I say I say I say. What do you call a bloke who doesn't know his arse from his elbow, has an over inflated ego, and has no need for the BT friends and family package?.......(Please fill in your own punch line/name/etc here. Thank you)
First rule of showbiz, open with a gag, close with a song. You have got the song to look forward to, ooh you lucky bastards.
So, what's been happening recently? What has caught my eye, tugged at my heart strings, or rattled my cage?
I very much liked the story about Irish people harassing Romanian immigrants in Belfast. An absolutely stunning example of double standards. Irish travellers (Or thieving, littering, anti social free loading scourge of the planet, as they are known everywhere else, except in the recycled, dolphin friendly, Ex Cambridge University, lentil eating pages of the Guardian) seem to have no problem at all landing themselves over here. Destroying everything in their wake, stealing from the local community, completely disregarding the law in every way possible, leaving our green and pleasant land looking like a shit hole, but when the shoe is on the other foot, they are up in arms arn't they!
My favourite bit of the whole sorry saga, was when Martin McGuiness, who is the minister for something or other, and who is an alleged ex member of the IRA (He was) and has been rumoured to have actually taken part in some of the murdering etc (He prob did) chirped up in defence of the Romanians. I was driving at the time and listening to Radio 4 (Fucking intellectual me guv) when i heard him say "These people are being terrorised."
I had to pull over as i was gasping for breath. A quite outstanding display of 'pot and kettle' The words "That's rich" couldn't find their way to my lips quick enough. A memorising display of irony.
I for one, will not stand for any disrespect aimed at James T Kirk's misunderstood nemesis.
Moving on.
The house of commons has got a new speaker.......whoopee do shit.
Jordan (or Katy Price as she now likes to be called, since she has stopped being a thick, self centered, balloon titted ego maniac) continues to be all of the above. It's just now she has gone solo, instead of being one half (wit) of a double act.
This hot weather is doing my head in. I have to admit to spending the entirety of the winter months moaning about the cold, the grey skies and the drizzle, and then once we hit June, i am a sweating, melting wreck. I just don't do heat.
I suppose being half a stone overweight doesn't help, but i find the most affected area is my gonads. As we all know from our science lessons, things in general swell when hot. This means that i have to adopt a mild bandiness in the severest of temperatures. I try my best to disguise my bandy gate, but i don't think i am fooling anyone.
I am thinking of investing in some kilts. I can't wait to feel the breeze caressing my testicles, oh to feel them swaying gently will be sheer bliss. It is also a great way of pursuing my new hobby of exposing myself to single mothers on public transport! "It's not my fault your honour, it was a gust of wind."
The subject of the wearing of jeans at work has reared up again. The wearing of jeans at work has been forbidden. Well about bloomin' time I say. I welcome this directive. I must admit in the past, i have had a certain amount of hostility to what i once thought was a draconian, and ill conceived notion, but thanks to Father time, and a management style that is second to none, i have seen the error of my ways.
How could i have been so short sighted? Quite frankly, i don't mind admitting that i feel deeply ashamed. Ashamed of my denim addiction, ashamed of my insolence, ashamed of my blatant and disgraceful disregard for those that know better than me.
I can see now, that i have spent years that cannot be regained, wearing the filth that is denim. I will go as far as to say, that this is tantamount to self abuse. Yes ladies and gentleman, i am going to get this off of my chest, no matter how ugly it may be, no matter how hard it is going to be for those close to me to accept. Here goes.......I have been abusing myself for years.
My God that feels better. That lung full of air that i just inhaled is the sweetest lung full of oxygen that i have experienced for years. I feel clean, sanitised, chaste, i am a new man. These rather fetching beige slacks that i am wearing as i type this, feel damn good next to my skin i can tell you.
So can i just say from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you to all of you (and you know who you are, you unsung hero's) that have saved me from myself. These tears i shed, are tears of joy, tears of relief, tears of gratitude. God bless you.
I think my favourite amusing/irritating experience of the past week, has to be this.
I called into The Co-op on the way home from work the other evening after work. I had to pick up a few provisions, and so parked the car and entered the shop. Now partly because i was in a bit of a hurry, and partly because i am a middle aged, absent minded old twat, who will no doubt soon be being pushed in a wheelchair rapidly towards Switzerland, on a one way trip of a lifetime, I forgot to take my sunglasses off.
As i am sure i have mentioned before, i wear glasses, and so my sunglasses are prescription one's, and so necessary for seeing. I couldn't be arsed to turn tail and swap them, so i carried on wandering up and down the aisles.
Can i just state here and now for the record, i was in no way trying to be cool, pretentious, hip, rockstarish at all, it was purely forgetfulness, and idleness.
I did briefly consider pretending i was blind, so as not to court any unfavourable bitchy comments, or tutting, or "Who does he think he is, wearing sunglasses indoors - wanker." type comments, but i thought to hell with it.
I was meandering down the frozen veg aisle, when the inevitable happened. I wasn't paying any attention to the people walking towards, and then passed me, all i heard was something along the lines of "Tut, i can't stand pretentious twats that wear sunglasses indoors."
I spun round, preparing the tirade of abuse that i was going doll out, but i was stunned into silence. My jaw hung slack, as i gazed at my verbal assailant. The, what must have been sixteen or seventeen year old youth, that had aimed the word "pretentious" at me, was wearing a FEZ!.......Yes that's right, a Tommy Cooperesque, one hundred percent fucking FEZ!
Sigh.......
Bollocks, i am too exhausted for the song, sing it yerself.......
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Mount Sinai, Tuesday afternoon, about tea time.......
The other day whilst driving home from work to see Ronnie and Reggie at lunchtime, I was listening to the Jeremy Vine show. This is a show that can very often get me hot under the collar, and it was the inspiration for today’s lecture.
It was a story about a bloke, we will call him Dave, who was a born again Christian. He was at work on night shift, and he and a colleague were sitting having a cup of tea, and talking about this and that. She was aware that he was a born again Christian, and the subject inevitably got around to all things religious. As part of this discussion, he announced that he disagreed with homosexuality, because it was against the word of God blah blah blah. The next morning, she promptly went to her bosses and complained that he had made derogatory remarks about homosexuals. The company suspended him, pending an enquiry.
First things first, having the opinion that homosexuality is intrinsically wrong, and ungodly is of course extremely old fashioned, bigoted, ignorant, and quite frankly bloody pathetic. On the other side of the coin, why was the bloody woman making such a big deal about it? she should have taken it with a pinch of salt and called him a prat or something, and lastly, their employer undoubtedly over reacted somewhat. Obviously shit scared that if they didn’t follow the politically correct procedures, blah blah blah and all that.
All that was needed, was a “Dave, in future for the sake of peace and harmony at work, it might be an idea if you kept your rather antiquainted thoughts to yourself, ok.”
So, which part of the above am I going to single out for scrutiny? Why religion of course! Mainly because, even though I think the reactions of the woman and the employer were heavy handed, and overly politically correct etc, born again Christians get on my nerves more! (They are on a par with back packers. Yes I have an irrational hatred of back packers…….I know, I know)
Obviously religion is a huge, and some may say dangerous subject to tackle. There are all sorts of historical facts and figures that one ought to get right. So, let me just put your mind at rest straight away. Let me just assure you, that this posting will be produced with the usual complete lack of fore thought, planning and research as usual. There will undoubtedly be huge sweeping generalizations, and copious amounts of stereotyping! So let the games begin…….
So, religion, Christ where do you start? Well start with what you know I suppose.
Christianity
Two thousand odd years ago, the bible tells us that God impregnated a woman called Mary with his son. He didn’t actually get down off of his cloud or whatever, and come down to do the business, no, he did it remotely. (Three lines in, and it already sounds ridiculous doesn’t it?) Her fella Joseph seemed to readily accept this, and off they went to have the baby in a stable. Three blokes on camels followed a star (An early version of sat nav one presumes) and turned up at the stable baring gifts. The baby Jesus was born in a manger, and school children made up songs about Shepard’s washing their socks etc.
Anyway, a bit more blah blah blah, and he basically spent the next thirty odd years wandering around telling everyone that he was the son of God, and that he could perform miracles etc. Two thousand years later, and with the benefit of science and medicine, he would be known as a schizophrenic with a touch or narcissism thrown in, who had an unhealthy interest in magic tricks. Or to put it another way…….
Son of God + 2000 years = nutter.
It just shows you how times have changed, two thousand years ago, Jesus is wandering around telling everyone he is the son of God. His legacy has lasted for two thousand years, he is probably the most famous bloke in the world, People have died for him, fought wars over him, and worshipped him.
Fast forward two thousand years, David Ike tries the same ruse, and gets nothing but a load of shit for his efforts. Not fair is it? Bless him. That isn’t to say that Jesus had an easy time of it either. No, he got quite a few people's backs up. He apparently used to run around tipping over tables and spouting his weird ideas. Or to put it another way…….
Son of god trying to enlighten the masses with his offbeat meanderings + 2000 years = terrorist.
Anyway, he started really getting on peoples tits, and eventually the Romans, along with some Jewish toadying collaborators, crucified him. A particularly nasty way to die. You would have thought being the son of God and all that, he would have been able to call in the big guns, but it seems God was out that afternoon. Tut, bloody typical. It is said that while on the cross, Jesus looked down at the people that had perpetrated such brutality upon him, and uttered the words “Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do.” I bet God was a bit rueful when he got home that evening, and found that message on his answer phone. Yes, that will teach him to go off swanning around for the afternoon.
For years the mainstay of Christianity was Catholicism. This was the method by which one worshiped God, and a general guide line to how one should behave etc. Now Catholicism came from Rome, i.e. the Roman Catholics. This is something that I have never understood. I thought it was the Romans that strung him up, are we to believe that some years later they had a change of heart, and decided he was right after all? Before the Romans, how can I put it, "switched energy provider," they had a very much different method of worship. They had Gods for this, and Gods for that. I like this idea, instead of lumping all your eggs in one basket; you could have loads of Gods. I would have a curry God, a reality TV show God (oh we have already, Lord Cowell) a wanking God, it would be brilliant, but no, they threw all that away, and changed to just boring old God God. What a shame.
All was trundling along quite nicely, until an upstart called Henry the VIII came along. Now one of the Catholic rules, was that once you had got married, that was it, there was no changing your mind. Well Henry wasn’t happy about this one little bit, no sir ree bob. He had got married, and decided she wasn’t the girl for him, but what was he going to do? He couldn’t trade her in for a new one, the Catholics wouldn’t let him. So he thought “Bollocks, I’ll make my own religion up, where I can trade in my old wives as many times as I bloody well like.” And so The Church of England was born.
To be honest, it wasn’t a whole lot different to the old Catholic lot. It wasn’t what you would call a complete re-think. He hadn’t gone back to the drawing board, Basically it was the same, but you could trade your old wife in, and you were allowed to wank.
And that’s just about it for Christianity. Over the years certain groups have branched off, and created slightly different versions of the same thing. For example there are the Amish. Same God and everything, except they don’t have Sky Plus. Then there are the Mormons. Again same God, but they like forming popular beat combos. The Quakers don’t know much about these; think they are heavily into porridge.
Islam
It was a story about a bloke, we will call him Dave, who was a born again Christian. He was at work on night shift, and he and a colleague were sitting having a cup of tea, and talking about this and that. She was aware that he was a born again Christian, and the subject inevitably got around to all things religious. As part of this discussion, he announced that he disagreed with homosexuality, because it was against the word of God blah blah blah. The next morning, she promptly went to her bosses and complained that he had made derogatory remarks about homosexuals. The company suspended him, pending an enquiry.
