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Monday, 17 October 2011


How the fuck have I not covered this self righteous, pompous waste of oxygen until now? I feel that I'm not alone in thinking that this man is the epitome of egotistical douchebag, and I'm certain that he's been setting off your smug alarms for years. Bono is lauded as a saint by some for his supposed philanthropy and selfless commitment to tackling poverty, but despite his charity work and seemingly good intentions I can't fucking stand him! These are my top reasons for hating this pretentious moron;

  • U2 fucking suck- To me, listening to U2 is the musical equivalent of staring at a man's corpse whilst he is experiencing "angel lust" (post-mortem erection). U2 songs start and instantly reach a climax akin to a corpse's flaccid penis as it struggles to reach a depressingly lifeless boner that rapidly loses strength and eventually shrivels up into an inanimate nothing. It baffles me that U2 are the highest grossing band in the world, their music is so middle of the road and ineffectual that I can't hear it, I'm only aware that it exists. U2's style of "rock music" is always used to portray cool maverick types in mundane BBC drama's, for example think Judge John Deed struggling to vault a Rover, James Nesbitt chasing down a criminal through a supermarket or a Blue Peter presenter doing a bungee jump whilst the stock riff from "Elevation" plays in the background. This type of “rock” appeals to a smug beano reading chortler “rocking out” in a depressingly comfy environment (watching highlights of Glasto on the I-player whilst their dead behind the eyes wife is asleep on a Sunday after a roast), denying their middle class sensibilities whilst listening to U2 records (which they bought on the Apple store whilst picking up the new Coldplay album) on their vacant shiny 200GB I-pod (in a leather case to avoid scratching of course).

  • Look at him....just look at him- So it's pretty much common knowledge that anybody that wears sunglasses indoors is automatically an utter cunt. Bono looks like a second rate cast off from the Matrix/a space cowboy from the future, wearing ridiculous hats, constantly draped in a leather trench coat looking like he might flash you at any moment. His flamboyant trademark image extenuates his infinite ego, the finishing touch on a self obsessed wanker.

  • Bono is coming, act busy! -"I don't know why, but we always had this belief that there was something sacred about our music, that it was almost holy." ....WHAT? This is one of many truly narcissistic statements that the deluded old fruit has made when reflecting on his impact on music, highlighting his warped view of his own self importance. You're right Bono, some of your lyrics really are holy, here's a few of my personal favourites that have got me through some really hard times...I didn't give anyone else a choice/An intellectual tortoise” I've got no self control/Been living like a mole...now”.”Grace, is a name for a girl, it's also a thought that changed the world”

    Whoah, it's like he's channelling the words from my soul, his lyrics don't even slightly sound like they were written as homework by a GCSE student. I think if we need any further proof that God isn't real then that statement has put the nail in the fucking coffin, but on the other hand you could look at it like U2's music was created by a God with the divine purpose of punishment. Have you heard the parable of the rich man that moved his money in a private jet to a tax haven in a foreign country? Look it up in the Capitalist Bible mannnnnnnnnnn! Can we just hurry up and crucify him so that he can die for all our sins already?

    "Celebrity is currency, so I wanted to use mine effectively." There is nothing more patronising than having a millionaire getting up on their diamond encrusted soapbox and try and lecture you about global poverty, it is utterly sickening! Bono has never disclosed his contribution to fighting African poverty, but throwing money at a continent that is corrupt beyond belief will not solve anything. I'm not going to deny that in 1985 Live Aid was a well intentioned concert and a historic moment in Britain, but helping to raise money for Africa does not make Bono an expert in global politics. Bono seems to get behind any bandwagon with a safe political message like “War is not very nice”, “Racism is rubbish” or “Global warming is quite dangerous” presenting himself as a cool political maverick sticking it to “the man”. He may not play by the rules but by god he gets results! In reality he should not be entertained as a political figure in any form, just an opinionated old windbag that likes the sound of his own voice and lives with his greasy head permanently inserted in his own rectum.

