Upset dents

Sensitive teeth are everywhere. In fact, these days you can’t even eat a sandwich without one of them getting upset. Fortunately help is at hand in the form of Sensodyne toothpaste, the advert for which tells the tale of a lady who discovered that her teeth were sensitive. How did she find out? Why she used her common sense and consulted an expert.

“I found that when I was eating, my teeth felt sensitive. I went to the Dentist and he diagnosed me with having sensitive teeth”.

Wow. She must have gone private for that opinion. Just like that he diagnosed her! Brilliant. Mystery solved. If only more experts were consulted in such a manner we wouldn’t spend our lives wandering blindly through a landscape littered with such enigmas.

“I fell down the stairs and found that a broken bone was poking through my skin, pointing at my foot. Finding it difficult to pull on my jeans I went to the doctor and he said I had broken a bone, and recommended repairing it.”
“Brushing my teeth I poked the toothbrush into my eye-socket and found that my vision was impaired. I went to the optician and they said it was because I had a toothbrush in my eye-socket, so they recommended removing it.”
“I found it difficult to form cohesive relationships because of all the murdering I did. I went to the police and they said it was because I was a murderer, so they recommended prison.”
“Being a f**king idiot I found that I was wasting a lot of experts’ time. Beating a path to my door they said that I was actually a f**king idiot, and they recommended no longer being such a f**king idiot.”

At least we can dream...

De-reality

Sad times are upon an ever-decreasing audience, as the bloated toss-filled battleship labeled Big Brother creaks leakily into a disinterested port. I say sad times as now it only has a week to go in the current series, so there are only another 14 weeks (ish) of Big Brother…ever! (I’m thinking of hosting a street party). You see the audience is dwindling to such an extent that Channel Four are canceling the “show”. I put the word ‘show’ in airquotes because a) I’m an unbearable arse, and b) to call a programme in which a dozen unknowns walk around a plastic fishtank scratching their bums all summer a show is, quite frankly, ridiculous. This is a show. This is not a show.

Of course, when it began many moons ago I was one of the (if we’re being honest) majority who watched with (again, if we’re being honest) a surprising amount of interest as people were being filmed twenty-four hours a day. We had seen docu-soaps develop from the likes of Driving School and Airport, each making stars of Maureen Rees (seen here struggling with a particularly taxing left turn) and Jeremy Spake (seen here smiling through a particularly stubborn bowel movement) as they went, through to MTV’s almost-certainly-not-scripted ‘The Real World’. It seemed that as a public we were hungry for more details of strangers’ lives, so it was inevitable that sooner or later we would round up some free-range civilians, put them in a box and stare at them whilst they brushed their teeth and argued over tea-bags.

What made the first series curious was that noone knew where it was going. Once the exhibits from this human zoo were released back into the wild, what would become of them? Like beagles released from laboratories by animal rights activists, freed to stumble about the moors dying for a fag, Big Brother housemates generally perished but there are one or two survivors. Jade Goody being the most famous (okay, so I use the word ‘survivor’ loosely) and Aisleyne Horgan Wallace is still gracing the pages of Nuts and Zoo magazine every now and then. Aisleyne aside, not all contestants have taken part purely to be masturbated over. Some have entered the house in an attempt to prove something to themselves. This woman for instance used to be a man and wanted to prove that she can be accepted as a woman without people thinking that she looks like a Spanish bricklayer with tits. To the most part, she succeeded and won the show. She hasn’t been seen again, but this is to be expected since the credit crunch has seen many builders out of work. For her sake, I hope she can still afford Nuts.

Ten years is a long time, and now interest in ‘The King of Reality Shows’ is looking very unwell indeed. It may not have died just yet, but it is terminally ill and its grandchildren are already sorting through its jewellery. Its friends may smile sweetly and chuckle awkwardly at its wheezy jokes, but when its back is turned they shake their heads gravely at each other, knowing that their once strong chum is fading fast. Interest is at such a low ebb in fact that three people left the current series because they simply couldn't be bothered to carry on.

The days of post series ‘uncut’ highlights dvds flying of the selves are also at an end. In fact they ended around series 3 (we are now on 10). This could be because laptops are more common so people can watch proper porn without having to go to a sex-shop, and so the prospect of pert un-pixelated bottoms being soaped up and showered isn’t quite as alluring as it once was. Alternatively it could simply be because people were bored whilst the series was on so they see no reason why they would want to have a dvd to be bored in front of until their dvd player crumbles to dust and Death wraps his bony arms around their yawning bodies. This is naturally the more realistic option as pert un-pixelated soapy bottoms will never lose their allure. The very idea is, quite frankly, ridiculous.

The Horror of Our Times

Britain has a depressingly famous history of murderers. Much of this fame could be down to our delightful ability to attribute memorable phrases or nicknames to the killers in question. Look at the evidence:
George Haigh: The Acid Bath Killer;
Myra Hindley and Ian Brady, The Moors Murderers;
The Rippers (Jack and Yorkshire);
Harold ‘Doctor Death’ Shipman;
Fred and Rose West’s House of Horrors’;
John Christie of 10 Rillington Place.
Ok, so John Christie shouldn’t really be included as his ‘memorable phrase’ is actually just his address, but his address became so famous that the street was changed to Ruston Close, so I think it counts. I’ve not included Dr Crippen, though his is one of the most famous English moiders, as there is the possibility that he is actually innocent. He was also American.

