After a long and painful battle with a particularly nasty bum-cancer, blonde 70's sexpot Farrah Fawcett has died. Shortly afterwards Michael Jackson (other Kings of Pop are available) popped himself into a coma and was pronounced dead of not breathing two hours later. Earlier this month David Carradine was found hanging neatly in his closet, so the rule of celebrities dying in threes can sit back in its chair with a smug look plastered on its fat face as it reaches over to the honey roasted cashews on the side table.
As is to be expected, this is very sad news. Death is like that. Though if Jackson (other Pops are available) was hoping to drum up excitement for his 50-date 'This Is It' O2 residency, I can't help but feel that dying was a rather poor marketing decision. I feel for his fans. Especially as they wailed great troughs of tears when they saw him perform, so as news of his death is beamed across the globe we are sure to see entire continents disappear beneath tsunamis of boo. I'm also concerned about congestion in London as 170,000 Jacko (other Popos are available) fans queue outside the O2 Arena seeking a refund. But then, as I don't live in London, my concern is about as short-lived as MJ (other KoPs are available)'s coma, which at two hours was really more of a nap. But let's not get dwell upon semantics.
Squeeking on the BBC website, Jermaine Jackson has asked for the media to respect the family's privacy during this difficult time. This shouldn't be difficult for the media, especially since Michael Jackson (other Kings of Pop are available) spent so much time out of the limelight anyway, and it's not as if the public has ever consumed Jackson-based conjecture like builders at a burger van. Jermaine always seems like quite a pleasant sort of chap to me, despite his painted on hair and the ethereal quality that comes with being part of the Jackson family. When he appeared in Celebrity Big Brother a few years ago he managed to avoid the whole 'Shilpa Popodom' idiocy by hiding behind dinner-plate sized Ray-Bans, and we all respected him for it. He was the voice of reason in a house riddled with imbicilic woodworm.
"And Allah be with you Michael".
I'm sorry?
You see as well as wafting through life like a celestial being, Jermaine Jackson has religion. Specifically he is a Muslim (according to Wikipedia, since 1989). Fortunately Michael (other Kings are available) also cuddled up to Islam, otherwise this Allah bloke could be making himself very unpopular with the recently de-lifed, turning up at funerals like an annoying neighbour, only to be turned away because "Ben never knew anyone called Alan".
Friday 26 June 2009
Friday 19 June 2009
Windy
I saw this picture on the Guardian website, in a story entitled 'A Celebration of Old Age'.
Notice how noone wants to sit next to the lady on the left.
Notice how noone wants to sit next to the lady on the left.
That's Lady Trumpington.
My Marmoset, to get things done...
Aren't pets lovely. I mean seriously, aren't they. Look at their little faces, doesn't it make you all excited and gooey and make you want to dress them up in frocks and take them to restuarants pretending that they are your babies? No? That's because you are not mental. Unlike the subjects in Channel 4's recent sniggerfest 'My Monkey Baby'.
This is the latest from Channel 4's unending supply of documentaries that serve no purpose other than to provide us with a conveyor belt of freaks and misfits at which to point and laugh at like a Robert Ripley produced 'Generation Game' final. Make no mistake, I love these programmes and I am always excited when new ones are advertised. The trouble is, they are often a bit of a let-down, most notably in 'Tourettes Camp' where I was hoping for an hour of 'John's Not Mad' style tourettes-based hilarity, but actually got a fairly sensitive documentary about a group of children coming to terms with their problem. If it hadn't been for a lovely scene of all the kids walking up the driveway to Tourettes Camp, twitching and cursing as they went, I would have felt cheated.
So anyway, 'My Monkey Baby' is the story of various...wait for it...Americans...who, for a variety of reasons (most of which fall under a Darwinian umbrella) do not have children. They haven't let this get them down though as they have invested in the next best thing. Monkeys. Which they then treat as their offspring (the clue was in the title really), by dressing them in nappies and dresses and teaching them typical human behaviours such as drinking from cups, using the internet, going to restaurants and poking their tongue into their dad's mouth. Often the only non-human aspect of the relationship in fact (from the owner/parent perspective) is that they name the monkeys things like 'Butters' and 'Silly Willy'. Silly Willy? Seriously, if you're going to anthropomorphise your pets, call them Susan or Dave, not Silly Willy. Surely they cover that on day one of 'Being a Mad Pet Owner'?
