambling diatribe but I can't really be arsed today. I do realise that good posts should be like a structured story, with a beginning, middle and

I should put this on Trip Advisor

Brighton is a theatre of ruined and forgotten dreams. Full of monstrous buildings erected in the '60's and older buildings which are literally falling down, Brighton is one those places that could be cheaply used if 1984 was ever remade. It's vast, depressing soviet-era sink estates puncture the dull grey skyline full of clouds which mirror the monotone heartbeat of the city. The beach is full of pebbles, each greyer than the other, as if God got bored when creating the seafront and just took a massive dump there instead. Two piers extend from its overcrowded shoreline like jagged daggers in a child's face. One pier is burnt down, and on the point of collapse, while the other should be burnt down, if only to slightly improve the depressing vista of Brighton seafront, frequented as it is by thieving pikeys who pray on the middle-class idiots foolish enough to believe the area to be anything other than an open sewer.

Dishonest, jobless idiots are everywhere - dishonest because instead of keeping to themselves in their bedsits wanking and playing XBox they spend their days being eco-warriors or protesters, spilling out onto the streets with their humourous placards to harass organisations and companies which they perceive to be indicative of the decadent ruination of the west without ever realising that they themselves are the decadent ruination of the west. Moaning about everything for no good reason while lapping up the handouts from the state, these ravenous parasites are a drain on everyone's resources other than their own. Clad in Doc Martens and covered in a thick veneer of dirt, rancid flesh and hair unwashed for months, their faces are constantly set to 'sneer' mode as they regale against anything that doesn't conform to their own selfish expectations.

They want every shop to be an independent co-op, where they can barter and trade for goods with carrots and empty cans of Strongbow. They hate the motor car but are secretly resentful that they can't afford one of their own. They despise whichever government happens to be ruling at any given time but quite happily reap the benefits of their hated, autocratic fascist leaders every 2 weeks when they pick up their dole money. They want everything to be organic and chemical-free but still spend the lion's share of their dole on Booze, drugs and cigarettes. They are lazy and feckless yet pretend that they exist on the periphery of society ostensibly because they are not sheep when the ugly little secret they all contain within is that they know they are too lazy or stupid to be employable. Brighton is awash with these people, strangulated by their odious presence which only pulls the city further down into the doldrums from which it will never rise.

Brighton was probably an OK place to live until the 1960's, when the most selfish generation ever seeded it with listless, illiterate drug addicts and ponces, abandoning morals and any semblance of decency or responsibility along the way. Now, it is stuffed to the brim with feral human scum who pretend to be politically-minded in order to mitigate against their own personal laziness. Like a senile braying donkey, defecating onto it's own leg and a mere shotgun blast away from sweet oblivion, Brighton teeters on the brink; subsidised by all the Londoners who for whatever reason continue to migrate there. None of them realise that it is too late for Brighton - the only thing that can improve it now is to erect a massive grey wall around its perimeter and let the stupid morons fend for their own stupid selves.

Newspaper headlines that I hope I see in my lifetime but never will

Jeremy Kyle found beaten to death in a Manchester back alley

Bono ADMITS that he is a pretentious, hypocritical, short-arsed twat

RONAN THE BARBARIAN!!! - Down-and-out ex-boyzone star jailed for beating an old lady to death for her pension book

Jeremy Kyle found eviscerated outside a newsagents in Filey

Kim Kardashian EXCLUSIVE: "I have no discernible talent whatsoever"

Planet of the RAPES!! Sex-mad monkeys rule the roost at Whipsnade Safari Park

England Rugby Team "We are a bunch of fat cloggers who enjoy stripping naked and touching each other's tiny cocks"

DAILY MAIL EXCLUSIVE: We hate all brown people, Eastern Europeans and gays and can't be bothered to mask this fact with sloppy journalism anymore

Jeremy Kyle found beaten to death with rubber dildos in a Warrington sex shop

Carol Vorderman: "Why my eyes are no longer on speaking terms"

RONAN THE LIBRARIAN!!! - Ex-boyzone star eking a living in Macclesfield mobile library

John Terry WORLD EXCLUSIVE: "Even my mum thinks I'm a cunt"

"FAT TAX!" - People to be taxed for every additional Kilo they are overweight

KATIE PRICE MISSING - Feared disappeared up own arsehole

Jeremy Kyle accidentally fired into the moon during routine sound check

RONAN THE SEPTUAGENARIAN!!! - Forgotten ex-boyzone star celebrates his 60th birthday at Wimpy in Buckinghamshire

Oh Deer.

I'm one of those people who are as lazy as I can possibly be. If I can't arrive home from work and just mong out on the sofa for at least a good hour then I consider my life too hectic. I could never be one of those people who hotdesk and walk around with their blackberries trying to look important. I love doing nothing. It is the best thing that has ever been invented, even though it is not a thing. Sometimes I just wish I could stay in bed all day doing absolutely nothing worthwhile. It's funny what happens when you get your wish.

As you may know, my pathological hatred of public transport has led me to extreme lengths to avoid it; I bought a car which I don't really need to restore it, then I thought better of it and bought another car which I didn't really need but at least runs and is actually safer than Colonel Gadaffi in a drainage pipe. So now I have 2 cars I don't really need but at least one kind of works so I guess that is ok.

I also decided that cycling to work would be a great idea! So I bought a bike and then it was stolen after 6 weeks. A mere setback! I decided and I went out and bought another bike. I will admit that there are pitfalls to cycling, which include and are surely not limited to the following: Other cyclists, pedestrians, motorists, potholes, nails, rain, wind, snow, humidity, hills and low branches. I can now add one more pitfall to the list, which I like to call megafauna.

For it was megafauna I struck while making my way back from work on that fateful Halloween - a large stag who decided that our fates were to become intertwined by perfectly intersecting my path with his sudden urge to go for a stroll in the road. I was travelling downhill in Richmond Park, which is always a relief after going up lots of hills beforehand. But I was unprepared for how quickly I would run out of momentum as I struck what felt like a huge punchbag made of meat and sailed through the air with all the grace of John Terry doing, well, anything.

Cat-like, I quickly sprung back to my feet to - if need had been - punch the Stag in the face, in case he wanted to fight or do sex on me. Luckily the Stag buggered off pretty sharpish, which was a relief to me as I was feeling even more pathetic and ill-equipped for violence than usual. I ended up having to walk to the nearest hospital in pitch darkness, my stricken bicycle being pushed by even more stricken arms, bleeding profusely from my leg and earning admiring glances from gormless trick-or-treaters who thought I was in costume.

So now I have knackered arms and a bike which has seen better days, with the front wheel looking particularly Dali-esque, but never mind. My injuries meant the rest of the week off of work, which would have been great had I been able to do anything at all. But I couldn't. I had a X-Box sitting there, looking at me accusingly, as I used all my meagre strength to draw the covers up around my face, and tried not to dream of oversized animals acting like improvised speedbumps. "Play me" it begged, suggestively winking and opening its filthy slot to show me Duke Nukem.

I now know that doing nothing is overrated. But, I am back, and reflecting on the inconveniences that not wanting to use public transport have bought to me. And even after all that has happened, I'd still rather get knocked off my bike every other week than spend another second on a train. So I guess I haven't really learnt anything at all. Oh well.

I call it the art of writing without writing

The art of writing is dead. When was the last time you actually wrote something on a piece of paper? For me I only ever write if I am sending a card, and since I hate so many people this is a rare occasion indeed. My handwriting has atrophied so badly that I can now only write in capitals. If I attempt something as sophisticated as joined-up writing it looks like 2 warring factions of spiders have both lost.

If I commit something to writing it actually looks like a secret code. The only trouble is, I often can't decipher it. When I write my signature, it's never the same twice. Thank god for chip and PIN, no more eyebrows raised in my direction when trying to use my card to buy shopping with. My signature also becomes worse, depending on the magnitude of what I am signing. A cheque for 20p will be fairly neat, whereas my mortgage application resembled the output of a heart monitor during a cardiac arrest.

Not to say I was ever good at handwriting though. When I was in school, handwriting was considered extremely important. I'd say more important than something like maths. I'd be told to stop wasting time with silly things like quadratic equations and instead concentrate on my writing. I think the teachers imagined that anyone with handwriting less pretty than the finest calligrapher would be out on their ear at 12, and in the poorhouse for the rest of their pathetic little lives. When I was about 13, a fellow pupil ridiculed my handwriting in front of the whole class, and one of the less-well adjusted nutters in my year leapt to my defence, saying that I was dyslexic and that he would beat people who made fun of me. Because of his psychotic nature, I elected not to correct him.

