On my way home today on the District Line three slightly drunken Australian men got on, cans of beer in hand, and sat contemplating the sign above my head which read ‘Drinking alcohol is prohibited on all London Underground Lines’
‘Will we get fined?’ one asked.
‘I don’t think so, mate. It says it’s just prohibited.’
Then, in true Australian fashion, they proceeded to take photographs of each other with their noses pressed against the glass partitions.
Then they took a photo of me.
‘You don’t mind being on Facebook do ya, mate?’
‘Not at all’ I said, although I wish I’d asked them where exactly I was going to be featured.
‘Can you take a photo of the three of us?’ one of them asked.
‘OK’ I said, and took the camera that was being thrust toward me.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘If it’s shit we’ll have to throw you off the train.’
I raised an eyebrow and held up the viewfinder as they arranged themselves across two seats, one of them sprawled across the laps of the other two.
I took two pictures, and handed the camera back.
‘Oh! Well done mate. Can you take another? We’ll do a different pose.’
This time the two of them sat on the seats while the third leaned over with his back to me. As I centred the scene one of the seated men reached around and pulled the third guy’s pants down, exposing an exceedingly hairy arse.
I took two pictures, savoured the moment and took another.
‘Have you done it yet?’ asked Mr Hairy Arse.
‘I’m just getting the composition right,’ I said, and took a fourth.
Then I handed the camera back and they thanked me.
‘Do you want to come to my birthday party tonight?’ asked the big chunky one.
‘I’d love to,’ I said, ‘but I have plans.’
Then they all got out at Barons Court and I was left with an Indian mother glaring at me as if she were Britney Spears and I were a lone defenceless paperazzo, and her daughter, who seemed highly amused by the whole thing.
As was I. It quite made my day.
Monday, 30 June 2008
Wednesday 25 June 2008
Let the madness be unconfined.
“A mayonnaise ad that shows two men kissing has been withdrawn from television after 200 viewers complained that it was offensive.
Heinz, which makes the New York Deli Mayo featured in the commercial, pulled the advertisement less than a week into its expected five week run, in response to the criticism.
Viewers told the Advertising Standards Authority (ASA) that the ad was inappropriate and unsuitable for children to see. The ASA has not yet decided whether to launch an investigation.
Heinz apologised for any offence caused. “
I’m kind of incensed by this. It seems that Heinz withdrew the ad voluntarily before the ASA had decided anything.
The ad features a family scene in the morning where ‘the mother’ has been replaced in the kitchen by a brawny New York Deli chef whom the children call ‘Mum’. The NYDC is given dialogue appropriate to the dialogue of a mother, and when the husband is leaving says ‘Ain’t ya forgetting something?’, whereupon the husband walks over and gives him a goodbye kiss.
"Love ya! Straight home from work, sweet cheeks," says the chef.
I am rather confused that this ad was deemed unsuitable for children to see. Why the hell is it unsuitable? It is not even suggesting there is any gay relationship. It’s a visual metaphor, and quite a funny one. On the other hand, even if it was a gay relationship, why would that have to be removed from TV?
Supposing this was an inter-racial relationship and 200 people rang up to say this was unsuitable for children to watch? Would the ASA (or Heinz for that matter) actually take any notice? 200 people is a very small number and I suspect that the majority of them go to churches with very long names. In my experience, the longer the name of the Church, the higher the percentage of certifiable bigots within.
Shame on you, Heinz. I for one will get my mayo from somewhere else in future. Yours is beginning to taste very nasty.
“A mayonnaise ad that shows two men kissing has been withdrawn from television after 200 viewers complained that it was offensive.
Heinz, which makes the New York Deli Mayo featured in the commercial, pulled the advertisement less than a week into its expected five week run, in response to the criticism.
Viewers told the Advertising Standards Authority (ASA) that the ad was inappropriate and unsuitable for children to see. The ASA has not yet decided whether to launch an investigation.
Heinz apologised for any offence caused. “
I’m kind of incensed by this. It seems that Heinz withdrew the ad voluntarily before the ASA had decided anything.
The ad features a family scene in the morning where ‘the mother’ has been replaced in the kitchen by a brawny New York Deli chef whom the children call ‘Mum’. The NYDC is given dialogue appropriate to the dialogue of a mother, and when the husband is leaving says ‘Ain’t ya forgetting something?’, whereupon the husband walks over and gives him a goodbye kiss.
"Love ya! Straight home from work, sweet cheeks," says the chef.
I am rather confused that this ad was deemed unsuitable for children to see. Why the hell is it unsuitable? It is not even suggesting there is any gay relationship. It’s a visual metaphor, and quite a funny one. On the other hand, even if it was a gay relationship, why would that have to be removed from TV?
Supposing this was an inter-racial relationship and 200 people rang up to say this was unsuitable for children to watch? Would the ASA (or Heinz for that matter) actually take any notice? 200 people is a very small number and I suspect that the majority of them go to churches with very long names. In my experience, the longer the name of the Church, the higher the percentage of certifiable bigots within.
Shame on you, Heinz. I for one will get my mayo from somewhere else in future. Yours is beginning to taste very nasty.
Thursday, 26 June 2008
Tuesday 24 June 2008
Sylvia has become quite evil. However, I imagine that as she has been nominated by at least half her housemates, she will be going on Friday. Mohammed has also been nominated, but he has not been half as annoying as this spoilt young harridan.
You’d imagine that someone who escaped at gunpoint from a civil war would have a little more humility, civility and respect for other human beings.
Meanwhile, back in the BBLB House, The Gormless Shoe Tree known as Zezi Ifore continues her lemming-like rampage toward the cliff of obscurity.
I have had reports (since I try to watch the show as little as possible while she is present) that Zezi, banished to do a report from the camera run - where presumably she could do no more harm than squash the occasional cameraman to death - somehow managed to push her face so close to the one way glass that many of the Housemates saw her.
‘Oh no! Did they see me?’ wailed the Porky Permed One in a panic. This is an achievement that not even the stupidest of celebrities has managed to pull off. One would have thought that the presenter of the show could have managed to keep herself from buggering things up, but no. I use the term ‘presenter’ very loosely though. My latest theory is that she’s on work experience.
You’d imagine that someone who escaped at gunpoint from a civil war would have a little more humility, civility and respect for other human beings.
Meanwhile, back in the BBLB House, The Gormless Shoe Tree known as Zezi Ifore continues her lemming-like rampage toward the cliff of obscurity.
I have had reports (since I try to watch the show as little as possible while she is present) that Zezi, banished to do a report from the camera run - where presumably she could do no more harm than squash the occasional cameraman to death - somehow managed to push her face so close to the one way glass that many of the Housemates saw her.
‘Oh no! Did they see me?’ wailed the Porky Permed One in a panic. This is an achievement that not even the stupidest of celebrities has managed to pull off. One would have thought that the presenter of the show could have managed to keep herself from buggering things up, but no. I use the term ‘presenter’ very loosely though. My latest theory is that she’s on work experience.
Wednesday, 25 June 2008
Monday 23 June 2008
i am disrupted
and the things i want to do
are still in my head
My chicken patties are just as good cold as hot. I ate half of one before I went to work.
Big Brother is becoming interesting in that it is turning into what it should be, a bizarre and surreal psychological experiment. As soon as one raving nutter leaves, it appears that another emerges to take her place. Sylvia, who has been in Alexandria’s shadow until now, has blossomed into a full scale Barking Madwoman since the evil one’s departure. This may have been triggered by the entry into the house of Stuart, a Northern Property Developer and Personal Trainer. I sniff disdainfully at this job title and file it in the same place as ‘Toy Demonstrator’ which is Mohammed’s job, apparently.
Stuart is very fit and seems to possess the power of indelible eyeliner. Sylvia was over him like a rat in a KFC bin.
I foretell that only Doom will come from this.
and the things i want to do
are still in my head
My chicken patties are just as good cold as hot. I ate half of one before I went to work.
Big Brother is becoming interesting in that it is turning into what it should be, a bizarre and surreal psychological experiment. As soon as one raving nutter leaves, it appears that another emerges to take her place. Sylvia, who has been in Alexandria’s shadow until now, has blossomed into a full scale Barking Madwoman since the evil one’s departure. This may have been triggered by the entry into the house of Stuart, a Northern Property Developer and Personal Trainer. I sniff disdainfully at this job title and file it in the same place as ‘Toy Demonstrator’ which is Mohammed’s job, apparently.
Stuart is very fit and seems to possess the power of indelible eyeliner. Sylvia was over him like a rat in a KFC bin.
I foretell that only Doom will come from this.
Monday, 23 June 2008
Sunday 22 June 2008
in the hospital
my mortality waved and
said ‘yes! here i am!’
Sunday has become my cooking day. I had already prepared some pattie pastry yesterday and, before we set off to see Robert – since his mother had come down from Sheffield to spend the afternoon with him. – I prepared my spiced chicken filling which needed to cool before it got rammed in the pastry.
Typically, Robert had given us the wrong name of the ward, and after wandering through several deserted corridors and reception areas we found him. He was on the phone. The NHS provide bedside phones. They are incoming only, no doubt to stop convalescing patients with too much time on their hands from ringing Poland, or those numbers where you can meets lots of gorgeous people within your postcode area. You’ve seen the sort of thing. Ring this number, or text H-O-O-R to get a list of girls/guys/olds/desperates/plain wierdos online NOW!
There was an old Rastafarian sitting at the next bed along, visiting his son.
