Mystagogue (n.) A steamy Jewish sauna
The ghastly Jordan now fears that she will be attacked by an angry mob of mere mortals following her recent claim that she was raped by a celebrity in 2003. Let’s hope so.
Are there any depths this woman won’t plumb to keep herself in the news?
Showing posts with label Katie and Peter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Katie and Peter. Show all posts
Friday, 25 September 2009
Monday, 10 August 2009
Thursday 6 August
I found this scan of a hand-painted photograph I did some years ago. As far as I recall I was commissioned to do three of them, one for each twin and one for the mother, and they were all different.I wish I could find the photos of the other two. Maybe someone will recognise them and let me know where they are now.
On my way home on the Tube the other evening, I noticed that someone had stuck a large poster over the sign that reads ‘This is a priority seat for old persons and gay atheists’ replacing it with, in very large letters ‘Remember Jesus!’. Someone, however, and not me on this occasion, had subsequently added the words ‘To F**k’ between ‘Remember’ and ‘Jesus’.
To add to the surreal nature of the week, people, from wildly different parts of the world, have found my blog by typing in ‘Simon Callow uncircumcised’ and ‘Peter Andre uncircumcised’
and ‘Everybody took a turn to suck it through the spout’.
I have to stress that these three phrases are completely unrelated as far as I am aware.
I wish Peter Andre would get his over moisturised mug off my TV screen, though. I was hoping that the separation would shut them up, but no such luck.
‘Read about my tragic tale, only in The News of The World, Heat, OK, Hello and Bunty.’
Actually, Peter. I don’t care. I’m frantically searching my pockets for that rat’s arse I’d like to give, but I can’t find it. It’s not there.
The cynical part of me, (which is about 87%) is half convinced that they haven’t split up at all, since they’ve been in the press more now than they were when they were together, and after all, their profession is…. being in the press, so why is anyone surprised?
Give it a year and there will be a tearful reunion with Katie, young Creosote and Princess Tiramisu in an exclusive Hello event, and a new TV series.
Saturday, 1 August 2009
Friday 31 July 2009
We seem to have bred a new race of professional reality show stars. Noirin, who was – at least until this week - unaccountably popular in Big Brother this year, and seems to have broken the hearts of several men and a Russian woman, was originally in another reality series in the US where she met Isaac. Isaac, no doubt to cause mischief and mayhem, was put into the BB house last night, or maybe the night before and has been hiding in the shrubbery, feeding on squirrels. He looks like he could eat squirrels alive. Isaac kept reminding me of someone in that annoying way that people do and I have just realised that it is the talking zombie from ‘Dawn of The Dead’. He has an overflattened skull that makes me worry where to slot him in one of those ‘Ascent of Man’ illustrations which shows the progression from ape to Homo Sapiens.
Anyway, Homo Isaactus entered the house and immediately took possession of Noirin (isn’t that the name of a brand of lard?), much to the dismay of Siavash, (aka ‘the Persian Jesus’, or ‘Said from Lost’). I’m not sure how people can simply migrate from one reality show to another. Surely, logic would dictate that once you’ve appeared on one reality show, you are no longer ‘real’ in the sense that I would understand it. ‘Real’ people are people who haven’t appeared on TV; televisual virgins who work as viewing interest because of the very fact that they are not professional or experienced tv performers. Once one has become accustomed to making an arse of yourself in front of millions of people, doesn’t that qualify one to be raised to the level of public nuisance, like Jordan and Peter Andre? There really should be some sort of law preventing the continuance of such abominations.
Anyway, Homo Isaactus entered the house and immediately took possession of Noirin (isn’t that the name of a brand of lard?), much to the dismay of Siavash, (aka ‘the Persian Jesus’, or ‘Said from Lost’). I’m not sure how people can simply migrate from one reality show to another. Surely, logic would dictate that once you’ve appeared on one reality show, you are no longer ‘real’ in the sense that I would understand it. ‘Real’ people are people who haven’t appeared on TV; televisual virgins who work as viewing interest because of the very fact that they are not professional or experienced tv performers. Once one has become accustomed to making an arse of yourself in front of millions of people, doesn’t that qualify one to be raised to the level of public nuisance, like Jordan and Peter Andre? There really should be some sort of law preventing the continuance of such abominations.
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
Friday 20 February 2009
Ode to Katie Price
Katie Price
Is not very nice
Her husband Peter
Is not much sweeter
On my boss's leaving card I wrote 'I won't miss the cleavage and the cat food.' She eats a species of tuna which smells like whiskas. Despite all pleas and threats of violence she has never desisted. She also wears the kind of dresses which one can only describe as ‘open plan’.
