Fear This

Jane Moore is upset. Being a columnist for The Sun newspaper, it takes a lot to make her upset. Still reeling from the death of Jade Goody (whom she almost certainly never called a pig in previous columns), she has now had suffered the indignity of a security guard not laughing at the suggestion that she may be compelled to stab an MP in the face with a metal nail-file. Although she’ll try not to, and her word is her bond. Not only that, but she’s “a white woman”, and never has a white woman ever even considered posing a risk to anyone. Just ask the parents of the children Myra Hindley buried in the moors, or anyone that had tea with Rose West and later found themselves supporting her patio.

Clearly reeling from Jade’s death, she is still struggling to cope as she forgets herself for a moment, providing a quick recap and risking electrocution as her tears wash over her laptop, before pointing out that Jade’s mother is also having a terrible time. Having lost her daughter*, she is dealing with it in the only way she knows how: by telling staff at Gatwick airport that she has a gun in her bag. There’s nothing wrong with that of course, it’s completely acceptable to sane persons such as ourselves. Not for the airport staff though, oh deary me no. Those po-faced “Stasi-style drones” searched her bag. The outrage! The gall! Why are they so de-sensitised to something as hilarious as deranged hags with firearms, swinging one lifeless limb at your chest whilst the other presses twelve rounds of white-hot death to your temple? You couldn’t make it up. It’s political correctness gone mad. Thank god we have The Sun to keep things in perspective.

So heed their advice. Why can’t we all just get along? Nothing really matters does it, not terrorism, not stabbings and most definitely not racism. Let’s just ‘ave a laff. Vote for your Page 3 Idol. Go to France for a pound. Make yourself some toast while you’re having a bath. Nothing really matters. Most importantly, whatever you do, make sure you ignore the “left wing loones” [sic].



*I am aware that this remains a tragedy.

Steering Clear of Pig Puns

These aren't good times to get out of bed. Even walking home has become an extreme sport since you might get caught up in some enthusiastic opinion-sharing, in which case you have to run away for fear of being forcibly persuaded to the ground and dying of internal bleeding. Not that you will necessarily, you might die of a simple heart attack. Possibly brought on by the surprise of not having internal bleeding. A fellow could be forgiven for wanting to go on holiday.

Holidaying is a risky business though, mostly because you'll risk (more) death from swine flu. What is swine flu? I found this helpfull diagram on the BBC website which explains it for those who think 'swine' is simply someone that comes from Swindon:

I can feel smug vegetarian faces bearing down on me already, suggesting that if I had spent less time eating pigs/cows/chickens then they wouldn't insist on retreating to their barns with chemistry sets to create new and terrifying ways of ruining our summer with germ warfare. The cows' attack was the worst of course, infected as they were like bovine suicide bombers. However they weren't counting on the farmers' secret weapon: disinfectant-soaked straw. "Drat" they mooed as they were herded into fields of burning cattle, from which the press gave us images that resembled a holocaust illustrated by Gary Larson. Now the pigs have unleashed swine flu upon Mexico (soon the world) and we don't know what we're going to do about it so we'll all just have to stay home and eat grass that still smells faintly of sunday roast.

Of course, it's really not all that bleak. If it was, then the following wouldn't be true:

Blue are reuniting for a summer concert.

I know. Brilliant. Is it Christmas? It must be because I can't remember the last time I felt this lucky. More grass?

A Real Bronx Cheer

I hear that Whoopi Goldberg has officially left the acting profession, citing reasons of "not having any fun". Having witnessed the horrors of 'Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit', I can quite understand.

Have a Bon Day

It is often said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Not it would seem if you're a billionaire rock star with a global herd of fans, all blissfully ignorant to the fact that you've been sleepwalking through your last five albums, and who even merrily trotted to the shops when you decided your own songs were so great that you would record them all over again on an album of self-congratulatory covers ['Bon Jovi Threaten Legal Action Against Tribute Band'].


The reason I bring this up is the depressingly low esteem that they must hold their fans. After all, they are apparently so off-the-ball that they will look at a group of ladies standing beneath a different bandname and think they are in fact the tired bunch of denim-clad New Jersey escapees that they have worshipped since Tommy and Gina first held on to what-they-got, simply because they are singing the same songs.
With different voices.
And different faces.
And with uteruses.
I suppose they think Hercule Poirot would have had difficulty picking out members of Depeche Mode from The Saturdays, and giving the slightest consideration to separating the members of Aerosmith and Run DMC from Girls Aloud and Sugababes would be enough for him to topple from his fictional perch. Perhaps this is why Kylie Minogue has never covered Ace of Spades.