So for much of my time at the school it was a common belief that I was dyslexic. I was even given special handwriting pens which were basically normal pens with translucent blue rubbery grips. I used to try get high off them because they smelt a bit like marker pen. It was only when my English teacher realised that I had absolutely no trouble whatsoever with reading or using one of the few computers we had that I was rumbled. Unfortunately, If I had played along a bit longer I would have been in line for a free laptop.

That's another thing, I really wanted to put a sad face at the end of that last sentence. I am officially incapable of expressing emotion without smileys (also known as 'Emoticons', if you're a c**t). In the future, if there are still printed novels, they will have to incorporate smileys into their typeface. I can imagine poetry books and trashy romance novels where smileys are more commonplace than words :(

I've always prided myself on being a reasonable speller. However, since writing this blog I've realised that this is not the case. The problem is, that I didn't realise that composing e-mails using Microsoft word automatically corrected things like 'teh' as you went along. This is because I still can't touch type, and me using more than 2 fingers at any one time (matron) can be considered a rare event. So all those years of not looking at the screen has left me blissfully aware of my staggering ineptitude. It's only through writing straight into this blog without any automated correction shenanigans that I've realised quite how retarded I am.

Luckily, I use the following online spellchecker before publishing anything which you can access using the link below. This enables me to omit my myriad typos which otherwise would fall into the hands of the pedants (metaphorically of course). Although a note of caution regarding hyperlinks. If you paste anything into the spellchecker the finished and spellchecked text will be copied back in as plain text. So don't do what yours truly did, and put loads of links into an article before you have spell checked because you'll have to find and re-link everything again. And that would make you a poor speller and stupid.

http://www.spellchecker.net/spellcheck/English_united_kingdom_spell_checker.html

The link above will take you to the Queen's English spellings, so you won't be offered bastardised 'corrections' like 'color', or 'aluminum'. Americans, if you want to come across a bit more cleverer, just click thru the link above also. One more note on blogs. they're great. No more messy HTML or CSS (unless you are a sadomasochist and really want to), no more having to upload new files to FTP sites for a one-word amendment, and you can write little bits and pieces as and when you can. I wrote a couple of paragraphs of this when I was on the bog. Which is entirely appropriate given the amount of (albeit correctly spelt) crap I write.

Desperate Spinsters

I read women's magazines. They help me poo. At the moment, I can't read these magazines without seeing Jennifer Aniston on the cover. You know the type of  mag I'm referring to; tomes like 'Heat' and 'Now', written in the main by gay men and barren, childless and bitter forty-something women. It is perhaps due to the latter that there is such a fascination with Ms. Aniston at the moment. Here is a woman who for all intents and purposes epitomises bland. She starred in one of the most banal and cliquey sitcoms this world is ever likely to see, which somehow ran for a decade. The only reason she became popular is because of the 'Rachel' haircut she sported for the duration of the show, which was actually designed to hide her vast jaw. She has since distinguished herself in various bland romantic comedies, in which she takes the radical step of playing Rachel all over again, but with a different name. It's hardly Monster's Ball, is it.

So perhaps there was an element of surprise in her marriage to Brad Pitt; the one-time subversive star of several decent indie films, getting hitched to the all-American (once that troublesome Greek nose was removed) and wholesome Jennifer Aniston. She spent a lot of her time whining as the spoilt Rachel from friends, and it soon became evident that she wasn't actually acting per se, just honing an innate talent she probably discovered when moaning at her rich daddy for another dose of rhinoplasty. After a few years, the couple split, fuelled by the rumours that Aniston didn't want to have a baby, and that Pitt had been boning his less boring and more attractive co-star, Angelina Jolie. The divorce was finalised, and Pitt hooked up with Jolie. End of story, you'd think. Two people who were not suited to each other get divorced. It wasn't a bad innings for a Hollywood marriage, after all.

But rather than keeping the last shred of her dignity intact, Jennifer gave interviews to anyone who would listen about what a big meanie Brad Pitt is. I won't directly quote, as I can't be arsed, but suffice to say she bitched about Pitt and Jolie’s liaisons, and how it hurt to see him with Jolie's kids - the very kids (ok well not the exact kids, that would be odd) that Jennifer Aniston refused to have, on the grounds it would sideline her 'career'. How boring. That's the kind of topic you bore your single and bitter thirty-something mates with, not the rest of us. The multi-millionairess continues to regale magazines with stories of her impossibly hard life. If Charles Dickens were alive today, no doubt he'd champion her miserable existence in a collection of novels.

Now the woman with the smallest forehead and biggest chin in showbiz is fighting back, desperately squeezing into any dress recommended for 16 year olds. Pretending to see various eligible bachelors left, right and centre. Hanging of Gerald Butler's forearm like a performing monkey. But I fear she will forever find herself on the shelf because she is obviously a boring hag, which she sees fit to enforce with every subsequent magazine interview. ZZZ.

The End Of The World Is Nigh! Better have the premiere soon, then

 *MULTIPLE SPOILER ALERT*

Over the last decade or so, disaster movies have got bigger. In the '70's and '80's you had fairly localized disasters. The maximum potential casualties hovered in the low thousands. The unholy trinity I remember from that era are:

The Towering Inferno

A tower block goes on fire. Some Americans die of fatness. Ollie Reed plays a bastard. Probably a few hundred deaths. The film justifies at least half of them as the 'baddies' get their comeuppance via the allegorical death in a pit of fire.

The Poseidon Adventure

A big boat goes tits up. Some Americans die of fatness. Everyone has to walk around on ceilings. Some people fall from great heights and drown. Others just drown. The boat sinks. The purest of heart survive to tell the tale and get their story syndicated.

Earthquake

My favourite of the old disaster movies. The biggest death toll by far, in places it was actually scary as well. Lots and lots of wobbly camera work and people falling into chasms. Again, the people with the most steadfastly American characteristics live to tell the tale.

These films were fun, for sure, but lacked a bit of scope. I guess annihilating a larger segment of society than a city would be prohibitive cost-wise, in an era when CG was not available. So it should be no surprise, then, that the advent of better-quality CG meant that a whole new glut of American-centric disaster movies would be released. Add to this all that nonsense about the Millennium (remember that?) and some shonky Mayan prophecies, and these films just keep coming. I have reviewed some of these below, and arranged them by death toll. The ones where everyone dies being the best.

Armageddon (<1000)

Probably only a few hundred deaths, this abysmal, Aerosmith-soundtracked abortion of a movie was helmed by Michael Bay, my absolute favouritest director evar. Unfortunately a christ-like Bruce Willis saves the day by using his skills honed on an oil rig (really) so that the earth is not torn a new one. This film is also notable for putting the first nail on the coffin that has become Ben Affleck's career. So emotional does he become that his future dad-in-law will soon be solemny sacrificing himself for AMERICA, I was surprised he didn't start dry humping. He said 'I love you' about a hundred times. Bears all the staples of a Michael Bay classic - lots of slow motion, ridiculous action sequences and very terrible all round.

Deep Impact (>500,000,000)

This is a bit like Armageddon, only well-written, intelligent, properly researched and believable. Morgan Freeman is the black president of the United States and has the grim task of preparing the earth for utter destruction. Did I mention he is black? So screw you Dennis Haysbert, If anyone blazed a trail for Obama it was Morgan Freeman. He done it first, see? But at least you did Mandela before him, so you guys are quits. Sorry about that. Deep Impact is really a very good film. A bit emotional for my tastes in places, but I guess if you were faced with imminent destruction you'd get a bit teary. The best thing about this film is that, while the main asteroid is diverted from the earth via the sacrifice of the whole space shuttle crew (not just one chiseled guy in ludicrous circumstances a' la Armageddon), a smaller asteroid does indeed hit and wipe out the entire Eastern seaboard. Poor old Eastern seaboard. It always gets destroyed. I reckon at least a 50 million dead in the USA, and a Tsunami that size would no doubt wipe out poor old Blighty and Western Europe too. So hundreds of millions. Not bad for a film with an ultimately happy ending.

The Day After Tomorrow (>2,000,000,000)

To me, the day after tomorrow is when I'll get round to doing that work thing I keep putting off . But really I should think on. The premise of this movie is that at any time, icicles travelling hundreds of miles an hour could kill us all. Already expertly lampooned by South Park, this sanctimonious pile of junk is a double-pronged morality tale: Hey guys, let's stop raping mother earth, and while we're at it, let's be nicer to the brown people, because they will soon have the only inhabitable land left on the earth. This film is somewhat rescued by a decent death toll; probably about a third of the planet perishes.