First things first, having the opinion that homosexuality is intrinsically wrong, and ungodly is of course extremely old fashioned, bigoted, ignorant, and quite frankly bloody pathetic. On the other side of the coin, why was the bloody woman making such a big deal about it? she should have taken it with a pinch of salt and called him a prat or something, and lastly, their employer undoubtedly over reacted somewhat. Obviously shit scared that if they didn’t follow the politically correct procedures, blah blah blah and all that.
All that was needed, was a “Dave, in future for the sake of peace and harmony at work, it might be an idea if you kept your rather antiquainted thoughts to yourself, ok.”
So, which part of the above am I going to single out for scrutiny? Why religion of course! Mainly because, even though I think the reactions of the woman and the employer were heavy handed, and overly politically correct etc, born again Christians get on my nerves more! (They are on a par with back packers. Yes I have an irrational hatred of back packers…….I know, I know)
Obviously religion is a huge, and some may say dangerous subject to tackle. There are all sorts of historical facts and figures that one ought to get right. So, let me just put your mind at rest straight away. Let me just assure you, that this posting will be produced with the usual complete lack of fore thought, planning and research as usual. There will undoubtedly be huge sweeping generalizations, and copious amounts of stereotyping! So let the games begin…….
So, religion, Christ where do you start? Well start with what you know I suppose.
Christianity
Two thousand odd years ago, the bible tells us that God impregnated a woman called Mary with his son. He didn’t actually get down off of his cloud or whatever, and come down to do the business, no, he did it remotely. (Three lines in, and it already sounds ridiculous doesn’t it?) Her fella Joseph seemed to readily accept this, and off they went to have the baby in a stable. Three blokes on camels followed a star (An early version of sat nav one presumes) and turned up at the stable baring gifts. The baby Jesus was born in a manger, and school children made up songs about Shepard’s washing their socks etc.
Anyway, a bit more blah blah blah, and he basically spent the next thirty odd years wandering around telling everyone that he was the son of God, and that he could perform miracles etc. Two thousand years later, and with the benefit of science and medicine, he would be known as a schizophrenic with a touch or narcissism thrown in, who had an unhealthy interest in magic tricks. Or to put it another way…….
Son of God + 2000 years = nutter.
It just shows you how times have changed, two thousand years ago, Jesus is wandering around telling everyone he is the son of God. His legacy has lasted for two thousand years, he is probably the most famous bloke in the world, People have died for him, fought wars over him, and worshipped him.
Fast forward two thousand years, David Ike tries the same ruse, and gets nothing but a load of shit for his efforts. Not fair is it? Bless him. That isn’t to say that Jesus had an easy time of it either. No, he got quite a few people's backs up. He apparently used to run around tipping over tables and spouting his weird ideas. Or to put it another way…….
Son of god trying to enlighten the masses with his offbeat meanderings + 2000 years = terrorist.
Anyway, he started really getting on peoples tits, and eventually the Romans, along with some Jewish toadying collaborators, crucified him. A particularly nasty way to die. You would have thought being the son of God and all that, he would have been able to call in the big guns, but it seems God was out that afternoon. Tut, bloody typical. It is said that while on the cross, Jesus looked down at the people that had perpetrated such brutality upon him, and uttered the words “Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do.” I bet God was a bit rueful when he got home that evening, and found that message on his answer phone. Yes, that will teach him to go off swanning around for the afternoon.
For years the mainstay of Christianity was Catholicism. This was the method by which one worshiped God, and a general guide line to how one should behave etc. Now Catholicism came from Rome, i.e. the Roman Catholics. This is something that I have never understood. I thought it was the Romans that strung him up, are we to believe that some years later they had a change of heart, and decided he was right after all? Before the Romans, how can I put it, "switched energy provider," they had a very much different method of worship. They had Gods for this, and Gods for that. I like this idea, instead of lumping all your eggs in one basket; you could have loads of Gods. I would have a curry God, a reality TV show God (oh we have already, Lord Cowell) a wanking God, it would be brilliant, but no, they threw all that away, and changed to just boring old God God. What a shame.
All was trundling along quite nicely, until an upstart called Henry the VIII came along. Now one of the Catholic rules, was that once you had got married, that was it, there was no changing your mind. Well Henry wasn’t happy about this one little bit, no sir ree bob. He had got married, and decided she wasn’t the girl for him, but what was he going to do? He couldn’t trade her in for a new one, the Catholics wouldn’t let him. So he thought “Bollocks, I’ll make my own religion up, where I can trade in my old wives as many times as I bloody well like.” And so The Church of England was born.
To be honest, it wasn’t a whole lot different to the old Catholic lot. It wasn’t what you would call a complete re-think. He hadn’t gone back to the drawing board, Basically it was the same, but you could trade your old wife in, and you were allowed to wank.
And that’s just about it for Christianity. Over the years certain groups have branched off, and created slightly different versions of the same thing. For example there are the Amish. Same God and everything, except they don’t have Sky Plus. Then there are the Mormons. Again same God, but they like forming popular beat combos. The Quakers don’t know much about these; think they are heavily into porridge.
Islam
Just bare with me while I adorn my bulletproof vest.......there, that's better. Phew, er, well, basically this lot need to lighten up a little. That may sound harsh, but lets be honest, brutally may be, but here goes.......when was the last time you saw somebody from Pakistan have a bloody good belly laugh.......eh?
Yes these guys do seem to take themselves and everything all very seriously. Some history.
Muslims worship God, but do not acknowledge Christ. They have a prophet called Mohamed. I of course thus far have been very unfair in the name of a cheap laugh, but Islam is on the whole a pretty peaceful religion. They worship five times a day, respect their neighbours etc, and are generally good people. We will over look the disgraceful chauvinistic treatment of women for now (I am in enough trouble as it is) and move on.
Unfortunately, the religion has been hijacked by fundamentalists, and is now seen around the world as another name for terrorism, sad. Yes some Muslims have read the Koran, put two and two together, and come up with four thousand, seven hundred and twenty-nine! It's a bit like me reading the 'Windows Vista user's guide', and coming to the conclusion that all apple mac users should be exterminated! Calm down guys, there is room for all operating systems.......relax.
The fundamentalist side of the religion is pretty farcical though. Young disciples are told, that if they are martyred in the name of Allah, they will arrive in paradise, and be tended to by seventy-two virgins! Really? I am truly amazed, that even with the eye watering amount of brain washing these poor souls are subjected to, not one of them has, just for a second, looked at their commander and thought "Hang on a minute, If it's so bloody brilliant, why am I going, and not you?"
Muslims are not allowed to partake in alcohol or tobacco (Maybe something to do with the lack of humour in general) but this doesn't seem to trouble Mr Khan down our local wonderful curry house!
Judaism
You say tomarrrto, I say tomaaaato, you say patarrrrto, I say potaaato, tomarrrto, tomaaaato, patarrrrto, pataaato, let's blow each other up!
This pretty much sums up the relationship between the Jews, and the Palestinians. Sigh.......
The Jewish religion has always confused me. The Romans called Christ 'The king of the Jews' and yet they think he was an impostor. Was this an attempt at Roman sarcasm? I don't know. It's something like this i think.......
The Jews seemed to be scattered all over the globe. Then in 1948 it was decided that the Jews should have their own homeland. Fair enoughski you might think, but the bigwigs that decide these things, put the cat among the pigeons by creating Israel smack bang in the middle of the 'Holy Lands' Fair enough I suppose, but it didn't really help matters did it? If they had put them somewhere just outside Milton keynes, maybe a lot of bloodshed could have been spared.
The Palestinians (Quite justly really) got the hump. It's a bit like somebody barging through your front door, and declaring that your spare bedroom is now theirs! You would have the hump wouldn't you? and so ever since, it's been tomarrrrto, tomaaaaato.......
Jehovah's Witness
I have absolutely no bloody idea at all what this is all about. I suppose they believe in God, but again, think Jesus was just some kinda wide boy. No Christ means no Christmas (Maybe i'll become one!) They also have this undying urge to tell you all about their beliefs etc. Very strange indeed. It's a bit like me being really heavily into CSI (I'm not) and knocking on people's doors, and telling them about it. Sounds crazy doesn't it? They seem to love it.
They wear suits a lot, and let their relatives die because they disagree with blood transfusions! This really is mentalness of the highest caliber. I am probably being issued with the Jehovah's Witness version of a fatwa as we speak! Bollocks.
There are all manner of religions that I haven't touched upon. Hinduism, Jedi, but when it comes down to it, it all seems to add up to the same thing. Control. How can we keep the plebs under control? I know, make up some load of old tosh, and tell them that if they don't adhere to this code of conduct, they will burn in hell for eternity, and do you know what?.......it's worked for thousands of years! amazing.
So Mule, you have spouted forth thus far, had a go at just about everyone and not told us your own beliefs.
Well, do i believe there is a God that sits on some kind of thrown when we die, and tots up all our misdemeanors, and sends us north or south accordingly?.......No.
Do I believe that Jesus was the son of God.......No.
Do I believe that there is some kind of consciousness or force that is surreptitiously present throughout the entire universe, that somehow links us all together?.......N.......well maybe, just maybe.
So we come to the end of this lecture. As the great Dave Allan used to say, "May your God go with you."
PS. I look forward (with some trepidation) to the lever arch file I am sure I will be receiving from 'oblogotory reading man' tomorrow. Full to the brim with corrections, alterations, .......
Thursday, 23 April 2009
Earings
Where have thou been? Why such emptiness on the Mule merry go round? Well, I think it would be fair to say that I have become immensely disillusioned with the whole blogging thing. Now before I plough on, can I just say that this next bit is in no way meant to sound conceited, arrogant, big headed, snobby etc. but alas, inevitably I fear it will.
I am dizzy with perplexity, due to the fact that I simply can’t understand why reading that somebody has purchased a new set of earings, is favorable to reading my musings. I told you it would sound big headed (Widen the doors) but that’s how it is.
I will be the first one to admit that I am not the greatest writer in the world, I am sure that I have changed tense half a dozen times already, and I must have split several infinitives, but I do think that my ‘Lectures’ Can sometimes be slightly amusing, or controversial, thought provoking, or even informative maybe, but no, it seems that the great unwashed would rather digest trivial morsels of earing buying information, than listen to me! At this juncture I was going to state how much I don’t understand this, but unfortunately, I think I do.
Lets put it this way, If you were to look at the viewing figures for, lets say ‘Eastenders’ versus a documentary on the ‘Discovery channel’ about the universe, It would be so heavily weighted in favour of watching Dot Cotton drink a cup of tea, it would be frightening. This is the sad truth, we have become a nation that hungers for celebrity gossip, of soap opera watching zombies. Our culture has become infested by some mysterious desire to ingest copious amounts of trivial titbits.
There are more stars in the universe, than grains of sand on this planet. Each sun will have planets orbiting around them, some of which will have the necessary atmospheric conditions to sustain life. There could be civilizations out there, millions of years in advance of our own. This stuff is genuinely mind boggling, it’s incredible, ethereal, but know, it doesn’t matter does it, it’s all a load of bollocks, because have you heard, Paris Hilton has got a new diamond encrusted thong. Brilliant. Oh look, there is a program on tonight, that explains how the Hadron collider is going to try and perform the most important experiment that mankind (Sexist???) has ever embarked upon…….Fuck off, forget that, Dot Cotton is collecting her pension tonight, and Phil Mitchell has hit the bottle again. Sigh.