Bono, you have been stuck in a moment of new age bullshit and pretention since the elevation of your ego in the 80's...you still haven't found what you're looking for and you're out of control. I hope you don't have vertigo, because you are going to fall off the edge of your mountainous moral high ground and it will be a beautiful day....someday bloody someday.

I can't live, with or without you

Modern 'Art'

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Nope, it's modern art. Prepare for your fucking mind to be blown.

As the 21st Century bumbles along, there are several things that we urgently need to address in society to prevent us from certain devastation. We are in serious danger, for example, of fucking up our climate with global warming, for a while now we've teetering on the brink of being blown to bits in World War Three and if we're not careful, we may all be suffocated as we collectively disappear up our own assholes with the pretension of modern 'art'.

Take for example the above piece of 'art' created by Barry Flanagan, being displayed in the Tate this month... WHAT. THE. FUCK? I swear to fucking Lydia, this isn't a joke, this is actually being displayed as art in a fucking gallery. WHO WOULD BE SUCKED IN BY THIS?!?! Good old Barry must be fucking pissing himself laughing at the dickheads who brought this.... It's a pile of fucking sand! WHAT?!

I don't want to just pick up on this piece of shit, so let's look at some more. Next, the world famous 'My Bed' by Tracy Emin.

THIS IS NOT ART. What you've done here, is sleep in a bed and made a fucking mess. I knew a girl once whose bedroom looked like this. Piles of clothes everywhere, empty ketamine bags strewn all over the desk and a cat 'somewhere' in the wreckage. Was she an artist? Rather than slowly backing out of the door when she turned around, should I of dropped to my knees and applauded her bold statement about depression? Was she saying 'I am a product of my environment, I am depressed and this is my take on that illness?' No. She was just a lazy, disgusting, untidy fuck. Tracy Emin; This is not art. It's not even a thing. It's just your grotesque life moved into a gallery. I realise you've had a bad time of it and your depressed, but maybe if you tidied up your house and stopped living like a fucking pig, you'd feel better, yeah?

Ok, last one...

Above is 'Work No.227:The Lights going on and off' by Martin Creed. So basically, it's a room and the lights flash on and off intermittently... Wow, where to start.... I feel it's worth pointing out that this awful piece of shit actually WON the Turner Prize. Think about that for a second, it's not just art, it's AWARD WINNING art. At best this is an example of shoddy electrical workmanship, at worst it's a cunning trap for epileptics. THIS. IS. NOT. ART. YOU. PRETENTIOUS. FUCKING. CUNT. Seriously Martin, fuck your life.

The most annoying thing is that the artists of all these abominations will explain them away as something deep and meaningful with a message and snobby art cunts will listen. They'll marvel at the structure, the forms they take, the way it makes them feel and what it says to them inside. They'll stand around looking at them from all angles, squatting down to eye level with them and basking in their beauty and simplicity. They'll read in The Guardian how astounding they are and not wanting to be left behind they'll flock to the Tate and swoon of over the emperor's new clothes. They'll exit through the gift shop and buy postcard photos of them to take home and stick on their fridge full of fucking creme fraiche and organic apple juice. Mother. Fucking. Art. Cunts.

In my mind, art (and therefore artists) are divided into two very distinct columns.

One; Artists - People who can create things that others can't. Paintings, sculptures, drawings, anything that your standard mouth breather on the street wouldn't be able to replicate easily.

Two; Cunts - People that decide a real job is too hard for them and take a shit in a box and try to pass it off as a statement of the proletariat's struggle to be heard in today's overcrowded and over saturated society... Do one, prick.

Just because you own a camera, it doesn't mean you are a photographer. Just like owning a printer doesn't make you a printer, like playing in a punk band doesn't make you a musician and buying balsamic vinegar doesn't make you a fucking chef. I wish things were that simple, I do. I own a cat, I wish that meant I owned a Lion but alas, the world is not that fair. So just because you have a fucking art degree, it does not mean that you are an artist. Having been to a couple of 'End of Year Art Shows' I can confirm that Art Degrees are handed out like sweets at the dentist.

Sleeping in a bed, making a shit sand castle or flicking a light switch on and off is not art, you fucking prick.