Don't play the game if you don't know the rules

Hooray, it turns out that you can be murdering celebrity in America and actually be found found guilty. Unlike OJ Simpson, who after quite literally getting away with murder was so confident of his legal-immunity that he took up armed robbery, Phil Spector has been found guilty of the murder of Lana Clarkson, an attractive blonde actress whose best known role is being the victim in Spector's first murder trial, but who was also particularly convincing as an attractive blonde wearing a fur bikini in a couple of Roger Corman films.

Clarkson suffered at the hands of a game of Russian roulette that went horribly wrong. Now we've all been at someone's house and they've suggested playing a game which you've really not wanted to play but you've gone along with it because you don't want to cause offence and have an awkward silence descend upon the room. But that's usually chirades, a game which rarely features the possibility of death because you failed to guess 'One Night in Paris' from your Dad's feeble attempts to mime an act of half-hearted fellatio. But this is Russian roulette. A game it should not be recommended to 'go along with'. Even if you're really polite.

Curiously Lana Clarkson was the sixth woman that Spector had played russian roulette with, the previous five had all been 'winners'. Do you think he understood the rules? As his playmates ran screaming into the night had he simply put the gun back in its box next to the Uno deck, completely oblivious that you're meant to spin the chamber? Probably. Five chambers down, Lana's chances weren't looking good. Bang went the gun, splat went her head, and a very VERY awkward silence fell upon the room.

It's not all bad news, things are looking pretty good for one of Spector's hairpieces. Following roles in 'Joey' and 'Will and Grace' where it performed the role of a tumbleweed blowing around the audience, it is now a CNN news anchor.





Every Cloud.

Whilst on the subject of music here and here are a couple of suitably respectful articles about the greatest rock band of all time. And no I am not reffering to U2, who aside from being utter hypocrits (they're all about the environment yet Bono forgot a hat so had it flown to him first class), couldn't be more over-rated if liking them entitled you to Spearmint Rhino vouchers.

Don't Scare the Natives by Knowing Stuff

Recently I was labelled a homosexual on the basis of knowing what a doily is. Yes, that's right, I am aware of crocheted placemates and thus I have a desire to be intimate with other men's winkies. Ridiculous.

[Disclaimer: I suppose I should point out that I'm not gay, although history has seen me often accused of it. Not that I consider it an accusation you understand, I was never even present at the Salem whoopsie trials. I like gay folks as much as I like everyone and I enjoy a manly hug. I just don't enjoy a manly bumming.]

The conversation went thus:

[location - nocturnal purveyor of high-quality meat products and sauted potatoes]
Woman to friend, pointing at his shirt - "that looks like a doily"
Friend - "what did you say?"
Me (helpfully) - "I think she said you were a doily"
Friend - "what's that?"
Me - "well, it's sort of like a knitted beermat"
Friend - "are you poof or somat?"
Me - "er...no"
[woman and friend collect food order and leave. I frown.]

I also know what a deviated septum is, however I have yet to be mistaken for a plastic surgeon with specialism in nasal reconstrutive surgery. Similarly I'm not a proctologist, however I do know when I am talking to an arsehole. Equally, I'm not a gynaecologist...

Holy White Supremacists, Batman

You don't see many lynch mobs around these days do you, not proper flaming torch waving ones anyway. This is surely due to two facts:

1- These days people tend to hide the fact they are morons.
2- If you do want to join an angry mob, you don't need to leave your flat.

Due to the brilliance of the internet, if you want to wave your fist at something you don't like you can do it online (in the same way that 'World of Warcraft' allows you to cast spells on Orcs without having to vist a bar and buy them a drink), in the discussion areas of a hundred different websites. The benefit of online "have your say" sections is that no matter how much a lather the mob gets itself into about the oh-so-terrible state of society, they are only a few short clicks away from image libraries of Michelle Heaton blearily flashing her baby-door to the paparazzi from a nightclub gutter, and if that doesn't cheer them up they can always open a disapproving comment thread.

At least you think this is the case until you see images of what appears to be a Klu Klux Klan birthday party, and you indulge yourself with a sharp intake of breath. Panic not though, for it is simply God Week in Spain. This intrigued me, as I wasn't sure what came first costume-wise: Clansmen, Spanish hoodies or if by some bizarre coincidence on two seperate contintents at the exact same time the two groups' founding members found themselves looking at their bed linen and thinking, "I could wear that". Well it turns out, through extensive research (typing 'holy week' into Wikipedia) that it was the Klan that took their inspiration from the Spanish, presumably with their permission so as to avoid any copyright infringement. That must have been a tricky phone phone-call.

"Hey Paplo, loved the holy week photos"
"Gracias Hank"
"I was wondering, those robes you wear, are they any comfy?"
"They're ok I guess"
"Because I was wondering if me and some buddies could wear some too?"
"But holy week's finished"
"Oh, it's not for holy week"
"Also they're Catholic robes, and you're not Catholic"
"Er...well we'll have a cross"
"How many?"
"One"
"How big?"
"Pretty big. Seriously, you couldn't miss it. It'll stand out pretty well"
"Well that's probably fine then"
[click]
"Get the bedsheets boys, we're gon' go hate us some black folk!"