Butters was actually quite a sorry case, the last we saw of him was his wide-eyed, terrified face having the features licked from its visage by a pitbull and a bull-mastiff. He had been in his new home for five minutes and he was already staring at the camera, pleading to be taken away from these bizarre people. "Ah his brother and sister are saying hello" gurgle the proud parents, not realising that they are actually trying to decide which pedigree chum best accompanies monkey.
It can't be denied how human the monkeys appear. At one point another 'mum' looks off camera and says "Maggie, get off the phone" and you find yourself being mildly surprised that when the camera pans around we don't see monkey Maggie slam the receiver down and slope off to her room like a sulky teenager complaining about how unfair she finds it all (instead Maggie hops from the telephone and disappears to have a poo in her cage), so it's easy to see how the parents can become a little deluded by the relationship. Having said that, I do feel that the lady who, upon being asked 'what do you think will happen when you get older?' replies matter-of-factly "well, Jesse will have to look after me" was being slightly optimistic.
The best (by which I mean most mental) parents are the couple who take their baby to a local restaurant, sit down and are perusing the menu when the restaurant manager appears and tells them, unsurprisingly, that monkeys aren't allowed to dine in their establishment. This outrages the couple, who secure their zoo exhibit back into its pram and storm out. "We'll not be coming back!" shouts the mum, having learned nothing from Rosa Parks.
Later the mum finds pills missing from her handbag. Worried that her baby may have eaten them she phones an Animal Psychic. I should point out that this is not an animal that is skilled at tarot, but a lady that can read animals' minds.
Over the phone.
"Can you ask him if he swallowed the pink thyroid pill?" says the mum, rather too specifically, and then holds the phone next to to her monkey, who tries to eat it. A few moments later she brings the phone back and the psychic tells her the good news.
"He said 'no I did not take that pill mommy, I would never do that'".
"Thank God" says mum, oblivious to the ridiculousness of it all.
At the end of the hour you are left with the overwhelming feeling that these parents, utterly insane though they are, still have tremendous hearts, but they are hearts bursting with delusion, and like so many doddery old lady cat owners before them, they live in blissful ignorance to the knowledge that if they fell off their perch, their furry darlings would not organise a flower-filled funeral, but would instead eat their bonkers faces.
I suppose it serves them right for standing on a fish in the first place.
This is the latest from Channel 4's unending supply of documentaries that serve no purpose other than to provide us with a conveyor belt of freaks and misfits at which to point and laugh at like a Robert Ripley produced 'Generation Game' final. Make no mistake, I love these programmes and I am always excited when new ones are advertised. The trouble is, they are often a bit of a let-down, most notably in 'Tourettes Camp' where I was hoping for an hour of 'John's Not Mad' style tourettes-based hilarity, but actually got a fairly sensitive documentary about a group of children coming to terms with their problem. If it hadn't been for a lovely scene of all the kids walking up the driveway to Tourettes Camp, twitching and cursing as they went, I would have felt cheated.
So anyway, 'My Monkey Baby' is the story of various...wait for it...Americans...who, for a variety of reasons (most of which fall under a Darwinian umbrella) do not have children. They haven't let this get them down though as they have invested in the next best thing. Monkeys. Which they then treat as their offspring (the clue was in the title really), by dressing them in nappies and dresses and teaching them typical human behaviours such as drinking from cups, using the internet, going to restaurants and poking their tongue into their dad's mouth. Often the only non-human aspect of the relationship in fact (from the owner/parent perspective) is that they name the monkeys things like 'Butters' and 'Silly Willy'. Silly Willy? Seriously, if you're going to anthropomorphise your pets, call them Susan or Dave, not Silly Willy. Surely they cover that on day one of 'Being a Mad Pet Owner'?
Butters was actually quite a sorry case, the last we saw of him was his wide-eyed, terrified face having the features licked from its visage by a pitbull and a bull-mastiff. He had been in his new home for five minutes and he was already staring at the camera, pleading to be taken away from these bizarre people. "Ah his brother and sister are saying hello" gurgle the proud parents, not realising that they are actually trying to decide which pedigree chum best accompanies monkey.
It can't be denied how human the monkeys appear. At one point another 'mum' looks off camera and says "Maggie, get off the phone" and you find yourself being mildly surprised that when the camera pans around we don't see monkey Maggie slam the receiver down and slope off to her room like a sulky teenager complaining about how unfair she finds it all (instead Maggie hops from the telephone and disappears to have a poo in her cage), so it's easy to see how the parents can become a little deluded by the relationship. Having said that, I do feel that the lady who, upon being asked 'what do you think will happen when you get older?' replies matter-of-factly "well, Jesse will have to look after me" was being slightly optimistic.