2012 (Everyone, but probably not John Cusack, a token love interest, and his kids)

I haven't seen 2012 yet. I will see it when it's free. But the Mayan prophecy says everyone dies, so it needs to be here. Correct me if I'm wrong, and if you care that I'm wrong.

Knowing (Everyone, sans 2 kids and some rabbits. And presumably 2 of every animal. Why let silly science like Minimum Viable Population get in the way of a good yarn)

I saw this and had no preconceptions about it. I hadn't read about it, didn't even know what genre it was. But the synopsis seemed to have promise. So the fact that I knew I would have to endure Nicolas Cage extensively did not deter me from watching it. Imagine my joy when I realised that, what first appeared to be a clone of  'Next' (which also stars Nicolas Cage, how does Francis Ford Coppola's nephew get so much work?), turned into the extinction of the human race, via solar flare. The film does have silly aliens in it, and at points you have to suspend your disbelief via an intricate system of ropes and pulleys. It is also dangerously Christian at times. But the Director, Alex Proyas, just about gets away with it, in my opinion. If you want to see a great, and equally odd Proyas film, watch Dark City. Nicolas Cage's best role is surely in The Wicker Man.

Southland Tales (Everyone, plus every planet, solar system and galaxy (I think))

Not sure what's going on with this one, to be honest. I can't help but like this film. I even got the graphic novels to enhance my understanding but it's still a bit vague. Not a disaster movie as such, but I think that everyone dies at the end, right after the guy blows up the blimp while standing on the side of the ice cream truck which is floating hundreds of feet in the air. Then the 2 guys that were thought to be twin brothers but are actually the same people from divergent universes occupying the same space at the same time which happens to be in the aforementioned floating Ice Cream truck cause the entire universe to implode. So it's not just the Earth that buys the farm, but also the entire universe.That's the way to do it.

Travellers: My 10 - Point plan for integration, happiness, and well-being

It looks like common sense is finally prevailing and that the thieving, scrounging scum affectionately known as travellers will be evicted from Dale Farm today. Well, some of them. Because of some outright stupidity, only the structures/caravans mentioned explicitly in the order can be removed. Therefore there will still be 2 buildings and 3 caravans left on what is greenbelt land. Although hopefully the assembled protesters will fuck off, who are even more objectionable than the pikey scum they profess to support.

Travellers claim that they are misjudged by people unfairly, that they are an ethnic minority and the persecution they face now is no different than that faced by black and Asian communities over the years. Their right to travel should be protected by constitutional law and they should be treasured instead of vilified, like the Masai Mara in Kenya, or the Native Americans in the USA (Ha!). I wholeheartedly agree, and in order for the travellers to be accepted into British culture, they need only do the following to make the transition from pariahs to saints easier.

1) Travel

Travellers by their nature are a migratory species, turning up in packs in various towns like the littlest hobo, and strangely disappearing again when everything that has not been nailed down has been stolen. The poor travellers in Dale Farm seem to have lost their way in this respect, having occupied it to various degrees since the 1960's.  The government should issue each traveller a long stick and a tablecloth, and allow each traveller to put as many of their possessions in said cloth before hitching the cloth to the stick and sending all the travellers on their merry way with a baton to the face.

2) Stop stealing stuff!

You have to love the cheeky rascals as they scamper about the place, ripping up copper from railway lines or liberating lead tiles from people's roofs! Descending into towns and villages en masse and effectively picking them clean of anything of value before defecating everywhere, the charming traveller will also threaten to kill anyone who objects to them 'exercising their rights'

3) Stop forcing yourselves on young girls!

Nowadays, women are confused by having the freedom to choose a partner and vote, read, etc which is obviously beyond the capabilities of their tiny little minds. There is no sight that brings a nostalgic tear to the eye more than a podgy 17-year old lad with a mullet and string vest forcing himself on a 14-year old girl. And they say romance is dead! Well, not to the traveller, whose courting ritual employs as much sensitivity and grace as their grasp of the English language.

4) Learn to read

Perhaps the issue of theft would be less associated with travellers if any of the men could read. They probably quite innocently steal from building sites, barns, gardens, vehicles and houses because they cannot read the signs saying not to trespass or steal so they can't really be blamed for this one. We should install loudspeakers in our properties which continually spout Irish gibberish at high frequencies to ward them away.

5) Slow down with the old breeding lark

With the exception of domestic violence, the confines of a caravan is a very boring place. Therefore the travellers like to entertain themselves by making the beast with 2 backs bareback all the time, until their caravan is so full of sprogs that the male does not even have room to move his fat arse in a back and forth motion to procreate. This does have the unfortunate effect of producing dozens of ill-mannered, thieving and disgusting feral kids who then each have dozens of ill-mannered, thieving and disgusting feral kids themselves but that's ok, the government can pay, and any misbehaving is the fault of the teachers!

6) Start paying any kind of tax

I know this is controversial but there are some radical schools of thought who believe if you want to be supported by your government and local authority then you have a duty to pay a fee to said government in order to provide healthcare, infrastructure and roads etc. This is generally known as 'tax', and, amazingly most people pay this. Generally a pre-determined percentage of earnings is the way this happens. Although there is an argument that theft should be tax exempt, as generally this is not considered to be a form of employment.

7) Pistols at dawn

Obviously, nothing will ever be quite as elegant a method to resolve a dispute as bare-knuckle boxing but pistol duels have their good points too - for a start, there will be no annoying rematches once said duel has been settled, and everyone's caravan will suddenly feel more spacious, as, every day,  more and more rat-faced thugs will meet their makers.

8) Learn to speak English proper like

As charming as a cockney mashup with a tick Oirish accent is, some people may struggle to understand what's being said. This probably leads to misunderstandings with the locals, which are really needless. If they understood that you merely wanted their car keys and any spare metal you have lying around, they would be much more compliant and you wouldn't have to set your dogs/kids on them.

9) The protesters are not your friends

Look at the protesters who are supposedly supporting you and engage your few firing neurons to divine why they are supporting you. You will find the answer disquieting, and if you listen hard enough you will hear plummy, public school-educated vowels occasionally escaping from their stupid mouths as they try to confuse you with their best cockney accent. These parasites are not your friends. They are a collective of incredibly spoiled little brats with enough money and time on their hands to generally get narked about anything they see as an excuse to get their very gormless faces printed in the papers.

The so-called 'Activists' traipse up and down the country from one dispute to another like the world's most ineffective vigilantes, and, things being what they are, it won't be long before they up sticks and get very angry indeed about something else. Soon, you will be yesterday's news, and then these Etonian fuckwits will return home to mummy and daddy for a jolly good wash, after which they will regale their equally clueless friends about their adventures over a skinny latte. These Che Guevara wannabes are actually your enemy and, seeing as they are barricaded into your cesspool of a caravan site you have the ideal opportunity to kick their heads in with extreme prejudice, then blame the Police. Simples!

10) Go 'Home'

It's not called the 'emerald isle' for nothing. The Irish accent may be there (for some reason) but lots of the younger travellers have never left the shores of Britain. Ireland is so much better than Britain. The accent is similar enough as to not be rendered unintelligable. There is an abundance of unspoilt, greenbelt land just waiting to be covered in tarmac, caravans, faecal matter, and wild children kicking the shit out of each other. Scrap metal grows in fields in abundance in Ireland, so any 'Scrap Metal Reclamation Engineers' would fill their boots there. Every pub you walk into has a shire horse at the bar and the lakes are full of Guinness, and what's more, no-one cares if you steal, because everyone's blind drunk!

Steve Jobs is dead. But Apple will never die

Right now I should be writing a post about Steve Jobs being that he is dead and that I am one of the most vociferous opponents of any stupidly overpriced device which is rendered essential because of the inclusion of an 'i' before it. But as I said, he is dead, and while he lived as a savvy and Machiavellian corporate git he no doubt died as the same. However, the ugly face of revisionism is rearing its head once more as sections of the media (particularly the left) are proclaiming him to be a latter-day saint, a philanthropist, the 21st-century embodiment of Jesus Christ. A genius, up there with the likes of Einstein, Edison, Newton etc.

That is the only thing that prompts me to write. I can live with the fact that gibbering loons dribble at the prospect of the next iteration of a device which is approximately .2 millimetres thinner and a bit shinier and queue up round the block to get it. I can live with the fact that iTunes is the singular worst piece of software that I have ever used in my miserable existence. I can even live with the fact that Apple supposedly offer a 'cool' alternative against the faceless corporate might of Microsoft, despite the fact that no-one exerts more control over vendors or suppliers than Apple does. Apple is a behemoth, a monstrous entity which constantly tries to convince the world that it is not, endlessly plying its' subtly improved wares like clockwork at vastly inflated prices. But I can live with that, good luck to the shifty nobends.

