For reasons that could take some amount of explanation we found ourselves searching Google Images for a photo of the politician William Rhys-Mogg to see if he was who we thought he was – turns out we were actually looking for Rhodes Boyson and his magic facial hair – but what confused us was the results that came back – there were only 4, none of them remotely relevant, expected or exactly predictable.
(clicky biggerage!)
L
Why is it that when you’re in a rush and you’re waiting for one of those self service checkouts in the supermarket (thinking it’ll be faster and that you won’t have to engage in conversation with some care-in-the-community case intent on pushing the madness envelope) the only people in front of you in the queue are morons, and not just your run of the mill anuses, that but the kind who would normally find the putting shopping in a carrier bag unaided part to be a challenge in itself, let alone the concept of scanning and paying for the 3 items they’re trying to purchase as well.
It’s either that or a mother with a couple of despicably spoiled little shits who seems to think that it’s just one big cocking playground for her bickering spawn, and that the rest of the shoppers waiting with increasingly murderous intentions find the 10 minutes her offspring spend arguing over who’s going to scan the last yoghurt absolutely enthralling too. Bless them. We don’t. We want all of you to die in a fire.
Oh, and surely it’s not beyond the technological abilities of mankind as a whole to devise a conveyor belt that can tell if there is actually something on it or not.
L
If I hear any more about the trials and tribulations of Preston and Chantelle I swear I shall wreak bloody murder upon both of them.
In this day and age where the merest rumour of a celebrity breaking wind has most of Fleet Street rushing round to capture it in a metaphorical glass jar, I am stunned by the column inches devoted to such a vacuous and pointless pair of Z-list pricks.
Are they / aren’t they / has he / will she / do I give a fuck? Frankly -no.
I mean – the fact that I hate the whole concept of celebrity aside – we’re hardly talking Posh and Becks here are we? No, we’re really massively not.
Firstly, we’re talking about a man with a charisma-bypass who we know primarily as a pedler of relatively inoffensive mod-revival indie/britpop horseshit. His legendary charm and wit was never more clearly demonstrated than on Never Mind the Buzzcocks some time ago when at the first sign of a bit of a ribbing, he got all pissy and stormed off the show. He’s the kind of person you actually hope was bullied at school. Oh, and Preston, apart from being a shithole in central Lancashire, is his surname, not his first name. The cunt.
Secondly we have a woman who entered the Big Brother pit of despair dubbed a “non-celebrity” and for whom in my eyes at least, little has changed in this respect. The fact that Chantelle describes herself as “the new Katie Price” says more on this subject than I could ever hope to – I mean in terms of aspiring to anything in life, that’s just fantastic – she actually thinks she’s bigging herself up by saying that! It’s like wanting to be “the new Kerry Katona”, it’s just so low on the aspirational scale as to be achievable by all and sundry with little or no effort.
And just for the record, when it comes to reasons for mothers visiting Scandinavian nations; the only reason “mum’s gone to Iceland” is that she’s a fucking pikey and it’s where she belongs, saving money on your food so that she can spend the rest on supermarket own-brand fags and scratchcards.
L
Instead of ranting about something pointless I for once feel it necessary to complain about something that other people might also give a shit about, rather than the usual array of pointless self-interest that adorns this webshite.
Many residents of this much celebrated borough of Stockport will by now be familiar with the council’s token efforts to cut down on household refuse by issuing households with a roll of blue bin bags – any refuse placed outside for collection must be inside one of these or it will not be collected at all. Each household is provided with a roll that is supposed to be the equivalent of one bag per week for a year, and further bags can be purchased from the council if required. On first impressions this seems like a reasonable idea, and all in the name of ‘da environment’.
The problem is that the bags that are issued are so thin that you can’t actually put anything with corners or in fact anything displaying any hint of rigidity into them, so your choice of refuse is limited to de-boned freshly culled seal, unwanted sponges, surplus used chewing gum, redundant cheese and superfluous butter.
The only practical solution?
Continue to put all your rubbish into a normal shop-bought bin bag of decent quality and then put the black bin bag inside the blue bin bag so that the council workers will continue to collect your debris on a weekly basis.
Congratulations then are due to Stockport Council which has seemingly managed to single-handedly double the amount of plastic bin-liners ending up in landfill sites. This kind of smacks of the council cutting their own costs rather than giving a crap about what they’re actually collecting.
I look forward to their next green initiative with some trepidation and expect it to be along the lines of us all leaving our fridges and freezers open to help counter global warming.
There’s not nearly enough swearing in this post for my liking.
L
Only I’ve just noticed that Cliff Richard is playing the M.E.N Arena in November and it seems like the perfect crime.
L
If you think this new Volvo is a bit of a bushpig, just wait until you see it in the flesh – it’s a munter. I don’t quite get Volvo these days – they spent years making solid, reliable and decidedly dull looking cars and people bought them in droves and now they seem to have injected a bit more ‘design’ into the looks of their cars and they just look awful. Saab always managed to pull off quirky and interesting, Volvo never will.
Anyway – isn’t this just a reworking of the gorgeous old Volvo 480 that set absolutely no hearts or indeed anything else racing in the 1980′s?!?
I have suspected for some time now that the world has run out of ideas, and this may be all but the final clinching proof. As well as remaking everything that has gone before and received any kind of praise, we’re now repolishing previously-buffed turds too…
L
I was driving along this morning weaving through the usual array of half-awake halfwits on Hyde Road towards Manchester city centre when I spotted a vast Channel 4 poster advertising a new TV programme featuring an array of TV cooks.
(For the record I always try to refrain from calling them chefs partly because ‘cooks’ drags them back down to what they actually are, and partly because it may be more easily misread as ‘cocks’, which is more accurate still.)
Anyway, the point of this rant is that this particular attempt to capture our imaginations was announcing to bleary-eyed commuter and pedestrian alike that the ‘new season’ of this latest cock-manglingly piss-poor attempt at celebrity-centric ball-fondling begins soon.
(At this point I will remind you for no real reason other than a cheap dirty shot at those worse off than me, that I am driving through Gorton, so pedestrians becomes an umbrella term for the vast multicultural melting pot of smackheads, losers, scallies, 16 year old mothers of seven and other whores, most of whom probably can’t read the advert, come to think about it.)
I should have been more outraged by the tenuous concept itself, or the frankly tired, lazy and clichéd artwork, but the only lasting impression I had was this:
“season? season? it’s called a fucking series fer fuck’s sake! winter is a cocking season, as is spring, this is just a few consecutive weeks of a dismal tv programme, and ostensibly a pretty sodding feeble one at that!”
America, would you once again be so kind as to gather up the majority of your dreadful influences on our society and stick them collectively up your oversized ‘ass’ – would those who allow this pervasive nonsense to enter our language and become commonplace please have a word with yourselves.
I would like to oversee the individuals responsible for this advert (or ‘commiddee’ – the collective noun for a bunch of advertossers, I believe) being beaten to death with the collective works of William Shakespeare, or at a push even William Hague.
L
Over the last few months I’ve realised that the kind of people that drive the new Mini are are either:
a) Your Mum.
b) ‘Marketing types’ – go-getters who can all go-get fucked.
That is all.
L
Why is it that you have to own a tea towel for about a year before it becomes even remotely absorbent?
L