The best (by which I mean most mental) parents are the couple who take their baby to a local restaurant, sit down and are perusing the menu when the restaurant manager appears and tells them, unsurprisingly, that monkeys aren't allowed to dine in their establishment. This outrages the couple, who secure their zoo exhibit back into its pram and storm out. "We'll not be coming back!" shouts the mum, having learned nothing from Rosa Parks.
Later the mum finds pills missing from her handbag. Worried that her baby may have eaten them she phones an Animal Psychic. I should point out that this is not an animal that is skilled at tarot, but a lady that can read animals' minds.
Over the phone.
"Can you ask him if he swallowed the pink thyroid pill?" says the mum, rather too specifically, and then holds the phone next to to her monkey, who tries to eat it. A few moments later she brings the phone back and the psychic tells her the good news.
"He said 'no I did not take that pill mommy, I would never do that'".
"Thank God" says mum, oblivious to the ridiculousness of it all.
At the end of the hour you are left with the overwhelming feeling that these parents, utterly insane though they are, still have tremendous hearts, but they are hearts bursting with delusion, and like so many doddery old lady cat owners before them, they live in blissful ignorance to the knowledge that if they fell off their perch, their furry darlings would not organise a flower-filled funeral, but would instead eat their bonkers faces.
I suppose it serves them right for standing on a fish in the first place.
Monday 15 June 2009
Live Longer
Not that my life is as empty as an Ethiopian's colon, but have you seen the new Calgon advert? No? I have.
In case you don't know what I'm talking about, Calgon is the water-softener tablet thing that you put in your washing machine/dish-washer so that it doesn't get limescale.
It is not the most exciting of products.
In fact it is dull as dishwater (do you see what I did there? No? You see, there's an expression 'dull as dishwater' that is applied when something is very dull indeed, because dishwater itself is often grey and quite colourless. The word 'dull' can apply to both something that lacks intensity of colour, and also to anything that arouses little interest. Something tedious. What I've done is apply this expression to a product that is both boring in itself, and is also relevant to dishwater. Do you see? No really, do you? Excellent. Moving on...) and must therefore have proved quite a challenge to the advertising agency tasked with selling it. Now, what sells? Sex obviously, but it's tricky to make a connection between limescale and lovelysweatypantingorgasms, so they opted for the other thing that sells: FEAR.
Fear sells brilliantly, all you have to do is shout "this might happen and our product is the only, repeat ONLY way you can prevent it" enough times at the viewer and you're selling your company for billions and retiring to a supermodel's loins before you can say 'Barry Scott'. It's not just product of course, adverts warning against STDs do this very well too (though I still believe that viruses would be cut by half if they simply showed somone picking up a 21 year-old underwear model in a nightclub, taking her home and discovering she has a penis so huge it has a Sky-dish bolted to the shaft). Calgon however, may have over-egged the pudding.
No sooner has the advert Mum's washing machine broken down than a repair man has appeared in her kitchen, pointing her with an icy bespectacled glare whilst cradling a heating element in his hands like a driver guiltlessly presenting a cat he's just hit to the child owner as he solemnly intones that it was really the child's fault for owning the cat in the first place. The advert Mum, horror of horrors, has been using a cheap water softener. Do you remember the commercial in Tim Burton's 'Batman' where the Joker points to a gagged fellow and says that he's not happy because "he's been using brand X" and the words 'OH NO!' flash repeatedly on the screen? It's like a doom-laden version of that.
"Cheap water softener is only HALF as effective!" shouts the engineer, somehow resisting the urge to shake the woman like a furious masturbator. "Half protection is like no protection!" he rages, the Mum flinching at the spit mist settling on her eyballs. "It's like him [frantically pointing at a boy cyclist, inexplicably pedaling around the kitchen] going out with half a helmet!".
Well...no it isn't actually. Besides, aren't they rather overstating the dangers of limescale? to take them at their word the slow build up of chalky deposits is a disaster of biblical proportions (only not fictional). Nations have fallen to it. Countries' topography radically altered by the sudden appearance of vast mountainous peaks of calcium. Continents absorbed as if consumed by a very hungry caterpillar. Planets burst like over-ripe pimples. Galaxies folded in on themselves like exotic origami. Universes perished like fruit at a Weightwatchers buffet, and realities voted out of existence by deities outraged by a lack of limescale prevention.
On the other hand, the plumber did seem to know what he was talking about.
In case you don't know what I'm talking about, Calgon is the water-softener tablet thing that you put in your washing machine/dish-washer so that it doesn't get limescale.