In case you don’t know, Drippen’s case involved the disappearance of his wife. When he was asked where she was he said that she had gone to America, died and been cremated. Clearly a broken man, Crippen moved his lover into their house and she wore all of his wife’s clothes. Not all at once of course, that may have raised suspicion. They then hopped on a boat bound for Canada, with Dr Crippen dressed as Dr Crippen and his lover dressed as a young boy. So as not to raise suspicion. Meanwhile the Fuzz were trying to piece together the body that they had just found hidden in the walls of Crippen’s home. Identifying it as his wife, Crippen and his lover were promptly arrested and he was hanged later that year. New evidence has appeared however that suggests the human remains that were discovered in his walls were actually that of a male. His wife may have been many things, but she was almost certainly female. I am slightly curious as to how they ‘identified’ the body as his wife? Did they look at it and say, “it’s human alright, bring the bastard in”. This isn’t really ‘new evidence’, it is simply ‘evidence’. Evidence that may lead to him being pardoned. That must come as a huge relief to a man that was hanged in 1910. I imagine him getting the bus from Hell and arriving at the Pearly Gates.

“St Peter, hi, it’s Hawley Crippen. I’ve come to be let into heaven”
“Really? I thought you were a murderer?”
“That’s what everyone thought, but it’s all been cleared up now, so can I come in?”
“I don’t see why not. By the way, when you were caught who was that woman with you, the one dressed as a boy?”
“Oh that was my mistress”
“…”
“Peter?”
“Did you get a return ticket?”

Now we have a new killer on our books, complete with nickname. A nickname to live forever in infamy…The Omelette Murderer [gasp!]. This isn’t someone who took against egg-based meals, so proceeded to pick them up in bars, take them home and…well…beat them. Oh no, this is a man who if there was a prize for ‘Most Unpleasant Boyfriend in England’, would stand a pretty good chance of winning. In fact, if Jack Tweed lived in France, our omelette spiking friend would win hands down. The hands that weren’t busy beating up his beloved that is. After all, this is a man who poisoned her, beat her, locked her and her baby in her house, and then burned it down.

That’s more than the Russian nobles did to Rasputin.

And what did this woman do to deserve such variety in her death? She had the audacity, the indecency, the impudence, the gall…to have a relationship with him. What a bitch. I bet she kissed him too, cuddles too probably. What an absolute cow. She had it coming really.

Such homicidal overkill reminds me of Sam Kinison’s comment about a victim of the Manson family murders (I should warn the sensitive among you that the following contains a swear)…

“The Police report said they stabbed this guy 51 times....bludgeoned him in the head with a heavy object 13 times and they shot him twice....so I figure this guy's by the door on the way out going....’you don't have to leave do you?!....you haven't shoved a chainsaw up my ass yet!’”

Suddenly I feel like quite a catch.

Watching the World Urn

Despite occasional evidence to the contrary, and assuming (optimistically) that I have remembered how to work out a percentage on a standard calculator, 71% of my relatives are still alive. This is not a gloat directed at any orphans that may have tearfully stumbled across this page, merely it is a statement of fact. It’s great having your relatives about, though you would be lying if you denied the amount of useful space that would be freed up if you didn’t have to remember so many birthdays. The usefulness of your presence at pub-quizzes would increase tenfold.

Everything’s eventual, and Bruce Forsyth aside (who will be hosting the all-cockroach ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ long after Nuclear Armageddon), we all have our lights extinguished at some point. Assuming we didn’t drive a mini-bus full of family members off a cliff, we leave people behind to handle the grief, memories and (more importantly) the remembrance buffet. Funeral arrangements are also to be considered.

“Would he like to be buried or cremated?”
“Well he did like gardening…but then he also liked warm holidays”

Should you choose cremation you are left with a decision: what do to do with the remains. Standard practice is to scatter them somewhere the deceased loved when they weren't dead, be it the ocean, the bottom of the garden at their childhood home, or over their grandchildren. It is also common for relatives to keep ashes on their sideboard like a ghoulish potpourri. The problem with this is that urns are pretty dull ornaments, even if you did used to kiss their contents. A quick tour around Urns Online proves this point (it also turns out that you can own a pet urn. I wonder what they eat?). So this raises the question, how can you keep your relative’s remains but not get bored of looking at the container? Simple. Keep the ashes in their head. Now really, why has it taken so long for this to be available? True, Ed Gein probably thought about it, but if he did he didn’t follow it through to retail.

All you need is a couple of photographs of your loved one and no sooner than you can say ‘what the…is that…oh good god’, you have your relatives head stuffed with your relative perched on your mantelpiece. They don’t even have to be very good photos as there is an extensive proofing process. Imagine proofing your Gran’s head! Of course, the best part is that you can scatter the ashes and be left with the creepiest nibbles bowl in town. Actually dip would probably be better. You could surround it with crudities and park it on the coffee table when your friends come over. It would be like the banquet scene from ‘Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom’.

In the words of Bertie Basset, it takes allsorts, but personally I would bloody hate it. Me sitting on the sofa watching Eastenders and eating crisps while my Mum’s decapitated head stares blankly down at me from the top of the television, as if saying ‘I used to like crisps, now…I am crisps’.

You can own one for only $2,600, which is equivalent to about £2,600. I would say ‘collect the whole set’, but that would make me feel like Charles Manson. These days, that’s frowned upon.