Maybe one day, I will be out walking Ronnie and Reggie, and an alien craft will hover over us and beam us all up into the ship. We will be whisked millions of light years across the universe through a worm hole, to a planet where the alien civilization is a million years ahead of us. They would snigger at our rockets, and our mobile phones, and tell me telepathically, to sit on a hover chair, and wait to be enlightened. A tall alien creature would glide gracefully towards me, and ask me if I was ready to be told the secrets of the universe.
"YES YES" I would cry, tears of joy welling in my eyes as I realised all of my questions, and indeed all of those of mankind were finally going to be answered.
"Are you ready?" The alien would say to me, its majestic voice filling my head with its wondrous tone…….Then suddenly it would stop and proclaim "Oh bugger, hang on, can we put this on hold? I’ve got to dash, ‘Cosmic Roads’ is on, Zog is picking up her pension, and Zag has hit the bottle again, tut."
I have been rather miffed at my ‘Lectures’ being overlooked for less cerebral offerings of late, but the one that finally tipped me over the edge, the one that forced me to put fingers (Two) to keyboard, was hearing that Demi Moore’s new beau, has got a MILLION followers on fucking ‘twatter’or whatever it’s fucking called. Now I don’t know who this bloke is, and I refuse to soil my computer by typing "Demi Moore’s new husband" into Google, so I will have to remain blissfully ignorant to the facts, but I’m guessing he’s probably a bit of a pretty boy, and would be surprised if he watches programs about the hadron collider. I would also be very surprised if his offerings on ‘twatter’ are any more than, "Demi has got a new pair of earings" or "I got one of the servants to serve Demi a croissant for breakfast" and yet, a MILLION fucking people apparently want and need to know this.
It seems some people treat blogging like a social networking thing. "Ooh I bought a new pair of earings" Someone leaves a comment: - "Ooh did you, are they nice?"…….oh fuck off. I really don’t like the whole social networking scene. ‘Facebook’, bloody ‘my space’ what’s the point? People ‘poking’ each other, leaving things on their ‘Walls’ or whatever it is. Putting a goldfish in their tank, or whatever they do, lol. Either go outdoors and try and get real friends, or be like me, and go to extrodinary lengths to avoid human contact completely! Do one or the other, but please, don’t have pretend friends.
Chat rooms…….when I first entered the digital age, and tentatively put a foot onto the virtual surf board, and started riding the waves that they call ‘The world wide web’, I stumbled upon chat rooms. Dear God, what a grim place they are. Some of the inane conversations that go on in these places take some believing.
Ladybird123 has entered the lobby.
Hardnthrobbing – Good morning Ladybird, how are you today?
Ladybird123 – Oh fine thanks, u?
Hardnthrobbing – Hungover, big nite last nite ;)
Sexychick69 – Winks at Hardnthrobbing
Home alone housewife – Watchya every1, anybody seen Trucker?
Sexychick69 – He was in earlier, think he afk.
Home alone housewife – Thanx Sexy, how are u?
Sexychick69 – Cool ta.
NiftyFifty has entered the lobby
NiftyFifty – Morning.
Ladybird123 blows a kiss at NiftyFifty.
NiftyFifty – Awww thanx Lady
NiftyFifty blows a kiss at Ladybird123
Powertool has entered the lobby
Powertool – ne laydees wanna c my cock on cam, it’s mega. P2P me
Sexychick – It’s not that big every1.
Powertool - ;)
Wilde & 1derful (Me) has entered the lobby
Wilde & 1derful – Hi, anyone see the documentary last night about the Hadron Collider?
Sexychick69 – Fuck off weirdo.
Wilde & 1derful has left the lobby!
Ring any bells ne1!
And so it goes on and on. Lines and lines of endless drivel.
The internet is an amazing tool, but as with all things, there is the downside. I think it allows people to forget how to treat people. If ‘Powertool’ was at a real gathering, he for a start would surely be a little apprehensive at calling himself ‘Powertool’, and secondly, I doubt he would deem it appropriate to burst in to the room, and shout, "Oi ladies, any of you bitches wanna see my cock?"
Personally, I would prefer it if social gatherings were like this, would certainly brighten up what is usually a very dull evening. Thinking about it, the next time I have run out of excuses for not leaving the house, and get dragged kicking and screaming to a ‘gathering’, perhaps I will try it! As I am introduced to some woman who works in ‘event management’ I will jump in quick before she attacks me with the classic "So, what do you do for a living?" with my opening gambit of "’ello darlin’ wanna gander at my pork sword?" but no seriously, the internet seems to erode the need for manners. People start telling each other to "Fuck off" after seconds of meeting each other in a chat room. Wouldn’t happen in real life.
It’s because the internet is deemed to be anonymous. We feel we don’t need to conform to the usual social niceties. In fact it’s very similar to being in a car. We sit ourselves in a metal box, and we immediately feel disassociated to everyone. Somebody pulls out on you from a side road, and what do we do, two fingers here, one finger there, "Learn to fucking drive" etc etc. If we were walking down the street, and somebody stepped out from a door way into our path, chances are that both parties would be apologising profusely, "After you"……."No no, after you sir" etc etc. I’m in no position to talk really am I? I write this stuff, effing and blinding away with gay abandon. I probably wouldn’t talk like that if we were strangers, and face to face.
Then again, having thought about it, in some ways perhaps it’s not always a bad thing. Maybe it allows us to be free, and express ourselves the way in which we would really want to. It’s a tricky one.
Anyway, to sum up, I am still a little miffed at my lack of popularity! I suppose I can carry on, just writing it for the ‘dedicated three’ or alternatively, I can become a bigamist, marry a celebrity, and rattle on about her new earings all fucking day!
I am dizzy with perplexity, due to the fact that I simply can’t understand why reading that somebody has purchased a new set of earings, is favorable to reading my musings. I told you it would sound big headed (Widen the doors) but that’s how it is.
I will be the first one to admit that I am not the greatest writer in the world, I am sure that I have changed tense half a dozen times already, and I must have split several infinitives, but I do think that my ‘Lectures’ Can sometimes be slightly amusing, or controversial, thought provoking, or even informative maybe, but no, it seems that the great unwashed would rather digest trivial morsels of earing buying information, than listen to me! At this juncture I was going to state how much I don’t understand this, but unfortunately, I think I do.
Lets put it this way, If you were to look at the viewing figures for, lets say ‘Eastenders’ versus a documentary on the ‘Discovery channel’ about the universe, It would be so heavily weighted in favour of watching Dot Cotton drink a cup of tea, it would be frightening. This is the sad truth, we have become a nation that hungers for celebrity gossip, of soap opera watching zombies. Our culture has become infested by some mysterious desire to ingest copious amounts of trivial titbits.
There are more stars in the universe, than grains of sand on this planet. Each sun will have planets orbiting around them, some of which will have the necessary atmospheric conditions to sustain life. There could be civilizations out there, millions of years in advance of our own. This stuff is genuinely mind boggling, it’s incredible, ethereal, but know, it doesn’t matter does it, it’s all a load of bollocks, because have you heard, Paris Hilton has got a new diamond encrusted thong. Brilliant. Oh look, there is a program on tonight, that explains how the Hadron collider is going to try and perform the most important experiment that mankind (Sexist???) has ever embarked upon…….Fuck off, forget that, Dot Cotton is collecting her pension tonight, and Phil Mitchell has hit the bottle again. Sigh.
Maybe one day, I will be out walking Ronnie and Reggie, and an alien craft will hover over us and beam us all up into the ship. We will be whisked millions of light years across the universe through a worm hole, to a planet where the alien civilization is a million years ahead of us. They would snigger at our rockets, and our mobile phones, and tell me telepathically, to sit on a hover chair, and wait to be enlightened. A tall alien creature would glide gracefully towards me, and ask me if I was ready to be told the secrets of the universe.
"YES YES" I would cry, tears of joy welling in my eyes as I realised all of my questions, and indeed all of those of mankind were finally going to be answered.
"Are you ready?" The alien would say to me, its majestic voice filling my head with its wondrous tone…….Then suddenly it would stop and proclaim "Oh bugger, hang on, can we put this on hold? I’ve got to dash, ‘Cosmic Roads’ is on, Zog is picking up her pension, and Zag has hit the bottle again, tut."
I have been rather miffed at my ‘Lectures’ being overlooked for less cerebral offerings of late, but the one that finally tipped me over the edge, the one that forced me to put fingers (Two) to keyboard, was hearing that Demi Moore’s new beau, has got a MILLION followers on fucking ‘twatter’or whatever it’s fucking called. Now I don’t know who this bloke is, and I refuse to soil my computer by typing "Demi Moore’s new husband" into Google, so I will have to remain blissfully ignorant to the facts, but I’m guessing he’s probably a bit of a pretty boy, and would be surprised if he watches programs about the hadron collider. I would also be very surprised if his offerings on ‘twatter’ are any more than, "Demi has got a new pair of earings" or "I got one of the servants to serve Demi a croissant for breakfast" and yet, a MILLION fucking people apparently want and need to know this.
It seems some people treat blogging like a social networking thing. "Ooh I bought a new pair of earings" Someone leaves a comment: - "Ooh did you, are they nice?"…….oh fuck off. I really don’t like the whole social networking scene. ‘Facebook’, bloody ‘my space’ what’s the point? People ‘poking’ each other, leaving things on their ‘Walls’ or whatever it is. Putting a goldfish in their tank, or whatever they do, lol. Either go outdoors and try and get real friends, or be like me, and go to extrodinary lengths to avoid human contact completely! Do one or the other, but please, don’t have pretend friends.
Chat rooms…….when I first entered the digital age, and tentatively put a foot onto the virtual surf board, and started riding the waves that they call ‘The world wide web’, I stumbled upon chat rooms. Dear God, what a grim place they are. Some of the inane conversations that go on in these places take some believing.
Ladybird123 has entered the lobby.
Hardnthrobbing – Good morning Ladybird, how are you today?
Ladybird123 – Oh fine thanks, u?
Hardnthrobbing – Hungover, big nite last nite ;)
Sexychick69 – Winks at Hardnthrobbing
Home alone housewife – Watchya every1, anybody seen Trucker?
Sexychick69 – He was in earlier, think he afk.
Home alone housewife – Thanx Sexy, how are u?
Sexychick69 – Cool ta.
NiftyFifty has entered the lobby
NiftyFifty – Morning.
Ladybird123 blows a kiss at NiftyFifty.
NiftyFifty – Awww thanx Lady
NiftyFifty blows a kiss at Ladybird123
Powertool has entered the lobby
Powertool – ne laydees wanna c my cock on cam, it’s mega. P2P me
Sexychick – It’s not that big every1.
Powertool - ;)
Wilde & 1derful (Me) has entered the lobby
Wilde & 1derful – Hi, anyone see the documentary last night about the Hadron Collider?
Sexychick69 – Fuck off weirdo.
Wilde & 1derful has left the lobby!
Ring any bells ne1!
And so it goes on and on. Lines and lines of endless drivel.
The internet is an amazing tool, but as with all things, there is the downside. I think it allows people to forget how to treat people. If ‘Powertool’ was at a real gathering, he for a start would surely be a little apprehensive at calling himself ‘Powertool’, and secondly, I doubt he would deem it appropriate to burst in to the room, and shout, "Oi ladies, any of you bitches wanna see my cock?"