But Steve Job's fans are driving me nuts. Leaving half-eaten apples and candles all over the various faceless identikit shops which plague our highs treets with their smugness and enormously inflated prices. I'm waiting for the launch of the iPhone 5, which I'm sure Apple will somehow dedicate to Steve Jobs, and adjust the price to ever more bewildering amounts accordingly. I'm waiting for the special 'Steve Jobs' edition of said phone, which will have his signature on the back of it, along with an embossed version of his death mask. Something tells me this man will never go away.

I said I wasn't going to write about Steve Jobs in the opening paragraph and in a way I haven't - preferring instead to concentrate my ire on the company itself and the uselessly stupid people who would buy a lump of turd from you put it in a plain white cardboard box and affixed a £500 price tag to it. You are all so stupid and bereft of anything approaching common sense. I hate all of you. Steve Jobs was credited with having the foresight of knowing where the market is going, and he was absolutely right; he knew, back in the '70's, that by now we would all be completely incompetent luddites with pretty much no idea about anything, so he set his mind to building devices which even retards or women could use without several hours of one-to-one instruction.

And if this was his aim, he certainly succeeded. He deserves acclaim for being the face of a corporate juggernaut that has hoodwinked so many people. It is staggering that there are actually people out there who think that Apple invented the mp3 player, the touch screen, the tablet pc, the mouse, even Graphical User Interfaces. In fact, it's not staggering, because Apple pretty much claim to have invented these things in their self-satisfied adverts. There are some people who have never transferred a music file from their computer onto a mp3 player without the disgusting inconvenience of itunes. Imagine that! These poor cretins don't know what else is out there, and probably never will, as they are incapable of even seeing any gadgets which do not have the Apple logo on them.

So, there you have it, Steve Job's true legacy is an entire generation of unfortunates who actually think that Apple is some groovy, San Francisco indie company, where the R&D guys chill out on beanbags while they nonchalantly redesign the world before lunch. His legacy is local councils spending all the money that should be spent on fixing potholes or crime prevention on iPads instead, because people are just that incapable that they can no longer use actual pads, or laptops, or far superior and cheaper tablet devices that are not made by Apple. His legacy is morons who snort with derision if you produce an android phone, or express a preference for Microsoft or Blackberry. His legacy is all the twats who clog up Starbucks with their iMacs as they pretend to write the next 'Catcher in the Rye' and not just look at girls they vaguely know on facebook. Well done Steve, you've turned us all into dense, image-obsessed fuckwits. Jobs done. LOL

The ZZZ Factor

After a few weeks of relative banality, (and I use the term 'relative' because, taken in isolation, ALL of the 'X Factor' is banal) The X Factor is finally to go 'live' next week. So this weekend we were treated to two episodes of the Judges houses. Saturday's episode had all the singers perform songs in their entirety, apart from those who were destined to not go through, who instead were allocated 30 seconds of singing which was further intercut with their own pathetic proclamations that they would have no idea how to rebuild their shattered lives if they were not to make it through to the live shows. I really felt for them and I'm sure all the people who are starving or being ethnically cleansed felt for them too.

Everyone cried during the first show. It was amazing. You'd think that the precocious little brats had just lost a parent, such was the depth of their despair of perhaps not getting through. I found this all very difficult as I normally have a couple of people I champion each year - as even I find it difficult to dislike everyone - but I really struggled this year. As it is, I do quite like the scouse hairdresser and one of the girls, who looks like a hybrid of Grace Jones and a hungry hippo. But, nonetheless, I do think that she can sing very well, which I guess is important in a singing competition? She can also do the rapping and whatnot so she's probably trendy or whatever.

The second show spawned no major surprises, with the exception of the Scottish fat mess who bowed out, presumably because it would be very difficult to shift an album with someone so desperately ugly on the front cover. I know that, being a fat lump, things are already against her, but couldn't she at least wash her hair or face? Normally contestants scrub up as they get further into the competition. She looked like she had a superstition that washing or otherwise caring about her appearance would jinx her. The surprise call-up for the girls had to be the one with a hairline that Phil Collins would be proud of. At the end of show 2 she was shown 'made over' and the production staff were obviously concerned about all the stage lights bouncing off her massive forehead so they used a great dollop of her own hair to disguise it.

The 'girls' category is annoying me quite a lot, as it happens. There is the geordie lass who is way too serious and has so much makeup applied it is completely impossible to discern whether she is attractive or not. She must have skin like the dark side of the moon is she really needs all that slap on. And then there is the Irish twit who, to put it kindly, 'polarises opinion'. I hate her already. I really do. It's her awful mop of hair that looks like it hasn't been washed in a decade. Her horrific yellow teeth. Her 'dirty street urchin' attire. Her 'Ooh I don't like to wear shoes' whimsical charm. Her voice that sounds somewhat like the lead singer of the cranberries, if she were forced to sing while being hit repeatedly in the throat with a baseball bat. I FUCKING HATE HER, the doe-eyed fey bitch. Fuck off back to Dale Farm and get evicted already.

The 'boys' category is all a bit 'meh' really. There's the fat scouse lad, who is a bit shouty and fat, the hairdresser scouse lad, who is, to my eternal surprise, quite good AND likeable (so he has no chance of winning), the one with the hat who has a very odd way of singing but might turn out ok and then there is Frankie. Of all the contestants, he is the only one whose name I remember. Frankie Cocockface. Frankie who must have a collapsed lung as he pathetically tries to eke out a song from his rasping little voice box. He is SO BAD at singing he makes Katy Perry sound merely average as opposed to the worst singer to get anywhere near a record deal. And what a dislikable little turd he is too. This 'cheeky chappy' shit has been done to death. If Chewbacca raped Jamie Cullum, this little runt would be the resultant offspring. He has the silliest haircut I have ever seen. I need to sit down.

Louis Walsh has cemented his reputation of being pretty awful by putting through someone in the final throe of AIDS on helium, A soldier who cannot sing (but because he is a human killing machine the dopey public will forgive him of that and get him over half way in the competition) and an oriental lunatic with a Tina Turner fixation. Unfortunately the aforementioned loony had to go back to the zoo with all the other Golden Lion Tamarins (look it up) so instead big bertha from Wales was allowed to fit her huge posterior into the last remaining slot. This is a girl who can't get through a single song without sweating from every pore in her bloated body. She sweats so much because as well as being clinically obese, she also shouts every word as if ordering ham hocks from the local market.

There is one more of Louie's acts but she is such a detestable, attention-seeking CUNT that I refuse to name her here, as I wish not to fuel her ego with more publicity. Suffice to say that I hope the crazy-eyed twat with no earlobes is kicked out sometime before week 3 and becomes universally hated and hounded for the rest of her miserable life. I should talk about the groups but it really isn't worth it. suffice to say that the girl band are destined to be first out. The only thing noteworthy thing to mention about any of the groups is that one of the Essex girls is pregnant. That's right, only one. I will be using the live shows to try and work out which is, and which is just a fat duffer. Any way you look at it, Tulisa is fooked, which can only be a good thing.

Crap films in 3D are still crap

3D is everywhere now. 3D Television sets now cost less than a not-very-good family saloon. Is it correct to still call a television set a television set? It seems to imply something mystical, of arcane property. Imposing and made of wood and valves and diodes and things. It sounds very 1960's, like the wireless, automobile, etc. That's it - I will stop calling it a Television set. I suppose a TV would do, but then type 'TV' into Google and don't be surprised  if you're greeted by a burly, lorry-driving 50-year old man in a pinafore sucking a lollypop. Telly will have to do. It's the least offensive.

Where was I? oh yes, 3D tellies are now affordable and even some people I know have them. And they say that they are good. Great for golf, apparently. I personally think that the threat of instant incineration should a triple bogey be scored would be great for golf, but then it's never appealed to me particularly. I can imagine darts looking reet nice, snooker perhaps, a spot of the old rugger. Unfortunately for those who would tell you different, 3D football isn't that good really. Too far away from the action most of the time to really benefit from the unique medium.

And who really wants to see a bulging vein throb on Wayne Rooney's expanding forehead in 3D, as he mercilessly berates someone who earns one thousandth of his wage for basically doing their job? HD is bad enough. I remember when one of Paul Scholes' balls fell out in the midst of one of his more fruity challenges. That was back in the day when shorts were shorts and Paul Scholes' balls were ginger instead of grey. Thank god that the episode predated 3D and HD; it's just a shame that it didn't predate my having eyesight.