But that sort of thing doesn't go on any more does it. Well, no. Nor does it go on any less. In fact a recent survey found that 926 hate groups are currently active in the United States.

Land of the free indeed.


Guardian: Holy Week in Spain (April 09)


(whilst on the subject of Lynch mobs, here's a couple of particularly odious ringleaders at a rally dishing out some very suspect material).

Woe to you, oh East and End

So, the wheels of Eastenders grind on, lubricated by the sweat of The Bill's casting director.

"Danielle!!"

[screech, clunk]

When I watched this I laughed so hard I nearly fell of the sofa. The Eastenders God looked down and boomed "noone shall be happy on Albert Square, noone! The punishment for such is…death!".
My laughter continued with Janine’s plea of “she leapt out in front of me”, when in fact she was standing in the middle of the road, unmoving and gurgling snot-bubbles. Like the genitals belonging a man sharing Janine's bed, that excuse simply will not stand up.

The Great British Tackle

Bad news I'm afraid, amusing surnames are dying out. I can't imagine why. In an attempt to continue Britain's fine heritage (yet also maintain your own) I would like to suggest that any future offspring be named something along the lines of 'Cockballsbottomwobbleboob [insert surname]'. It's the least we can do.

Metro: Britain running out of Cocks

Pitchforks Across the Water

Ah acceptable racism. I saw President Obama being introduced to the Queen and Phil last night. The small talk was creaking along quite happily, the President was talking about the various dignitaries that he has met with, ending with…the Chinese. At this point a beaming Phillip leant forward and said “could you tell the difference between them?”. This reminded me of Del Boy’s recent appearance on radio. You see, Del Boy hates foreigners. Oh, and Obama thinks spastics (sorry, ‘Scope’) can’t bowl. Intrigued?

Being nice middle class white folks, we know when minorities are offended. We don’t need to ask them…I mean, if we did, it might turn out that they weren’t upset after all, and then we’d look foolish and we can’t have that. Far better therefore to point at a remark, tell them how annoyed they are but that they shouldn’t worry their little towel-wrapped heads about it because we’re already dialling Ofcom.

Case#1:

David Jason appears on Absolute radio and tells a ‘racist joke’, to much offence. The joke went thus:

“What do you call a Pakistani cloak-room attendant?”

“Me Hat Me Coat”

Awful isn’t it. Not because it’s racist (although we are on thin ice), but because it’s a terrible terrible joke. The kind of joke that’s so bad even Roy Walker wouldn’t have incorporated it into his if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it ‘walk on, tell shit joke, introduce contestants, play Catchphrase, tell shit joke, go for curry with talking bulldog’ routine. He told it anyway though, causing much offence. How much? Well, this is hard to say since Absolute never received a single complaint. Christian O’Connell’s sphincter must have been more tense than guests at a Barrymore pool-party. After all, not only does he wake up every morning with a head shaped like a granite aubergine, but now he’s got national TV treasures telling jokes that would be beneath Bernard Manning (seven-feet under). Poor lamb. Luckily Del has apologised for all the upset caused to the thousands of people he didn’t offend, which is fortunate for O’Connell as unlike Russell Brand he doesn’t have a film career to fall back on. Things may have been different had he been due to star in a remake of ‘North by Northwest’ where George Clooney and Amy Smart escape Phillip Seymour Hoffman and his henchman by clambering across the DJ’s face. He’d have been out of the studio faster than Del could say ‘disappointing Christmas special’. But who decided he had caused upset? The producer, who will have heard the word ‘Pakistani’, fallen off her chair and phoned Del’s agent comparing him to Jim Davidson, when in fact the un-offended listeners were sat at home saying “that joke was rubbish, how long 'til ‘Just a Minute’?”.

Case#2:

This comes from the colonies. Recently elected President Obama took time out from walking on water to get his bottom kissed on Jay Leno’s chatshow, and joked that his performance in the White House bowling alley (no, I didn’t know either) was “like the special Olympics or something”. He too later apologised, though in this case he had actually upset some people. I imagine you couldn’t move on the White House lawn for wailing Ironsides, angry at the slur but pleased to get a day out. Poor President. He shouldn’t worry though, he may have had a peek into his predecessor’s world by being as popular as a bum-picking on a twiglett but it only lasted a nano-second and, much like a bum-picking on a twiglett, noone really noticed. Those that did seem to have slightly miss the point anyway, since special Olympians are really quite good at sport, thus Obama was actually being somewhat boastful.

How un-American.

Damn You Boyle

The poster for ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ declares it to be “the feel-good film of the decade”. Oh dear, things don’t look good for my holocaust musical.