‘He runs this ward!’ he shouted to us, pointing at Robert. ‘We call him El Presidente! He’s always on his satellite phone.’
I can’t help but feel a little disturbed by the running of the hospital. One obviously can’t blame this on the staff, since they seemed both quite efficient while being understandably overworked, but there was an air of resources being overstretched, and, from what we were told, the usual NHS bureaucracy and overuse of managers.
If I’m run down by a bus I’ll ask the ambulance to take me to St Marys.
Robert’s mother, it appears, arrived at Victoria on the coach and, having been told to take the number 11, jumped on the first one she saw, only becoming concerned when the bus passed through Trafalgar Square and headed off toward the east. She got off at the next stop and flagged down a car, who said he was a cab, and paid twenty-four pounds to get to the hospital.
She seemed, apparently, remarkably unconcerned by her adventure.
After a couple of hours we left and I returned to roll out my pastry and do the patties. I put six of them in the oven and watched some of Big Brother’s Little Brother. Thankfully, Zezi Ifore, the Gormless Shoe Tree was not immediately apparent, and George, the lesser of two evils, was doing the sofa interview, with a comedian whose name for the moment escapes me, despite the fact he’s very funny. What a difference! George was articulate, allowed the guest the chance to speak and was altogether half-decent and decidedly non-neanderthal. I prayed to Argos, the omnipotent, albeit mythical God of Catalogue Shopping, that Zezi had gone the way of all BB rejects, but alas, there she was at the Forum screen with Timmy Mallet, and even he fairly glowed with wit and talent in her presence. Zezi bombarded him with questions, didn’t listen to anything he said and finally (thank you, Argos) Timmy shouted ‘Can I finish speaking??!!!’
This of course translates to those perceptive folk among us as ‘Just Shut The Fup, You Ghastly Woman!’ which is what 90% of the audience have been shouting at their TV screens for the last two and a half weeks.
I ate three of the patties out of sheer exasperation at such a waste of Channel 4 wages.
Later, returning to the kitchen I discovered that only one pattie remained, and that the Ugly One was looking far too contented and smug as he watched Sylvia being a right cow on Big Brother and brushed crumbs off his vest.
my mortality waved and
said ‘yes! here i am!’
Sunday has become my cooking day. I had already prepared some pattie pastry yesterday and, before we set off to see Robert – since his mother had come down from Sheffield to spend the afternoon with him. – I prepared my spiced chicken filling which needed to cool before it got rammed in the pastry.
Typically, Robert had given us the wrong name of the ward, and after wandering through several deserted corridors and reception areas we found him. He was on the phone. The NHS provide bedside phones. They are incoming only, no doubt to stop convalescing patients with too much time on their hands from ringing Poland, or those numbers where you can meets lots of gorgeous people within your postcode area. You’ve seen the sort of thing. Ring this number, or text H-O-O-R to get a list of girls/guys/olds/desperates/plain wierdos online NOW!
There was an old Rastafarian sitting at the next bed along, visiting his son.
‘He runs this ward!’ he shouted to us, pointing at Robert. ‘We call him El Presidente! He’s always on his satellite phone.’
I can’t help but feel a little disturbed by the running of the hospital. One obviously can’t blame this on the staff, since they seemed both quite efficient while being understandably overworked, but there was an air of resources being overstretched, and, from what we were told, the usual NHS bureaucracy and overuse of managers.
If I’m run down by a bus I’ll ask the ambulance to take me to St Marys.
Robert’s mother, it appears, arrived at Victoria on the coach and, having been told to take the number 11, jumped on the first one she saw, only becoming concerned when the bus passed through Trafalgar Square and headed off toward the east. She got off at the next stop and flagged down a car, who said he was a cab, and paid twenty-four pounds to get to the hospital.
She seemed, apparently, remarkably unconcerned by her adventure.
After a couple of hours we left and I returned to roll out my pastry and do the patties. I put six of them in the oven and watched some of Big Brother’s Little Brother. Thankfully, Zezi Ifore, the Gormless Shoe Tree was not immediately apparent, and George, the lesser of two evils, was doing the sofa interview, with a comedian whose name for the moment escapes me, despite the fact he’s very funny. What a difference! George was articulate, allowed the guest the chance to speak and was altogether half-decent and decidedly non-neanderthal. I prayed to Argos, the omnipotent, albeit mythical God of Catalogue Shopping, that Zezi had gone the way of all BB rejects, but alas, there she was at the Forum screen with Timmy Mallet, and even he fairly glowed with wit and talent in her presence. Zezi bombarded him with questions, didn’t listen to anything he said and finally (thank you, Argos) Timmy shouted ‘Can I finish speaking??!!!’
This of course translates to those perceptive folk among us as ‘Just Shut The Fup, You Ghastly Woman!’ which is what 90% of the audience have been shouting at their TV screens for the last two and a half weeks.
I ate three of the patties out of sheer exasperation at such a waste of Channel 4 wages.
Later, returning to the kitchen I discovered that only one pattie remained, and that the Ugly One was looking far too contented and smug as he watched Sylvia being a right cow on Big Brother and brushed crumbs off his vest.
Saturday 21 June 2008
while we ate chinese last sunday
we watched a film about ted bundy.
he’s notable for going further
than your one-off single murder,
leaving bodies to decay
strewn across the usa.
america has me impressed.
their serial killers are the best.
I should really check my voicemail more often since, getting my phone from my pocket this lunchtime I found a message from our mate Robert who, it turns out, is in Charing Cross Hospital with a perforated appendix and sundry complications since he thought originally it was food poisoning and trotted off to Sheffield, returned in more pain and got admitted to hospital.
I rang him up and arranged to visit him the next day.
we watched a film about ted bundy.
he’s notable for going further
than your one-off single murder,
leaving bodies to decay
strewn across the usa.
america has me impressed.
their serial killers are the best.
I should really check my voicemail more often since, getting my phone from my pocket this lunchtime I found a message from our mate Robert who, it turns out, is in Charing Cross Hospital with a perforated appendix and sundry complications since he thought originally it was food poisoning and trotted off to Sheffield, returned in more pain and got admitted to hospital.
I rang him up and arranged to visit him the next day.
Friday, 20 June 2008
Friday 20 June 2008
i could go to north greenwich
to look at the dome,
then i’ll sigh, wonder why
and go home.
I saw Douglas Hurd in Hammersmith Tube this morning. What celebrity omen will this portend?
And of course, today everyone is talking about Alexandra from Big Brother who was taken out of the house due to her repeated intimidatory behaviour, which of course she did not see as being intimidatory at all.
Is she mad, or merely a sociopath? It is clear that she has severe emotional problems and has great trouble dealing with anyone who does not agree with her rather narrow view of the world, as well as which she pronounces muslim with three syllables, which none of the real muslims who I know do.
She also had an argument with Mohammed, who wanted to have a cross-dressing party, and insisted, rather curiously, that Mus-a-lim men did not do this, and ‘we are drinking and smoking, which is bad enough, but this is going too far.’
It’s an odd set of values. Allah, it seems, may turn a blind eye to the drinking and smoking, but wearing a bra may send you to Hell.
From what I’ve learned, it seems that the alcohol prohibition is not one of the more seriously enforced Muslim laws, and as tobacco was presumably not extant in the Middle East when the Koran was written it seems difficult to imagine how a smoking ban could have been incorporated. I am not aware of any specific part of the Koran which forbids the wearing of women’s clothes for fancy dress purposes as I am not an expert, although I do seem to know more about it than Alex does.
Anyway, this pure moral Mus-a-lim woman the next day, having found herself up for eviction, seemed quite happy to launch into a rant about how ‘personal offence is never forgotten’ and that she has gangster friends who are going to get to know everyone’s friends and family. It was very disturbing viewing as, for me, it was quite clear that Alex was threatening to have her ‘gangster friends’ deal with the people who nominated her. Whether or not Alex has any friends at all, whether they be gangsters or fellow croydon-facelift hairstyle fetishists, is a moot point. I suspect she hasn’t.
Before this programme I made the mistake of tuning into Big Brother’s Little Brother just to check if the ghastly Zezi Ifore had been sacked yet. Alas no! There she was, baring her unfeasibly large teeth and bouncing around in a yellow and black number looking like a bee hunting for a place to die.
Ok, there’s several things wrong with Zezi (not including the unfeasibly large teeth and the bee outfit):-
1. A presenter should, wherever possible, present in as professional a manner as possible. It isn’t right to shout ‘Yeah!’ at inappropriate times or dance like an infant at ballet school behind someone else who is co-presenting.
2. When interviewing, it usually isn’t the case that the interviewer says more (mostly about herself) than the interviewee does.
3. A presenter should not interrupt or talk over people.
4. A presenter should really have better teeth. I know I wasn’t going to mention the teeth, but the Gormless Shoe Tree insists on pushing her gob right into the camera and it looks like we’re entering some kind of mouth-based Moria.
Get Zezi Out! Get Zezi Out! Get Zezi Out!
to look at the dome,
then i’ll sigh, wonder why
and go home.
I saw Douglas Hurd in Hammersmith Tube this morning. What celebrity omen will this portend?
And of course, today everyone is talking about Alexandra from Big Brother who was taken out of the house due to her repeated intimidatory behaviour, which of course she did not see as being intimidatory at all.
Is she mad, or merely a sociopath? It is clear that she has severe emotional problems and has great trouble dealing with anyone who does not agree with her rather narrow view of the world, as well as which she pronounces muslim with three syllables, which none of the real muslims who I know do.