Oops, I digress again. Sorry. It's sunny outside. Anyways so 3D has its applications. Nintendo has released its 3DS handheld console, which is sure to be followed by the 3DS Lite, the 3DSi, 3DS tampon applicator and so on and so forth with a new hardware configuration every 6 months until the creaking Japanese entertainment giant finally uses up all of its good karma generated by the few good games and consoles it made in the late 80's and early 90's and disappears up it's own urethra (like a 'wii' geddit?)

Off topic again! I'm so very apologetic. My point actually is a simple one: All films produced thus far with 3D in mind have been shit. OK so Avatar was a cliched, plagiarised piece of James Cameron ego-fuelled bunkum which happened to look jaw-droppingly (now whose being cliched) amazing. But the other 3D offerings are total rubbish. They are really silly. The angles are so obviously 3D friendly. Instead of composing nice cinematography, everything is suddenly thrust at the viewer for maximum cinematic effect.

"Aargh, the tip of that sword is coming straight at us!" "Oh noes, the elevator! It's going to fall on us!" "Eeek! That car which is on fire and is flying in the air and has Vin Diesel fighting ninja robot tigers in hand-to hand combat is heading right for us!" These are but some of the things you will think when watching 3D films, and then your brain will die, because you have killed it with banal offerings where shit is basically just thrown at you; in an effort to convince yourself that your life is worth living. It isn't. Jaws 3D did that years ago, with the disembodied mouth parts of the improbably large shark flying straight at you. And 3D glasses make you look like an even bigger cunt than you actually are.

On a final note, if you want to see things in 3D, without any glasses (or without permanently ruining your brain as is the case with Nintendo's 3DS) then I have a great tip for you - go outside. There is 3D shit everywhere. save the 10 quid cinema ticket and get a good mate to throw a rock at your face. Don't flinch though, or you will miss the 3D! Unless you are blind in one eye, in which case you are stuck with 2D stuff and probably as bad as racquet sports as me. It sucks to be bad at racquet sports. I'm going for a sleep.

Serena should be banned from the arena

Serena Williams has again shown her lack of class by threatening an umpire. The umpire's crime? having the audacity to correctly award a point against Serena for issuing a blood-curdling scream while the ball was still in play. Instead of taking this with good grace, Serena decided that a bizarre rant was the best way of expressing her displeasure with the umpire, who she (wrongly) accused of screwing her over before. Thankfully, the end result was that Serena lost the US open final - and not even the famously partizan home crowd could support her latest round of looniness.

Resembling an anabolically-boosted Mike Tyson in an weave, her vast bulk is slowly and inexorably losing muscle and gaining fat as she succumbs to the passage of time. An 8-man poker table can now be safely balanced on her enormous derriere without any chips being disturbed. She could beat the Rock in an arm wrestle whilst simultaneously juggling 2 tractors. Her 'skirts' are specially made out of the material what they use for parachutes and that so that her bulging thighs are contained and the assembled crowds who have innocently turned up to watch some tennis are not struck blind.

And speaking of tennis, we may see more of that in the women's game now that the incredible bulk is past her best. We may even see rallies and things without nearly every service game being won to love by sending huge piledrivers hurtling towards the pulverised grass. No more barbaric screaming will be heard when an inconsequential point is won (or not won, as in the case above) No longer will svelte women be put off playing by the unengaging prospect of a tennis ball travelling at mach 2 shearing off their kneecaps.

Make up your own mind here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNMSMq9VxV8&feature=player_embedded

Going to the gym is a stupid and expensive waste of time

This month I finally stop paying for the gym, after having to give 3 months notice to quit the damn thing. Why do organisations routinely get away with making is so easy to join something and so hard to leave? Perhaps I should have defecated on an instructor and they would have terminated my contract with immediate effect. I should have thought about that 3 months ago. But never mind. I went to the gym for the best part of a year, and because I'm completely retarded, it took me that long to realise that is was an expensive, time-consuming piece of shit.

There are loads of fangled machines everywhere that are hard to use and you wonder why they are there. I feel pain in my muscles and I am told by some smartarse "That's because you are using muscles you don't normally use". I am 33. If I haven't used a muscle thus far, chances are that I never will. So I may as well let it atrophy and turn into fat or hopefully disappear altogether. I see enormous meat heads repeatedly lift gigantic weights and I wonder precisely what practical use that will ever have. And the truth is, there are no real reasons to lift weights in the gym, other than to craft yourself a truly silly-looking body.

These men cannot do anything other than lift very heavy weights a few times before practically soiling themselves and throwing the weights onto the floor. For most of their gym session, they are reclining on a sweat-veneered mat while they wait for the veins in their head to go down a bit. They recline like Walruses, comparing biceps and shrivelled penises. If any of them had to run for some reason, they would most probably die. Their movement is limited by huge chunks of sinewy muscle which adorn their creaking bones. Huge veins run in and around their biceps, pumping gallons of steroid-enhanced blood around their bodies every minute. But I do pity these men, even though they have knowingly trapped themselves into a vicious spiral of lifting silly weights all the time so their vast quantities of superfluous muscle do not turn to fat.

My real bugbear is the people who go to the gym but don't exercise at all. In some cases, they are the women who go into the gym and come out fatter. This is because they spend a half hour doing a bit of yoga or what not before going for a good old gossip whilst stuffing their leathery old faces full of cakes. They are stupid and ridiculous but I do feel sorry for them as well, as they are clearly bored and over-privileged housewives who do not have to work, and are too thick to occupy themselves in any way, other than wasting their time talking louder than everyone else so that their inconsequential bullshit stories receive the attention they deserve.

Then you have the portly characters who show up in January and are all but gone in March when they realise that you do actually have to work hard and eat less in order to lose weight. They are the fat wasters you will normally see on 'exercise' bikes, leisurely cycling at 5 miles an hour with zero resistance set. Some of them even bring books with them, as their sedentary lifestyles cannot be without life's comforts, even for an hour or so. When not cycling, their bulbous bodies are instead on the treadmills, walking slower than an arthritic 80-year old who is also dead. They give up after 3 months or just die, and no-one really cares which or mourns their passing.

There are also some very fit people in the gym, but I ask myself why. They gallop away on treadmills for hours at a time. They are focused, their vision fixed ahead. They don't even look at the telly, or stare at the pretty ladies' bums. They run mile after mile or cycle the across counties and back without ever actually moving. And in that sense, they are the oddest of all. Go outside, innit. Things are free out there. You can exercise and actually move at the same time. And you don't have to put up with all the aforementioned people who only actually exist to make your life a misery. When you don't look at them, they cease to exist. And then you are free.

How to fix Facebook

I know that I will never go through with my 'threat' to quit Facebook because unfortunately it has become an indispensable part of life, like telly and mobile phones. But like a beach in the UK littered with used tampons, bottle tops and seaweed Facebook is fatally clogged, with billions of bytes of useless shit splurging out from the seams of its bloated edifice. If I'm not being constantly inundated with automated requests to 'check out this new feature' then I am being subjected to multiple photographs of toddlers and babies. Spotting an adult face in a photo album these days is as rare as a likeable paedophile. Plus there is still no sign of a dislike button. Below is my guide to arrest the decline Facebook is now witnessing as people abandon it in droves.

Add a dislike button

Why? because there is no parity. There is a like button, but no negative equivalent. No dissenting voice. This is bad. Firstly, it encourages borderline lunatics to spout their racist or otherwise dim-witted bile with no facility to express disagreement - so while they might get some 'likes' from their equally deranged friends they have no idea how many people think they are a moron. Their egos become inflated by the 'likes' and they swerve ever closer to militant Nationalism. Secondly, I dislike an awful lot of things, so that feature would be very welcome indeed.

Put a cap on photos of children/babies

Pictures of babies etc should be limited to one per month, per baby. And in my opinion, that is extremely generous. The majority of pictures I see on friends galleries now are pictures of babies, scans of babies not yet born, or big fat bellies (whether a baby is present or not, we're all getting older after all) I actually like babies, but I couldn't eat a whole one. But seriously, isn't posting up hundreds of pictures of your child infringing on their rights? they surely can't give you consent so please stop doing it. Let them decide when they are old enough if they want to be plastered all over the internet.

Otherwise where does this whole thing stop? Timmy's first smile becomes Timmy's first steps etc. What next - Timmy's first puss-ridden pimple? Timmy's first wank? Time was when we would cringe as our parents dug out the family album to embarrass us infront of our new squeezes - now all children growing up will have this gallery of shame forever available for all to see. Why give your child additional reasons to hate you when they inevitably will anyway. And don't be shocked when an image of your child is used to advertise Cigarettes in bangladesh.

