Saturday, April 22, 2006

...Children's BBC is a fucking disgrace...

It is run by old man gays who always choose young, good looking, gay-looking (and frequently gay-fucking) male presenters. Are you an ex-member of a failed boy-band that were all just a bit too camp to make pubescent girls wet?. Come to CBBC. Did you discover the joys of cock whilst acting in Byker Grove?. Come to CBBC.

Disturbingly, CBBC is the nearest thing gay men get to softcore porn on terrestrial TV. It's an active encouragement to wank after work instead of spending quality time with the wife and kids you don't have. But it has children on it.

CBBC is a government sactioned gateway-drug to paedophile porn.

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Thursday, March 09, 2006

...a little piece of history for you all...

It's the beginning of channel 4, from the early '80s. A number of things are worthy of note.

1) The eclectic montage of images designed to titilate, excite and intrigue the audience of the day.

2) The endless riffs on the old C4 ident theme which rival the Diabelli variations in number (though most assuredly not in quality)

3) The (in retrospect) crushing disappointment of what the continuity announcer says after the montage is finished. It's worth watching it the whole way through if only for this.

Enjoy.

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...coming out, sexual assault and christianity...

Have been thinking about how to write this entry for a while. It may just be the trippiest chain of events that I've ever experienced, and happened as a result of going to the local for a pint a few weeks ago.

I arrived at the pub at about ten o'clock. Hazel and Elsie (see below if you haven't heard of them before) had been there for about an hour and a half and had been talking to some guy named Glynn. They'd obviously got sick of him because as soon as I sat down they palmed him off onto me.

I think Glynn must have played a reed instrument at some point in his life. Only circular breathing could account for his ability to talk for half an hour without allowing a sufficient gap for even the rudest interruption. He started off by boring on about how he was "in the construction industry" (read: "a brickie").

Somehow I managed to mention that I worked at the hospital. He immediately countered with "my son works at the hospital. He's gay." Cue another half a fucking hour of agonising, probably word-for-word boredom about how his son had come out to him.

Eventually Hazel managed to interrupt. She wanted to borrow my phone. Such was my relief that I handed it over without thinking twice. It was only when I realised that she was ringing the police that I looked up and saw that she was in floods of tears. Apparently, while she'd been at the bar some bloke had lifted her top and tried to undo her bra. The police arrived a few minutes later, but by this time the culprit had wisely pissed off. While she'd been waiting for the filth to arrive Hazel had necked two pints and rendered herself nearly incoherent.

"He put his hand up me top and tried to undo me bra. I don't need it. I've got husband 't'home with cancer. Six t' twelve months to live. I don't need it. When you say my name a t'station they'll know it. My son's in prison. I don't need it. He's in prison for paedophile but he never done it. He was fitted up by that bitch wife of 'is and ma fucking adopted son. I don't want you treating me no different cos of it. I'm a respectable woman. I don't need that. Hands up me fucking top. I fucking don't."

...and so on until the police officers eventually bundled her and Elsie into the panda car and went off to have the miscreant's house pointed out to them.

By this point the bar had closed and I needed another drink. As I walked up the road to my house I passed the bunch of black kids (well, 15-20 year olds, anyway) who hang around outside the old converted church near the pub.

I'd always considered these guys to just be a harmless group of pot dealers/smokers without someone's flat to go round (much as my friends and I had been ten years or so ago), and thought they'd be the ideal people to ask where to get a drink at half eleven at night. Upon asking them, I was somewhat taken aback to be offered a lift to the petrol station. I got into their car, half expecting to be mugged, fucked or murdered. It turned out they were a coven of born again christians who had moved up here from north london to spread the word of God and do good works amongst the youth of North Nottingham. They were helping me to get wasted as an act of christian fucking charity.

"I used to be a really bad man. Dealing drugs and getting people beaten up and stuff. But then I let Jesus Christ into my life and I changed. My mother's really proud of me now." And so it went on. Everything I said was met with a fully referenced biblical reply. They even tried to get me to come along to one of their gospel choir recitals. Worst of all, the fucking garage was shut by the time we got there so I couldn't even drink myself into insensibility to block it out.