I have given her manager a list of quotable quotes which she has come out with over the last year or so, some of which are listed below:-
‘Are Catholics Christians then?’
‘Chinese? Are they communists?’
‘It must have been hard in the olden days without computers.’
‘Is cannabis not legal, then?’
‘We haven’t had any hunchbacks since Nostradamus, have we? Was he a real person, the one with the bells?’
‘Didn’t the French and English fight each other in the First World War? I know they played football at Christmas.’
‘I couldn’t eat an alligator. They look too much like reptiles.’
‘Adults don’t get hiccups.’
‘Grown men don’t get tonsillitis.’
‘You can’t attack the church. You’re unravelling two thousand years of rhetoric.’
‘Isn’t it true that pregnant women spit a lot?’
‘Help me! I’m on a woman on the edge!’
‘If people meditate, they open themselves up to get possessed. It’s true.’
‘I rely on e-mail and my e-mail has gone down! My life is officially over!’
‘Is it racist to call someone a Scottish idiot? I thought racism was just about skin colour.’
Katie Price
Is not very nice
Her husband Peter
Is not much sweeter
On my boss's leaving card I wrote 'I won't miss the cleavage and the cat food.' She eats a species of tuna which smells like whiskas. Despite all pleas and threats of violence she has never desisted. She also wears the kind of dresses which one can only describe as ‘open plan’.
I have given her manager a list of quotable quotes which she has come out with over the last year or so, some of which are listed below:-
‘Are Catholics Christians then?’
‘Chinese? Are they communists?’
‘It must have been hard in the olden days without computers.’
‘Is cannabis not legal, then?’
‘We haven’t had any hunchbacks since Nostradamus, have we? Was he a real person, the one with the bells?’
‘Didn’t the French and English fight each other in the First World War? I know they played football at Christmas.’
‘I couldn’t eat an alligator. They look too much like reptiles.’
‘Adults don’t get hiccups.’
‘Grown men don’t get tonsillitis.’
‘You can’t attack the church. You’re unravelling two thousand years of rhetoric.’
‘Isn’t it true that pregnant women spit a lot?’
‘Help me! I’m on a woman on the edge!’
‘If people meditate, they open themselves up to get possessed. It’s true.’
‘I rely on e-mail and my e-mail has gone down! My life is officially over!’
‘Is it racist to call someone a Scottish idiot? I thought racism was just about skin colour.’
Friday, 14 March 2008
Thursday 13 March 2008
outside sainsburys
he caught me. security.
snared with my own eyes.
I don’t know whether this happens to everyone, but life seems to get far more complicated as you get older. I blame choice personally. Human beings as a species are given far too much of it.
If I ruled the world, as Harry Secombe might have said, I would turn back the clock and restrict TV viewers to just four channels which might prompt the channels that do exist to actually produce quality programming rather than the cheap dross that passes for entertainment today. I’d also ban anyone from publishing an autobiography until they’re at least forty-five years old.
Last week, I went into WH Smith as I often do, just to check if their book selection is as abysmal as it was the last time I went in. Sadly, it was worse. Next to their biography section they now have a section entitled ‘Tragic Life Stories’, which must be a popular genre since there were at least four shelves of grim reading, penned by people who feel it necessary to share their life of abuse or their tales of being locked in the cellar and made to eat shoes, or how they faced life having had to hack off their own genitals when they froze to the side of a glacier hundreds of miles from the nearest human habitation.
Who reads this sort of thing? I don’t mean to denigrate the genuine suffering that many people have experienced in all countries and at all levels of society, but really, once you’re released from the cellar with the bootlaces still hanging out of your teeth, do you really have to rush to the nearest word-processor and write everything down for the benefit of the rest of the world. Surely all that will do is encourage more people to lock their relatives in cellars and feed them on trainers.
However, glancing along to the adjacent biographies section I could not resist taking copies of Jordan’s autobiographies and placing them on the Tragic Life Stories shelf.
It gave me a strange sense of satisfaction. I suggest you all do the same. I also regularly take The Bible from the reference section and put it under Fiction.
he caught me. security.
snared with my own eyes.
I don’t know whether this happens to everyone, but life seems to get far more complicated as you get older. I blame choice personally. Human beings as a species are given far too much of it.
If I ruled the world, as Harry Secombe might have said, I would turn back the clock and restrict TV viewers to just four channels which might prompt the channels that do exist to actually produce quality programming rather than the cheap dross that passes for entertainment today. I’d also ban anyone from publishing an autobiography until they’re at least forty-five years old.
