Amy Winehouse and Blake Fielder-Civil need to face up to their responsibilities and call an Ophthalmologist.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
The Christmas Tree
This is worth a chortle even if yer maw isn't from New Jersey. ""And pick up all that shit".
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Mr Guttenberg's Household Management
That new sparkly shirt shedding glitter all over the place? Spray with aerosol hair spray to make it stay put. Wash separately from other clothes, or at least wash it inside out if you must wash with other articles of clothing. I learned this nifty trick on the set of 'Law and Order'. It was good for something.
That new sparkly shirt shedding glitter all over the place? Spray with aerosol hair spray to make it stay put. Wash separately from other clothes, or at least wash it inside out if you must wash with other articles of clothing. I learned this nifty trick on the set of 'Law and Order'. It was good for something.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
I spend a lot of time on trains. Here are my top five train journeys.
1. The Train Trannie.
I had set off for a driving lesson. I was mentally preparing myself for Instructor Jim - a jogging bottoms fan who enjoys 'rearranging his credentials' in plain sight. Blackpool is his mecca. Anyhow, I plonked myself down in the carriage with the booked seat, betting on the fact nobody ever bothers to sit on them. I heard a growl...
"You're in ma seat doll".
I looked up and saw a six foot 1980's hairstyling and make-up head doll that looked like it had been over enthusiastically ratted by 8 year old girls, high on 'Love Hearts'. I bundled over apologetically to the opposite seat and tried not to gawk. Tinny Abba blared out of a pink mobile which he silenced with garish talons and then began noisily arranging business for the weekend. In his best 17-year-old hotel receptionist voice he described himself as "a stunning, well endowed She male, ladies size eight complete with implants (cup size C no less). "Oh yes, I'm very discreet". I had a great time surreptitiously watching him knock back miniature vodkas while crudely attempting to woo any male that dared to walk past. I loved the recklessness; it was 8am.
What was even more compelling was the number of Granite City residents interested in romancing a She male for the night. He/She secured more orders than Dominoes. I discovered £80 covers a "full session" while 'Roberta's' business associate who was also along for the ride (your bog standard lady of the night) charged a lesser £50. I think the £30 surcharge for the 'little extra' he can provide is unambitious. Most of the glass-eyed (deafened by MP3s) commuters were oblivious to the spectacle and I pitied them for missing out on this tawdry awesomeness. The old lady next to me however, looked like she had been duped into watching "2 girls, 1 cup" and searched my face for answers. For the first time ever, I was happy to forget my i-pod.
2. The Samoyed dog.
A white cloud of fur and teeth bounced on to the train, followed by two couples merry and red from booze. Amusingly, the dog started to sniff some geeky, nervous guy's crotch who then, was pulled into lively and nonsensical banter with the steaming Samoyed group and all was well; until the group assembled to get off at Dunblane and chaos ensued. They failed to paw the door open and were left frantic, pulling away from Dunblane, banging the doors frantically shouting.
"THE DOOR! THE DOOR! WE CANNAE GET AFF!!".
The dog, sensing panic lumbered up and down the aisle woofing loudly, while the group turned into screaming, weeping schizoids, fearing this "Nazi choo choo" was going to cart them off to a chilling end. I almost expected to hear Commander Adama call out "ACTION STATIONS! ACTION STATIONS! A jaded Polish steward was unsympathetic and indifferent when threatened with guerrilla tactics.
"The dog is going to SHITE on the floor cause WE CANNAE GET AFF! HE"S GOING TO SHITE ON THE FLAIR!".
In the end, a dad was called. 911 in slippers.
3. The Dodgy Fare Dodger.
My old wanker radar flashed as soon as I saw the wrinkly old goat at the adjacent table. He was lewdly intimidating two Chinese girls that sat at the same table, refusing to believe that it was possible for them to have Western names, while stressing how multi cultured he was being able to find a different ethnic race attractive. Anyway, he reached the height of his wanker status when the female ticket inspector came round. He refused to buy one, being arsefully cryptic and pig-headed about the whole thing, stating his intentions in a skin flint Rosa Parks manner. Thanks to his futile protest the train stopped dead and for the next twenty minutes he ranted and raved guttural insults. The train driver even appeared but the captain was no match for this scallywag drunk on grog and he lashed out at the inspector. The old bill were called and there was applause as he was escorted off at Perth in handcuffs.