Personally, I would prefer it if social gatherings were like this, would certainly brighten up what is usually a very dull evening. Thinking about it, the next time I have run out of excuses for not leaving the house, and get dragged kicking and screaming to a ‘gathering’, perhaps I will try it! As I am introduced to some woman who works in ‘event management’ I will jump in quick before she attacks me with the classic "So, what do you do for a living?" with my opening gambit of "’ello darlin’ wanna gander at my pork sword?" but no seriously, the internet seems to erode the need for manners. People start telling each other to "Fuck off" after seconds of meeting each other in a chat room. Wouldn’t happen in real life.
It’s because the internet is deemed to be anonymous. We feel we don’t need to conform to the usual social niceties. In fact it’s very similar to being in a car. We sit ourselves in a metal box, and we immediately feel disassociated to everyone. Somebody pulls out on you from a side road, and what do we do, two fingers here, one finger there, "Learn to fucking drive" etc etc. If we were walking down the street, and somebody stepped out from a door way into our path, chances are that both parties would be apologising profusely, "After you"……."No no, after you sir" etc etc. I’m in no position to talk really am I? I write this stuff, effing and blinding away with gay abandon. I probably wouldn’t talk like that if we were strangers, and face to face.
Then again, having thought about it, in some ways perhaps it’s not always a bad thing. Maybe it allows us to be free, and express ourselves the way in which we would really want to. It’s a tricky one.
Anyway, to sum up, I am still a little miffed at my lack of popularity! I suppose I can carry on, just writing it for the ‘dedicated three’ or alternatively, I can become a bigamist, marry a celebrity, and rattle on about her new earings all fucking day!
Saturday, 4 April 2009
All aboard me hearties.......
Out with the old, and in with the new,
I used to be red, but now I am blue.
Bad times behind us, good times a fore,
My colours are different, but it's still just a chore.
Will the blue ones be curious, of my little words,
The red ones were big fans, of my chapter and verse.
The serpent departed, an angel in place?,
A demon perhaps, with a different face.
The ship is a sail, upon stormy seas,
Lets hope that the words, are followed by deeds.
Red days and blue days, they merge into one,
I'll never find out, what's on BBC1
The ocean is vast, and pirates are rife,
Lets navigate through, the trouble and strife.
Set sail my beauties, pull up the anchors,
.......Oh, my keyboard seems to have locked up, Oh well, you can try and finish it yourself if you like.
I used to be red, but now I am blue.
Bad times behind us, good times a fore,
My colours are different, but it's still just a chore.
Will the blue ones be curious, of my little words,
The red ones were big fans, of my chapter and verse.
The serpent departed, an angel in place?,
A demon perhaps, with a different face.
The ship is a sail, upon stormy seas,
Lets hope that the words, are followed by deeds.
Red days and blue days, they merge into one,
I'll never find out, what's on BBC1
The ocean is vast, and pirates are rife,
Lets navigate through, the trouble and strife.
Set sail my beauties, pull up the anchors,
.......Oh, my keyboard seems to have locked up, Oh well, you can try and finish it yourself if you like.
Friday, 13 March 2009
Futility disability
Do you ever sit at your desk, or behind the wheel, or on the phone, or behind the till (The list is endless) and think to yourself…….”This is completely and utterly bloody pointless” I am sure you do from time to time, I know I do. As Henry Garvie from ‘Ultimate force’ once said, “There are only three things that are necessary for human existence, fighting, shagging, and eating.” And do you know what, he is bloody well right.
What we need is a bloody good world war! It’s true, we all pontificate about how terrible war is blah blah blah, but the stark truth of it is, is that a great many of us, especially in the Western world, have had it far too cushy, for far too long. Instead of spending our time striving for survival, we spend it lolling around on buy now pay later sofas, watching absolute mindless and pointless drivel, eating too much (because we haven’t got to get off of our fat arses and actually catch it) and generally filling our lives with absolutely meaningless tosh. A good world war would act like a cull, and blow away the cobwebs.
Human beings are at their best when their backs are against the wall. Invention and innovation flourish in times of turmoil and hardship, because it is necessary for our survival. During times of crisis, camaraderie increases, people start to pull together, help each other out, look out for each other. I am naturally and predominantly anti-social! I don’t know why, I just am (Serial killer in the making perhaps!) but I am sure I would be much more “People friendly” if I actually needed to be.
The trouble is you see, is that we have all become insular and self absorbed; there is no direct threat to most of us, so we don’t need to watch out for each other.
I avidly watch the Ross Kemp programs, where he shadows our troops in Afghanistan. Evan though war is terrible, and killing people is bad (despite what I said earlier!) I do in a way envy those soldiers out on the front line.
“Are you bloody mad?” I hear you shout (Probably not, I just think too much) but I think that the only time a human being truly feels “Alive” is when their life is in peril. People jump out of aeroplanes, throw themselves down the sides of mountains, tie elastic bands around their ankles and jump off bridges. Why do they do it, (apart from there being a small amount of showing off going on), it’s because as they are hurtling towards the earth at terminal velocity, they feel “Alive” because they know they could very soon be dead. The body seems to compensate for the fact that you may not have long left, by giving you a shot of adrenaline, and making your potentially last moments all whizzy and WOW!
What has prompted the rather strange direction for this latest Mule lecture? I don’t totally know. I am rather bored today, and when the boredom sets in, the old brain starts analyzing, and when the brain starts analyzing, the depression starts to knock on the door, and when the depression is “in da house” Mr apathy takes root, and Mr apathy opens the door to boredom, and …….
I, like many others I am sure, am afflicted by a disease called ‘Bullshit intoleranceitus’ I absolutely can’t stand cobblers, nonsense, trivia, nif naf, codswallop etc etc. Unfortunately the world is drowning in it. This does not bode well for a happy existence. I sometimes hear people standing around water coolers at work or whatever, rattling on about some work related shit, and I can’t believe how much onus they are bestowing upon it. People who think that their job is of absolute vital importance to the continual existence of this planet, (They procure condiments or something for a living!) are rife.
It’s terrible really how we all get completely wrapped up in our own little lives. Sitting on our own moons, orbiting planet 'ME'. What’s worse than living this completely and utterly self absorbed kind of life?.......telling every other poor sod about it, that’s what!
Oh god, how many times a day do most of us have to listen to Mr or Mrs 'ME' tell us all about Mr and Mrs 'me’s' planet, and all that goes on there. They seem completely oblivious to the fact that nobody is in the slightest bit interested. (There is a soul crushing irony here somewhere, but I think I might have missed it…….no it’s gone, now, where was I?)
What really gets me about somebody telling you one of their ‘stories’, is the amount of inconsequential detail that they feel they need to add. You know, we have all suffered it.
“I was taking aunty Beryl to the doctors last Wednesday…….hang on wait, or was it last Tuesday? No it must have been Wednesday because her dustmen come on a Wednesday. Unless it is bank holiday of course, then they come a day earlier, hang on a minute…….(Actually gets diary out to check if it was a bank holiday!)…….No it was Wednesday……."
And so on, and on it goes. I wish I had the balls to say…….”Look, quite frankly I couldn’t really give a flying monkey's pissing pot about your auntie Beryl’s trip to the doctors, unless of course something highly amusing or entertaining took place, and you can relay that to me in a particularly amusing and engaging fashion, which I doubt. So I especially don’t need to know what fucking day of the week it happened on…….OK”
But no, I dutifully stand there and suck it all up, and then go and take it out on someone who failed to indicate at a roundabout!
I always remember the wonderful Dave Allen talking about new years resolutions. He was saying that this person was going to stop smoking, that person was going to stop eating! This one was stopping whatever etc etc etc. He said he was going to stop accommodating bores! I think this is a great idea. I am going to come up with some sort of traffic light system that hangs around my neck. I will call it something like the ‘Bore-o-meter’ or whatever. It will work in a not dissimilar fashion to those lights they have at party conferences. But these won’t be to indicate time limits, they will be to indicate bore levels.
Green
You’re doing ok, but to be fair you have only just started, so…….
Amber
Come on, come on, you are going off on a tangent a bit, and you are definitely
beginning to ramble. Make it amusing or Interesting…….quick.
Red
Shut the fuck up, I’m off!
I am going to take it on to dragon’s den and team up with the chirpy little kebab seller bloke (Racist?) Don’t want the woman, I reckon she could be bossy.
We are all the same though really aren’t we? No matter how different or radical we think we are, we can’t help being bound together by the same little social foibles etc. I am going to stop shy of saying that I “Pride” myself on being unsociable, but let’s just say with age, I have become comfortable with it.
I often proclaim that I don’t give two hoots what people think of me, but even I can’t escape the inbuilt social necessities that are intrinsic to us all. My favourite two examples of this are:-
1. You’re walking down the street. All of a sudden you realize that you have forgotten something. You need to turn around and go back in the direction form which you came. Nothing wrong with that, but that isn’t what our little brains tell us is it? Oh no. Brain say’s
“If you just suddenly and for no apparent reason turn around, and start walking back that way, every set of eyes on this street are going to notice, and they are all going to think that you are a mentalist that doesn’t know what he is doing. There he goes they will say, pacing up and down the street aimlessly, they will think you have escaped from somewhere won’t they?”
So how do we get over this? We make bold and exaggerated movements to indicate that we have forgotten something, and to try and reassure everybody that we are not mad. We will do that clicking our fingers thing as we tut. We will sigh and playfully bang ourselves on the head, raise our eyebrows, maybe even try to make eye contact with someone, and tut and grin whilst shaking our heads, to let everyone know that we are a forgetful klutz, but definitely NOT a nutter.
2. My favourite of the two is this one. Again this involves just innocently walking down the street. This time you trip and start to tumble forwards. There is nothing wrong with that, but old brainy tells you different…….
“You clumsy bastard. Everybody saw that you know, you look like a complete idiot. What the hell did you trip over anyway? Is there a piece of paving slab protruding from the pavement? or a pot hole? no, there is nothing there. You have basically just tripped over nothing, and everybody saw you. You are an embarrassment to mankind."
So how do we deal with this situation? I have done it, and I am sure most other people have too. As we trip, we naturally start to run forward to try and stop ourselves landing flat on our faces. We can’t leave it at that though can we? Oh no, we can’t have people thinking that we are a clumsy sod that needs to pick their feet up.
We should just accept that we have made a minor arse of ourselves, and treat the whole thing with a wry smile. But no, we embark on an elaborate charade, trying to make out that we did it on purpose. We are actually out having a run. In fact what I am going to do is run for a short distance, and then at the end do a little bit of shadow boxing to finish it off. Yes that’s it, I am a boxer, a prize winning one at that, and I am out training for my next bout at 'Madison square gardens.' That is why I am out running and shadow boxing in the street…….wearing a suit!
Can I just apologize on two counts. Number one, there didn’t really seem to be any real definite direction to this, and secondly, I feel that I have used far too many brackets in this one (A habit that I don’t want to get in to) so sorry.
Well I think my red light is most definitely throbbing, so I will depart. I am going to jump off of the shed, using a bin liner as a makeshift parachute, so that I feel alive!
What we need is a bloody good world war! It’s true, we all pontificate about how terrible war is blah blah blah, but the stark truth of it is, is that a great many of us, especially in the Western world, have had it far too cushy, for far too long. Instead of spending our time striving for survival, we spend it lolling around on buy now pay later sofas, watching absolute mindless and pointless drivel, eating too much (because we haven’t got to get off of our fat arses and actually catch it) and generally filling our lives with absolutely meaningless tosh. A good world war would act like a cull, and blow away the cobwebs.