Wednesday, 12 October 2011

Zombie Chic.

Wouldn't it be wicked if we were all dead?
Well… No?

Zombies… Really? Still?! It’s 2011, what the fuck is wrong with you? Surely this thing has to die (wheyyyy) soon? Movies, TV shows, computer games, photo-shoots, every fancy dress party, every Halloween, every fucking chance they get, cretins seem to delight in rolling around in flour, putting on some ripped clothes and throwing fake blood over each other.


It seems that ‘Zombie-chic’ has now crossed over from a joke into a fully developed subculture which (like most/all subcultures) is tedious to the fucking extreme.

Take for example, the ‘concerned citizen’ who took time out of his day to write to Leicester City Council and ask how prepared they were for ‘a Zombie invasion’ After the Council admitted it was not prepared for such a made up event, 150 people left their parent’s spare rooms, took to the streets and slowly Zombie-shuffled through the town centre…

I mean, haha, don’t get me wrong, hahahaha, I do bloody love a good laugh, hohoho, and this is VERY funny. Funny AND clever. Hohohohohoooo, hahahaha, Leicester, ay? The things that town gets up to… HAHAHA! SO FUNNY! I mean, that hilarious guy must have been the king of Warhammer club the next day when he told his friends about it over a mug of Ribena. I bet they all laughed so hard they had to get their inhalers out. Thank god their glasses were tied to their heads or I’m sure they would have fallen off too. Oh lord the hilarity! I can only imagine how much fun these guys had. Eurgggghhhhh, so funny.

The irony of course is that there IS a plague spreading across the world, infecting people and turning them into mumbling, slow walking, smelly fucking idiots. Hell is indeed full and the dead stupid are being spat back onto the earth to fuck up our lives and make us miserable.

Please, PLEASE stop, you fucking awful cunts.

Monday, 30 May 2011

Music Festivals

Summer time is here again which means three things.

1) Hayfever be kicking my dick in for the next six months
2) I will edge another year closer to death
3) I will have to hear about music festivals on a daily fucking basis

Reading and Leeds, Glastonbury, Sonosphere, The Big Weekend, Hevy Fest, Fest, Fluff Fest, Trash Fest,
Groezrock, Download, Party in the Park, Tea in the Park... The list is fucking endless and I honestly cannot think of a worse thing to do with your time than go to these things. I detest them and here's why;

The Squalor. Something a lot of people don't seem to grasp is that just because you are at a festival, you don't have to live like an animal. It is not an excuse for you and your prick friends to act like the Lost Boys from Peter Pan. Just because you're out of your parents spare room for the weekend it doesn't mean you should shit in the woods, or smear your feces over the portercabin walls. It's doesn't mean you should piss in bottles or throw lit fire lights into a group of tents. It's not OK to set fire to your tent at the end of the weekend. It's not OK to have really loud sex in your tent at 4am when people are trying to sleep. Engaging in these activities is not 'getting in the festival spirit' it is being a fucking scum bag and you need to grow the fuck up.

The bands. OK so, for example, we'll pick Leeds fest. There are only about ten bands in the world that could legitimately headline that trainwreck. Whoever plays last will be playing to tens of thousands of people. So that being said, it's just the same fucking bands every few years. THAT'S NOT WORTH £150 A TICKET! YOU'VE ALREADY SEEN FOO FIGHTERS AND METALLICA AND GUNS AND ROSES! And even if they aren't playing that festival this year they will be playing another this year or next. I realise people don't go to these things just to see the headliners, but that raises the other issue; If you are going to them to see someone like Best Coast or Surfer Blood or whatever, just go to see them at your local venue on tour. It will be a ten times cheaper and a thousand times more enjoyable, prick.