On the way back they offered to drop me at my door. I declined, saying the walk from the church would do me good.

Never let the bastards get your address.

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Sunday, February 12, 2006

...hazel and elsie...

...are two old ladies that I always sit with when I go to my local pub.

Hazel is 63, with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp and a haircut like a deflated Helen Shapiro. Her husband Derek is a lovely bloke who has Leukaemia and has about 6 to 12 months left on this earth. When I go shopping to Morrison's (a supermarket that is proof, were any needed, that it truly is grim Up North) I take Hazel with me. She repays me with the occasional bit of petrol money and a cooked dinner on sundays. One of her sons is a convicted (and imprisoned) paedophile. She says he didn't do it, and on balance I believe her. If there was any chance of it being true, she'd have castrated him herself - she's that sort of mother.

Elsie is 79 (or "80 next" as she started putting it the day after her last birthday - I think this grade inflation is a part of some sort longevity competition that people get involved with once they're over the standard 4 score and 10). She lives alone, having outlived a "bastard cowbag" first husband who used to beat her to a pulp, and a "lovely" second husband who was too kind to disturb her sleep the night he was taken to hospital for the last time (some in the pub would have it that this was because he routinely drank himself into a stupor and didn't even realise she was in the house when he called the ambulance). She has a toyboy aged forty-something who apparently can't get it up any more as a result of type II diabetes, although there are still "other things [she] can do for 'im".

Hazel is abraisive, rude and mean-minded. She also has the stereotypical northern "heart of gold" and has been kind to me since I moved here so I overlook (or rather, am vastly amused by) her more vicious outbursts. Elsie is quite deaf and exists largely in a world of her own - probably because her children are a snatch of cunts who despise her and regularly rob her of her meagre pension. She has ten children and can only ever say anything nice about one of them.

This is my social life in Nottingham.

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Wednesday, February 08, 2006

...oh dear god...

...it's being repeated on E4 now...

"I guess I'd describe myself as a bit of a disco monkey"

[brief interruption to mention how angry I am that the twat who played Alex on Holby City is advertising the renault clio]

[I wish I could capture the horrible gurning facial expressions on here.]

He arm-wrestles another guy to get his match.

"I got a first in science when I was at University. If I get condescending... slap me"

His dancing is worse than mine.

"I find that... er... when you're not necessarily sure of your body dancing it helps to use your face."

"I feel that the romantic clinch at the end was slightly less romantic than it sh...could have been"

No shit, Sherlock.

AND YET SOMEHOW THE CUNT WON THE DANCING CHALLENGE!!
CUNT!!

"I don't think I could evict Ed. It would be like shooting a puppy"

Shooting you would be even more fun than disembowelling a poodle. Bloodstained curly hair is always good. So is the destruction of a cunt [cf. african tribalism and female circumcision]. You're two for the price of one, fucker.

"Well guys, I'm sure that you'll appreciate that this has been quite a tough decision"

Was it fuck. You said it yourself: you get rid of the people who you think are most likely to win. The least awful pair of cunts. You cunt.

I can't watch another episode of this. I shall get piles.

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...cunting ben the cunting cunt...

...is apparently on a new reality show called "Beauty and the Geek". 7 Attractive women and 7 (in the words of the great puke) socially inept hirsuite twats live in a house together for 6 episodes to see if they end up shagging. I missed it on E4, but channel 4 are repeating it tomorrow (wednesday) at 10pm.

I hate that cunt.

Hail Mary,
Full of Grace,
The Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women,
and blessed is the fruit
of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary,
Mother of God,
pray for us sinners now,
and at the hour of death.

Amen.



Incidentally, a small reminder of Ben's previous celebrity credit, from the pages of this very blog:

tuesday august 03, 2004

...ben the cunt...

...now earns a living by dressing as a giant penguin for a kiddies' conservation project at Bristol Zoo.


What a cunt. Wonder if he's got any less sleazy and awful.