Human beings are at their best when their backs are against the wall. Invention and innovation flourish in times of turmoil and hardship, because it is necessary for our survival. During times of crisis, camaraderie increases, people start to pull together, help each other out, look out for each other. I am naturally and predominantly anti-social! I don’t know why, I just am (Serial killer in the making perhaps!) but I am sure I would be much more “People friendly” if I actually needed to be.
The trouble is you see, is that we have all become insular and self absorbed; there is no direct threat to most of us, so we don’t need to watch out for each other.
I avidly watch the Ross Kemp programs, where he shadows our troops in Afghanistan. Evan though war is terrible, and killing people is bad (despite what I said earlier!) I do in a way envy those soldiers out on the front line.
“Are you bloody mad?” I hear you shout (Probably not, I just think too much) but I think that the only time a human being truly feels “Alive” is when their life is in peril. People jump out of aeroplanes, throw themselves down the sides of mountains, tie elastic bands around their ankles and jump off bridges. Why do they do it, (apart from there being a small amount of showing off going on), it’s because as they are hurtling towards the earth at terminal velocity, they feel “Alive” because they know they could very soon be dead. The body seems to compensate for the fact that you may not have long left, by giving you a shot of adrenaline, and making your potentially last moments all whizzy and WOW!
What has prompted the rather strange direction for this latest Mule lecture? I don’t totally know. I am rather bored today, and when the boredom sets in, the old brain starts analyzing, and when the brain starts analyzing, the depression starts to knock on the door, and when the depression is “in da house” Mr apathy takes root, and Mr apathy opens the door to boredom, and …….
I, like many others I am sure, am afflicted by a disease called ‘Bullshit intoleranceitus’ I absolutely can’t stand cobblers, nonsense, trivia, nif naf, codswallop etc etc. Unfortunately the world is drowning in it. This does not bode well for a happy existence. I sometimes hear people standing around water coolers at work or whatever, rattling on about some work related shit, and I can’t believe how much onus they are bestowing upon it. People who think that their job is of absolute vital importance to the continual existence of this planet, (They procure condiments or something for a living!) are rife.
It’s terrible really how we all get completely wrapped up in our own little lives. Sitting on our own moons, orbiting planet 'ME'. What’s worse than living this completely and utterly self absorbed kind of life?.......telling every other poor sod about it, that’s what!
Oh god, how many times a day do most of us have to listen to Mr or Mrs 'ME' tell us all about Mr and Mrs 'me’s' planet, and all that goes on there. They seem completely oblivious to the fact that nobody is in the slightest bit interested. (There is a soul crushing irony here somewhere, but I think I might have missed it…….no it’s gone, now, where was I?)
What really gets me about somebody telling you one of their ‘stories’, is the amount of inconsequential detail that they feel they need to add. You know, we have all suffered it.
“I was taking aunty Beryl to the doctors last Wednesday…….hang on wait, or was it last Tuesday? No it must have been Wednesday because her dustmen come on a Wednesday. Unless it is bank holiday of course, then they come a day earlier, hang on a minute…….(Actually gets diary out to check if it was a bank holiday!)…….No it was Wednesday……."
And so on, and on it goes. I wish I had the balls to say…….”Look, quite frankly I couldn’t really give a flying monkey's pissing pot about your auntie Beryl’s trip to the doctors, unless of course something highly amusing or entertaining took place, and you can relay that to me in a particularly amusing and engaging fashion, which I doubt. So I especially don’t need to know what fucking day of the week it happened on…….OK”
But no, I dutifully stand there and suck it all up, and then go and take it out on someone who failed to indicate at a roundabout!
I always remember the wonderful Dave Allen talking about new years resolutions. He was saying that this person was going to stop smoking, that person was going to stop eating! This one was stopping whatever etc etc etc. He said he was going to stop accommodating bores! I think this is a great idea. I am going to come up with some sort of traffic light system that hangs around my neck. I will call it something like the ‘Bore-o-meter’ or whatever. It will work in a not dissimilar fashion to those lights they have at party conferences. But these won’t be to indicate time limits, they will be to indicate bore levels.
Green
You’re doing ok, but to be fair you have only just started, so…….
Amber
Come on, come on, you are going off on a tangent a bit, and you are definitely
beginning to ramble. Make it amusing or Interesting…….quick.
Red
Shut the fuck up, I’m off!
I am going to take it on to dragon’s den and team up with the chirpy little kebab seller bloke (Racist?) Don’t want the woman, I reckon she could be bossy.
We are all the same though really aren’t we? No matter how different or radical we think we are, we can’t help being bound together by the same little social foibles etc. I am going to stop shy of saying that I “Pride” myself on being unsociable, but let’s just say with age, I have become comfortable with it.
I often proclaim that I don’t give two hoots what people think of me, but even I can’t escape the inbuilt social necessities that are intrinsic to us all. My favourite two examples of this are:-
1. You’re walking down the street. All of a sudden you realize that you have forgotten something. You need to turn around and go back in the direction form which you came. Nothing wrong with that, but that isn’t what our little brains tell us is it? Oh no. Brain say’s
“If you just suddenly and for no apparent reason turn around, and start walking back that way, every set of eyes on this street are going to notice, and they are all going to think that you are a mentalist that doesn’t know what he is doing. There he goes they will say, pacing up and down the street aimlessly, they will think you have escaped from somewhere won’t they?”
So how do we get over this? We make bold and exaggerated movements to indicate that we have forgotten something, and to try and reassure everybody that we are not mad. We will do that clicking our fingers thing as we tut. We will sigh and playfully bang ourselves on the head, raise our eyebrows, maybe even try to make eye contact with someone, and tut and grin whilst shaking our heads, to let everyone know that we are a forgetful klutz, but definitely NOT a nutter.
2. My favourite of the two is this one. Again this involves just innocently walking down the street. This time you trip and start to tumble forwards. There is nothing wrong with that, but old brainy tells you different…….
“You clumsy bastard. Everybody saw that you know, you look like a complete idiot. What the hell did you trip over anyway? Is there a piece of paving slab protruding from the pavement? or a pot hole? no, there is nothing there. You have basically just tripped over nothing, and everybody saw you. You are an embarrassment to mankind."
So how do we deal with this situation? I have done it, and I am sure most other people have too. As we trip, we naturally start to run forward to try and stop ourselves landing flat on our faces. We can’t leave it at that though can we? Oh no, we can’t have people thinking that we are a clumsy sod that needs to pick their feet up.
We should just accept that we have made a minor arse of ourselves, and treat the whole thing with a wry smile. But no, we embark on an elaborate charade, trying to make out that we did it on purpose. We are actually out having a run. In fact what I am going to do is run for a short distance, and then at the end do a little bit of shadow boxing to finish it off. Yes that’s it, I am a boxer, a prize winning one at that, and I am out training for my next bout at 'Madison square gardens.' That is why I am out running and shadow boxing in the street…….wearing a suit!
Can I just apologize on two counts. Number one, there didn’t really seem to be any real definite direction to this, and secondly, I feel that I have used far too many brackets in this one (A habit that I don’t want to get in to) so sorry.
Well I think my red light is most definitely throbbing, so I will depart. I am going to jump off of the shed, using a bin liner as a makeshift parachute, so that I feel alive!
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
It's all a load of balls.......
Phew……For one reason or another, probably known only to the Gods, last week seemed to be full of irritations. What’s new there you might ask, well nothing I suppose, but last week just seemed to be worse than normal.
As a sort of disclaimer, can I just say that there are obviously many people throughout the world that are in a much worse position than myself, and I in no way wish to belittle their problems, by comparing my relatively minor moans and groans to theirs. That’s the legal stuff out of the way. Never the less, I did feel that the good Lord was testing my patience to the limit last week.
I don’t know about you, but there are times when the lunacy and sheer stupidity that can occur on this planet, can drive me to very dark places. It is at times like these that I can be found sitting alone in the attic, illuminated by a single flickering forty watt bulb, clutching my knees to my chest, slowly rocking back and forth, and talking to Troy my action man. I spent quite a lot of time in the attic last week, and here are two examples of why.
Example 1
My friend told me about this, I say friend, his name is Colin, and he visits me at the day centre. I think he is paid to do it, but they won’t confirm that.
Where he works, there is a sort of reception building come guard post, and in there, are what can only be described as pseudo Nazis. Little men (they are always short) that positively revel in bureaucracy and jobs worthiness. If they could, I wouldn’t put it passed them to strip naked and frolic on a bed of paper work, and rub themselves all over with rules and regulations.
Anyway, if you have a visitor coming to see you, you have to inform the reception of their arrival. Time, name, reason for visit, blood type, sperm count, mother’s maiden name etc. He told me of an instance recently, that went something like this…….
Please read the part of the pseudo Nazi with an adenoidal train spotter type voice, it will help honest! (You could also read it with a German accent, but that is probably racist)
Colin rings the reception.
Nazi - Good morning reception, how can I help you?
Colin - Ah good morning, I have a visitor coming this morning, I …….
Nazi - Whoa wo wo hold it right there…….
Colin - Sorry, I just wanted to inform you of his arrival, and…….
Nazi - I’m not listening (Puts fingers in ears) la la la la la la…….
Colin - I’m sorry, is there a problem?
Nazi - Everybody has been advised, that if they wish to inform us of a visitation, they can only do so by fax.
Colin - Ah yes, sorry about that, I forgot. While I’m on the phone, could we just do it now?
Nazi - La la la la la la I’ve told you, only by fax. If you would be so kind as to fax the details through, I would be happy to process it for you.
Colin - ok ok, I’ll fax it.
Colin follows the correct procedure, and faxes all the information through.
An hour and a half later, his phone rings…….ring ring, ring ring…….
Colin - Hello.
Nazi - Yes hello, it is reception here, you have a visitor of which we have not been informed. The rules quite clearly state, that all visitors must be pre booked in by their visitees, two or more hours before the arrival of said guest.
Colin - I phoned you this morning…….
Nazi - Oh well, that’s where you have gone wrong you see, you should have faxed the information through.
Colin - I did.
Nazi - You have just said that you phoned.
Colin - I phoned first, and then you told me to fax it, which I then did.
Nazi - Well we haven’t received it.
Colin - Well I can’t help that, if you had let me do it over the phone, we Wouldn’t be having this problem would we.
Nazi - Ah you can’t phone it through, you have to fax it.
Colin - I DID
Nazi - Well we haven’t received it…….
And so it goes on and on, like some kind of hellish perpetual spiral. Down into the bowels of Hades.
The other example is by far my favorite. I really bent Troy’s ear with this one. It happened last week, Miss Marple and myself had both nipped out of work one lunchtime to do some stuff in town. One of the things we had to do, was pay a visit to ‘Wilkinsons’. Now, after the collapse of Woolworths, Wilkinsons has now been promoted to the top spot of ‘worst shops in existence’.
Call me a snob, call me aloof, call me elitist, call me pompous, but I bloody can’t stand Wilkinsons. It seems to always be full of old people who smell of urine, and chavs, who apparently also smell of urine, mixed with the residue of Marlboro lights. Our local branch has a low sort of window sill that runs the whole length of the window. This is always full of old people just sitting there. What are they doing? I always feel like I need to walk through some kind of sheep dip when exiting the shop, to be cleansed.
Anyway, I took a deep breath, plucked up the courage, tried to be a grown up for ten minutes, and took the first tentative steps through the front door. I followed Miss Marple around, hanging onto her coat tails, staring wide eyed, and trying desperately to avoid contact with anyone, eye or otherwise. We got all the bits we needed, and headed towards the checkout.