She also had an argument with Mohammed, who wanted to have a cross-dressing party, and insisted, rather curiously, that Mus-a-lim men did not do this, and ‘we are drinking and smoking, which is bad enough, but this is going too far.’
It’s an odd set of values. Allah, it seems, may turn a blind eye to the drinking and smoking, but wearing a bra may send you to Hell.
From what I’ve learned, it seems that the alcohol prohibition is not one of the more seriously enforced Muslim laws, and as tobacco was presumably not extant in the Middle East when the Koran was written it seems difficult to imagine how a smoking ban could have been incorporated. I am not aware of any specific part of the Koran which forbids the wearing of women’s clothes for fancy dress purposes as I am not an expert, although I do seem to know more about it than Alex does.
Anyway, this pure moral Mus-a-lim woman the next day, having found herself up for eviction, seemed quite happy to launch into a rant about how ‘personal offence is never forgotten’ and that she has gangster friends who are going to get to know everyone’s friends and family. It was very disturbing viewing as, for me, it was quite clear that Alex was threatening to have her ‘gangster friends’ deal with the people who nominated her. Whether or not Alex has any friends at all, whether they be gangsters or fellow croydon-facelift hairstyle fetishists, is a moot point. I suspect she hasn’t.
Before this programme I made the mistake of tuning into Big Brother’s Little Brother just to check if the ghastly Zezi Ifore had been sacked yet. Alas no! There she was, baring her unfeasibly large teeth and bouncing around in a yellow and black number looking like a bee hunting for a place to die.
Ok, there’s several things wrong with Zezi (not including the unfeasibly large teeth and the bee outfit):-
1. A presenter should, wherever possible, present in as professional a manner as possible. It isn’t right to shout ‘Yeah!’ at inappropriate times or dance like an infant at ballet school behind someone else who is co-presenting.
2. When interviewing, it usually isn’t the case that the interviewer says more (mostly about herself) than the interviewee does.
3. A presenter should not interrupt or talk over people.
4. A presenter should really have better teeth. I know I wasn’t going to mention the teeth, but the Gormless Shoe Tree insists on pushing her gob right into the camera and it looks like we’re entering some kind of mouth-based Moria.
Get Zezi Out! Get Zezi Out! Get Zezi Out!
Thursday, 19 June 2008
Thursday 19 June 2008
i must go to sleep
before the songs start looping
over and over
I posted the following on the Big Brother General Forum. It was removed within minutes, but not before having received at least ten positive responses.
‘In a shock move, Big Brother Bosses removed Zezi Ifore from the BBLB House late last night following repeated warnings over unacceptable and repeated bad presenting.
At approximately 8 pm 'The Gormless Shoe Tree' as she has become fondly known to both her fans, was called in to the BBLB Diary Room, specially fitted with a pretty coloured mobile in order to help her concentrate.
While the charges were explained to her (very slowly) which included 'Wearing a loud frock in a built-up area' and 'General Annoyance' Zezi talked over the conversation and stared into the camera, occasionally shouting 'Me! Me! Me!' and demanding packets of Love Hearts.
It was explained to Zezi that she had intimidated thousands of viewers with her threats to 'see you on the next show'.
In order to improve the quality of BBLB presenting it is rumoured that Ms Ifore will be replaced by a loaf of Warburtons Toastie.’
I am concerned at the very least at the common sense of those moderating the forums, and at worst with their complicity in what is a sinister repression of the views of fans. It is not just me whose posts have been deleted. Other people have told me they have posted criticisms of Ms Ifore and their posts have been indiscriminately removed. So vociferous has the reaction been to this presenter that she was questioned about the adverse reaction on the forums in this week’s Metro. Since then, mention of Ms Ifore has been curiously absent, and one now realises why since any criticism is ruthlessly censored as soon as it is posted.
I am told that BBLB have nothing to do with the forum moderation and that Channel 4 hire a third party company to run it, although the forum guidelines (somewhat vague) suggest that the moderators do have a Channel 4 representative as part of the team.There’s a very nasty smell about all of this.
before the songs start looping
over and over
I posted the following on the Big Brother General Forum. It was removed within minutes, but not before having received at least ten positive responses.
‘In a shock move, Big Brother Bosses removed Zezi Ifore from the BBLB House late last night following repeated warnings over unacceptable and repeated bad presenting.
At approximately 8 pm 'The Gormless Shoe Tree' as she has become fondly known to both her fans, was called in to the BBLB Diary Room, specially fitted with a pretty coloured mobile in order to help her concentrate.
While the charges were explained to her (very slowly) which included 'Wearing a loud frock in a built-up area' and 'General Annoyance' Zezi talked over the conversation and stared into the camera, occasionally shouting 'Me! Me! Me!' and demanding packets of Love Hearts.
It was explained to Zezi that she had intimidated thousands of viewers with her threats to 'see you on the next show'.
In order to improve the quality of BBLB presenting it is rumoured that Ms Ifore will be replaced by a loaf of Warburtons Toastie.’
I am concerned at the very least at the common sense of those moderating the forums, and at worst with their complicity in what is a sinister repression of the views of fans. It is not just me whose posts have been deleted. Other people have told me they have posted criticisms of Ms Ifore and their posts have been indiscriminately removed. So vociferous has the reaction been to this presenter that she was questioned about the adverse reaction on the forums in this week’s Metro. Since then, mention of Ms Ifore has been curiously absent, and one now realises why since any criticism is ruthlessly censored as soon as it is posted.
I am told that BBLB have nothing to do with the forum moderation and that Channel 4 hire a third party company to run it, although the forum guidelines (somewhat vague) suggest that the moderators do have a Channel 4 representative as part of the team.There’s a very nasty smell about all of this.
Wednesday 18 June 2008
i hid from the man
who keeps asking me for change.
he must want to change.
The evil Alexandra has been summarily booted out of the back door of the BB House having it seems threatened fellow housemates with revenge for her nomination via some of her gangster friends.
who keeps asking me for change.
he must want to change.
The evil Alexandra has been summarily booted out of the back door of the BB House having it seems threatened fellow housemates with revenge for her nomination via some of her gangster friends.
Tuesday 17 June 2008
zezi you’re so loud
like you’ve eaten a crowd
of thin folk. they shout
‘please! please! let us out!’
Zezi Ifore is beginning to make me feel ill. I saw her again ‘presenting’ on Big Brother’s Little Brother and was galvanised with shock at how bad the woman is.
In an age gone by women like her were culled and their bones scattered in fields to help the war effort.
like you’ve eaten a crowd
of thin folk. they shout
‘please! please! let us out!’
Zezi Ifore is beginning to make me feel ill. I saw her again ‘presenting’ on Big Brother’s Little Brother and was galvanised with shock at how bad the woman is.
In an age gone by women like her were culled and their bones scattered in fields to help the war effort.
Monday 16 June 2008
managers are a
species of parasite. they’re
common but not bright.
I have realised, over the past few days, that I have been waking up with a song in my head. Yesterday it was The Smiths singing that song about the record company meeting and the dead star.
This morning it was ‘I Get a Kick Out Of You’ by Cole Porter and, indeed, dozens of other people. I seem to remember a version getting into the charts in the mid-seventies during that odd post-modern period where all sorts of period styles and songs were turning up in the charts.
It’s a partly-forgotten phenomenon, but there was a brief fad for the tango in the early seventies. Mud, who will be forever remembered for their single ‘Tiger Feet’ at least by those of us who were there, made their name with two tango-based pop numbers, one of which was called ‘Crazy’. Then, one of the presenters of Magpie, Mick Robertson, who had a curly mop and bore a striking resemblance to Brian May, brought out a single called ‘The Tango’s Over’ with a spirited Latin backing contrasted by a rather dreary vocal.
Why am I writing all this down? I have no idea.
species of parasite. they’re
common but not bright.
I have realised, over the past few days, that I have been waking up with a song in my head. Yesterday it was The Smiths singing that song about the record company meeting and the dead star.
This morning it was ‘I Get a Kick Out Of You’ by Cole Porter and, indeed, dozens of other people. I seem to remember a version getting into the charts in the mid-seventies during that odd post-modern period where all sorts of period styles and songs were turning up in the charts.
It’s a partly-forgotten phenomenon, but there was a brief fad for the tango in the early seventies. Mud, who will be forever remembered for their single ‘Tiger Feet’ at least by those of us who were there, made their name with two tango-based pop numbers, one of which was called ‘Crazy’. Then, one of the presenters of Magpie, Mick Robertson, who had a curly mop and bore a striking resemblance to Brian May, brought out a single called ‘The Tango’s Over’ with a spirited Latin backing contrasted by a rather dreary vocal.
Why am I writing all this down? I have no idea.
Monday, 16 June 2008
Sunday 15 June 2008
minestrone soup
and morrisons bread.
two glasses of wine.
As usual, it’s taken me about a week to learn the names of the Big Brother Housemates. I can forget Stephanie now, as she was evicted on Friday, and was, if such a thing is possible, even duller in her exit interview than she was in the House.
Not, I am afraid, as dull as Zezi Ifore, the BBLB presenter who, I can only conclude, was given the job because Channel 4 were short on their quota of special needs employees. I tuned in again tonight, hoping that she’d ‘resigned, for personal reasons’ but alas no, the inanimate dumpling was still stomping around the studio, talking over guests and other presenters, fluffing her lines and annoying me far more than Alex and Mario ever could.
Wake up, Channel Four! The woman is rubbish!!!!
and morrisons bread.
two glasses of wine.
