Archive for September, 2009

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…

With it’s impenetrable logic and it’s unsettlingly frank depiction of a scat obsessed home life, not dissimilar to A Million Little Pieces by liar and fantasist James Frey, it has made an obscene impact on the lives of all of us. Some more than others. Literally thousands of people, mostly girls have made literally thousands of homemade versions made by all sorts of people, ranging from despicably unfunny twats:

To good old fashioned pricks:

Yes, SC Johnson a Family Company expose the utterly base nature of a culture that can be taken by storm by an advert about a tiny child and his desire to void his bowels.
The story of Charlie Dimmock, her adopted child and his bizarre desire to lay cables at other peoples houses has touched all of our hearts but there are questions that need answering. They are:
Who is this Paul character?
What is so great about his bathroom (note for those of you who live in council houses: a bathroom in a normal house has a toilet in it too. I don’t think they are suggesting that he parks his breakfast in the bathtub.)?
Why is Charlie Dimmock even considering letting her adopted child go to this “Paul’s” for a shit?
Is a massive white monolith stuck to the wall next to the toilet really that much more discreet than a spray?

After extensive research I shall address these in reverse order. Is it more discreet? No. No it’s not. It does look more like some sort of intercom device, yes, but it’s no more discreet than a hand fan and an open window, the simplest and cheapest way of airing ones stool-vapour.
Why is Dimmock letting her child besmirch other peoples lavatories? Two options present themselves here, as the child is clearly adopted, there is no way on Earth it will be loved as much as a proper child. More than likely it will be despised by Dimmock and the act of wiping feces from it’s putrid anus will make her want to puke her fucking guts up. Even after working with that cunt, Titchmarsh. Therefore sending the awful whore-progeny to another persons house and letting someone else wipe it’s arse will be blessed relief (but what sort of person would want to wipe a strange infants buttocks? Hold that thought…) The second option, equally probable to my mind is that Dimmock is getting some sort of kickback for sending the unwanted one to this “Paul’s” house. But whose (Hold that thought too, and put it next to the thought I asked you to hold a minute ago. Keep them safe for a few scant minutes more when all will be revealed and you will be forced to literally drop them both in surprise.)?
What is so great about “Paul’s” bathroom? It can’t just be the Glade Touch n Fresh. There must be more going on. Notice that the orphan has a backpack ‘pon his back. There is the clear implication that he will be staying, at least for one night. In a bathroom? Curiouser and curiouser. What sort of person is this Paul that he not only lets children stay over night in his toilet, he also makes it fun for them?

And this is the conclusion that I have reached, let us ask ourselves again the pertinent questions, who can we think of called Paul who would pay an adoptive (or foster) mother for a leasing of their child and keep him in bathroom giving him “fun” things to do? Put down the idea of Paul Floyd and pick up the two thoughts you held onto earlier for it is none other than…
Tense music…
Paul Gadd, better known as Gary Glitter.

So, the sorry and irrefutable conclusion we must be forced to reach is thus. Charlie Dimmock is more than happy to sell the shark-eyed infant she adopted for nefarious purposes off to Gary Glitter, safe in the knowledge that if he betrays her, she can betray him,  where Glitter will cheerfully watch him defecate onto a glass tabletop whilst feeding him Rolos.

The relevant authorities have been contacted.

I for one will never be buying Glade Touch n Fresh again. Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever have… I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who has, either. Has anyone? This fucking product doesn’t even exist. What the fuck are they trying to pull here? Kindly get in touch if you have ever bought a Glade Touch n Fresh, but not on my personal Facebook page for fucks sake.

Be seeing you…

Seven years since Blueprint 2: The Gift & The Curse and six years after his final, last ever retirement album, Jay -Z drops Blueprint 3, the final part of the Blueprint Trilogy (Always intended it to be a trilogy, did you, Hov? Or are you just stuck for ideas for album titles?).

So what’s here? All the usual rap staples? Guest artists? Check: a bewildering array of guest artists ranging from a born-again Christian once famous for singing the line “If I was a girl I’d wear a mini-skirt into town.”, to a Brummie universally derided by the UK music press.
Disses? Check: The Game, taken care of in Thank You, Joe Budden in Reminder, see also Dame Dash, Rush Limaugh, Jaz-O and assorted others.
Grandiose statements? Check, check and double check: Every track on this album deals with how pant wettingly awesome the Jigga man is. And it’s a fair boast. Eleven studio albums in and he shows no sign of flagging, going from strength to strength and other cliches.

As Hova obviously knows where it’s at, one can only refer to this as his “Birmingham” album. Although it would probably fairer not to. Perhaps you could refer to it as his “Kanye” album, taking production credits on roughly half the tracks. But does it sound like a Kanye West album? No, it doesn’t. The Neptunes track obviously sounds like The Neptunes, because it seems to be the only style they are capable of, The Timbaland tracks sound like Timbaland, the Swizz Beatz track sounds like Swizz Beatz but Kanye has really stepped up his game (which he does consistently) and lays down some really interesting, diverse sounds.

Whilst there is not a bad track on the album, one track is a little bit awkward; Young Forever with the aforementioned Birmingham connection, Mr Hudson (ostensibly an utterly baffling choice of vocalist, was Beyonce shopping? Only when you realise that Kanye West has taken him under his wing and he also features on his new joint does it fall into place. Still a bit weird. I just can’t imagine how they met.). Whereas other singers on the album, Rihanna and Alicia Keys add a vast scope and depth to the tracks they contribute to, Mr Hudson makes it sound a bit like 10CC. The track is built around Forever Young by Alphaville. I know what you’re thinking - Amazing. Well yeah, it works, but only just. The irritating thing is that it’s the last track, so despite hearing tracks the quality of D.O.A, Run This Town, Empire State Of Mind and Hate, it’s the comedy track at the end that sticks in your head.

Basically, this album is fucking ace. Any other review of it that disagrees with this one is wrong, but we don’t give a fidduk, we off that.

In an idea inspired by (read: stolen from in it’s entirety) the Exploding Popular Misconceptions section on the Peacock And Gamble Podcast (Mike Tyson is NOT a comedy actor. He’s a convicted rapist.), I have decided to explode a popular misconception. It is this:
Ronnie Biggs is NOT a Robin Hood style folk hero. He’s a fucking murderer who stole the wages of hard working men and women, ‘heroically’ escaped from Wandsworth Prison and ‘manfully’ ran away and hid. He did the honourable thing and returned to England to face his punishment in 2001. Oh yeah, except he returned due to ill health and was treated here.