On route to the checkout, Miss Marple spied the ‘Pick and mix’ section. Being a bit of a sucker for things that are colourful and sugary, she decided to treat herself. She filled up the bag with all sorts of goodies, and then we both noticed signs that were three foot high, saying……."Please weigh your pick and mix bag, before taking it to the checkout. Thank you." As the signs were so prominent, and so numerous, we took it that this was very important, and failing to adhere to this rule would result in us being ejected forcibly from the shop, or arrested, or beheaded or something. So Miss Marple diligently weighed the bag, and stuck the little sticker that came out of the machine onto the bag.
We got to the checkout, and I was delighted that I had almost completed the mission without brushing up against any old people or chavs. We were standing in the queue, and I was only a few inches away from a real life chav. She was a proper one and everything. She had the Croydon face lift haircut, tracksuit bottoms, a gob full of chewing gum, a mobile phone which seemed to be welded to her ear, and half a dozen or so screaming chavlets.
It was at times like this that I wished I had the courage to ask her if she had any idea which schools she would be sending her little darlings to. She would inevitably ask me what it had got to do with me, at which point I could tell her that I was in little doubt that I was paying for their existence, so I would just like to be assured that they would be receiving a half decent education, so that there was a small glimmer of hope that they would find some kind of employment in their adult years, so that I wouldn’t have to pay for them for the full three score years and ten! But alas my balls are not that big.
I did however take this opportunity to do the sniff test. I glanced surreptitiously left and right to see if the coast was clear, and then gingerly leaned forward. I squeezed my right nostril shut with my index finger, and inhaled heartily. It is indeed true, my nostril was filled with the aroma of piss and Marlboro lights, and a heady combination it was to.
I am surprised that some perfume company hasn’t tried to capture this scent in a bottle. ‘Au de chav’ Of course the chav would be said in a French kind of way, probably "Shav" or something. I can picture the advert now, a lady chav would be reclining on a chez long covered in benefit claims, the chavlets would be shooting pensioners from the window with air rifles, Dad chav would be watching ‘Stargate’ on his heavily subsidized 52" plasma, and daughter chav would be getting knocked up, and filling in the child benefit forms simultaneously. Mum chav would then lean provocatively towards the camera (Retch) and say……."Le Shav, the fragrance from laboratory garneaaaaaaa, because your werfless"
Anyway, we eventually got to the checkout. The stuff was being beeped through the scanner, and all was well. Then ‘Darren’ or whatever his name was, picked up the bag of pick and mix. He stopped, why was he not beeping it, it quite clearly had a bar code on the sticker that came out of the machine.
"Oh hang on a minute." Said Darren.
"Is there a problem?" said Miss Marple.
"I’ve just got to get this weighed," said Darren.
Miss Marple and I looked at each other, and raised eyebrows simultaneously.
"But I weighed it on the scales, like the signs told me to," said Miss marple.
Darren looked at her, and without taking his ipod from his ears said "Yeah, but I gotta get it checked."
At this point Darren disappeared for three or four days to check that we hadn’t put one fruit salad in the bag, weighed it, and then filled it to the brim.
You are ahead of me I know, but if the shop aren’t going to trust people to be honest, WHY GET US TO FUCKING WEIGH IT IN THE FUCKING FIRST PLACE.
I should have known my trip to Wilkinsons wasn’t going to be good, I should have realized that once I had been head butted in the testicles by a two year old, things weren’t going to get any better. I should have gone straight to the car, and gone back to work.
Yes just before entering Wilkinsons, my gonads had a coming together with a two year old boy! I was walking along, and coming towards me was a lady with her toddler of a son. He was a dear little chap, and he was doing that walk that only a two year old can do. You know the one, they sort of defy gravity by kind of permanently stumbling forward, but never actually hitting the deck. It’s hard to replicate, I know I have tried.
They combine this with never actually looking in the direction that they are traveling in. You can’t blame them, when you’re two the world is a wondrous place, full of lots of things to see. "Look mummy, doggie" etc.
So anyway, the little chap was heading towards me, and I could see what might potentially happen. I did my best, honest I did, but every time I moved one way or another, the little chap countered me, it wasn’t looking good. I must have looked like a cross between a rugby player, stepping one way and then the other, trying to avoid the oncoming tackle, and an overweight, out of work ballerina, who had fallen on hard times, and had resorted to performing on the streets to make ends meet.
I was stepping this way, pirouetting that way, swerving here, rolling there, but to no avail, the little chap's right ear impacted on my gonads. Fortunately the pain wasn’t severe. My main concern was that his mother, having witnessed me thrusting my groin in the direction of her two year old boys head, was going to shout "Pedophile" at the top of her voice, and the ‘Child abuse swat team’ would rope down from helicopters, and I would be taken away.
My computer would be carried from the house in a plastic bag, and I would have to suffer the indignity of the trip to court in an armored van, while people hurled bottles and themselves at it. Press photographers would try to take pictures of the ‘Evil one’ through the blacked out windows, and even after pleading my innocence, I would spend years in jail being some enormous black man’s bitch. I would have to be kept in the isolation wing for my own protection, and try to sleep at night as fellow inmates shouted "Nonce" all night long.
Fortunately it never came to this. After apologising profusely, she said "Oh he’s always doing that" To which I felt like saying "Maybe a little counseling wouldn’t go amiss then Madame, nip it in the bud." But I didn’t, once again my now slightly tender balls just weren’t up to it.
Oh and God made it rain from our kitchen ceiling, but that is another story for another day. I am exhausted, and Troy say’s he needs a break.
Love and kisses.
As a sort of disclaimer, can I just say that there are obviously many people throughout the world that are in a much worse position than myself, and I in no way wish to belittle their problems, by comparing my relatively minor moans and groans to theirs. That’s the legal stuff out of the way. Never the less, I did feel that the good Lord was testing my patience to the limit last week.
I don’t know about you, but there are times when the lunacy and sheer stupidity that can occur on this planet, can drive me to very dark places. It is at times like these that I can be found sitting alone in the attic, illuminated by a single flickering forty watt bulb, clutching my knees to my chest, slowly rocking back and forth, and talking to Troy my action man. I spent quite a lot of time in the attic last week, and here are two examples of why.
Example 1
My friend told me about this, I say friend, his name is Colin, and he visits me at the day centre. I think he is paid to do it, but they won’t confirm that.
Where he works, there is a sort of reception building come guard post, and in there, are what can only be described as pseudo Nazis. Little men (they are always short) that positively revel in bureaucracy and jobs worthiness. If they could, I wouldn’t put it passed them to strip naked and frolic on a bed of paper work, and rub themselves all over with rules and regulations.
Anyway, if you have a visitor coming to see you, you have to inform the reception of their arrival. Time, name, reason for visit, blood type, sperm count, mother’s maiden name etc. He told me of an instance recently, that went something like this…….
Please read the part of the pseudo Nazi with an adenoidal train spotter type voice, it will help honest! (You could also read it with a German accent, but that is probably racist)
Colin rings the reception.
Nazi - Good morning reception, how can I help you?
Colin - Ah good morning, I have a visitor coming this morning, I …….
Nazi - Whoa wo wo hold it right there…….
Colin - Sorry, I just wanted to inform you of his arrival, and…….
Nazi - I’m not listening (Puts fingers in ears) la la la la la la…….
Colin - I’m sorry, is there a problem?
Nazi - Everybody has been advised, that if they wish to inform us of a visitation, they can only do so by fax.
Colin - Ah yes, sorry about that, I forgot. While I’m on the phone, could we just do it now?
Nazi - La la la la la la I’ve told you, only by fax. If you would be so kind as to fax the details through, I would be happy to process it for you.
Colin - ok ok, I’ll fax it.
Colin follows the correct procedure, and faxes all the information through.
An hour and a half later, his phone rings…….ring ring, ring ring…….
Colin - Hello.
Nazi - Yes hello, it is reception here, you have a visitor of which we have not been informed. The rules quite clearly state, that all visitors must be pre booked in by their visitees, two or more hours before the arrival of said guest.
Colin - I phoned you this morning…….
Nazi - Oh well, that’s where you have gone wrong you see, you should have faxed the information through.
Colin - I did.
Nazi - You have just said that you phoned.
Colin - I phoned first, and then you told me to fax it, which I then did.
Nazi - Well we haven’t received it.
Colin - Well I can’t help that, if you had let me do it over the phone, we Wouldn’t be having this problem would we.
Nazi - Ah you can’t phone it through, you have to fax it.
Colin - I DID
Nazi - Well we haven’t received it…….
And so it goes on and on, like some kind of hellish perpetual spiral. Down into the bowels of Hades.
The other example is by far my favorite. I really bent Troy’s ear with this one. It happened last week, Miss Marple and myself had both nipped out of work one lunchtime to do some stuff in town. One of the things we had to do, was pay a visit to ‘Wilkinsons’. Now, after the collapse of Woolworths, Wilkinsons has now been promoted to the top spot of ‘worst shops in existence’.
Call me a snob, call me aloof, call me elitist, call me pompous, but I bloody can’t stand Wilkinsons. It seems to always be full of old people who smell of urine, and chavs, who apparently also smell of urine, mixed with the residue of Marlboro lights. Our local branch has a low sort of window sill that runs the whole length of the window. This is always full of old people just sitting there. What are they doing? I always feel like I need to walk through some kind of sheep dip when exiting the shop, to be cleansed.
Anyway, I took a deep breath, plucked up the courage, tried to be a grown up for ten minutes, and took the first tentative steps through the front door. I followed Miss Marple around, hanging onto her coat tails, staring wide eyed, and trying desperately to avoid contact with anyone, eye or otherwise. We got all the bits we needed, and headed towards the checkout.
On route to the checkout, Miss Marple spied the ‘Pick and mix’ section. Being a bit of a sucker for things that are colourful and sugary, she decided to treat herself. She filled up the bag with all sorts of goodies, and then we both noticed signs that were three foot high, saying……."Please weigh your pick and mix bag, before taking it to the checkout. Thank you." As the signs were so prominent, and so numerous, we took it that this was very important, and failing to adhere to this rule would result in us being ejected forcibly from the shop, or arrested, or beheaded or something. So Miss Marple diligently weighed the bag, and stuck the little sticker that came out of the machine onto the bag.
We got to the checkout, and I was delighted that I had almost completed the mission without brushing up against any old people or chavs. We were standing in the queue, and I was only a few inches away from a real life chav. She was a proper one and everything. She had the Croydon face lift haircut, tracksuit bottoms, a gob full of chewing gum, a mobile phone which seemed to be welded to her ear, and half a dozen or so screaming chavlets.
It was at times like this that I wished I had the courage to ask her if she had any idea which schools she would be sending her little darlings to. She would inevitably ask me what it had got to do with me, at which point I could tell her that I was in little doubt that I was paying for their existence, so I would just like to be assured that they would be receiving a half decent education, so that there was a small glimmer of hope that they would find some kind of employment in their adult years, so that I wouldn’t have to pay for them for the full three score years and ten! But alas my balls are not that big.
I did however take this opportunity to do the sniff test. I glanced surreptitiously left and right to see if the coast was clear, and then gingerly leaned forward. I squeezed my right nostril shut with my index finger, and inhaled heartily. It is indeed true, my nostril was filled with the aroma of piss and Marlboro lights, and a heady combination it was to.
