Name a funny Woman. Eddie Izzard doesn't count.

Last weekend I actually had to leave my house to go and 'socialise' with real actual people. I went to a comedy club thingy and watched some funny but immediately forgettable comedians. Actually, I watched 3 funny but immediately forgettable comedians, and one incredibly unfunny and memorable comedian. Shockingly, the unfunny one was a woman. She was terrible, delivering unfunny lines with all the commitment of Wayne Rooney to his missus. She had to make AIDS jokes to try and be funny, but even though the AIDS is hilarious, her jokes failed to resonate. There was no real laughter at all. The worst culprits were the girls in the audience who completely stonewalled her - What happened to all that solidarity bollocks? - leaving a brave handful of males to give the impression that she wasn't the worst comedian ever.

But then, no women are funny, unless they are drunkenly falling over on Big Brother or otherwise being incompetent or abusive on Big Brother. And then they are being laughed at, rather than with. But why are women not funny? And before you snap on your bonnet and jump under a horse, show me any evidence that they are. Of all the female comedians in the public eye, none are actually funny. I will prove why all these well-established 'comediennes' are about as funny as Matt Horne sans the fat bloke.

Dawn French
- not funny. dresses up as fat versions of normal people, and that's as far as the joke goes. Ha ha, she's like Harry Potter, but fat, mindblowing, LOL!

Jo Brand - jokes about being fat and ugly and men being rubbish. LOL, she knows the self-deprecation, genius!

Katy Brand - useless. Sounds like an annoying 10-year-old boy trying to be funny. Dresses up as fat versions of singers and does unfunny pastiches of their material. LOL, Kanye West uses an auto-tune, LOL!! Mental!

Catherine Tate - only funny act is a copy of Matt Lucas 'doing' Vicky Pollard, plus, she plays a gran who swears! LOL! Old people aren't supposed to swear but she does! Nuts!

Sarah Silverman - Potty-mouthed horse-faced yank. Ooh she talks about sex and rude stuff even though she is a woman, that must be LOL then!

Arabella Weir - she was the unfunny one off the Fast Show. She had the one joke that was 'Does my bum look big in this?" LOL! Women always ask that, what great observational humour! And a joke well worth telling in dozens of slightly different situations! And her bum was big as well, LOL double funny!

Smack The Pony - a female-only sketch show with one male supporting actor. You could always tell when the male was talking on account of his deeper voice and him actually being funny.

That mong one off Grange Hill and Extras - LOL she talks about having cerebral palsy and people thinks she's mad and things, mental and also brave/really funny as well!

So now I have provided my bucketload of irrefutable evidence, let's look at why the women are not funny. Perhaps it's because women don't have to develop a sense of humour in school. Boys get the shit kicked out of them unless they are the hardest or most mental in the year, so humour becomes an important defence mechanism. It's hard to put your boot through someone's face with any venom if you are laughing - go on, try it. More likely though it's because men don't have to be 'laughed into bed'. All women really need to do to get laid is turn up at a boozer with pretty much all limbs/teeth present and correct and someone will have propositioned them by the end of the night. Men have to jump through hoops to get some action which is what makes us so smart, hilarious and inventive. Women's brains just aren't stretched enough to master the art of comedy, but they do have boobs etc so be nice to them and most importantly, make them laugh!

His master's voice gets quieter with each passing year

Tower Records, Woolworths, Our Price, Virgin Megastores, HMV. These guys were the big hitters of the past, selling records, tapes, videos and Megadrive games. I used to spend most Saturdays with my mates (when I had mates) playing demos and looking at the covers of dodgy foreign films with tits in them. Even impoverished high streets in the north would sport at least 2 of these stores a decade or so ago, but now, only HMV clings onto its miserable existence, seeing its market share eroded by shameless cunts who refuse to pay for stuff they want. But, as much as it pains me to say it, there is another glaring reason for HMV's current plight. HMV are as old-fashioned as their quaint logo.

There is a staggering disconnect between HMV online and the HMV stores in general. They seem to be completely independent of each other. On most online retailers that also have a High Street presence, you can elect to either buy the item online, or select a store near to you and reserve one. It may seem a bit antiquated to go to a store and buy something like a DVD, and you're right, it is. There is no need to engage your senses when choosing a DVD in the manner you do when you buy clothes or cushions and things. But then I had no choice.