And in case any journos are looking for dirt on him on google...

I KNOW BEN JEWELL. BEN JEWELL IS A CUNT. GET IN TOUCH WITH ME TO FIND OUT WHAT A CUNT BEN JEWELL IS. BEN JEWELL IS SUCH A CUNT THAT INSTEAD OF CALLING HIM BEN JEWELL, EVERYBODY AT KING'S CALLED HIM BEN THE CUNT. THIS IS BECAUSE BEN JEWELL IS A CUNT. I KNOW A GIRL WHO GOT OFF WITH BEN JEWELL AND SHE SAYS THAT BEN JEWELL IS A CUNT. IF YOU'D BEEN TO BRISTOL ZOO IN 2004 YOU'D HAVE SEEN BEN DRESSED UP AS A PENGUIN. EVEN THE CHILDREN THOUGHT THE PENGUIN WAS A CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT. BEN JEWELL = BEN THE CUNT.

All you people with websites must link to me and make this work.

I hope he gets chucked off before he can make any money. Because he's a cunt. Ben Jewell is a cunt.

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Monday, February 06, 2006

...david got asked "the" question recently...

...by a flaccid flailing-armed student in one of his Maths classes.

He wasn't especially happy with the way he dealt with it ("What a strange question.") and thought he should have a remark held in reserve for the next time it happens.

We decided it ought to be something very matter-of-fact, yet eye-wateringly filthy.

The best suggestion I came up with was that he should absently dab the back of his trousers (as though checking for moisture), say "Why? Am I bleeding?", then dismissively shake his head and carry on as if nothing had happened.

Any other ideas, anyone?

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...fucking davina fucking mccall...

...now has her own show.

I could just about put up with her when she was interviewing intellectually subnormal showoffs on a channel nobody watches any more (since all the good shows got moved to More 4) at a time when decent people are out on the town being indecent, put primetime BBC1 on a wednesday? Fuck her. Fuck her in the nostril.

And why is Sue Perkins suddenly on every chat and review show going? Why the hell do we have to hear what a woman whose only claims to fame are having been slightly more funny than the least funny comedienne on TV (the frankly grotesque Mel) and having studied Lesbianism at some monstrous concrete Poly thinks about Stephen Spielberg's (apparently execrable) "Munich"? Fuck her too. And leave your rings on.

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Friday, February 03, 2006

...good shit from popbitch...

" >> Up shit creek <<
Oaten story leaves bad taste in mouth

Mark Oaten has made his first appearance since
the rent-boy story broke, and is vowing to
save his marriage. Mrs Oaten is likely to
poo-poo that idea however, when she find out
the "utterly degrading act" alluded to in the
papers was coprophilia. It seems that Mark,
unlike most politicians, likes to eat shit!

And the lucky rent-boy who got to perform this
task? Meet Kris. He describes himself as
"straight forward, open-minded and easygoing. I
am fascinated by the natural world and people
who have something interesting to say. I enjoy
anything safe and am totally versatile."

Kris' partner Tomash was the other member of the
threesome. He is known as "London's top twink".
Tomash says "I go to classical ballet classes.
Despite this I am not camp."

Kris (in his football strip)

Tomash

(FYI: Is it really a good idea for Oaten's website
to feature so prominently his thoughts on
"Prostitution strategy a missed opportunity"?
markoaten.com)

ROTFLMAO

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Saturday, January 28, 2006

...before christmas i shagged a guy...

...who was so fat that as he pounded my ass his stomach was resting on my shoulderblades.

I had to settle for a blowjob as I lacked the strength to part his gargantuan buttocks enough to return the favour (I nearly lost an arm and a knacker when I tried to free my other arm to reach for the lube).

He loves America and thinks that Bush is a really good president.

He's an accountant.

Probably my lowest ebb.

I've sworn off aftershock for the rest of my life.

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...balderdash and piffle...

...is a big pile of bollocks (cheap charter renewal TV at its worst). However, it did teach me one rather cool thing.

The word "scumbag" was originally an american slang expression for a used condom.

Lovely.

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