As usual, it’s taken me about a week to learn the names of the Big Brother Housemates. I can forget Stephanie now, as she was evicted on Friday, and was, if such a thing is possible, even duller in her exit interview than she was in the House.
Not, I am afraid, as dull as Zezi Ifore, the BBLB presenter who, I can only conclude, was given the job because Channel 4 were short on their quota of special needs employees. I tuned in again tonight, hoping that she’d ‘resigned, for personal reasons’ but alas no, the inanimate dumpling was still stomping around the studio, talking over guests and other presenters, fluffing her lines and annoying me far more than Alex and Mario ever could.
Wake up, Channel Four! The woman is rubbish!!!!
Saturday 14 June 2008
when your poetry
is published but amended
it’s not a good thing.
The Ugly One and I went off to the Bush of Shepherds today to their Vue cinema to see ‘Iron Man’.
I was very impressed with it. Robert Downey Jr, following up his excellent performance in ‘A Scanner Darkly’ plays Tony Stark, a suitably complex character; a mechanical genius who inherits a multi-million dollar weapons company and hasn’t thought through the morality of his company’s product, or indeed, the morality of anything.
When he is kidnapped in the Middle East by a terrorist group who want him to build them a Weapon of Mass Destruction he begins to realise the effects of his company’s work.
So, while pretending to build a supermissile, he assembles a powerful iron suit with built in weapons and manages to escape from the cave in which he has been imprisoned.
Returning a wiser man he then discovers chicanery within his own company, in the rather bulky form of Jeff Bridges (who seems to have turned into Goldberg since I last saw him).
He builds a new improved Iron Man suit in order to track down his company’s weapons, which have fallen into the wrong hands.
Thankfully, the terrorists are not the usual arabs, which have been the lazy option for many writers for the last seven years, but a group of multi-national baddies, called The Ten Rings, who have been employing Stark’s weapons to rampage around, destroying villages.
The foreign locations are suitably vague, and could be anywhere in India, the Middle East or parts of Eastern Europe.
As one of the new Marvel films it’s excellent, helped along by impeccable casting and the usual faultless CGI mayhem. If it has any faults, it’s that it is not individual enough. I suspect that in twenty to thirty years we will be looking back at this current period of Marvel film adaptations with the same mixture of fond nostalgia and critical hindsight that we employ with Hammer films.
is published but amended
it’s not a good thing.
The Ugly One and I went off to the Bush of Shepherds today to their Vue cinema to see ‘Iron Man’.
I was very impressed with it. Robert Downey Jr, following up his excellent performance in ‘A Scanner Darkly’ plays Tony Stark, a suitably complex character; a mechanical genius who inherits a multi-million dollar weapons company and hasn’t thought through the morality of his company’s product, or indeed, the morality of anything.
When he is kidnapped in the Middle East by a terrorist group who want him to build them a Weapon of Mass Destruction he begins to realise the effects of his company’s work.
So, while pretending to build a supermissile, he assembles a powerful iron suit with built in weapons and manages to escape from the cave in which he has been imprisoned.
Returning a wiser man he then discovers chicanery within his own company, in the rather bulky form of Jeff Bridges (who seems to have turned into Goldberg since I last saw him).
He builds a new improved Iron Man suit in order to track down his company’s weapons, which have fallen into the wrong hands.
Thankfully, the terrorists are not the usual arabs, which have been the lazy option for many writers for the last seven years, but a group of multi-national baddies, called The Ten Rings, who have been employing Stark’s weapons to rampage around, destroying villages.
The foreign locations are suitably vague, and could be anywhere in India, the Middle East or parts of Eastern Europe.
As one of the new Marvel films it’s excellent, helped along by impeccable casting and the usual faultless CGI mayhem. If it has any faults, it’s that it is not individual enough. I suspect that in twenty to thirty years we will be looking back at this current period of Marvel film adaptations with the same mixture of fond nostalgia and critical hindsight that we employ with Hammer films.
Friday 13 June 2008
i am exhausted
like a balloon that’s expelled
that final limp breath.
I was abused by a beggar today outside the Brixton Academy. To be honest, he’s a regular face in this area and I would have given him the change he asked for if he wasn’t so rude.
‘Have you got any spare change?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t,’ said I.
‘Why are you lying? You’re always lying to me! Every day!’
How very dare he! I haven’t lied to him for at least three weeks.
like a balloon that’s expelled
that final limp breath.
I was abused by a beggar today outside the Brixton Academy. To be honest, he’s a regular face in this area and I would have given him the change he asked for if he wasn’t so rude.
‘Have you got any spare change?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t,’ said I.
‘Why are you lying? You’re always lying to me! Every day!’
How very dare he! I haven’t lied to him for at least three weeks.
Thursday 12 June 2008
I have been told, though I’ve never watched it, that the theme tune to ‘Peter & Katie The Next Chapter’ is called ‘Show For The Culturally Dead’ performed by The Brainless Twats.
Did they really call their baby Teatree Rashcream? That’s just cruel.
Did they really call their baby Teatree Rashcream? That’s just cruel.
Friday, 13 June 2008
Wednesday 11 June 2008
god is still missing.
someone should call the police
and make a report.
It is a sad day when The Apprentice comes to an end, and we see all the numpties but one sent off into obscurity.
This week, the final four had to design their own men’s fragrance, create a campaign and present it to the great and good of the perfume world.
Lee (‘That’s what I’m talking about!’) McQueen and Gobby Claire decided, maybe unwisely, to base their concept around casinos and the rise of the gambling industry, with a fragrance called ‘Roulette’.
Gormless (‘I’m only twenty-four’) Alex and Helene, the one with the inflatable head, came up with the novel idea of ‘Dual’; a big bottle with a detachable portable version that one could fill with Rohypnol and take out to nightclubs.
Sadly, Gormless and The Moomin neglected to take into account the cost of the bottle which turned out to be prohibitively expensive, leaving nothing to be spent on advertising.
Sir Sid James took quite a while to come to his decision, his gimlet eyes switching from team to team, but finally his finger fell.
‘You’re fired!’ he said, and evicted Gormless and The Moomin from the building.
The final decision took a little longer. Lee sat there sweating like Jodie Marsh in a spelling test, while Claire glared, much like a young Northern basilisk, brought up by humans and fed on Parkin.
Nick and Margaret, the American Gothic couple, who sit either side of Sir Sid like ministering angel pensioners, sat quietly, awaiting the verdict.
‘You’re hired!’ said Sir Sid, after a calculated pause in which the camera could range across the expressions of all concerned, and pointed his finger at Lee.
I like Lee. If he came to my door selling pegs, I’d invite him in and superglue the doors closed. Then would be the time to bring out my Dual Rohypnol bottle….
Well, I can dream!
We had a final shot of Alex, in the big posh car, hopefully being driven to a reputable hairdresser. He was crying, and no doubt whimpering to himself ‘It’s not fair! I’m only twenty-four!’
I imagine all his friends and neighbours are praying for his next birthday to come round.
someone should call the police
and make a report.
It is a sad day when The Apprentice comes to an end, and we see all the numpties but one sent off into obscurity.
This week, the final four had to design their own men’s fragrance, create a campaign and present it to the great and good of the perfume world.
Lee (‘That’s what I’m talking about!’) McQueen and Gobby Claire decided, maybe unwisely, to base their concept around casinos and the rise of the gambling industry, with a fragrance called ‘Roulette’.
Gormless (‘I’m only twenty-four’) Alex and Helene, the one with the inflatable head, came up with the novel idea of ‘Dual’; a big bottle with a detachable portable version that one could fill with Rohypnol and take out to nightclubs.
Sadly, Gormless and The Moomin neglected to take into account the cost of the bottle which turned out to be prohibitively expensive, leaving nothing to be spent on advertising.
Sir Sid James took quite a while to come to his decision, his gimlet eyes switching from team to team, but finally his finger fell.
‘You’re fired!’ he said, and evicted Gormless and The Moomin from the building.
The final decision took a little longer. Lee sat there sweating like Jodie Marsh in a spelling test, while Claire glared, much like a young Northern basilisk, brought up by humans and fed on Parkin.
Nick and Margaret, the American Gothic couple, who sit either side of Sir Sid like ministering angel pensioners, sat quietly, awaiting the verdict.
‘You’re hired!’ said Sir Sid, after a calculated pause in which the camera could range across the expressions of all concerned, and pointed his finger at Lee.
I like Lee. If he came to my door selling pegs, I’d invite him in and superglue the doors closed. Then would be the time to bring out my Dual Rohypnol bottle….
Well, I can dream!
We had a final shot of Alex, in the big posh car, hopefully being driven to a reputable hairdresser. He was crying, and no doubt whimpering to himself ‘It’s not fair! I’m only twenty-four!’
I imagine all his friends and neighbours are praying for his next birthday to come round.
Tuesday 10 June 2008
big brother people
you are desperate for things
you don’t know or need.
I am such a pig. Last weekend I made twelve Y Pattio Tan Cymraeg (which are basically Jamaican patties with a Welsh lamb, chili and rice filling) and tonight I ate about four of them.
you are desperate for things
you don’t know or need.
I am such a pig. Last weekend I made twelve Y Pattio Tan Cymraeg (which are basically Jamaican patties with a Welsh lamb, chili and rice filling) and tonight I ate about four of them.
Monday 9 June 2008
the heat has returned.
builders tear off their check shirts.
tarmac swoons and melts.
We should really think about archetypes more. I’m sure Channel 4, or at least Endemol, are thinking about them all the time.