4. The Junkie.
Feet on seats is strictly a no, no. Invalid ticket? - a heinous crime. However, if you're in the mood for some smack to help break up the journey, come aboard! After all, you're only smoking it.
Said Junkie got his tin foil out and went about the whole thing blase, yet conscientious enough to have a valid ticket ready. The Inspector stopped to check this, but alarmingly turned a blind eye to the crooked act. "Junkie Derren Brown" made his way off the train, clear of the barriers blissfully revelling in the best orgasm he's ever had timed a thousand. Meanwhile, Will Self is arrested for shooting up in the privacy of an airplane toilet. Who's the genius?
5. The Old Lady
I have "batty old wifies, tell me your thoughts" tattooed on my forehead. I fell into the infamous "It's awfy cold" trap while waiting for the train and was suckered into half and hour of dementia. To this day, I'm still thankful she got off at Stirling. My time spent improvising at Youth Theatre is of some use at least. I'm John Simm in 'Life on Mars'. It's 1973 and am working at the same glass factory in Wishaw.
"Jeanie threw herself in front of a bus?".
"The boss reprimanded you for not re-ordering typewriter ribbon?"
I really hope I don't await the same fate and ramble on to some cyber punk about my tragic past, including the time my mum mistakenly picked up a Betamax version of "Charlie Brown".
1. The Train Trannie.
I had set off for a driving lesson. I was mentally preparing myself for Instructor Jim - a jogging bottoms fan who enjoys 'rearranging his credentials' in plain sight. Blackpool is his mecca. Anyhow, I plonked myself down in the carriage with the booked seat, betting on the fact nobody ever bothers to sit on them. I heard a growl...
"You're in ma seat doll".
I looked up and saw a six foot 1980's hairstyling and make-up head doll that looked like it had been over enthusiastically ratted by 8 year old girls, high on 'Love Hearts'. I bundled over apologetically to the opposite seat and tried not to gawk. Tinny Abba blared out of a pink mobile which he silenced with garish talons and then began noisily arranging business for the weekend. In his best 17-year-old hotel receptionist voice he described himself as "a stunning, well endowed She male, ladies size eight complete with implants (cup size C no less). "Oh yes, I'm very discreet". I had a great time surreptitiously watching him knock back miniature vodkas while crudely attempting to woo any male that dared to walk past. I loved the recklessness; it was 8am.
What was even more compelling was the number of Granite City residents interested in romancing a She male for the night. He/She secured more orders than Dominoes. I discovered £80 covers a "full session" while 'Roberta's' business associate who was also along for the ride (your bog standard lady of the night) charged a lesser £50. I think the £30 surcharge for the 'little extra' he can provide is unambitious. Most of the glass-eyed (deafened by MP3s) commuters were oblivious to the spectacle and I pitied them for missing out on this tawdry awesomeness. The old lady next to me however, looked like she had been duped into watching "2 girls, 1 cup" and searched my face for answers. For the first time ever, I was happy to forget my i-pod.
2. The Samoyed dog.
A white cloud of fur and teeth bounced on to the train, followed by two couples merry and red from booze. Amusingly, the dog started to sniff some geeky, nervous guy's crotch who then, was pulled into lively and nonsensical banter with the steaming Samoyed group and all was well; until the group assembled to get off at Dunblane and chaos ensued. They failed to paw the door open and were left frantic, pulling away from Dunblane, banging the doors frantically shouting.
"THE DOOR! THE DOOR! WE CANNAE GET AFF!!".
The dog, sensing panic lumbered up and down the aisle woofing loudly, while the group turned into screaming, weeping schizoids, fearing this "Nazi choo choo" was going to cart them off to a chilling end. I almost expected to hear Commander Adama call out "ACTION STATIONS! ACTION STATIONS! A jaded Polish steward was unsympathetic and indifferent when threatened with guerrilla tactics.
"The dog is going to SHITE on the floor cause WE CANNAE GET AFF! HE"S GOING TO SHITE ON THE FLAIR!".