It is not the most exciting of products.
In fact it is dull as dishwater (do you see what I did there? No? You see, there's an expression 'dull as dishwater' that is applied when something is very dull indeed, because dishwater itself is often grey and quite colourless. The word 'dull' can apply to both something that lacks intensity of colour, and also to anything that arouses little interest. Something tedious. What I've done is apply this expression to a product that is both boring in itself, and is also relevant to dishwater. Do you see? No really, do you? Excellent. Moving on...) and must therefore have proved quite a challenge to the advertising agency tasked with selling it. Now, what sells? Sex obviously, but it's tricky to make a connection between limescale and lovelysweatypantingorgasms, so they opted for the other thing that sells: FEAR.
Fear sells brilliantly, all you have to do is shout "this might happen and our product is the only, repeat ONLY way you can prevent it" enough times at the viewer and you're selling your company for billions and retiring to a supermodel's loins before you can say 'Barry Scott'. It's not just product of course, adverts warning against STDs do this very well too (though I still believe that viruses would be cut by half if they simply showed somone picking up a 21 year-old underwear model in a nightclub, taking her home and discovering she has a penis so huge it has a Sky-dish bolted to the shaft). Calgon however, may have over-egged the pudding.
No sooner has the advert Mum's washing machine broken down than a repair man has appeared in her kitchen, pointing her with an icy bespectacled glare whilst cradling a heating element in his hands like a driver guiltlessly presenting a cat he's just hit to the child owner as he solemnly intones that it was really the child's fault for owning the cat in the first place. The advert Mum, horror of horrors, has been using a cheap water softener. Do you remember the commercial in Tim Burton's 'Batman' where the Joker points to a gagged fellow and says that he's not happy because "he's been using brand X" and the words 'OH NO!' flash repeatedly on the screen? It's like a doom-laden version of that.
"Cheap water softener is only HALF as effective!" shouts the engineer, somehow resisting the urge to shake the woman like a furious masturbator. "Half protection is like no protection!" he rages, the Mum flinching at the spit mist settling on her eyballs. "It's like him [frantically pointing at a boy cyclist, inexplicably pedaling around the kitchen] going out with half a helmet!".
Well...no it isn't actually. Besides, aren't they rather overstating the dangers of limescale? to take them at their word the slow build up of chalky deposits is a disaster of biblical proportions (only not fictional). Nations have fallen to it. Countries' topography radically altered by the sudden appearance of vast mountainous peaks of calcium. Continents absorbed as if consumed by a very hungry caterpillar. Planets burst like over-ripe pimples. Galaxies folded in on themselves like exotic origami. Universes perished like fruit at a Weightwatchers buffet, and realities voted out of existence by deities outraged by a lack of limescale prevention.
On the other hand, the plumber did seem to know what he was talking about.
Friday 12 June 2009
Madonna with the Big Babies
"So" you say, "Madonna or Angelina?"
Well, assuming you're talking about a baby flinging contest (and you almost certainly are) then it would be pretty close but my money would rest on Angelina's bonce, since she has more ammunition. This news has clearly worried Madonna so she's decided to start stockpiling for the final clash of the succubi.
Well, assuming you're talking about a baby flinging contest (and you almost certainly are) then it would be pretty close but my money would rest on Angelina's bonce, since she has more ammunition. This news has clearly worried Madonna so she's decided to start stockpiling for the final clash of the succubi.
Until recently their stocks were as follows:
Angelina - 6
Madonna - 3
But now Madge (not to be confused with the tomb-voiced ex-wife of ex-Neighbour Harold Bishop) has finally been allowed to adopt little Mercy. Phew. This won't improve her odds of toddler-splat victory by much, but as Tesco is so keen to remind us, every little helps.
The main aspect of this news that I find a little disturbing is the line "Madonna spotted Mercy at an orphanage three years ago, but waited...[etc]".
The main aspect of this news that I find a little disturbing is the line "Madonna spotted Mercy at an orphanage three years ago, but waited...[etc]".
She waited.
Lurking in the shadows.
Biding her time, before driving her wagon into town whistling 'Kiddie Widdie Winkies' and sniffing the air unnervingly…
I suppose one should feel sorry for them. If only there were orphans/unwanted children available for adoption back home then these ladies wouldn't have to trot across the globe in order to increase their urchin armada. Mind you if they existed anywhere else they probably wouldn't resemble a Thorntons Comic Relief special edition, and who would want that?