I am surprised that some perfume company hasn’t tried to capture this scent in a bottle. ‘Au de chav’ Of course the chav would be said in a French kind of way, probably "Shav" or something. I can picture the advert now, a lady chav would be reclining on a chez long covered in benefit claims, the chavlets would be shooting pensioners from the window with air rifles, Dad chav would be watching ‘Stargate’ on his heavily subsidized 52" plasma, and daughter chav would be getting knocked up, and filling in the child benefit forms simultaneously. Mum chav would then lean provocatively towards the camera (Retch) and say……."Le Shav, the fragrance from laboratory garneaaaaaaa, because your werfless"
Anyway, we eventually got to the checkout. The stuff was being beeped through the scanner, and all was well. Then ‘Darren’ or whatever his name was, picked up the bag of pick and mix. He stopped, why was he not beeping it, it quite clearly had a bar code on the sticker that came out of the machine.
"Oh hang on a minute." Said Darren.
"Is there a problem?" said Miss Marple.
"I’ve just got to get this weighed," said Darren.
Miss Marple and I looked at each other, and raised eyebrows simultaneously.
"But I weighed it on the scales, like the signs told me to," said Miss marple.
Darren looked at her, and without taking his ipod from his ears said "Yeah, but I gotta get it checked."
At this point Darren disappeared for three or four days to check that we hadn’t put one fruit salad in the bag, weighed it, and then filled it to the brim.
You are ahead of me I know, but if the shop aren’t going to trust people to be honest, WHY GET US TO FUCKING WEIGH IT IN THE FUCKING FIRST PLACE.
I should have known my trip to Wilkinsons wasn’t going to be good, I should have realized that once I had been head butted in the testicles by a two year old, things weren’t going to get any better. I should have gone straight to the car, and gone back to work.
Yes just before entering Wilkinsons, my gonads had a coming together with a two year old boy! I was walking along, and coming towards me was a lady with her toddler of a son. He was a dear little chap, and he was doing that walk that only a two year old can do. You know the one, they sort of defy gravity by kind of permanently stumbling forward, but never actually hitting the deck. It’s hard to replicate, I know I have tried.
They combine this with never actually looking in the direction that they are traveling in. You can’t blame them, when you’re two the world is a wondrous place, full of lots of things to see. "Look mummy, doggie" etc.
So anyway, the little chap was heading towards me, and I could see what might potentially happen. I did my best, honest I did, but every time I moved one way or another, the little chap countered me, it wasn’t looking good. I must have looked like a cross between a rugby player, stepping one way and then the other, trying to avoid the oncoming tackle, and an overweight, out of work ballerina, who had fallen on hard times, and had resorted to performing on the streets to make ends meet.
I was stepping this way, pirouetting that way, swerving here, rolling there, but to no avail, the little chap's right ear impacted on my gonads. Fortunately the pain wasn’t severe. My main concern was that his mother, having witnessed me thrusting my groin in the direction of her two year old boys head, was going to shout "Pedophile" at the top of her voice, and the ‘Child abuse swat team’ would rope down from helicopters, and I would be taken away.
My computer would be carried from the house in a plastic bag, and I would have to suffer the indignity of the trip to court in an armored van, while people hurled bottles and themselves at it. Press photographers would try to take pictures of the ‘Evil one’ through the blacked out windows, and even after pleading my innocence, I would spend years in jail being some enormous black man’s bitch. I would have to be kept in the isolation wing for my own protection, and try to sleep at night as fellow inmates shouted "Nonce" all night long.
Fortunately it never came to this. After apologising profusely, she said "Oh he’s always doing that" To which I felt like saying "Maybe a little counseling wouldn’t go amiss then Madame, nip it in the bud." But I didn’t, once again my now slightly tender balls just weren’t up to it.
Oh and God made it rain from our kitchen ceiling, but that is another story for another day. I am exhausted, and Troy say’s he needs a break.
Love and kisses.
Thursday, 26 February 2009
You might as well face it, your addicted to.......
Jack watched the rain run slowly down the window, as he looked at all the people in the street below. All the happy people, with friends, lovers, purpose and hope. He turned and scanned his dimly lit bedsit, and coughed as he tightened the belt around his arm. As he did so, he couldn’t help but notice how dirty his fingernails were, and how much nicotine was staining his trembling fingers. Sweat dampened his lank black hair, and as he pushed the needle into his raised vein, he looked up and stared at himself in the mirror.
How had it come to this? Where was the Jack he had lost sight of? Very soon his drug of choice would take affect, and for a short while he would be free from this hell, but not really free, just a temporary freedom.
This goes to explain somewhat, how I feel when I am watching the ‘X Factor’!
‘Experts’ in the field of addiction management etc etc, would tell us that it is usually necessary for an addict to hit ‘rock bottom’ of whichever pit of addiction he or she has stumbled into, before we can start clawing our way back up the sides, and clambering on to the road to recovery. They would also tell us, that it is necessary for an addict to admit to his or her problem, before they can make the journey of recovery.
So, Here I am. I am going to take the plunge and admit to the world, and more importantly to myself, that I watch far too much reality TV!
There I have done it. I know the shock and repulsion may be a little too much for some of you to bear, especially any relations reading this, but don’t desert me now, I need your support.
Every recovering addict will probably be able to tell you, when and what made them realize that they had reached the bottom of their ‘pit’.
My own pit realization moment came on Saturday night, brace yourselves, this is going to be ugly, I found myself watching ‘American Idol’. Just before you pass out completely, let me get it all out in the open. Not only was I watching ‘American Idol’ but I was watching ‘American Idol’ that I had recorded on Sky Plus!
(Wipes the tears away from his puffed and bloodshot eyes, and looks to the heavens for forgiveness)
I couldn’t even claim to have stumbled upon the program by accident, and then not be able to turn it over due to a faulty remote. No, the horrifying truth of it was, I had purposefully recorded the program, and left early from my Grandmothers funeral to sate my compulsion! (I made the funeral bit up, it was only a memorial service!)
Reality TV is just like any other drug. Alcohol, Heroin, cigarettes whatever, it’s always the same. You start of with a little, and it escalates into full blown addiction. It was like this for me. I started off with just a little recreational reality TV, you know how it is, maybe the odd bit of ‘Dancing on’ ice, or a casual glance at ‘Celeb air’, but unfortunately I didn’t get off of the road to addiction while I had the chance, I saw the signs, why did I choose to ignore them?
Before I knew it, I was watching the lot, you start off with the lighter stuff, and before long you are scouring the channels for harder and harder material. Then the day finally comes when you watch ‘American Idol’ and immediately turn over to ITV2+1 and watch the whole damn thing again! It is then time to get help…….sigh.
Watching the X Factor is bad enough, but watching the American version is just shameful. My God they are irritating with their whiney American voices, and there bleached teeth, high fiving, and whooping and hollering, and that’s just the judges (Boom boom). Of course we have Lord Cowell on the far left of the panel. Keeping the stiff British end up, refusing to high five anyone, and generally being the last bastion of decorum in the whole bloody circus.
Listening to Brits balling their eyes out, and telling their mothers over the phone that the judges are all know nothing cretins (Dani Minogue – fair enough) is one thing, but listening to whiney, spoilt, brattish, daddy’s little darling, stage school, shiatsu preening, ego maniac little American girls is just the absolute pits.
Now, there is undoubtedly some talent on this show, some of the singing is very good, but then they have to go and spoil it all by talking!
"I’m just so happy to be here today, it’s a great experience to meet all you guys. I’d like to thank God for giving me this talent, and I just love you all…….giggle."
The American judges of course suck all this up with glee, it is of course left to Lord Cowell to tell the little brat to shut up and get on with it.
If ‘American Idol’ is my Heroin, then ‘Master Chef’ must be my cocaine. Again, for some reason compulsive viewing, and immensely annoying at the same time.
For non addicts, the basic premise of the show is thus. Members of the public have to cook meals, which two blokes then judge. These ‘judges’ are an Australian chef, and some baldy, pseudo cockney green grocer bloke. How did he get that gig? Was there a producers meeting one day, and they said "What we need is a couple of top flight chefs," and some bright spark at the back piped up, "No, lets have one chef, and a green grocer." And everyone for some reason thought that this was a good idea!
So anyway, the contestants slave over a hot stove with these two blokes wandering around asking them if "They really want it" and then when all the cooking is done, we watch chef bloke, and grocer geezer stuff their chubby cheeks, and tell them that they haven’t seasoned it properly. While we are on the subject, if anyone out there can enlighten me as to what putting salt and pepper into something actually does, more than just making it more salty and peppery, please tell me. I genuinely don’t get it.
The best bit of the show, is when the contestants are sent to a real ‘Top flight’ restaurant in the heart of London, to cook lunch for some unsuspecting diners. I don’t know about you, but if I was some city boy (Spit) and I was going to some swanky restaurant for an overpriced plate of salad leaves and a ‘pan fried’ something, I would hope that the person cooking it was bloody qualified.
I don’t know why chefs bother going to catering school for God knows how many years, and toil away in steaming kitchens, working their way up the ladder, because apparently you can just walk in off of the street, and with ten minutes tuition, do just as good a job!
Then it’s back to ‘Master Chef HQ’ for the final verdict. Chef bloke and grocer geezer go in to some back room and confer. They mull it all over, and try to come to a decision about who is going through to the next round, and who is "going home." It’s at this point that the chef bloke always starts to throw his weight about a bit, and starts using the "I’m the chef, and your just the bloody green grocer" card. Because however much they disagree, chef bloke always gets his way. Their deliberations are always fairly amicable on camera, but I bet once the cameras are turned off; i bet it goes something like this…….
Please read the following section with Australian and cockney accents where appropriate. Thanks.
Chef bloke – So, What do ya reckon to this bunch of no hopers then mate.
Green grocer – Gawd bleedin’ blimey, I have never tasted such a load of old fucking crap in all me bleedin’ life.
Chef bloke – No what ya meeeeaan mate, not a fuckin’ shrimp in site, and what was that bloody thing that the fat bloke cooked up?
Green grocer – Don’t ask me treacle, tasted worse than my wife’s beef curtains after a heavy session in the gym.
Chef bloke – Anyway, got to put one of them through I suppose. I say we put the tart through.
Green grocer – Did somebody make a tart?
Chef bloke – No you fuckin’ cockney wanker, the tart with the big tits, I think the tits are enough to get her through.
Green grocer – What did she cook guvnor?
Chef bloke – Aaaaaaw Christ, I don’t fuckin’ know. Some bloody pasta thing, tasted like bloody shoe laces, but who cares, don’t ya wanna cop an eyeful of those baps again cobber?
Green grocer – Course I fuckin’ do, but hey this is a cooking competition after all. I say we put the lifter through. He may be savaloy jockey, but his beef Wellington was an awesome plate of food.
Chef bloke – Don’t forget who the bloody chef is here baldy. Your just a bloody green grocer.
Green grocer – Oh don’t start with that shit again, it’s not bleedin’ fair, you pull this chef shit on me every week, I’ve ‘ad it up to ‘ear.
Chef bloke – It’s big tits or your out on your ear. There’s plenty of fuckin’ grocers about mate, are we riding the same wave? surfing on the same board? Eh?
And so big tits goes through!
I was watching the penultimate episode of bloody Master Chef last night, and it had to be the worst yet. The podge brothers were barking at them, that "This is going to be the hardest day of their life." and "It doesn't get tougher than this." ....... Dear God, i think that the bloke half way up Everest, or the African mother dying of AIDS, or the husband and father who has just been made redundant would all have something to say about that crass remark podgy!