We’ve discussed the Goddess Shabaz, who has been reincarnated as Dennis, the gay Scottish Chucky.
Now we must consider the phenomenon of The Strange Adult Child, whose archetype has been reborn within Big Brother many times. There was Nicky, famously, who did everything bar sing ‘I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy’ to try and persuade us she was actually seven years old, and the reincarnation of Violet Elizabeth Bott. Then we had the screaming twins from Big Brother 8, and this year we have Kat, the giant Thai adult child who loves nothing better than screaming ‘CoooooooKeeeeeeee!’ whenever the need arises.
I have to say I like her. My favourite line from her is ‘I learned a new word today, Big Brother. It is spelt C-R-O-T-C-H and it means ‘Boy Sausage’’.
builders tear off their check shirts.
tarmac swoons and melts.
We should really think about archetypes more. I’m sure Channel 4, or at least Endemol, are thinking about them all the time.
We’ve discussed the Goddess Shabaz, who has been reincarnated as Dennis, the gay Scottish Chucky.
Now we must consider the phenomenon of The Strange Adult Child, whose archetype has been reborn within Big Brother many times. There was Nicky, famously, who did everything bar sing ‘I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy’ to try and persuade us she was actually seven years old, and the reincarnation of Violet Elizabeth Bott. Then we had the screaming twins from Big Brother 8, and this year we have Kat, the giant Thai adult child who loves nothing better than screaming ‘CoooooooKeeeeeeee!’ whenever the need arises.
I have to say I like her. My favourite line from her is ‘I learned a new word today, Big Brother. It is spelt C-R-O-T-C-H and it means ‘Boy Sausage’’.
Wednesday, 11 June 2008
Sunday 8 June 2008
i made some patties
and dark spice chicken curry,
then was not hungry.
I spent a very nice day today cooking (Y Pattio Tan Cymraeg and Chicken and Kashew Curry with Dark Spices) and listening to Radio 4 in the kitchen. This is very relaxing, although I’ve never been a fan of the gloomy serials they tend to chuck in round about three o’clock, which usually seem to involve people having a bad life in the Nineteenth Century and at least one death from consumption.
There was a very interesting documentary on though, once Gardeners’ Question Time had finished. I don’t actually have a garden, but it’s nice to pretend that I have in order that I can listen to the comforting voice and advice of the aptly and marvellously named Bob Flowerdew. The documentary was about Hovis Presley, a man of whom, until now, I had never heard. I do wish I had, since Hovis was a very funny man, with a seemingly worldwide fan base and yet no real urge to be famous. I find it ironic that there are so many talented people who could be famous, when many of the famous slots are taken up by people whose talent is often very hard to detect, like a neutrino, or a quark. Apropos of which, I found it a very adventurous move on the part of Big Brother this year not to confine the brainless bimbos solely to The House. For reasons of its own Channel 4 has decided to employ one of them as a presenter on Big Brother’s Little Brother.
This is of course, the ghastly Zezi, whose lack of personality, presence and style is matched only by the complete absence of a sense of humour.
In fact, her incompetence is so blindingly public and embarrassing that one feels compelled to watch, much in the fashion, I would imagine, of revolutionary French folk gathered around a guillotine.
How Channel 4 considered this waste of (if we’re honest, rather a lot of) space to be a suitable replacement for Dermot O’Leary is baffling. I suspect it can only be some subtle post-modern ironic joke.
Come on, Channel 4, the joke’s over. Really, it is. It wasn’t that funny either. Can we send her back to KFC now? There’s fries need selling.
and dark spice chicken curry,
then was not hungry.
I spent a very nice day today cooking (Y Pattio Tan Cymraeg and Chicken and Kashew Curry with Dark Spices) and listening to Radio 4 in the kitchen. This is very relaxing, although I’ve never been a fan of the gloomy serials they tend to chuck in round about three o’clock, which usually seem to involve people having a bad life in the Nineteenth Century and at least one death from consumption.
There was a very interesting documentary on though, once Gardeners’ Question Time had finished. I don’t actually have a garden, but it’s nice to pretend that I have in order that I can listen to the comforting voice and advice of the aptly and marvellously named Bob Flowerdew. The documentary was about Hovis Presley, a man of whom, until now, I had never heard. I do wish I had, since Hovis was a very funny man, with a seemingly worldwide fan base and yet no real urge to be famous. I find it ironic that there are so many talented people who could be famous, when many of the famous slots are taken up by people whose talent is often very hard to detect, like a neutrino, or a quark. Apropos of which, I found it a very adventurous move on the part of Big Brother this year not to confine the brainless bimbos solely to The House. For reasons of its own Channel 4 has decided to employ one of them as a presenter on Big Brother’s Little Brother.
This is of course, the ghastly Zezi, whose lack of personality, presence and style is matched only by the complete absence of a sense of humour.
In fact, her incompetence is so blindingly public and embarrassing that one feels compelled to watch, much in the fashion, I would imagine, of revolutionary French folk gathered around a guillotine.
How Channel 4 considered this waste of (if we’re honest, rather a lot of) space to be a suitable replacement for Dermot O’Leary is baffling. I suspect it can only be some subtle post-modern ironic joke.
Come on, Channel 4, the joke’s over. Really, it is. It wasn’t that funny either. Can we send her back to KFC now? There’s fries need selling.
Saturday 7 June 2008
i’m making pastry.
it’s a kind of alchemy,
transforms in my hands.
The Ugly One and I spent most of the day lounging about and watching TV. I realise that this must seem like nothing new, but it is a bit odd for a Saturday. I’m normally out shopping for exotic ingredients, if not exotic shopkeepers.
We took in ‘Resident Evil – Extinction’ which was more of the same Resident Evil fodder; zombies and mutant dogs. I’m not quite sure why the dogs are so much faster than the zombie humans – who seem to stumble about dazed as if they’d just had a long conversation with Mariah Carey. This time we got zombie crows, and Alice (Milla Jovovich) has developed Heroes powers (though exactly how is not clear).
In the obligatory underground bunker was a young man whose face I could not place, and eventually had to look him up on t’internet.
It was none other than Matthew Marsden. What do you mean, ‘Who?’?
Actually, it took me a while to work out that he was in Coronation Street about ten years ago playing a young mechanic in Kev’s garage. I suspect he might also have had a fling with Sally, but then, who hasn’t?
it’s a kind of alchemy,
transforms in my hands.
The Ugly One and I spent most of the day lounging about and watching TV. I realise that this must seem like nothing new, but it is a bit odd for a Saturday. I’m normally out shopping for exotic ingredients, if not exotic shopkeepers.
We took in ‘Resident Evil – Extinction’ which was more of the same Resident Evil fodder; zombies and mutant dogs. I’m not quite sure why the dogs are so much faster than the zombie humans – who seem to stumble about dazed as if they’d just had a long conversation with Mariah Carey. This time we got zombie crows, and Alice (Milla Jovovich) has developed Heroes powers (though exactly how is not clear).
In the obligatory underground bunker was a young man whose face I could not place, and eventually had to look him up on t’internet.
It was none other than Matthew Marsden. What do you mean, ‘Who?’?
Actually, it took me a while to work out that he was in Coronation Street about ten years ago playing a young mechanic in Kev’s garage. I suspect he might also have had a fling with Sally, but then, who hasn’t?
Tuesday, 10 June 2008
Friday 6 June 2008
if i were alone
i would sleep through each day
and walk through the night.
I should, as this is an atheist-based journal after all, attempt to inject some philosophical debate into the topical proceedings which actually, although we are discussing Big Brother, is not difficult.
Upon entry to the Big Brother House, the candidates have to say something profound about themselves, and without naming names we’ll go through a few of the statements.
One young lady it appears, believes in Islam, but is giving it a rest for a while.
Another young lady is a devout Christian, is against smoking and abortion, but if she could change one law would keep nightclubs open twenty-four hours.
And there’s the young man who is a muslim, but drinks alcohol, eats pork and has sex without being married.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but I would have thought that religion was, in the main (although historically merely a device to provide some social coherence in primitive times) a structure of moral values. Today, sadly, it seems to have devolved into belief into a particularly pernicious form of supernatural mumbo-jumbo, where the existence of gods, angels, heaven, evil spirits, demons and even vampires (trust me, there are people I know who are convinced that the undead live among us) has become a far more important part of the faith than a set of rather sensible social principles.
What is morally right seems very confusing to the Big Brother housemates. It is terribly wrong (according to Sylvia and Alexandra) for a man to pull a pair of knickers – which someone had stupidly left lying on the floor in the bathroom – on over his pants, but fine apparently to berate the (actually blind) man for this heinous crime and, the next day, encourage other housemates to strip naked and romp around in the pool.
i would sleep through each day
and walk through the night.
I should, as this is an atheist-based journal after all, attempt to inject some philosophical debate into the topical proceedings which actually, although we are discussing Big Brother, is not difficult.
Upon entry to the Big Brother House, the candidates have to say something profound about themselves, and without naming names we’ll go through a few of the statements.
One young lady it appears, believes in Islam, but is giving it a rest for a while.
Another young lady is a devout Christian, is against smoking and abortion, but if she could change one law would keep nightclubs open twenty-four hours.
And there’s the young man who is a muslim, but drinks alcohol, eats pork and has sex without being married.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but I would have thought that religion was, in the main (although historically merely a device to provide some social coherence in primitive times) a structure of moral values. Today, sadly, it seems to have devolved into belief into a particularly pernicious form of supernatural mumbo-jumbo, where the existence of gods, angels, heaven, evil spirits, demons and even vampires (trust me, there are people I know who are convinced that the undead live among us) has become a far more important part of the faith than a set of rather sensible social principles.