Tuesday 2 June 2009
To Truly Spite Your Face
A little while ago I mentioned the man who escaped from prison through the sacrifice of his foreskin. Now I look at that sentence it does seem as if he and his foreskin were escaping independantly. They might have been in the process of climbing the fence when suddenly twenty guards spilled out of the building waving dogs whilst batons growled at their feet. The foreskin may have looked at his comrade and his comrade may have looked at him.
"It looks like this is the end for us, old boy" says the prisoner.
"It certainly seems that way" says the foreskin, the words leaking from his mouth like droplets of unshaked urine. It is at this point that his creased face changes, as if he has been confused all his life and is only now experiencing clarity.
"Tell Frances I love her"
"Fanny? But how will I...no wait!"
But he is too late, Foreskin has already flopped to the ground and is scurrying towards the advancing guards and their baying hounds. The prisoner raises a shaky hand to his temple and offers a misty-eyed salute to his friend, before heaving himself over the fence to short-lived freedom.
This sacrifice, whilst bold, is swiftly forgotten in the light of a 25 year old Egyptian man who, when his family wouldn't let him marry his beloved, opted to cut off his own penis. Presumably by way of protest.
This is bizarre for many reasons, most of which involve the words 'he cut off own his penis'. There is also the slight issue of him choosing to protest in this manner. You see he has been trying to persuade his father to let him marry a girl from a lower social class for two years, but his father remained resolute. It was time for action, so out came the knife, off came the winkie, and 'hello' said the understandably perplexed hospital. For his sake I really do hope that the protest was as unsuccessful as the hospital's attempts to reattach his little flesh-fez. Imagine the disappointment if he relented.
"Aziz, what are you doing?"
"I'm...cutting...off...my...penis"
"Why?"
"I'm...really...upset"
"Because you can't marry Fukayna?"
"Yes"
"Well if she means that much to you, feel free"
"What?"
"Marry her. I mean, I thought she was after your money but if you're willy to risk it then, well, go for it"
"What was that?"
"If you're willing to risk it"
"It sounded more like...actually, never mind. Can you call an ambulance? I'm feeling unusual".
He is currently resting in hospital with a jar next to him containing what appears to be a depressed frankfurter. I honestly hope his protest didn't work. That would be an awkward phone call.
"Hey honey, I've got good news and I've got bad news. The good news is that you can come off the pill..."
"It looks like this is the end for us, old boy" says the prisoner.
"It certainly seems that way" says the foreskin, the words leaking from his mouth like droplets of unshaked urine. It is at this point that his creased face changes, as if he has been confused all his life and is only now experiencing clarity.
"Tell Frances I love her"
"Fanny? But how will I...no wait!"
But he is too late, Foreskin has already flopped to the ground and is scurrying towards the advancing guards and their baying hounds. The prisoner raises a shaky hand to his temple and offers a misty-eyed salute to his friend, before heaving himself over the fence to short-lived freedom.
This sacrifice, whilst bold, is swiftly forgotten in the light of a 25 year old Egyptian man who, when his family wouldn't let him marry his beloved, opted to cut off his own penis. Presumably by way of protest.
This is bizarre for many reasons, most of which involve the words 'he cut off own his penis'. There is also the slight issue of him choosing to protest in this manner. You see he has been trying to persuade his father to let him marry a girl from a lower social class for two years, but his father remained resolute. It was time for action, so out came the knife, off came the winkie, and 'hello' said the understandably perplexed hospital. For his sake I really do hope that the protest was as unsuccessful as the hospital's attempts to reattach his little flesh-fez. Imagine the disappointment if he relented.
"Aziz, what are you doing?"
"I'm...cutting...off...my...penis"
"Why?"
"I'm...really...upset"
"Because you can't marry Fukayna?"
"Yes"
"Well if she means that much to you, feel free"
"What?"
"Marry her. I mean, I thought she was after your money but if you're willy to risk it then, well, go for it"
"What was that?"
"If you're willing to risk it"
"It sounded more like...actually, never mind. Can you call an ambulance? I'm feeling unusual".
He is currently resting in hospital with a jar next to him containing what appears to be a depressed frankfurter. I honestly hope his protest didn't work. That would be an awkward phone call.
"Hey honey, I've got good news and I've got bad news. The good news is that you can come off the pill..."
Monday 1 June 2009
Zippy, George and Boyle
And so on Saturday night, the vast disco ball of 'Britain's Got Talent' finally rolled to a close, declaring a group of black dancers (curiously named 'Diversity') to be the the most talented people in all the land.
And forcing Bungle from Rainbow into the Priory.
And forcing Bungle from Rainbow into the Priory.
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