Last week, I went into WH Smith as I often do, just to check if their book selection is as abysmal as it was the last time I went in. Sadly, it was worse. Next to their biography section they now have a section entitled ‘Tragic Life Stories’, which must be a popular genre since there were at least four shelves of grim reading, penned by people who feel it necessary to share their life of abuse or their tales of being locked in the cellar and made to eat shoes, or how they faced life having had to hack off their own genitals when they froze to the side of a glacier hundreds of miles from the nearest human habitation.
Who reads this sort of thing? I don’t mean to denigrate the genuine suffering that many people have experienced in all countries and at all levels of society, but really, once you’re released from the cellar with the bootlaces still hanging out of your teeth, do you really have to rush to the nearest word-processor and write everything down for the benefit of the rest of the world. Surely all that will do is encourage more people to lock their relatives in cellars and feed them on trainers.
However, glancing along to the adjacent biographies section I could not resist taking copies of Jordan’s autobiographies and placing them on the Tragic Life Stories shelf.
It gave me a strange sense of satisfaction. I suggest you all do the same. I also regularly take The Bible from the reference section and put it under Fiction.
Thursday, 26 July 2007
Wednesday 25 July 2007
i roar when I belch.
it sounds like windy lions
locked up in a flat.
It would appear that I owe Jordan and Peter Andre an apology as yesterday I posted that they had named their offspring Tiramisu. This was an unforgivable error on my part. The child has in fact been monickered ‘Tiamaria’, named after the classy alcoholic beverage, popular with all A list celebrities.
it sounds like windy lions
locked up in a flat.
It would appear that I owe Jordan and Peter Andre an apology as yesterday I posted that they had named their offspring Tiramisu. This was an unforgivable error on my part. The child has in fact been monickered ‘Tiamaria’, named after the classy alcoholic beverage, popular with all A list celebrities.
Tuesday 24 July 2007
everyone’s gay now.
i’m tired of them all, mincing
on the bandwagon.
It seems that Jordan and Peter Andre, or Gormless and Shameless as they’re more regularly known by friends and family, have decided on a name for their baby. I did suggest to them Bitumen for a girl or Asphalt for a boy, but they decided against my choices and have called the new arrival Tiramisu, after the famous Italian dessert.
There was a very interesting programme on Channel 4 tonight called ‘How Gay Sex Changed The World’, which was not, as I feared, a tortuous history of gay sexual technique, but rather an overview of changing attitudes from the 1950s to date. ‘Out’ gay celebrities such as Simon Callow, Matthew Parrish and Andy Bell recalled memories of the first Gay Pride marches, their introduction to Gay News or their first experience of gay bars and clubs.
The most surreal moment, and one which will stay in my head for, I suspect, quite a while, was the snooty tones of Brian Sewell, talking about the Earls Court leather bar ‘The Coleherne’, (wherein, I have to say, I have spent many a happy afternoon and/or evening).
‘They arrive at the bar with all the accoutrements of the biker, forgetting only that essential element, the motorbike. Some of them used to clatter down Earls Court Road with spurs on the back of their boots. Spurs! I ask you!’
Sadly, the Coleherne has since gone very vanilla, and its grim black interior has been downgraded to a nauseous pink. I dare say neither Brian nor I will be going back there any time soon.
i’m tired of them all, mincing
on the bandwagon.
It seems that Jordan and Peter Andre, or Gormless and Shameless as they’re more regularly known by friends and family, have decided on a name for their baby. I did suggest to them Bitumen for a girl or Asphalt for a boy, but they decided against my choices and have called the new arrival Tiramisu, after the famous Italian dessert.
There was a very interesting programme on Channel 4 tonight called ‘How Gay Sex Changed The World’, which was not, as I feared, a tortuous history of gay sexual technique, but rather an overview of changing attitudes from the 1950s to date. ‘Out’ gay celebrities such as Simon Callow, Matthew Parrish and Andy Bell recalled memories of the first Gay Pride marches, their introduction to Gay News or their first experience of gay bars and clubs.
The most surreal moment, and one which will stay in my head for, I suspect, quite a while, was the snooty tones of Brian Sewell, talking about the Earls Court leather bar ‘The Coleherne’, (wherein, I have to say, I have spent many a happy afternoon and/or evening).
‘They arrive at the bar with all the accoutrements of the biker, forgetting only that essential element, the motorbike. Some of them used to clatter down Earls Court Road with spurs on the back of their boots. Spurs! I ask you!’
Sadly, the Coleherne has since gone very vanilla, and its grim black interior has been downgraded to a nauseous pink. I dare say neither Brian nor I will be going back there any time soon.
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