I received a(n?) HMV gift card for Christmas, which was ace as, being a hermit, I love to buy DVDs and that. I decided to buy the Office season 6 DVD, which was £22.99 on the website. I primed my gift card, ready to purchase the DVD. But then, I noticed the small print on the gift card which stated that I could not use the card on the website, and would have to go in store instead. This was annoying, as it meant a trip to Wimbledon, and I hate Wimbledon. Being that I hate Wimbledon, I thought that I'd best check that they at least had The DVD I wanted  in stock so that I could reserve a copy and not completely waste my time. Obviously, given that the website and actual store communicate less effectively than feuding OAP's, I could not check the stock on the website. That would be way too convenient, and impossible for HMV to manage (although Halfords, Game and Homebase to name but a few seem to manage just fine)

I had to resort to the telephone. I felt like I was slowly slipping back through the years, as HMV relied on ever-antiquated technology to fulfil my request - I was waiting for an automated message to tell me to send an enquiry by way of a telegram. To my surprise, after only some 5 minutes of being advertised stuff I didn't want I got to speak to a human. The human sounded unhappy. I nicely asked the human whether they could check if they had the Office Season 6 in stock. After a few more minutes of rustling, I received an update from the human who stated that they didn't have any in stock. I asked if the human knew when they would receive any more, and was met with a cross-between a murmur and a groan. Words followed stating that he didn't know, and couldn't see anything on the system, so I thanked the human for his time and bade him farewell.

It was later that day that I found myself at Wimbledon anyway, and I just thought, on the off-chance, that I would pop into HMV and have a look for The Office Season 6 DVD. Also, the security guard looked really lonely - I was half-tempted to stick an iPod dock under my jumper and run about a bit, if only to give him a sense of purpose. Negotiating my way through the tumbleweed and hideous array of 3rd-party iPod peripherals, I finally found the DVD section. And lo and behold, I was greeted by the lovely sight of a dozen copies of The Office Season 6 DVD! And even better, the DVD was only 30 pounds, which is just 7 pounds and one pence dearer than the website (which also offers free delivery) But at least I got to spend my gift card.

I felt a sense of finality as I left the HMV that day, reasonably safe in the knowledge that I would never set foot back in there again, or at least not until the inevitable 'closing down' fire sale, bought about by certain administration. It's a shame, really. I would love for HMV to survive, but fear for it like a dear old friend who can no longer keep the drool from their chin. Besides, all of the other entertainment giants of the High Street are gone now, so maybe it's time for HMV to do one as well. So, Goodbye HMV, I shall not see you again. Unless someone buys me a gift card.

Driving through the snow, numpties in my way...

A very small amount of snow has dusted the Greater London area overnight, which is great. Snow is awesome. It can beautify even the worst architectural nightmares conceived in the '60's. Everything looks really bright, and an eerie quiet descends as all the birds are seemingly overwhelmed by the beauty surrounding them and shut the hell up. Feet make satisfying noises as they trudge through freshly-laid snow. It's fun to run out onto virgin snow in bare feet, it feels nice and the footprints look loads better than boring old shoe ones.

The only downside of the snow is what it does to our transport infrastructure, which tends to fall to pieces as soon as the first flake makes contact with terra firma. But I can report that all of the major roads I drove down this morning were completely free of snow, or even slush, as they are used so heavily, that the snow does not get the chance to settle, or is quickly dispatched by the sheer frequency of traffic. Despite the roads being clear as a whistle, I was stuck behind very slow people several times. You see, some drivers panic when there is snow, and their feeble little minds completely shut down.

Unable to process this alien white powder surrounding them, some drivers stare at it in awe while coasting down the road at speeds that a Sinclair C5 could better, serendipitously drifting through red lights and into cyclists without a care in the world. My frustration was made worse when I arrived at Richmond Park, only to find that the de facto speed limit adopted that morning was 5 miles per hour. All I could see in the distance was a huge metal convoy, slowly umbering it's way around the park like a lethargic snake.

I was busy being a moany old cunt when I suddenly had an epiphany... all around me was brilliant, white, unspoiled snow. It was amazing. One of the most breathtaking sights I have seen, with the rays of the rising sun penetrating through the snow-capped trees. For the next 5 minutes, I actually enjoyed my commute as I revelled in nature's splendour. I saw a big bunch of deer (not sure what the correct parlance is) loitering together, looking all majestic and stag-like. Stags are brill. 