The hype. Possibly the thing I hate most about these abominations is having to hear about them over and over and over and over. Whether it's Fearne Cotton creaming over some hip new indie band on Radio One or the continual TV adverts for T4 on the beach the whole thing makes me want to drown myself. "HEY! HEY LOOK! BANDS! LOADS OF BANDS!! LOOOOOK!!! BANDS IN A FIELD!!" Fucking do one. The undoubted winner of the festival hype machine however, is Fest. For anyone not in the know, Fest is a weekender in the US where a bunch of dudes with beards get together in October. Now, bearing in mind this thing is in OCTOBER, when do you think a good time to start talking about it would be? January, obviously. Honestly, I could tell you exactly which of my Facebook friends are going, which bands they are planning on seeing, what they've had to sell to be able to afford to go, where they're staying, who they're staying with, how stoked they are, what fest tattoo they plan to get, what hot dogs they are going to eat etc etc etc... OH MY FUCKING GOD. For the sake of my sanity I've just had to block/delete anyone that talks about it. IT'S FUCKING MONTHS AWAY.

Wristbands. Festival wristbands, the lowest of the low... Holy fucking Christ I detest the fucking cretins who refuse to cut their fucking wristbands off and wear them throughout the year as a trophy to how incredibly lame they are. First of all, we all know you went to a festival because you won't shut up about it. We don't need a reminder. Secondly, YOU HAVE A FILTHY, MUDDY, SMELLY PIECE OF CLOTH WRAPPED ABOUT YOUR WRIST. CUT IT OFF YOU DISGUSTING FUCKING HIPPY WANKER. I saw someone this week who must of had three or four of the fucking things on their wrist. GREAT. Why not just get a marker pen and write 'CUNT' in block letters on your forehead, it would be cheaper and you wouldn't have to watch Muse. Just saying.