What is morally right seems very confusing to the Big Brother housemates. It is terribly wrong (according to Sylvia and Alexandra) for a man to pull a pair of knickers – which someone had stupidly left lying on the floor in the bathroom – on over his pants, but fine apparently to berate the (actually blind) man for this heinous crime and, the next day, encourage other housemates to strip naked and romp around in the pool.
Monday, 9 June 2008
Thursday 5 June 2008
you’re back big brother
but you haven’t changed at all
you’re still just childish.
And Big Brother has returned for a ninth outing. To be honest, I was on the cusp, yes the veritable cusp of not watching it this year. ‘If there’s another Charlie,’ I vowed, ‘I’m turning it off.’
As it happens, with one or two exceptions, the selection this year is pretty good. I’m rather taken with Luke, the politics student who looks like Stan Laurel and talks like Ashley Peacock. He thinks, poor love, that he looks like Justin Timberlake, but we’ll let that pass.
Someone else who is clearly deluded is Denis from Scotland. Of the BB archetypes (and after nine years I am sure BB are compiling a list of successful and - maybe not so successful -archetypes) Denis is the slightly more sane reincarnation of the Goddess Shabaz, who famously went bonkers in the house, hid all the food and had to be taken away in a madwagon for his own and everyone else’s good.
Denis thinks he looks like a young Tom Cruise.
Grace Dent hit the nail on the head in her own, very readable BB blog on the Channel 4 website when she described Denis’ lookalike as being Chucky from ‘Child’s Play’.
There are the usual social outcasts – who characteristically show more humanity than their housemates – in the form of albino black man Darnell (whom everyone called Daniel or Donald on the first night) and blind Irish transvestite Mikey (I’m loving him!)
There’s also Mario (who looks curiously like Buzz Lightyear) and his girlfriend Lisa (who looks a bit gladiatorial and could no doubt snap any of the men like a twig if she so chose)
My heart sank however when BB announced that there was going to be a secret mission.
I’m bored with secret missions.
Mario (43) has to pretend that he is not with Lisa. He has to pretend that his girlfriend is Stephanie (19), a whining blonde zombie with the personality of a staple-remover.
It would have been more interesting if Mario had had to pretend that he and Luke were a gay couple, but only marginally more interesting.
Let’s face it, secret missions are a little desperate. They are designed to create friction where, in previous series, the interest was in seeing how the friction grew slowly and naturally, occasionally exploding into fury, tears and terrible hair.
Secret missions are dull. They are BB’s Viagra, attempting to inject some excitement into a jaded production team which seriously needs a change of personnel.
but you haven’t changed at all
you’re still just childish.
And Big Brother has returned for a ninth outing. To be honest, I was on the cusp, yes the veritable cusp of not watching it this year. ‘If there’s another Charlie,’ I vowed, ‘I’m turning it off.’
As it happens, with one or two exceptions, the selection this year is pretty good. I’m rather taken with Luke, the politics student who looks like Stan Laurel and talks like Ashley Peacock. He thinks, poor love, that he looks like Justin Timberlake, but we’ll let that pass.
Someone else who is clearly deluded is Denis from Scotland. Of the BB archetypes (and after nine years I am sure BB are compiling a list of successful and - maybe not so successful -archetypes) Denis is the slightly more sane reincarnation of the Goddess Shabaz, who famously went bonkers in the house, hid all the food and had to be taken away in a madwagon for his own and everyone else’s good.
Denis thinks he looks like a young Tom Cruise.
Grace Dent hit the nail on the head in her own, very readable BB blog on the Channel 4 website when she described Denis’ lookalike as being Chucky from ‘Child’s Play’.
There are the usual social outcasts – who characteristically show more humanity than their housemates – in the form of albino black man Darnell (whom everyone called Daniel or Donald on the first night) and blind Irish transvestite Mikey (I’m loving him!)
There’s also Mario (who looks curiously like Buzz Lightyear) and his girlfriend Lisa (who looks a bit gladiatorial and could no doubt snap any of the men like a twig if she so chose)
My heart sank however when BB announced that there was going to be a secret mission.
I’m bored with secret missions.
Mario (43) has to pretend that he is not with Lisa. He has to pretend that his girlfriend is Stephanie (19), a whining blonde zombie with the personality of a staple-remover.
It would have been more interesting if Mario had had to pretend that he and Luke were a gay couple, but only marginally more interesting.
Let’s face it, secret missions are a little desperate. They are designed to create friction where, in previous series, the interest was in seeing how the friction grew slowly and naturally, occasionally exploding into fury, tears and terrible hair.
Secret missions are dull. They are BB’s Viagra, attempting to inject some excitement into a jaded production team which seriously needs a change of personnel.
Friday, 6 June 2008
Wednesday 4 June 2008
sir alan sugar
sits above everyone else
like his arse has heels.
Tonight, in The Apprentice, Sir Sid James lined up four of his henchmen, and one new henchwoman, to provide a gruelling all-day interview for the five remaining victims. No one emerged unscathed. Alex – a man who presumably combs his hair in the dark – is the one to whom I have taken a strongly healthy dislike. There is something of the rodent about him
‘But I’m only twenty-four!’ he whined persistently throughout the day when the meagre contents of his CV were exposed.
‘I was running Birmingham City Football Club at twenty-three!’ said the young lady who has joined Sir Sid’s team of fearsome interviewers.
The next interviewer concentrated on the fact that Alex (born and bred in Bolton, where he was presumably taught the ancient Lancashire art of not smiling or showing any enthusiasm for anything whatsoever, even lard) had put down on his CV that he spoke fluent English, before launching into his lack of energy and general resemblance to a corpse.
One could almost see the words ‘But I’m only twenty-four!’ hovering on his lips.
‘You’ve not done much, have you?’ said the heavy, unshaven, cockney one, who earlier on had taken great delight in making Lee (‘That’s what I’m talking about!’) dance about doing an impression of a ‘reverse pterodactyl’ .
‘But I’m only twenty-four!’ whined Alex, his little ratty lip beginning to tremble.
‘By the time I was nine, I’d conquered three small European Countries and taken over seven branches of Waitrose single ‘anded!’ said the unshaven one. ‘What ‘ave you done?’
‘But I’m only twenty-four!’ said Alex.
‘Get Art!’ said the unshaven man, and pointed at the door.
Gobby Claire was very taken with the unshaven man.
‘There’s something very Neanderthal about him, isn’t there? I wanted to leap over the desk and suck his lips off!’ she announced, completely without shame or anatomical realism.
At the end of the day it was up to Sir Sid to decide their fates. The plan was for three of the candidates to be pointed at and given the two deadly words, but Sir Sid was perplexed.
Ratty Alex, as usual, managed to get in a criticism about Lucinda, totally unfounded and out of context. I hope that this nasty side of his decidedly dull character is recognised, since I am sure Sir Sid does not want an apprentice to be constantly whining ‘It was all her fault, and I’m only twenty-four!’
Finally Sir Sid made a decision and his big fat finger fell in the direction of Lucinda.
‘You’re too zany for me!’ he said, ‘You’re fired!’
However, it seems he was fired out and not in the mood for any more, since he put all four remaining candidates through to the final, which is next week.
Noooo! It’s all come too soon. I want more candidates who do stupid things, and have strange hair.
I want more Margaret! I want Raef back!
sits above everyone else
like his arse has heels.
Tonight, in The Apprentice, Sir Sid James lined up four of his henchmen, and one new henchwoman, to provide a gruelling all-day interview for the five remaining victims. No one emerged unscathed. Alex – a man who presumably combs his hair in the dark – is the one to whom I have taken a strongly healthy dislike. There is something of the rodent about him
‘But I’m only twenty-four!’ he whined persistently throughout the day when the meagre contents of his CV were exposed.
‘I was running Birmingham City Football Club at twenty-three!’ said the young lady who has joined Sir Sid’s team of fearsome interviewers.
The next interviewer concentrated on the fact that Alex (born and bred in Bolton, where he was presumably taught the ancient Lancashire art of not smiling or showing any enthusiasm for anything whatsoever, even lard) had put down on his CV that he spoke fluent English, before launching into his lack of energy and general resemblance to a corpse.
One could almost see the words ‘But I’m only twenty-four!’ hovering on his lips.
‘You’ve not done much, have you?’ said the heavy, unshaven, cockney one, who earlier on had taken great delight in making Lee (‘That’s what I’m talking about!’) dance about doing an impression of a ‘reverse pterodactyl’ .
‘But I’m only twenty-four!’ whined Alex, his little ratty lip beginning to tremble.
‘By the time I was nine, I’d conquered three small European Countries and taken over seven branches of Waitrose single ‘anded!’ said the unshaven one. ‘What ‘ave you done?’
‘But I’m only twenty-four!’ said Alex.
‘Get Art!’ said the unshaven man, and pointed at the door.
Gobby Claire was very taken with the unshaven man.
‘There’s something very Neanderthal about him, isn’t there? I wanted to leap over the desk and suck his lips off!’ she announced, completely without shame or anatomical realism.
At the end of the day it was up to Sir Sid to decide their fates. The plan was for three of the candidates to be pointed at and given the two deadly words, but Sir Sid was perplexed.