In the end, a dad was called. 911 in slippers.
3. The Dodgy Fare Dodger.
My old wanker radar flashed as soon as I saw the wrinkly old goat at the adjacent table. He was lewdly intimidating two Chinese girls that sat at the same table, refusing to believe that it was possible for them to have Western names, while stressing how multi cultured he was being able to find a different ethnic race attractive. Anyway, he reached the height of his wanker status when the female ticket inspector came round. He refused to buy one, being arsefully cryptic and pig-headed about the whole thing, stating his intentions in a skin flint Rosa Parks manner. Thanks to his futile protest the train stopped dead and for the next twenty minutes he ranted and raved guttural insults. The train driver even appeared but the captain was no match for this scallywag drunk on grog and he lashed out at the inspector. The old bill were called and there was applause as he was escorted off at Perth in handcuffs.
4. The Junkie.
Feet on seats is strictly a no, no. Invalid ticket? - a heinous crime. However, if you're in the mood for some smack to help break up the journey, come aboard! After all, you're only smoking it.
Said Junkie got his tin foil out and went about the whole thing blase, yet conscientious enough to have a valid ticket ready. The Inspector stopped to check this, but alarmingly turned a blind eye to the crooked act. "Junkie Derren Brown" made his way off the train, clear of the barriers blissfully revelling in the best orgasm he's ever had timed a thousand. Meanwhile, Will Self is arrested for shooting up in the privacy of an airplane toilet. Who's the genius?
5. The Old Lady
I have "batty old wifies, tell me your thoughts" tattooed on my forehead. I fell into the infamous "It's awfy cold" trap while waiting for the train and was suckered into half and hour of dementia. To this day, I'm still thankful she got off at Stirling. My time spent improvising at Youth Theatre is of some use at least. I'm John Simm in 'Life on Mars'. It's 1973 and am working at the same glass factory in Wishaw.
"Jeanie threw herself in front of a bus?".
"The boss reprimanded you for not re-ordering typewriter ribbon?"
I really hope I don't await the same fate and ramble on to some cyber punk about my tragic past, including the time my mum mistakenly picked up a Betamax version of "Charlie Brown".
Monday, February 26, 2007
I often find myself searching for cut-price rubber tipped pencils for hormonal pressure cookers. This week I found myself in Poundstrechers. The Poundstrecher experience is rather bleak and stepping through the doors is like stepping back in time seven years. Not quite a decade behind but almost.
Anyhow, whilst manoeuvring my way around geriatrics my ears twitched. The Poundstrecher music play list has all the pop hits but without the pop stars. The Zutons' 'Valerie' would normally have irked my sensitive ears but on hearing some imposter snarling and wheezing over the top, sounding like he was shouting across a factory floor, I was hooked. I am certain that copies of these crude covers would go down a treat in student unions. What gives these songs their unpleasant edge is that the singers are incredibly earnest and do their very best to mimic the likes of Sean Paul even if they do sound like a senile old dear from Cardiff.
Did I ask for a copy? Nah. The sight of the assistant awkwardly slumped behind the till with a look in his eyes like he wants to smoother himself to death with the excessive amount of storage boxes available tells me this is perhaps not so amusing after all. This is someone's daily dose of hell.
Anyhow, whilst manoeuvring my way around geriatrics my ears twitched. The Poundstrecher music play list has all the pop hits but without the pop stars. The Zutons' 'Valerie' would normally have irked my sensitive ears but on hearing some imposter snarling and wheezing over the top, sounding like he was shouting across a factory floor, I was hooked. I am certain that copies of these crude covers would go down a treat in student unions. What gives these songs their unpleasant edge is that the singers are incredibly earnest and do their very best to mimic the likes of Sean Paul even if they do sound like a senile old dear from Cardiff.
