Wolf Disguised As Monk

And that’s a cunt’s trick to play on someone, isn’t it?

Anyway, I’m back.
Ish.

I’ve been really busy and fuck you guys, anyway. I’ll be back soon with a full and frank description of what I’ve been up to. In the meantime, watch this; it’s basically what I’ve been doing.

Be seeing you…

Ooooooooooh, God.

That was a massive sigh, by the way. I’ve got an event coming up that I’d like you all to come to. If you like. But it’s on Tuesday 13th of October. That’s this Tuesday, viewers! If you are reading it before this Tuesday, anyway. Otherwise it was last Tuesday. Or today. Or… hang on, this is giving me a nosebleed. I know how Marty McFly felt now.

Anyway, the event is that I’m showing two films at The Sunflower Lounge on Smallbrook Queensway in Birmingham City Centre. So come along and you can watch The Life Acquatic With Steve Zisou and Jaws. Two films that aren’t about what you think they are. There will be a comprehension exercise afterwards.

I would like to insist that everyone who attends orders seafood pizza to get right into the spirit of things.

It’s free and there is fuck all else to do on Tuesday. And YOU’RE not doing anything, anyway. It’s not as if you’ve got any fucking plans, is it?

Welcome back to what appears to be the most popular section of the blog website, which in the interests of full disclosure I must again admit to not inventing, but stealing the entire concept from Peacock And Gamble (who you should really check out if you haven’t already. Tell them I sent you… not that they know me.).

This week, Ugg Boots.

Ugg boots are not flattering. Not to anyone. Not at all. I don’t care who you are or what you look like, or even if you are Japanese (of which more, and later) who seem to be the principle offenders. Please realise, they are furry wellies and do not even function like wellies. Try wearing them in the rain. That’s two hundred quid down the fucking drain.

So to recap, if you want to look like you are hiding hideously malformed feet the knock yourself out, spend two hundred quid on them. Otherwise buy something else. Anything.

Incidentally, I don’t know that shitstain in the photo, it was stolen from off of the internets. If it’s you, fuck you you cunt, you shouldn’t have posted a photo of yourself looking like a cunt for the world to see. Whoever you are, if you wear Ugg boots, you look like this twat.

Be seeing you…

I haven’t had much to say about Hollyoaks of late. Partially because I am much more engrossed in the little Load And Go micro-soap that bookends the adverts, and partially because it has gone utterly fucking ridiculous. If you can imagine such a thing.

The first thing I would like to say is that I am fully aware that it’s not a documentary, it’s a stupid soap-opera, but I demand continuity inside it’s own universe, dammit!
I suppose it started irritating me around the time Warren died. I think that a former copper, even a bent one would engender more belief and respect than a known gangster, especially when he is prepared to put his own freedom and what not on the line to get him collared (leaving aside the dubious legality of illegally recorded confessions).

But anyway, this is what is winding me up now:
The Money.
So Archie, Elliot, Kris and scouse lad moved into a flat and found a bag full of cash. So far, so brilliant. Next they all decide that they are all entitled to a quarter of it and because it is probably ill-gotten gains there is no need to report it to the Police (If I found it, reporting it to the Police would not even cross my mind. There is a fair chance I wouldn’t even report it to my flatmates. Especially if Archie was one of them.). Brilliant, still. Next they start counting it everyday, worrying about who is nicking it, not trusting each other, spending it on a fucking safe that they all know one digit of. What a bunch of wankers. Why not just split it four ways and let everyone worry about their own portion? Syphon it into their respective bank accounts over a few months and not say anything about it to anyone? Or if they really want to seem mysterious and exciting why not open a Swiss bank account and deposit in there? This would also let them film a holiday special with the four lads jetting off to Switzerland, getting into scrapes and ultimately finding themselves. In short, Massive cunts.

Gaz.
Jesus fucking Christ, Gaz the one dimensional (although at least he’s got a surname now), comedy racist/ trainee rapist (which reminds me of a joke I heard on Womans Hour the other day; a bloke walks into a bar and says to the barman, “I could have any woman in here.” the barman says “How can you be so sure?” The bloke replies “I’m a rapist.” TRUFAX.) is back. Ace. Why does this pointless interference always want to hang around with people he hates? Hasn’t he got any mates of his own? What happened to that big gang of wankers who poured white paint (clearly symbolic spunk) all over Anita (and we’ll get to her in a bit.)? Why is he so eager to hang out with people he hates and who hate him? I know I repeated that bit, but I just really don’t get it. Perhaps he is mentally handicapped.

Anita Roy Is Adopted.
I’m not adopted, because my parents love me, but surely Gov and Smitta Smitten, showbiz kitten are still her parents, just because they are not biological. Perhaps this is just so that Anita can be sent off on some damn fool ideological crusade to find her real parents? I reckon they are dead, and her current parents are her aunt and uncle or something.
I often wish I was adopted, I think it would be fun.
In fact all the story lines involving the kids, I hate them all. Especially all of them.

Nancy.
When, how and why did she become so frumpy and boring? Bet she regrets that tattoo. Oh yeah, why does she let Darren lounge about her flat all day like a great blinged up slug? It’s her house, fuck him off.

Calvin.
Calvin has a type.
Calvin like blondes with big knockers.
Cheryl has blonde hair and big knockers.
Cheryl is in fact a whirlwind made of tits and ass.
Cheryl wants Calvin up inside her.
WHY DOESN’T THIS HAPPEN!? SHE IS AWESOME!
Big booty bitches is where it’s at, by the way.

Baby Max.
I sincerely hope that next time Jackie goes looking for this vile child (by the way Jackie, it’s not your baby, it’s the spawn of your half sister and Russ, the human doormat, so please stop referring to it as yours, for fucks sake.) I hope that we hear Russ has killed and eaten them both. The village will soon forget.

This has been forwarded to the producers. I eagerly await their response.

Be seeing you…

ADDENDUM: In the course of my research for this article (oh yes, research) I came across this. They seem to have left out that if you really want to be like slot-eyed heartthrob Rhys, you should probably fuck your sister, too.

Also, what is the point of this? Tokyo Grunger. Don’t make me fucking sick.

You, the internet, have been fooled somehow. This shark-eyed cunt:

…is not funny. Not in the least. He’s not clever, witty or incisive. He’s not even a good public speaker. He stutters and stammers and laughs over his every inane proclamation. And he hates you, can’t you tell? While we are at it, Peter Kay, Britain’s favourite pointer out of the fucking obvious isn’t funny, either.

This man is:

…and he hates you, too.
With apologies to Ray Peacock and rib-faced-toddler-tickler Ed Gamble.

Be seeing you…