Ratty Alex, as usual, managed to get in a criticism about Lucinda, totally unfounded and out of context. I hope that this nasty side of his decidedly dull character is recognised, since I am sure Sir Sid does not want an apprentice to be constantly whining ‘It was all her fault, and I’m only twenty-four!’
Finally Sir Sid made a decision and his big fat finger fell in the direction of Lucinda.
‘You’re too zany for me!’ he said, ‘You’re fired!’
However, it seems he was fired out and not in the mood for any more, since he put all four remaining candidates through to the final, which is next week.
Noooo! It’s all come too soon. I want more candidates who do stupid things, and have strange hair.
I want more Margaret! I want Raef back!
Tuesday, 3 June 2008
Monday 2 June 2008
some days, as empty
as an isle of mann gay bar,
pass by without note.
My application form for the National Poetry Competition arrived today. I did some work on the laptop and chatted for a while with Big Gay Al, who now lives in San Diego. After telling him I was going to Spain for a wedding in August he suggested I should say to a waiter “Quiero chupar el pene negro grande!” which apparently means ‘Please may I sample some of your local chorizo’.
Bo Diddley and Yves St Laurent have both run up the curtain and joined the choir invisible which is a bit of a shame for their fans.
We’re getting a bit worried about Robert. He’s taken to picking up young men in parks and taking them home. I’ve no problem with people picking up young men in parks. It’s more or less one of the commandments of the Gay Bible, but it’s never wise to take them home unless you can be sure they’re not going to murder you or run off with the George Forman grill. The last one, since Robert doesn’t have a George Forman grill, took his bike instead.
Last Saturday he informed us that he’d found out where the young man in question lived, and had seen the bike chained up outside, so, armed with a pair of boltcutters, he set out in the dead of night, liberated the bike, and returned home.
Later, another young man turned up, with another bike that he’d stolen from someone else. He left the next day, and failed to take the bike with him, which left Robert in the strange position of being in the possession of two bikes, one of which he had stolen back from the person who stole it from him, and the other having been presumably stolen and left as a gift.
I suggested that he should take the second bike and chain it up outside the house where he stole his own bike back from.
This may have been a mistake, as it’s a suggestion he may well feel is worthy of following.
as an isle of mann gay bar,
pass by without note.
My application form for the National Poetry Competition arrived today. I did some work on the laptop and chatted for a while with Big Gay Al, who now lives in San Diego. After telling him I was going to Spain for a wedding in August he suggested I should say to a waiter “Quiero chupar el pene negro grande!” which apparently means ‘Please may I sample some of your local chorizo’.
Bo Diddley and Yves St Laurent have both run up the curtain and joined the choir invisible which is a bit of a shame for their fans.
We’re getting a bit worried about Robert. He’s taken to picking up young men in parks and taking them home. I’ve no problem with people picking up young men in parks. It’s more or less one of the commandments of the Gay Bible, but it’s never wise to take them home unless you can be sure they’re not going to murder you or run off with the George Forman grill. The last one, since Robert doesn’t have a George Forman grill, took his bike instead.
Last Saturday he informed us that he’d found out where the young man in question lived, and had seen the bike chained up outside, so, armed with a pair of boltcutters, he set out in the dead of night, liberated the bike, and returned home.
Later, another young man turned up, with another bike that he’d stolen from someone else. He left the next day, and failed to take the bike with him, which left Robert in the strange position of being in the possession of two bikes, one of which he had stolen back from the person who stole it from him, and the other having been presumably stolen and left as a gift.
I suggested that he should take the second bike and chain it up outside the house where he stole his own bike back from.
This may have been a mistake, as it’s a suggestion he may well feel is worthy of following.
Monday, 2 June 2008
Sunday 1 June 2008
‘why were you angry?’
but we spoke in two tongues.
‘let’s talk weather then!’
My mother rang up to say she watched ‘Britain’s Got Talent’.
‘I don’t know why that dancing lad won!’ she said. ‘I voted for the sad faced bullied schoolboy singing ‘Pie Jesu’ in a grown-up suit with his shirt hanging out.’
but we spoke in two tongues.
‘let’s talk weather then!’
My mother rang up to say she watched ‘Britain’s Got Talent’.
‘I don’t know why that dancing lad won!’ she said. ‘I voted for the sad faced bullied schoolboy singing ‘Pie Jesu’ in a grown-up suit with his shirt hanging out.’
Saturday 31 May 2008
ten pence she asked for,
then a cigarette. later,
she asked me again.
Robert The Bond came round this evening to join us for The Ugly One’s posh sausage and bean casserole (Welsh Dragon Sausages, made from real Welsh dragons), and the final of ‘Britain’s Got Talent’.
This year it was a pretty bizarre selection, featuring a surprisingly large contingent of dance acts, two teenage classical singers, a dancing dog, an electronic girlie muzak quartet and a singing plumber.
I was confused by the singing plumber. Apparently he was good enough to get to and through the semi-final to the last ten. I had not seen him before, so he must have been in one of the earlier shows I missed.
He chose to sing ‘Imagine’ and none of us at home could see anything remarkable about him at all, apart from the fact that he’s a plumber who sings. The judges seemed to agree, and it seemed the plumber’s fate was sealed like a brand new U-bend.
‘Signature’ were my favourites; a couple of Indian guys who did a kind of dance-off between Michael Jackson and a fat sikh. (You have to see it to appreciate it really).
However, they came second. Third was the sad faced bullied schoolboy singing ‘Pie Jesu’ in a grown-up suit with his shirt hanging out, and first was George, a teenager who did a robotic, breakdance-style version of ‘Singing In The Rain’, complete with rain.
Now he gets a hundred thousand pounds and (more importantly, according to The Cowell) to perform in front of Prince Charles himself.
I’m still baffled as to why 99% of the performers were fairly swooning at the thought. ‘Ooh, it would be such an honour!’ being the favoured phrase of the series.
Why would it be? I really am at a loss to understand.
then a cigarette. later,
she asked me again.
Robert The Bond came round this evening to join us for The Ugly One’s posh sausage and bean casserole (Welsh Dragon Sausages, made from real Welsh dragons), and the final of ‘Britain’s Got Talent’.
This year it was a pretty bizarre selection, featuring a surprisingly large contingent of dance acts, two teenage classical singers, a dancing dog, an electronic girlie muzak quartet and a singing plumber.
I was confused by the singing plumber. Apparently he was good enough to get to and through the semi-final to the last ten. I had not seen him before, so he must have been in one of the earlier shows I missed.
He chose to sing ‘Imagine’ and none of us at home could see anything remarkable about him at all, apart from the fact that he’s a plumber who sings. The judges seemed to agree, and it seemed the plumber’s fate was sealed like a brand new U-bend.
‘Signature’ were my favourites; a couple of Indian guys who did a kind of dance-off between Michael Jackson and a fat sikh. (You have to see it to appreciate it really).
However, they came second. Third was the sad faced bullied schoolboy singing ‘Pie Jesu’ in a grown-up suit with his shirt hanging out, and first was George, a teenager who did a robotic, breakdance-style version of ‘Singing In The Rain’, complete with rain.
Now he gets a hundred thousand pounds and (more importantly, according to The Cowell) to perform in front of Prince Charles himself.
I’m still baffled as to why 99% of the performers were fairly swooning at the thought. ‘Ooh, it would be such an honour!’ being the favoured phrase of the series.
Why would it be? I really am at a loss to understand.
Sunday, 1 June 2008
Friday 30 May 2008
sinbad’s in corrie.
he used to be in brookie.
it’s emmerdale next.
Now before I start I need to point out that I have earned my gay membership card over the years. I went on marches, attended countless benefits and, most importantly, have been openly gay in a heterosexual world since about 1976, which is about three-quarters of a century in gay years.
So what I’m about to say may seem somewhat controversial, as to be frank, I think there’s rather too many gay characters on tv at the moment, and if I’m getting tired of them, I’m sure the heterosexual masses must be sick up to the back passage with it all.
This gay dramafest seems to have gone in cycles. Gay friends were followed by gay sons, gay brothers, gay husbands, gay gangsters, gay mothers and now we have an outbreak of gay grandads. Coronation Street’s is Gail’s Dad, Ted Paige, for many years the missing Paige, since Gail had never met him. He’s a genial, somewhat realistic figure, since his only link to stereotypical gayness is his dapper hat and ubiquitous cravat. Almost simultaneously, from across the channel, we have Desperate Housewives, which already boasts a (quite honestly, thoroughly unlikeable) gay couple, a complicated gay teenager, and now has its own gay grandad. Being a US show though, it can’t have any old gay grandad, oh no! DH has Richard Chamberlain, the man who broke a thousand viewer’s hearts as Doctor Kildare.
It’s only a matter of time before Bree is exposed as a drag-queen who killed the original Bree and took her place many years ago.
In many ways, she is gayer than any other character in the show.
he used to be in brookie.
it’s emmerdale next.
Now before I start I need to point out that I have earned my gay membership card over the years. I went on marches, attended countless benefits and, most importantly, have been openly gay in a heterosexual world since about 1976, which is about three-quarters of a century in gay years.
So what I’m about to say may seem somewhat controversial, as to be frank, I think there’s rather too many gay characters on tv at the moment, and if I’m getting tired of them, I’m sure the heterosexual masses must be sick up to the back passage with it all.