Did I ask for a copy? Nah. The sight of the assistant awkwardly slumped behind the till with a look in his eyes like he wants to smoother himself to death with the excessive amount of storage boxes available tells me this is perhaps not so amusing after all. This is someone's daily dose of hell.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
I hate Philippa Forester and her puggy face. I don't need some bloated sixth year prefect to tell me to check my blood pressure when she's the one that's raising it. "As a presenter she has an intellectual and charismatic approach, and is an extremely flexible and well informed" Burn that thesis. Intellectualism comes from wearing the Cotton Traders pastel collection in its entirety and being able to say the word prescription. The glib tongued frumpy nuisance would condescend Jean Paul Sartre. She'd dose out the drugs in a Brave New World endorsed by Lloyds pharmacy. Has anyone else thought why we now need supermarket-sized apocatheries?
I don't know why I do this to myself. Techno self-harm perhaps. Looking up shit people on the Internet has become a regular past time, in-between watching 'Street Doctor' and 'From May to December'. Beats charity shop volunteering under the age of sixty-five I guess. I am suspicious of people that are overgenerous with their time - anyone who has ever done battle with the general public over a misplaced price tag will sigh and nod their heads now.
I don't know why I do this to myself. Techno self-harm perhaps. Looking up shit people on the Internet has become a regular past time, in-between watching 'Street Doctor' and 'From May to December'. Beats charity shop volunteering under the age of sixty-five I guess. I am suspicious of people that are overgenerous with their time - anyone who has ever done battle with the general public over a misplaced price tag will sigh and nod their heads now.
Monday, January 22, 2007
There are moments in everyone's life where they feel that it didn't quite turn out as expected, but wretchedness and gloom really does engulf when you find yourself watching 'Street Doctor' on BBC One. I was lucky enough to catch factory worker Jeanie explain that she has had a scabby ear for twenty years and I almost managed to sweat through seven and a half anxious minutes for a cure. What was the super elixir that will rid all? Jeanie was told to stop scratching it. Jeez Louise. I'm so glad that our living rooms beam in the awesome presence of germ free, well-mannered, bonafide GPs skipping across pavements in search of the bit sore. The great British public can now rest knowing there is no fear of keeling over in BHS from a stubbed toe.
Fingers crossed for 'Street Agent' where a Jack Bauer carbon copy rescues you from an attempted terrorist attack. Or at the very least needs to use your phone.
Fingers crossed for 'Street Agent' where a Jack Bauer carbon copy rescues you from an attempted terrorist attack. Or at the very least needs to use your phone.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
The Kooks. Jaunty sparkling indie pop or Satan's little helpers? Everyone is entitled to their opinion that is true, but why oh why do they make me so incredibly riled?
The following symtoms occur in the event of a Kooks Video being played...
Sweating, anxiety, loss of breath.
Intense negative emotions that measure 9.0 or over on the hatred Richter scale.
Delusional thoughts. For example, seeing The Kooks being stabbed all over with their own logo pin badges, then given the Superman II treatment and sent out into the black void naked via a triangle thing with only one leather jacket and ill-fitting suit.
Feelings of helplessness - akin to the feelings an Orangutan being trapped in the Big Brother House.
The jitters.
Be gone! BE GONE! Why must this nation embrace the inevitable jingly jangly mess? Or that retarded cockney, "I've overdosed on old codger bands" driven vocals? The "Ooh Ohhh" bit in their last musical testament to pure evil goes through me like a bullet. They won't be the last bunch of pratty wats to jingle their guitars to close to their ribcage and croon in a white room, but damn it, they have raped my consciousness for three and a half minutes too many. Some believers may ask, "Well, YOU don't play any instruments so could you do better?" I say yes, indeed I could with a few tin cans and a washboard to hand, but I would live in constant fear that I accidently came up with the same sort of rotteness and overly coiffed teens wanted my picture taken with them for the NME.
I'd much rather sit here and mump and moan.
Too many Kooks spoil my day.
The following symtoms occur in the event of a Kooks Video being played...
Sweating, anxiety, loss of breath.
Intense negative emotions that measure 9.0 or over on the hatred Richter scale.
Delusional thoughts. For example, seeing The Kooks being stabbed all over with their own logo pin badges, then given the Superman II treatment and sent out into the black void naked via a triangle thing with only one leather jacket and ill-fitting suit.
Feelings of helplessness - akin to the feelings an Orangutan being trapped in the Big Brother House.
The jitters.