Stop changing things

With each update, Facebook get another step away from what was good about it in the first place. It is a total mess now. The photo gallery app is counter-intuitive, buggy and shit. If I access Facebook on my android phone, it crashes my phone. It never used to do that. When I write an update, I expect to press 'Enter' and for my comment to be submitted. Now you have to click on a button. How is that progress? It isn't, except that everyone keeps taking software design cues from Apple despite the fact that apple are a bunch of pretentions nob-ends. Don't even get me started on Windows 7. It took me 2 hours to de-clutter that ugly bitch of an operating system.

Stop ramming new features down our throats

I decided to add an update to Facebook today and the whole page greyed out with the exception of this charming message, which I have extracted below:

Say who you're with

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Use this button to tag people to say who you're with. You can tag anyone. When you (or others) add tags, the people tagged and their friends may see the post too. You can choose to review tags others add to your stuff.

I pressed 'OK', as it was the sole option presented. Then I got another message:

Add location to your posts?

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To easily say where you are, you can add your current city or neighborhood to your posts, or add a specific place. You can turn this on or off at any time.

I pressed 'Don't add Location' because it was the closest available option to 'No thanks, I don't want my house to be burgled'. Then I got another message box:

Control privacy when you post—or after

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Use this to manage who can see and comment on posts you share, including ones with location, if you add it. When you change this setting, it will stay how you set it for future posts until you change it again. Posts (including check-ins) from old mobile Facebook apps will use your new default privacy setting.

Also, we've changed the label for "Everyone" to "Public," but your posts will still reach the same people.
Learn more about what's new - Done

At this point, instead of pressing 'Done', I just killed myself, as it was more fun. But luckily for you, I had the foresight to finish this first. I am dead now. Bye

Bees - Germanic efficiency twinned with French common sense

Now I quite like bees but that doesn't stop them being inherently guff. Their stupidity is such that if they were put through the UK education system they would probably only emerge with a handful of 'A' Levels. Posessors of perhaps the most ludicrous defense mechanism ever, these hapless insects can only utilise it by killing themselves. It would be like a man shooting himself in the head to inflict a fleshwound to the enemy, but this is neither the time or place to discuss the US military.

Also noteworthy are those really furry bees that seem to fly in a completely random manner and look distinctly uncomfortable, just to die unceremoniously every winter despite their mini fur coats.


A retarded bee, yesterday

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

"A problem shared is a problem halved"

No it isn't, it's a problem doubled. I don't care about your stupid inconsequential bullshit so please feel free to not tell me anything at all. This is my disinterested face :o|

"What goes around, comes around"

This is what people say when they forget about the word 'Karma'. And, for the record, it doesn't. It suggests that we're all sitting on a glittering karmic conveyor belt, where our good and bad deeds are rewarded appropriately. But the truth is that when you act like a complete git some other poor sap invariably gets your punishment. This can be in the form of parking tickets, theft or just plain bad luck. Not a day goes by when a benefit cheat is caught and has to pay back but a fraction of what they have robbed. Those rioters are sitting pretty on 10-foot high piles of flatscreen TVs and enjoying their ill-deserved benefits while other people cannot afford to pay the rent. Crime DOES pay, and very handsomely indeed.

"Pride comes before a fall"

Why? What a pessimistic saying. And if even I recognise it as pessimistic, it is. This probably stems from some joyless religion or another, where the very notion of actually enjoying your fleeting existence is frowned upon. This is just one of the many reasons why religion is the worst thing to ever happen to the human race.
 
"Love thy neighbour"

Neighbours are twats. They have the audacity to live next door to you and cook smelly food and if you listen carefully, you can hear them having a dump. I find a pint glass projects the sound the best through walls. Plus, they have security on their router so what's the point in them even being there. I wish DEATH on my neighbours (provided it's not by fire, otherwise they would take me (and, more importantly, my Transformers) with them.

"You can't have your cake and eat it"

Yes I can. I can purchase (or indeed make) a cake and then I can eat it. Otherwise, what would be the purpose of  having a cake. To entice obese people into a trap of some sort or trapdoor whereby they fall straight into a mincing machine? Don't be absurd.

"What goes up, must come down"

This rule obviously does not apply to petrol prices and national debt.

Beyonce is a sexist pig

Who runs the world? Girls. Who runs the world? Girls. Who runs the world? Girls. Who runs the world? Girls. Other songwriters may as well forget an Ivor Novello nomination this year, seeing as Beyonce's songwriting team will surely clean up with yet another brilliant and thought-provoking hit. Most of Beyonce's songs seem to be about men doing her wrong, or how great girls are and that they are the best and all that. I find it confusing that what is unfortunately the modern world's closest representation of a feminist icon should spend her entire career singing about men. She should try singing about something else for once, as there are actually other things that exist. Sewing and Flowers, to name but two.

It's a fact of modern living that the male of the species is considered fair game for sexist treatment; with adverts depicting men as barely-functioning buffoons incapable of tying their own shoelaces, while the women are always smart and sassy and generally balance motherhood and a career with effortless ease. They regard their poor men with a look that is somewhere between frustration and pity, as their man treads mud into the perfectly-vacuumed carpets again! This can be explained by the fact adverts are targeted at consumers, who are nearly all women. Women love spending cash, particularly that which they didn't earn. They are the women who sit in the home that they can't be bothered to clean slowly piling on pound after pound while their gormless spouses work their way into an early (but very welcome) grave. Women who stuff their useless faces with crisps while watching the evil leather-faced harridans of 'Loose Women' run men down even more.

Unfortunately, the truth is a discomforting one for women. Because, last time I checked, men rule the world, which Beyonce will unfortunately realise shortly after she has dropped her first sprog or hit 40 and suddenly people are less than keen to see her flabby belly gyrating all over the screen. Actually, Rich men run the world, whilst their moronic floozies spend their days shopping in terrible boutiques or complaining about 'the help'. 'Help' is such a demeaning way to describe a human - and it's not even accurate, seeing as these people quite often do all the work. 'Help' implies receiving assistance - not farming out the delegation of a task. Next time someone thanks me for 'helping' them, I will give them a karate chop.

Sadly for women, they are only interesting to men for a couple of decades at most, and then bits of them start drooping or falling off altogether and they are quickly ushered behind closed doors, where their jowly visage won't scare any young children. Their days of being promoted to the front of family photos are quickly over as they are instead shoved to the back with the mongoloids and paedophiles. Even their cooking skills become impaired by the onset of old age or rampant alcoholism, as they pickle their tiny little livers with cheap plonk. I have been overtly sexist for a reason, because being sexist towards women is as old-fashioned as Bernard Manning, and is met with outrage and the awful sight of a cross-looking Germaine Greer on Sky News. So why is it so socially acceptable to deride men? Men are alright. Give us a break. We are not all complete morons. We like playing videogames and pizza. And boobs. We like boobs.

This is it - get your shotguns ready.

Although I am usually glad to live in a tolerant and largely democratic society, it is times like this that make me want to welcome Chairman Mao into the UK with open arms. Compare and contrast the dignified protest at Tiananmen square with the greed-fed free-for-all that is currently engulfing large parts of London. I'm sure a squadron of tanks would improve things no end, giant treads popping the brainless heads of the various wastes pf sperm who really are that stupid. I like to call a spade a spade, and therefore when a bunch of mindless thugs decide to descend on already recession-hit high streets and basically smash them up and steal or burn everything in sight I like to refer to them as a bunch of mindless and thieving cunts, as opposed to 'protesters'.

The riots may be the single most exciting thing to ever happen to Croydon, but even that open sewer of a place deserves better to be smashed up in the manner places are being at the moment. I'm sure that as the little shits run out of booze and KFC they will slowly lose energy and will then disappear back into their little rat-infested hovels, not to be heard from again until the next political issue demands their 'attention'. The lie that this entire situation is in any way connected to a death which seems to be fairly routine is particularly galling as a load of thugs are using it as an excuse to basically rob and destroy stuff. As usual, the government are too weak to do anything remotely useful, helmed as they are at the moment by the incompetent public schoolboys brigade. Because of this, I have decided to present my 3-point plan to any politicians who may be reading, because you silly fuckers need to do something.

1) Guns

Yes, GUNS. Guns that shoot massive bullets that splinter into smaller bullets that explode on contact with pock-marked and unwashed flesh. Guns are awesome. Guns would disperse any cunts with a modicum of intelligence, the rest would just stare on blankly as their bodies were departed from their wretched souls at no great loss to humanity.