This gay dramafest seems to have gone in cycles. Gay friends were followed by gay sons, gay brothers, gay husbands, gay gangsters, gay mothers and now we have an outbreak of gay grandads. Coronation Street’s is Gail’s Dad, Ted Paige, for many years the missing Paige, since Gail had never met him. He’s a genial, somewhat realistic figure, since his only link to stereotypical gayness is his dapper hat and ubiquitous cravat. Almost simultaneously, from across the channel, we have Desperate Housewives, which already boasts a (quite honestly, thoroughly unlikeable) gay couple, a complicated gay teenager, and now has its own gay grandad. Being a US show though, it can’t have any old gay grandad, oh no! DH has Richard Chamberlain, the man who broke a thousand viewer’s hearts as Doctor Kildare.
It’s only a matter of time before Bree is exposed as a drag-queen who killed the original Bree and took her place many years ago.
In many ways, she is gayer than any other character in the show.
Wednesday 28 May 2008
thunder in the night.
anthony rang from kansas
like sun breaking through
I’ve had a couple of days off work, and what with the Bank Holiday it’s amounted to five days of lounging about and not doing very much, apart from bake some very passable beef patties.
It’s Apprentice day, though, and I dutifully placed my wine and cigarettes at a reachable point before curling up on the sofa to indulge in the sadistic games of Sir Sid James (ooh, that rhymes!).
This week, Sir Sid sent out the teams to sell driving time in top of the range posh cars.
Lee ‘That’s what I’m talking about!’ was in charge of Alex and Lucinda, leaving Michael Koshercles in charge of Gobby Claire and Helene. Without meaning to be cruel I’ve been trying to pin down whom Helene reminds me of, and I’ve finally realised that it’s from the film Total Recall, at the point where Arnie’s character has been morphed into that of a large woman. Just at the point when the large woman’s head starts to expand and turn back into Arnie, well, that’s who she reminds me of. It’s like someone’s stuck a bicycle pump in her ear and given it some serious wind.
Michael, quite surprisingly I felt, doesn’t like cars, and found the task hard-going. However, I fail to see why he drove a Ferrari all the way to Portobello Road vegetable market in order to try and sell driving time.
Many people suspect that Mr Koshercles has some incriminating photos of Sir Sid locked away somewhere since up until now he has led a charmed life and has escaped the deadly finger of doom for too long.
Finally - mainly I think because Margaret has been poking Sir Sid under the boardroom table with a knitting needle in a bid to make him see sense – Michael’s time has run out. His big puppy dog watery eyes could save him no longer and the half-jewish, catholic, possibly scientologist whiny ‘odious little twat’ was given the boot.
Hoorah! I had a celebratory vodka and toasted Margaret and her timely knitting needles.
In The Metro today:-
"PHOBIC FAN’S CORRIE FIX
A Coronation Street fan who developed a phobia of the theme tune is celebrating watching his first episode in a decade. Richard Collier could not face the TV soap after a fall during an advert break paralysed him for six months.
The former chef, 53, said: ‘I had a few pangs of panic but I’ve missed Corrie so much. I won’t be missing any more, though. Vera’s gone. Curly’s gone – I didn’t really know what was going on.’
Mr Collier, of Chorlton in Manchester, was rushing to the loo when he fell and snapped his neck in 1998."
anthony rang from kansas
like sun breaking through
I’ve had a couple of days off work, and what with the Bank Holiday it’s amounted to five days of lounging about and not doing very much, apart from bake some very passable beef patties.
It’s Apprentice day, though, and I dutifully placed my wine and cigarettes at a reachable point before curling up on the sofa to indulge in the sadistic games of Sir Sid James (ooh, that rhymes!).
This week, Sir Sid sent out the teams to sell driving time in top of the range posh cars.
Lee ‘That’s what I’m talking about!’ was in charge of Alex and Lucinda, leaving Michael Koshercles in charge of Gobby Claire and Helene. Without meaning to be cruel I’ve been trying to pin down whom Helene reminds me of, and I’ve finally realised that it’s from the film Total Recall, at the point where Arnie’s character has been morphed into that of a large woman. Just at the point when the large woman’s head starts to expand and turn back into Arnie, well, that’s who she reminds me of. It’s like someone’s stuck a bicycle pump in her ear and given it some serious wind.
Michael, quite surprisingly I felt, doesn’t like cars, and found the task hard-going. However, I fail to see why he drove a Ferrari all the way to Portobello Road vegetable market in order to try and sell driving time.
Many people suspect that Mr Koshercles has some incriminating photos of Sir Sid locked away somewhere since up until now he has led a charmed life and has escaped the deadly finger of doom for too long.
Finally - mainly I think because Margaret has been poking Sir Sid under the boardroom table with a knitting needle in a bid to make him see sense – Michael’s time has run out. His big puppy dog watery eyes could save him no longer and the half-jewish, catholic, possibly scientologist whiny ‘odious little twat’ was given the boot.
Hoorah! I had a celebratory vodka and toasted Margaret and her timely knitting needles.
In The Metro today:-
"PHOBIC FAN’S CORRIE FIX
A Coronation Street fan who developed a phobia of the theme tune is celebrating watching his first episode in a decade. Richard Collier could not face the TV soap after a fall during an advert break paralysed him for six months.
The former chef, 53, said: ‘I had a few pangs of panic but I’ve missed Corrie so much. I won’t be missing any more, though. Vera’s gone. Curly’s gone – I didn’t really know what was going on.’
Mr Collier, of Chorlton in Manchester, was rushing to the loo when he fell and snapped his neck in 1998."
Tuesday 27 May 2008
chicken curry with
basmati rice and holby
city on telly
It’s a very sad fact of life that Adrian Edmonson’s performance on Holby City as rebel surgeon Abra is funnier than his new sitcom.
basmati rice and holby
city on telly
It’s a very sad fact of life that Adrian Edmonson’s performance on Holby City as rebel surgeon Abra is funnier than his new sitcom.
Saturday 24 May 2008
eurovision, yay!
singing dancing pirates and
we came last again.
The Wise Woman of Wigan and The Ugly One’s cousin Carol came over for Eurovision. We had a sweepstake, in which I picked out Bosnia, Israel, Latvia, France and two other countries we’d best just forget.
The Bosnians let me down straightaway, and then the Israeli entry, although written by Dana International and performed by a very cute man, was, well... dull!
I was hoping the Latvians might come through for me, but was laughed off the sofa when they appeared, all beardy-johnny-deppy-swashbuckley naff, singing a hi-ho-hi-ho shanty about ‘The Wolves of The Sea’.
Nul Points!
Although I’ve had my differences with France they were my last hope. Oh, cruel fate! The French entry looked like a Nineteen Seventies Schools Programming Science presenter, rode in on a golf cart and sang a maudlin song in English about how he loves ‘The Chivers’.
We all looked at each other blankly.
‘What are Chivers?’
‘Don’t look at me!’
‘It must be a French thing.’
‘Maybe he means ‘chives’’
Maybe he did. I was past caring. We all rang up and voted for the Finnish heavy metal band, not as heavy as Lordi, the Death metal orcs from a couple of years ago, but heavy enough.
As has become tediously typical, block voting ensued, and the Baltic Countries voted for each other, the Scandinavian countries for each other, Cyprus voted for Greece, and Greece would have voted for Cyrpus but Cyprus had been knocked out for being crap earlier in the week. The only people who voted for the UK were Ireland and San Marino (which as far as I know is a coffee shop in Brixton. Who’d have guessed it was an independent state with musicians and voting rights?)
A surprisingly large number of people voted for Greece, which none of us could understand, as we’d all scored them poorly on song, look and performance, but the winner was Russia, a pretty boy in a white shirt who warbled plaintively while a man in tights skated about on a coffee-table sized rink.
I shall write in and suggest that in future all countries ending in –ia or –va must club together and submit one song between them.
singing dancing pirates and
we came last again.
The Wise Woman of Wigan and The Ugly One’s cousin Carol came over for Eurovision. We had a sweepstake, in which I picked out Bosnia, Israel, Latvia, France and two other countries we’d best just forget.
The Bosnians let me down straightaway, and then the Israeli entry, although written by Dana International and performed by a very cute man, was, well... dull!
I was hoping the Latvians might come through for me, but was laughed off the sofa when they appeared, all beardy-johnny-deppy-swashbuckley naff, singing a hi-ho-hi-ho shanty about ‘The Wolves of The Sea’.
Nul Points!
Although I’ve had my differences with France they were my last hope. Oh, cruel fate! The French entry looked like a Nineteen Seventies Schools Programming Science presenter, rode in on a golf cart and sang a maudlin song in English about how he loves ‘The Chivers’.
We all looked at each other blankly.
‘What are Chivers?’
‘Don’t look at me!’
‘It must be a French thing.’
‘Maybe he means ‘chives’’
Maybe he did. I was past caring. We all rang up and voted for the Finnish heavy metal band, not as heavy as Lordi, the Death metal orcs from a couple of years ago, but heavy enough.
As has become tediously typical, block voting ensued, and the Baltic Countries voted for each other, the Scandinavian countries for each other, Cyprus voted for Greece, and Greece would have voted for Cyrpus but Cyprus had been knocked out for being crap earlier in the week. The only people who voted for the UK were Ireland and San Marino (which as far as I know is a coffee shop in Brixton. Who’d have guessed it was an independent state with musicians and voting rights?)
A surprisingly large number of people voted for Greece, which none of us could understand, as we’d all scored them poorly on song, look and performance, but the winner was Russia, a pretty boy in a white shirt who warbled plaintively while a man in tights skated about on a coffee-table sized rink.
I shall write in and suggest that in future all countries ending in –ia or –va must club together and submit one song between them.
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