Sunday, 17 April 2011

Britain's Got Talent

It's Saturday night, 10 million people have nothing better to do than become armchair judges for the night and absorb the lowest common denominator of typically saccharine ITV vomit . From the same TV studio that brought you "Katie and Peter- On the Toilet", "I'm a Celebrity Being Forced to Eat a Camel's Scrotum" and "Kerry Katona- Crack Whore Confessions", this is yet another reminder of the depressingly senseless tastes of the general public. These are my top reasons for despising everything about this nightmarish Hello Magazine come to life live event;
  • Sob stories- Apparently showcasing your particular talent is no longer enough to appear on BGT, the contestant has to have a heart wrenching "against all odds" tale of woe to capture the fickle hearts of the British public. Contestants will tearfully claim that their Grandmother's dying wish was for them to enter the competition, or that the ghosts of their dead family that burned in a fire visited them in a dream and expressed their wish for them to sing, as they are forever stuck in limbo and their souls can't rest until they have won the competition (too far, but you get the point). I despise the way that these stories are told before the contestant performs in a transparent attempt to conjure an emotional response from the imbecilic viewers when said contestant is predictably approved by the hammy judges after a formulaically dramatic pause between decisions. This is accompanied by emotive music like "Snow Patrol", with a slowly building verse and elated chorus that kicks in as the decision is made, reinforcing the triumph of the contestant and making the gormless simpleton audience feel all warm and fuzzy inside...awwww.
  • Exploitation of weirdo's- Before I go on some self righteous rant about the disgusting exploitation of the contestants on BGT, I should point out that this is probably the only part that I and many other twisted voyeurs of social suicide actually enjoy! Despite the fact that this sacrifice to the ravenous general public is shamefully entertaining, it doesn't make it okay. The bodies responsible for arranging auditions are fully aware of the fact that these hopefuls are deluded freaks that have about as much chance of winning the competition as Stephen Hawking does winning the 100 metre sprint at the Olympics, but they still allow the contestant to be humiliated in front of an audience of millions for a cheap laugh.
  • The judges- I think the fact that the actual contestants are merely a supporting cast for the staged exploits of the vain judges speaks volumes about the entertainment value of this show. The judges will "spontaneously" begin to argue, resulting in some heavily edited drama that's been doctored to create tension and distract the audience from the monotonous shit they're watching.
  • Amanda Holden- Amanda Holden's wacky forced laughter and playful banter with the judges is truly sickening, and it reeks of somebody desperately trying to be liked. All of her interactions feel disingenuous, and they equate to the sincerity of a paedophile at a parole hearing. I think that the value and integrity of the show is summarised by the fact that this second rate (and that's being generous) "actress" is allowed to have an opinion on what constitutes talent. I am struggling to think of any notable television work that she's done, as I've always just referred to her as "that bint that married Les Dennis". After some research it appears that her most illustrious role was being a contestant on "Blind Date"...where she sadly wasn't picked.
  • Michael Mcintyre- Since Simon Cowell's departure for greener pastures ($$$), who better to fill his shoes than possibly the most fusty Beano humoured comedian in Britain. "Corrr what about that traffic on the M1?"....."It's a ruddy nightmare getting rid of Scottish bank notes in England", "What about that air-plane food then?" Don't you hate it when your Dad snores....am I right?" HA..it's funny cos it's true! Mcintyre's pedestrian observations of Bourgeois family behavior feel like a reflection on boring Conservative Britain, dull family jokes that are safe, politically correct and digestible. This is exactly the kind of malleable puppet that ITV needs to front a family orientated entertainment show, as he's predictable and will provide a brand of tedious humour that will make the audience chortle. Here's an observation for you Michael, you're a floppy haired arrogant toff with a dated sense of humour and mind numbingly vanilla material.
  • David Hasslehoff- Don't hassle the Hoff ......FUCK OFF! David Hasslehoff in recent years has become a one man 80's irony magnet, which has proven to be popular with wacky students in the same way that Pat Sharpe has..."Do u remember funhouse?" "LOL yeah I like to remember old stuff that's no longer relevant too". Okay, "the Hoff" has actually had a fairly successful career in both the television and music industry, but that was 20 years ago! Since appearing in shows with sarcastic talking cars and women with massive tits, the only thing that "the Hoff" has starred in is a depressing home video in which his daughter confronts him with the reality of his alcoholism whilst he clumsily fails at eating a burger in an empty bathtub. Yes, a drunk that can't even eat a fucking burger properly is responsible for judging the the talents of others! Surely there is somebody more capable (and entitled) to be in the judges position?
  • The prize- Yet again it's assumed that we're all imbecilic serfs that live in a medieval society in which the royal family holds power over us turnip farmers and blacksmiths, and becoming jesters at the royal variety show is the ultimate goal in our sad, empty lives. Big deal, you get to perform to an archaic institution of inbred German lizards that couldn't give less of a shit about your talent and secretly harbour the urge to lock you in a dungeon or behead you.
  • The audience- I HATE the studio audience even more than I hate the armchair audience. It's bad enough that people are wasting their time with this drivel at home, but to actually give up your time and travel to watch this spectacle live is madness! The only way I can describe it is that it's like witnessing some sort off modern day gladiator contest (not the ITV show "Gladiators", I'm talking Romans), and the audience are the bloodthirsty rotten fruit throwing peasants that fill the coliseum and hiss, boo and cheer when prompted to do so. I despise the way that they spontaneously start swaying and singing along to the songs, all the while looking like battered slags on a mad hen night in Hull. These types of simpletons are easily entertained, and would probably cheer for hours if a giant set of keys was hung above them and jingled around!
  • Street dance troupe's- Words cannot describe my contempt for these groups, who persistently spout out the same old boring stories about what a positive impact street dancing has had on their lives. "Yeah I got in with the wrong crowd on the streets, but dancing has turned my life around". REALLY? Do you know what might actually enrich your life....if you stopped wasting your time doing stupid back flips and spinning on your fucking thick skull and got a fucking job!
  • Treatment of the elderly- The elderly get patronised beyond belief by the judges, who condescendingly alter their voices and mannerisms as if talking to a child. This is accompanied by a standing ovation when the elderly person announces their age, as if everybody's shocked that the contestant isn't dead or rotting in an old persons home. Regardless of how atrocious the elderly contestants performance is (usually a performance of Now That's What I Call World War 2 smash hit "We'll meet again"), the crowd and judges still lap it up and love every minute! If an elderly person were to walk out on the stage, forget where they are and urinate themselves the crowd would probably still over zealously applaud whilst Amanda Holden contrivedly forces out a tear.
One of the worst things about this show is that the following day it's guaranteed that people will be discussing the dire events of their Saturday nights in front of the idiot box. BGT bears no cultural relevance on Britain, yet hordes of idiots consider it to be the highlight of their week. If the level of entertainment offered in this truly awful show is anything to go by, I would have to completely disagree with its title.