Be gone! BE GONE! Why must this nation embrace the inevitable jingly jangly mess? Or that retarded cockney, "I've overdosed on old codger bands" driven vocals? The "Ooh Ohhh" bit in their last musical testament to pure evil goes through me like a bullet. They won't be the last bunch of pratty wats to jingle their guitars to close to their ribcage and croon in a white room, but damn it, they have raped my consciousness for three and a half minutes too many. Some believers may ask, "Well, YOU don't play any instruments so could you do better?" I say yes, indeed I could with a few tin cans and a washboard to hand, but I would live in constant fear that I accidently came up with the same sort of rotteness and overly coiffed teens wanted my picture taken with them for the NME.
I'd much rather sit here and mump and moan.
Too many Kooks spoil my day.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Perhaps I should run away with the circus. Do circus performers have to gloomily take part in the never-ending cycle of household maintenance? I guess they have to find the time to find monstrous Alsatians to guard their caravans, take their glitzy costumes to the drycleaner to get rid of tiger piss stains, and putting up the tent must be a time consuming task?
Most everyday mugs have to take part in the holy terror of supermarket shopping. Stepping out on to the chewing gum patterned streets while dodging several Big Issue sellers (I'm not charitable nor rich enough to buy 5 copies every day mind) to buy some 'necessary item' like margarine ruffles my feathers. I have been sucked into the evil vortex of adulthood. It's not all drinking spirits till the birds start chirping, and being able to rent Rambo whenever the mood takes me. (Admittedly, my childhood perception of adulthood was quite pathetic and flawed). I'm walking down a long dark corridor with only few doors that lead unto cat food aisles and buildings insurance.
Sod this. I'm off with a bottle of Martini and a copy of 'First Blood'.
Most everyday mugs have to take part in the holy terror of supermarket shopping. Stepping out on to the chewing gum patterned streets while dodging several Big Issue sellers (I'm not charitable nor rich enough to buy 5 copies every day mind) to buy some 'necessary item' like margarine ruffles my feathers. I have been sucked into the evil vortex of adulthood. It's not all drinking spirits till the birds start chirping, and being able to rent Rambo whenever the mood takes me. (Admittedly, my childhood perception of adulthood was quite pathetic and flawed). I'm walking down a long dark corridor with only few doors that lead unto cat food aisles and buildings insurance.
Sod this. I'm off with a bottle of Martini and a copy of 'First Blood'.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Oh, what i'd give to spend a day with Rodney Dangerfield and Morrissey. I don't think the coupling would be harmonious but I'd have a great time. A battle of negativity. We would rendevous at a Brewsters Fare type pub, and the two would introduce themselves. "I am human and I want to be loved!" Morrissey would whine. Rodney would chuckle "What a childhood I had, why, when I took my first step, my old man tripped me!". I'd watch with glee while Rodney orders a bloody steak, eyeballing the waitress while Moz would faint with disgust into the playzone, only to be smothered by multi-coloured balls. Rising up shouting "heifer whines could be human cries!" the word "heifer" inciting Rodney to make a joke about his ex-wife. Morrissey would then take off on his circa 1956 Raleigh muttering "the world won't listen". Rodney would then ask where the nearest 'Hooters' bar is with a wink, after insulting a nearby patron who hears him cry "That girl is so ugly. The last time I saw a mouth like hers it had a hook on the end of it." Reality has broke me from my strange reverie. I'm having morning coffee with Natasha Kaplinsky and Patrick Kielty. Grunt.