Then, unfortunately, I reached the end of the park and had to continue on my way, and the spell was broken. Once again, I was surrounded by exhaust fumes and drudgery; the roads full of people who just do not want to get to work, and who can blame them. The daily commute is almost uniformly depressing, no matter the choice of transport. Everyone wants to be at home in their pants instead of struggling to make their way to the office they hate, to do a job they hate. That said, I will treasure those minutes of unexpected happiness that I got this morning, as my quota for nice things is now full until May at least, so normal service will be resumed next week. Sorry about that.

Denise Welch should be vilified, not rewarded

I finally realised that the UK had been forever lost to the pagan hordes when it was revealed that Denise Welch had conspired to win this year's Celebrity Big Brother. Slightly dramatic, you may think, but, if you digest what I write here then you won't be able to help but agree, as you tearfully write off what was once a mediocre country. I really have no business watching Celebrity Big Brother. I don't watch any other reality shows that tenuously slip 'celebrity' in the title, or indeed any reality shows that feature 'celebrities' in them but don't have the decency to forewarn you.

I'm looking at you, Strictly Come Dancing. When not being celebrated as the owner of the world's smallest head, I am led to believe that Alesha Dixon spends her time laughing like an asthmatic goat and spouting generalistic nonsense about dancing, which she is clueless about. In ejecting withered old fleshbag Arlene Phillips and bringing Alesha in, the BBC made the cardinal sin which is usually reserved for banal football pundits - someone who can play football should be equally adept at explaining the subtleties of the game, QED. Thanks for Alan Shearer, BBC! All of this makes you have to wonder why ITV have poached her. BBC's gain is surely ITV's loss in this case, as they desperately try to steer the ailing Britain's Got Talent back to profitability.

Meanwhile poor old Simon Cowell has seen his glittering empire crumble somewhat, with viewing figures taking a tumble since he can no longer be bothered to turn up for his own shows. Things like this make me smile. Perhaps the Reality TV bubble has burst. I hope so. The endless conveyer-belt of identikit regional shows trundles on inexorably, as first Essex, then Newcastle, Chelsea, Liverpool etc have vied for the dubious honour of which area can sport the most shallow and vapid people. Bar the accents, amount of fake tan and skirt lengths, all the characters are the same. they are all attention-seeking cunts. Characters are shed and replaced, as the 'brightest lights' get to leave and do more prestigious reality shows. It is truly a self-propagating genre, endlessly cycling detritus like a sewage factory.

Speaking of sewage, the original purpose of this post was to lambaste the dull-witted British public for electing a vile old soak as their champion, so I will return to the subject now. I remember when Denise Welch was a vaguely good actress, but then she joined the panel of Loose Women. For the uninitiated, 'Loose Women' is a talk show where a bunch of decrepit harpies talk about every inappropriate aspect of their personal lives and interview men in a manner which is so predatory, that record complaints would be made were the genders reversed. This cackling coven of witches have the ear of all of the embittered housewives who happen to be at home when this tawdry show is broadcast, and are revered as gods.

Half of the women on the panel are home-wrecking alcoholic whores, with Denise Welch being the 'queen bee'. If there was any doubt as to her insanity (which is evident even in small doses), this was surely put aside as she spent day after day talking about herself, crying and then getting drunk and talking about herself and crying even more. She demonstrates that she has no idea about personal space, shoving her puffy face right into other housemates' eyelines to demand attention. I think it would be fair to say that she suffers from a 'Jekyll and Hyde' personality, although in this case, Jekyll is only marginally less annoying and destructive than Hyde. She typifies a certain type of woman who only display such aggressive behaviour because they are safe in the knowledge that they will not be deservingly punched in the face.

She pulled her droopy breasts out on several occasions, none of which were merited. She crawled into a Jacuzzi (in only her knickers) with a 19-year old lad when she has kids of her own around that age. She bawled at the drop of a hat. She spoke about herself endlessly. She bullied other people in the house and then turned on the tears to play the victim when people took exception. She attempted to remove the trousers of another woman in the house, and justified her behaviour by saying that she does that to her mates all the time. I'd feel sorry for her mates if they weren't all also middle-aged, drunken idiots.

She seems to permanently exist in some quasi-feminist bubble, where she really believes that her behaviour and obvious alcoholism is acceptable. I'd feel sorry for her if I had any charity in me, but I don't. Her issues should be rewarded with a sacking and a prolonged stint in the Priory, not rewarded. So that's why I know that we're doomed. If the majority of people watching Celebrity Big Brother (and I know that's not saying much) really believe that Denise Welch was the most worthy winner of that show then what does that say about us. It says that we're fucked.