2) Helicopters

Just because. I love helicopters. Ones with guns and missiles and that on them that look like Airwolf. It would be great to see attack helicopters strafing in and out of piss-soaked alleys, distributing death to the dribbling morons clutching their flatscreen TVs and iPads. Sky Box Office could charge £15 a pop.

3) Transformers

Megatron would fuck all their shit up. And not the terrible Michael Bay Megatron, the original Megatron that looked like a Nazi stormtrooper and turned into a big fucking gun. So basically, my message is to kill all of the little cunts until they get the message and get the fuck in line. It's not like any of them will have any employment prospects so let's kill 2 birds with one stone and save some much-needed cash as well.

I love the summer

In the summer, something magical happens. For around 6 weeks, the population of the UK suddenly drops, as, inversely, the average IQ rises. This strange event happens because a large proportion of the country finally steals or syphons off enough of their kid's dinner money to inflict them and their dreadful offspring on an unsuspecting Greek or Spanish town for a fortnight. It is then the turn of our European cousins to deal with the very worst of us. God help them.

Repugnantly fat and puce-faced, the patriarch of the family (if there is one) spends the entire 2 weeks completely plastered and fighting, as he drags his massive frame from one English pub to the next. His knock-off XXXL Manchester United shirt heaves with the strain as he pours a gigantic fried breakfast down his gargantuan gob, which is at least some relief as when his mouth is not occupied with devouring a pig's worth of food he will be spouting racist expletives at the top of his tar-riddled lungs or threatening to punch his wife or kids in the face.

And speaking of his wife, she spends her time clipping various members of her massive brood round the ear or trying to do her level best to give herself multiple forms of cancer, spending 14 hours in the sun and smoking 100 fags a day, while gorging on biscuits and the kid's sweets. She will have a fake pink Gucci suitcase, which is large enough to fit an oven in; but will in fact contain the most inappropriately skimpy attire for a woman of her girth, and approximately 2000 duty free Lambert & Butler, which will probably do her for a week, seeing as her bloody kids keep dipping in too.

Then there is the leather-faced old hag of a gran, who at the grand old age of 42 will unfurl her depleted bosom as soon as she gets within 200 yards of a swimming pool and flirt mercilessly with the poor waiters who will be swallowing their own sick until she covers up and leaves them the fuck alone. She will be the colour of mahogany, despite blaming all the troubles in the world on brown people. The Irony will escape her though because she doesn't understand anything that she can't have sex with, shout at, or fight.

As for the kids, there are just too many to count. The parents lose count after screaming for Taylor, Carly, Kylie, Wayne and Rory to 'fucking pack it in'. But most of the time they clearly don't give 2 shits what their kids do, as they let them run around the hotel harassing everyone and smashing things up with impunity, until the hotel manager finally intervenes and is beaten senseless for his trouble. If there is a daughter over 13, there is a 50% change that she is pregnant, or will be by the time the holiday ends, as she seeks out the hotel worker with the lowest standards and rapes him.

Despite missing the people who generally make the UK such an unrelentingly depressing toilet to live in, there are upsides to their absences. For one, there are not quite so many idiots clogging up Britain's roads with their awful driving as they ferry their fat little shits into the schools unfortunate enough to have to teach them. The white van count takes a hit too, meaning that travelling on the motorway becomes relatively safe, without wannabe-boy racers thrashing their transits round bends in the fast lane doing 120mph while smoking, demolishing a bacon sandwich and shouting on their mobile. And, best of all, detestable little cuntweasel Jeremy Kyle has to take a break from his show, as there are simply no guests around for him to humiliate. Instead, they show a schedule of repeats which they might as well call 'Britain's stupidest people'.

And then, like, that, they are back. The people all over southern Europe breathe a collective sigh of relief. Why? Because the last of the brits are now back home, safely behind their garishly painted cages and velour tracksuits. The foreigners can now rebuild their shattered, vomit-coated high streets. They can remove the blockages in the drains caused by the consumption of several million fried meals and used condoms. They can scrape the last traces of blood and detritus from their various monuments. And as for us? we're stuck with them for the rest of the miserable year, hoping that next time they go abroad, a referendum is passed and they are not allowed back into the UK.

Back To Crack

Unless you have been living under a rock somewhere, you will no doubt know that the mercurial talent known as Amy Winehouse is dead. Stop the clocks etc. Always prolific, Amy Winehouse released a massive 2 albums over an 8-year period, one of which was a dreadful pastiche of modern jazz, which featured lots of songs of her going 'da-be dee-dooh-da' rather too many times than is necessary. The second album she launched was a change in direction to an all-encompassing plagiarism-fest of soul records from the '60's which unfortunately opened the door for numerous bandwagon-jumping copycats to pick over the bones of what had been a respected genre, Including 'talents' such as Joss Stone and Duffy.

But Winehouse ensured her longevity over her contemporaries when 'Back To Black' was released; with 'Rehab' being the stand out single that truly made her a star to both scabby, dirty-fingernailed ingrates and winebar-frequenting fuckwits alike. 'Rehab' was a cynical attempt to cash in on her by then well-documented struggle with the booze and various narcotics, which was apparent in her losing half her bodyweight between the 2 albums she made, and also the daily newspaper articles which were run about her, of which I'm sure her record company had nothing to do with whatsoever. Ironically, she would go to rehab several times, spunking money at the Priory to get help which other addicts could only dream of, and singularly failing to sort her bloody life out on each occasion.

No doubt buoyed by her new-found success, Amy started hanging out with other 'tortured' people with mush for brains, smoking crack and injecting heroin into their genitals whilst pretending to eat mice. Holed up for weeks at a time with the equally filthy and bedraggled Pete Doherty, Winehouse would only be pictured sporadically going to newsagents, almost tottering over as her enormous beehive threatened to drag her emaciated body to the floor. Then came along Mark Ronson, a man with a talent for systematically destroying any old record he touches by re-imagining them with lots of horns and an accursed jazzy rhythm, and then getting a bunch of detestable cunts to sing over them. And so it was that 'Valerie' was born - the only track Winehouse has featured on in any shape or form that does not make me want to perforate my eardrums with giant rubber cocks.

After this brief success which included winning several awards, Winehouse spent the best part of 5 years ostensibly writing new material, which involved being off her by-now-inflated tits, booed off stage for being mashed off her face with the occasional good gig thrown in to keep the wolf from the door. And when you have a laundry-list of addictions as long as Amy's, the wolf is around quite a lot. She also spent about a year in the Caribbean doing bugger all and found time to get married to a nutter and then divorced said nutter when she realised that he was too mad even for her. I suppose her tale is tragic in an entirely self-indulgent way, but not unexpected. When you plough the equivalent of Luxembourg's GDP in drugs and booze into your system, death is inevitable, unless you are Keith Richards.

What bothers me most about her passing is the blanket coverage and outpouring of grief that her death has inspired. What was that phone hacking hoo-hah about again? Someone died you say? Mysterious circumstances? Whistleblower? Who cares now. There was also the small matter of nearly 100 Norwegians dying at the hands of a gun-toting lunatic, but of course that is relegated to fish and chip-fodder in the wake of such a tragic event. Oh and thousands of people in East Africa are probably dying as I write this, as the result of one of the worst famines in living memory. But it is for Amy Winehouse that the grief of the sycophantic idiots is reserved for. For some reason, a self-inflicted and inevitable death inspires more pathos than huge swathes of people who are dead or dying through no fault of their own. And rather than donating a small sum to charity to help the lives of people who do not have the luxury of choice, Amy's retarded fanbase are instead re-buying her album in a morbid attempt to have it top the charts, which I have no doubt it will do; since if Adele is the best we can do, we are in serious trouble. And maybe that is the biggest tragedy of all.

Hatfield is odd

I went to Hatfield on the weekend and there are things about it that are just not quite right. For a start, it is one of those places that are hard to get to, and even more difficult to leave. There are still people driving around there desperately trying to get back to London who have been there since the seventies. There were roundabouts everywhere and loads of weird contra flows. One diagram of a particularly strange road layout looked like 2 penises jousting and was surely the result of a bet between disinterested council workers. I found myself nearly crashing loads of times. There are just oodles roads there, with nothing of note at the end of them save a few curiously stunted buildings dotted around like an afterthought. It's like the architects had envisioned grand skyscrapers with large footprints but then realised that they were in Hertfordshire and that not enough people would utilise them, so they built the first couple of floors and then gave up.