The bloody contestants were crying just because some ultra poncy chef had said that he quite liked what they had cooked. All of you, take a step back, look at yourselves, and get a fucking grip! I have not watched the final tonight out of protest.......I wonder if there is a BBC1+2?.......no stop it.......
I prefer the good old days of master chef. If you are going to poncify food, then do it properly with the prince of poncification, Lloyd Grossman. Now there was a man that new how to poncify. I always thought he would make an excellent third ‘Crane’ brother.
Talking of poncifying food, you do hear some nonsense spoken in the world of TV chefdom, but the absolute epitome of ponciness, has to be that spiky haired bastard Gary Rhodes. Oh dear God I just want to skewer him, and slowly spit roast him with an apple in his gob. We are all familiar with the usual non sensical crap that these chefs come out with, pan fried, sun dried, drizzled, frothed etc etc, but Gary Rhodes committed what in my opinion is the most heinous cheffy bullshit remark to date. He actually said that he was going to "Introduce the gravy to the potatoes." Introduce…….What a bastard!
So, I suppose I will have to get some kind of treatment then. I wonder what it will consist of? If I was a celeb I would obviously end up in the Priory, but I suppose I will have to make do with whatever the National Health has got to offer. Perhaps they will just stop me watching completely, and I will have to go through cold turkey. The shakes, sweats, sobbing as I pathetically press the buttons on a battery-less Sky remote. "Make it work Doctor, make it work" I would plead, as I ungraciously tugged at his white coat.
Perhaps they will try to wean me off it. I’ll be allowed to watch the X Factor, but not the X-tra Factor. I don’t know, maybe they will attach electrodes to my testicles, and shock me until I no longer feel the desire to just have half an hour of ‘Strictly’. Who knows.
On a finishing note, what a tragedy for Jade Goody (Her married name escapes me) and her family. Probably the most iconic result of realty TV ever known, cut off in her prime time prime. I won’t be a hypocrite and start saying how wonderful I think she is, because I don’t. I am not a fan at all of this celebrity culture, famous for being famous and so on, but I can’t deny that it is incredibly sad. Reality star or not, a mother is a mother, a daughter is a daughter, and a wife is a wife.
See you all when I have got some more rubbish to get off of my chest!
How had it come to this? Where was the Jack he had lost sight of? Very soon his drug of choice would take affect, and for a short while he would be free from this hell, but not really free, just a temporary freedom.
This goes to explain somewhat, how I feel when I am watching the ‘X Factor’!
‘Experts’ in the field of addiction management etc etc, would tell us that it is usually necessary for an addict to hit ‘rock bottom’ of whichever pit of addiction he or she has stumbled into, before we can start clawing our way back up the sides, and clambering on to the road to recovery. They would also tell us, that it is necessary for an addict to admit to his or her problem, before they can make the journey of recovery.
So, Here I am. I am going to take the plunge and admit to the world, and more importantly to myself, that I watch far too much reality TV!
There I have done it. I know the shock and repulsion may be a little too much for some of you to bear, especially any relations reading this, but don’t desert me now, I need your support.
Every recovering addict will probably be able to tell you, when and what made them realize that they had reached the bottom of their ‘pit’.
My own pit realization moment came on Saturday night, brace yourselves, this is going to be ugly, I found myself watching ‘American Idol’. Just before you pass out completely, let me get it all out in the open. Not only was I watching ‘American Idol’ but I was watching ‘American Idol’ that I had recorded on Sky Plus!
(Wipes the tears away from his puffed and bloodshot eyes, and looks to the heavens for forgiveness)
I couldn’t even claim to have stumbled upon the program by accident, and then not be able to turn it over due to a faulty remote. No, the horrifying truth of it was, I had purposefully recorded the program, and left early from my Grandmothers funeral to sate my compulsion! (I made the funeral bit up, it was only a memorial service!)
Reality TV is just like any other drug. Alcohol, Heroin, cigarettes whatever, it’s always the same. You start of with a little, and it escalates into full blown addiction. It was like this for me. I started off with just a little recreational reality TV, you know how it is, maybe the odd bit of ‘Dancing on’ ice, or a casual glance at ‘Celeb air’, but unfortunately I didn’t get off of the road to addiction while I had the chance, I saw the signs, why did I choose to ignore them?
Before I knew it, I was watching the lot, you start off with the lighter stuff, and before long you are scouring the channels for harder and harder material. Then the day finally comes when you watch ‘American Idol’ and immediately turn over to ITV2+1 and watch the whole damn thing again! It is then time to get help…….sigh.
Watching the X Factor is bad enough, but watching the American version is just shameful. My God they are irritating with their whiney American voices, and there bleached teeth, high fiving, and whooping and hollering, and that’s just the judges (Boom boom). Of course we have Lord Cowell on the far left of the panel. Keeping the stiff British end up, refusing to high five anyone, and generally being the last bastion of decorum in the whole bloody circus.
Listening to Brits balling their eyes out, and telling their mothers over the phone that the judges are all know nothing cretins (Dani Minogue – fair enough) is one thing, but listening to whiney, spoilt, brattish, daddy’s little darling, stage school, shiatsu preening, ego maniac little American girls is just the absolute pits.
Now, there is undoubtedly some talent on this show, some of the singing is very good, but then they have to go and spoil it all by talking!
"I’m just so happy to be here today, it’s a great experience to meet all you guys. I’d like to thank God for giving me this talent, and I just love you all…….giggle."
The American judges of course suck all this up with glee, it is of course left to Lord Cowell to tell the little brat to shut up and get on with it.
If ‘American Idol’ is my Heroin, then ‘Master Chef’ must be my cocaine. Again, for some reason compulsive viewing, and immensely annoying at the same time.
For non addicts, the basic premise of the show is thus. Members of the public have to cook meals, which two blokes then judge. These ‘judges’ are an Australian chef, and some baldy, pseudo cockney green grocer bloke. How did he get that gig? Was there a producers meeting one day, and they said "What we need is a couple of top flight chefs," and some bright spark at the back piped up, "No, lets have one chef, and a green grocer." And everyone for some reason thought that this was a good idea!
So anyway, the contestants slave over a hot stove with these two blokes wandering around asking them if "They really want it" and then when all the cooking is done, we watch chef bloke, and grocer geezer stuff their chubby cheeks, and tell them that they haven’t seasoned it properly. While we are on the subject, if anyone out there can enlighten me as to what putting salt and pepper into something actually does, more than just making it more salty and peppery, please tell me. I genuinely don’t get it.
The best bit of the show, is when the contestants are sent to a real ‘Top flight’ restaurant in the heart of London, to cook lunch for some unsuspecting diners. I don’t know about you, but if I was some city boy (Spit) and I was going to some swanky restaurant for an overpriced plate of salad leaves and a ‘pan fried’ something, I would hope that the person cooking it was bloody qualified.
I don’t know why chefs bother going to catering school for God knows how many years, and toil away in steaming kitchens, working their way up the ladder, because apparently you can just walk in off of the street, and with ten minutes tuition, do just as good a job!
Then it’s back to ‘Master Chef HQ’ for the final verdict. Chef bloke and grocer geezer go in to some back room and confer. They mull it all over, and try to come to a decision about who is going through to the next round, and who is "going home." It’s at this point that the chef bloke always starts to throw his weight about a bit, and starts using the "I’m the chef, and your just the bloody green grocer" card. Because however much they disagree, chef bloke always gets his way. Their deliberations are always fairly amicable on camera, but I bet once the cameras are turned off; i bet it goes something like this…….
Please read the following section with Australian and cockney accents where appropriate. Thanks.
Chef bloke – So, What do ya reckon to this bunch of no hopers then mate.
Green grocer – Gawd bleedin’ blimey, I have never tasted such a load of old fucking crap in all me bleedin’ life.
Chef bloke – No what ya meeeeaan mate, not a fuckin’ shrimp in site, and what was that bloody thing that the fat bloke cooked up?
Green grocer – Don’t ask me treacle, tasted worse than my wife’s beef curtains after a heavy session in the gym.
Chef bloke – Anyway, got to put one of them through I suppose. I say we put the tart through.
Green grocer – Did somebody make a tart?
Chef bloke – No you fuckin’ cockney wanker, the tart with the big tits, I think the tits are enough to get her through.
Green grocer – What did she cook guvnor?
Chef bloke – Aaaaaaw Christ, I don’t fuckin’ know. Some bloody pasta thing, tasted like bloody shoe laces, but who cares, don’t ya wanna cop an eyeful of those baps again cobber?
Green grocer – Course I fuckin’ do, but hey this is a cooking competition after all. I say we put the lifter through. He may be savaloy jockey, but his beef Wellington was an awesome plate of food.
Chef bloke – Don’t forget who the bloody chef is here baldy. Your just a bloody green grocer.
Green grocer – Oh don’t start with that shit again, it’s not bleedin’ fair, you pull this chef shit on me every week, I’ve ‘ad it up to ‘ear.
Chef bloke – It’s big tits or your out on your ear. There’s plenty of fuckin’ grocers about mate, are we riding the same wave? surfing on the same board? Eh?
And so big tits goes through!
I was watching the penultimate episode of bloody Master Chef last night, and it had to be the worst yet. The podge brothers were barking at them, that "This is going to be the hardest day of their life." and "It doesn't get tougher than this." ....... Dear God, i think that the bloke half way up Everest, or the African mother dying of AIDS, or the husband and father who has just been made redundant would all have something to say about that crass remark podgy!
The bloody contestants were crying just because some ultra poncy chef had said that he quite liked what they had cooked. All of you, take a step back, look at yourselves, and get a fucking grip! I have not watched the final tonight out of protest.......I wonder if there is a BBC1+2?.......no stop it.......
I prefer the good old days of master chef. If you are going to poncify food, then do it properly with the prince of poncification, Lloyd Grossman. Now there was a man that new how to poncify. I always thought he would make an excellent third ‘Crane’ brother.
Talking of poncifying food, you do hear some nonsense spoken in the world of TV chefdom, but the absolute epitome of ponciness, has to be that spiky haired bastard Gary Rhodes. Oh dear God I just want to skewer him, and slowly spit roast him with an apple in his gob. We are all familiar with the usual non sensical crap that these chefs come out with, pan fried, sun dried, drizzled, frothed etc etc, but Gary Rhodes committed what in my opinion is the most heinous cheffy bullshit remark to date. He actually said that he was going to "Introduce the gravy to the potatoes." Introduce…….What a bastard!
So, I suppose I will have to get some kind of treatment then. I wonder what it will consist of? If I was a celeb I would obviously end up in the Priory, but I suppose I will have to make do with whatever the National Health has got to offer. Perhaps they will just stop me watching completely, and I will have to go through cold turkey. The shakes, sweats, sobbing as I pathetically press the buttons on a battery-less Sky remote. "Make it work Doctor, make it work" I would plead, as I ungraciously tugged at his white coat.
Perhaps they will try to wean me off it. I’ll be allowed to watch the X Factor, but not the X-tra Factor. I don’t know, maybe they will attach electrodes to my testicles, and shock me until I no longer feel the desire to just have half an hour of ‘Strictly’. Who knows.
On a finishing note, what a tragedy for Jade Goody (Her married name escapes me) and her family. Probably the most iconic result of realty TV ever known, cut off in her prime time prime. I won’t be a hypocrite and start saying how wonderful I think she is, because I don’t. I am not a fan at all of this celebrity culture, famous for being famous and so on, but I can’t deny that it is incredibly sad. Reality star or not, a mother is a mother, a daughter is a daughter, and a wife is a wife.
See you all when I have got some more rubbish to get off of my chest!
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