Okay, okay. So as soon as I've written the damn thing I find out Swayze IS in a new movie. Last night I was bombarded with 'Keeping Mum' trailers, and it was almost as if the Swayze was sticking two fingers up at me. "I am in a new movie, but not just any movie. I star with screen veteran Dame Maggie Smith. So bite me." Humph. The American site I checked for new Swayze news must have considered 'Keeping Mum' unmentionable. Strange - it does seem like the kind of British movie made for the US market. A bumbling fool (played by yank fave Rowan Atkinson) and his impeccably English wife (Kristin Scott Thomas) live in a small, genteel, idyllic British town - the kind where in reality, bored spotty teens are drinking Frosty Jack cider behind the local church in defiance of the local 'Daily Mail' reading inhabitants. The kind of town that makes you ask 'Where do the cleaners and dustbin men live? Are they hidden away in some old bomb shelter and let out when they are needed?' Anyhow, the Swayze plays a sleazy golf instructor, and in one scene we get to see his weather beaten body complemented by a red thong. My sides are splitting Swayze. Look Swayze, if you are trying to be clever with this self parody, and making an attempt to be accepted by modern day movie goers it won't wash. Shall movie goers cry "Oh look! The Swayze is actually a dynamic and comedic actor who is willing to mock himself for his art, how wonderful!" or say "Patrick Swayze! Forgot about him! - let's watch Roadhouse and laugh at his mullet." I'll put money on the latter. In my mind and many others you will always be a macho, overblown relic of the eighties no matter how much you try to deviate away from this. Shit sticks. Bring back the Swayze of yore.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Patrick Swayze recently made a guest appearance on 'Friday Night With Jonathan Ross' and I missed it. Is this worth fretting over you ask? Well, yes it is. A TV interview with THE Mr Swayze is as scarce as hen's teeth, and boy, this acting enigma must have had something pretty darn important to talk about before he was willing to appear on our screens after all this time. I was so intrigued as to why he was slotted in for a bit of informal chat with renowned lisper Johnathan, that I simply had to find out if a new Swayze movie was on its way. There are so many reasons for being so utterly and unashamedly obsessed with the Swayze (calling him 'the Swayze' is a bit like 'the Pope'. It's not just a name, he is Swayze, he exudes 'Swayzeness', there is a book of Swayze and guess who wrote it?...Halliwell). Here is a couple Swayze features that makes him a man like no other....
Swayze walks like one of his legs is shorter than the other. Now, I know Marilyn Monroe chopped a portion of her heel to accentuate her womanly wiggle, but I'm pretty darn sure this isn't the look the Swayze is going for. He does wear man heels (cowboy boots), so why doesn't he pay a cobbler to balance those legs out? Another Swayze limp theory is that his main priority is to not wiggle the ass, but to draw attention to it by wearing overly tight jeans. In theory, by wearing tourqinuet denims he could be hindering the ability to walk. Perhaps it's the price to pay for advertising that movie star ass. Film legend knows he was offered a cool, six bottles of Coors to flash that ass in 'Roadhouse' (Swayze's tour de force). But, as much as I enjoy speculating about the Swayze's gammy leg, I suspect it is all down to a boringly predictable dancing injury.
The Swayze is revered for his acting ability as we all know, how does he manage to emote raw human emotion across the spectrum? From grief to joy, bewildement to plain ol' hate, the Swayze has cracked this with one look. The Swayze look. Why bother with method acting when one look says it all? Perfecting the demeanour of 15 year old boy caught masturbating by his mother is clearly something Olivier foolishly failed to master. Watching the Swayze attempting to play ghost in the movie of the same title is almost as startling as seeing the real thing. You simply cannot believe your eyes! Astonishing stuff.
Well, the complete fascination I have for an actor so rotten, he's not even fit for a compost heap brings me back to the question why was he on the telly? Well, a bit of rushed Swayze research on the web led me to this: he is is planning a new conservation reality TV series that tracks the globe's endangered animals. Who'd a thunk it. Swayze, I'm sorry. I spend my evenings making trite observations about your gammy leg and the tightness of your jeans when you are speaking out for our non verbal friends. However, don't you go forgetting what you are famous for Swayze. Don't get all Sting like on me! Those endangered animals you are so worried about can't get themselves down to Cash Converters. Can they Swayze? If it wasn't for chumps like me, copies of 'Blackdog' would be slowly rotting away next to old packets of McCain oven chips. Evidence of your entire acting history would be consigned to a landfill sight. Forget about those Pandas for a minute and sign yourself up for another role where you play a man called 'Jack' or 'John' or 'Jake' with an equally catchy and macho surname. If I don't see you make a fool out of yourself very soon I shall feel very cheated. It could be amusing seeing you hobble across the globe in search of the logger head sea turtle but that's no match for the visceral pleasure of seeing you rip out a man's throat. For those who haven't seen 'Roadhouse', seek and you shall know.
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