It unashamedly tries to proclaim itself as some sort of gateway to London but is not. There is not really much there. It's like the whole area was built for a significant world event in the 1960's which was subsequently cancelled. The topography is flat and featureless - the greys of the skies blending seamlessly with the edifices of the uninspiring buildings and the local inhabitant's hopeless faces. The hotel I was at desperately heralded itself as a 'great place for visitors from the north to come if they want to go to London'. Surely just going to London itself would be easier than stopping 50 miles short, staying in a concrete mausoleum and boarding a shockingly expensive and infrequent train to King's Cross. And imagine if your first experience of London was King's cross. You'd just want to turn around and go home before you captured some airborne parasite from one of the many prostitutes or down-and-outs.


We went to a farm at Hatfield house. It was like most farms that I have seen except practically all of the animals were fighting each other. They obviously felt the same sentiments towards the place that I did, and seeing as they couldn't 'flight', 'fight' was the only option open to them. There was a bunch of retarded ducks with giant bouffant hairstyles. They looked like they had been made by some local prankster to achieve placement in a Ripley's 'Believe it or not' exhibition. They were fighting with smaller ducks, bigger ducks, goose-type things and themselves - obviously dimly aware that they were abominations who had no right to exist. There was a very surly sow who had about 14 piglets who seemed to resent them seeing as the dad had sensibly buggered off. She proceeded to use her snout and feet to basically give them all a good thrashing for no apparent reason. Their alarmed whelping and squealing only made her more cross so she stepped it up a gear by trying to propel one of them into the electric fencing.

There was also a variety of odd-looking chickens who had apparently had testicles grafted onto their chins, who made their displeasure known by stomping on each others heads. And then I spotted a large group of what looked like midget black rams which had left their enclosure and were just wandering around until they saw me, at which point they menacingly started to run in my direction at great speed. I thought were going to charge at me, and I was calculating in my head what my chances were against an enraged flock of Satan's emissaries. Could I avoid them all with one swift jump, or was I better off going on the offensive and trying to kick them in the head? Could I pick one up and throw it at the others, or brandish it as a grunting, snarling club as I beat its contemporaries to death? Thankfully they ducked back under what must be the most useless gate ever made, since they could come and go at will.

But at least the farm animals of Hatfield house had been interesting. In fact, If I was responsible for bringing tourism to that godforsaken part of the world, I would actively encourage more genetic mutation and grow the farm into some kind of gladiatorial arena, where various affronts to god would fight to the death. Now,that would be worth visiting.

Things that I'd rather be than a traffic warden

I got a parking ticket yesterday for the heinous crime of partially obscuring a dropped kerb (offence 27 apparently) and I'm not happy. I will be writing a 20,000 word appeal which will consist of pages and pages of legal gobledigook which I will copy and paste from all over the internet. Obviously I won't win the appeal but I will at least cost Sutton Council some money reviewing the bloody thing, which makes a change from them always fleecing me. Perhaps they can put my 55 pounds towards fixing some of the potholes which regularly threaten to propel me over my handlebars.

Why do people become traffic wardens? I honestly don't know. It must be one of those professions that people fall into when they are addicted to Heroin and are too unattractive to be a prostitute, and too stupid to become burglars. It got me thinking about things that I would rather do than be a traffic warden and the list is practically endless. But I need to start constructing my rigorous defence of my parking ticket so I will truncate the list somewhat. Plus I can't be arsed today.

Things that I'd rather be than a traffic warden

A snake

A child in a creche run by Fred and Rose West

Rosie O'Donnell's bra

A Hippy

A private detective affiliated with News International

An attractive woman in a locked room full of footballers

Michael Moore's toilet

Andy Murray's armpits after 5 sets

Piers Morgan

A Journalist affiliated with News International

Katy B's Pale tree-trunk legs

Lindsay Lohan's gynaecologist - there are not gloves thick enough

A tea boy affiliated with News International

Chris Moyles's sense of humility - is anything else in the world more neglected?

A Glee fan ('Gleek' apparently)

Anyone affiliated with News International

Dead

Any vehicle owned by George Michael

French

What's with all the racquet?

Wimbledon Tennis is over. The concrete tennis courts of Britain will now revert to their primary purpose which is to host gang fights, rapes and other youthful hijinks. Racquets will be left in the shed, and forgotten the next year when another new racquet will be purchased, which will then in turn end up forgotten in the shed. Plucky Andy McMurray has failed in his quest to become the first British champion since 1542, and he is surely tucked up in bed nursing a bottle of Buckfast as he licks his wounds after being soundly spanked by Rafael Nadal. I personally don't mind Murray, although he is so Scottish that if you cut him in half there would be a layer of non-specified minced meat with a large egg in the centre, and he would leak Irn Bru everywhere.

I only comment on his overt and very miserable Scottishness because I'm sure when 'Tiger' Tim Henman was in his relative pomp, he was referred to as English. The gentile and well-heeled folk of SW19 normally fear the marauding Scots and believe it's a bloody shame that Hadrian's wall was allowed to fall into disrepair; so for them to warm to the ginger menace illustrates just how desperate these aristoprats are to cling to the notion that Britain is still somehow relevant and superior. And before Murray there was the Canadian-as-an-Elk Gred Rusedski, and inbetween a disastrous attempt to convert the very Serbian Novak Djokovik into a tea-drinker.

This illustrates how poor the English (or when convenient, British) game is. Murray cut his unusual teeth in Spain, and has been forthcoming in criticising the English (sorry British) LTA, who are so bumbling, disorganised and incompetent that they make the English FA look like the SAS in comparison. The gentlemen of the LTA spend most of their days supping on champagne and falling asleep, and in rare moments of lucidity moaning about the price of servants. But internationally, the Men's game is in rude health, with 3 superb players at or just over the peak of their powers, and Andy Murray trying desperately to keep up with them/hoping they all die in a plane crash. The REAL problem with tennis lies with the women's game, which has descended into an un-watchable freakshow.

Petra Kvitova won Wimbledon this year, mainly because she is 6'2". Women's tennis is fundamentally broken. They are all either giants, or they scream their heads off. Some are both. Victoria Azarenka is 5'11" and wails like a lost soul in the night. She does this every time she hits the ball, plus sometimes she screams petulantly when she misses a volley. And let us not forget the champion of screaming, Maria Sharapova; a woman who by right ought to wear out her voice completely before she hits 30.

I hope Maria Sharapova ultimately suffers the same fate as the boy who cried wolf - One day she will be loudly slaughtered in one of her mansions and her neighbours will think she is merely having a practise session. In fact, her neighbours will be the most likely suspects in the ongoing murder inquiry, and who would blame them. If ever there was just cause to commute a murder sentence to involuntary manslaughter, then surely this is it. It would be like living next door to a very large hareem of bickering foxes, who have chosen to nest in an active volcano.

The screaming phenomenon can be traced back to Monica Seles, who had a trademark grunt before a lot of today's players were born. Lest we forget that she was stabbed courtside. Now I'm not saying that this occurred because of her relentless noise nor do I condone it; but I was secretly relieved that I wouldn't have to put up with her half sneeze/half orgasm shouting ruining women's tennis for a while. The question that needs to be answered is why do they do it, and why is it tolerated? The first questions is easy to answer - it's all gamesmanship. No men do it. Nadal grunts but he does not emit a theatrical warble which would put a Bird of Paradise to shame.

From barbaric and blood-curdling to downright odd; none of the women's screams sound like they are a product of exertion. They serve purely to distract their opponent, to disguise the sound of the ball as they hit it; to give the opposing player no chance of determining whether they are facing a slice or a smash until the ball is nearly upon them. It should be banned. I have no idea why it is allowed. But then I have no idea why a rubbish American player saw fit to dress up like a porky hybrid of Lady Gaga and a Quarterback, (How silly did she feel when she was dumped out in the first round by the way) but what the hell do I know.

Then there is the combined might of the The Williams Brothers, who should be forced to compete in an 'other' category - which would consist of themselves, Caster Samanya, Amelie Mauresmo, Lindsay Davenport, and all the female weightlifters. Surely they can all piss standing up. These non-gender-specific muscular titans have no place in any women's sport. How relieved Novak Djokovic must have been this year, knowing that he wasn't going to be manhandled by either Venus or Serena for the first time in years at the player's ball, where it has become customary for the winning males to be crushed to death by monstrous 50" thighs more befitting a shire horse.

The rapid decline in the Women's game has by and large been rewarded with equal parity in terms of prize money, despite the fact that the men have to work for at least one third longer for the same money and they do not spend their time screaming like rabid baboons. What the fuck is all that about? Surely the EU should step in and sort it out seeing as they have nothing else to do with their time at the moment apart from wiping Greece's backside. I'm hoping that as the Williams brothers retire that the women's game reverts to what it used to be, and the days of 7 ft banshees smashing the ball as hard as they can whilst screaming will be but a bad dream. I shan't hold my breath though.