Britains got naive mental cases, gormless simpletons, conceited judges, utterly detestable personalities and evidently no fucking lives.

Wednesday, 30 March 2011

Public toilets

Public toilets are fucking grim. There is nothing worse than being ‘caught short’ and having to resort to using one of these disgusting cesspits, only to find it covered in piss, shit, blood and graffiti. I REALLY don’t understand why people fuck up public toilets. YOU WILL HAVE TO USE IT TOO, YOU CRETIN. IF YOU SMEAR SHIT UP THE WALLS, YOU WILL HAVE TO SMELL IT.

OK, so for the sake of the world, can everyone agree to abide by some rules?

Clean up after yourself. Cleaning up after yourself might seem a bit of a broad statement, so I’ll narrow it down. If you use a toilet to piss standing up and you hit the seat/floor, get some tissue and mop it up. If you take a shit, FLUSH IT. Only use the toilet paper you need, if you ram the toilet with too much stuff, it will block. If it blocks, unblock it (I don’t care if you don’t have a plunger, use your fucking hands you disgusting cunt) If you leave shit all over the bowl that the flush doesn’t clear, clean it off. If you find yourself without toilet paper, DO NOT use pages from a book to wipe your ass and then stick the pages to the wall using your feces as the glue (Yes, this actually happened – take a bow, LS6).

Basically, leave the toilet in the same state that you’d want to find it. If you find yourself taking off the lid of the cistern to take a dump in it, you’re a cunt. If you start spinning round whilst pissing, stop and take a look at yourself. This comes down to general good manners and unless you are a fucking pig, you will already follow these rules.

Shitting Etiquette. For better or worse, we all sometimes find ourselves needing a shit when we are away from home. Fine. But just because there are 2 cubicles in a rest room, that does not mean two people can be shitting at the same time a metre away from each other. Sorry, but that is fucking foul. If you go into a toilet and a cubicle is occupied, you have to wait. Them’s the rules.

Picture the scene, you’re busting for a dump. You find a public toilet that’s clean and empty, PERFECT. You sit down and start about your business. Just as you’re getting into the swing of things, some twat walks in, takes the cubicle next to you and starts loudly shitting and farting and it fucking wreaks. You have to put your shirt over your nose to stop from gagging from the stench. Your nice relaxing shit has now become an horrific ordeal. FUCK THAT GUY. If someone else got there first, tough fucking luck buddy. Shit your pants if you have to.

Wanks. Public/work toilets are for three things; Pissing, shitting and power napping. That’s it. In exceptional circumstances, these uses can be extended to include; going into to buy/take drugs and to nip into to… ‘fornicate’ with your partner. We’ve all been there. To say you haven’t used some sort of empty toilet/changing room/meeting room for this purpose is simply misleading. You have. Yeah, it’s pretty grim, but fuck it, something has got to make museums fun, right? I’m fine with this, as long as it’s clean and no-one is around, go nuts. UNLESS you’re by yourself. If you’re planning on going solo, wait until you get home, for fuck sake.

I suspect this is more of a ‘work toilet’ thing as I know of at least five/six people who have admitted to me that they have snuck off to the office loo to knock one out… You are fucking grotesque. How bored do you really have to be to make this seem appealing?! Is it the thrill of getting caught? Have people seen so many porn movies these days that they expect a smoking hot temp to walk in, catch them at it and ‘finish them off’?! Not gonna happen. Hate to break it to you, but the only people walking through that door are your fat manager or the geeky IT Guy. Big soz.

And finally my pet hate, Graffiti. For some reason, people think it’s ok to daub all sorts of messages over the walls of public toilets. Whether it’s HILARIOUS pictures, jokes and limericks or powerful and thought provoking proverbs and political messages, if you have written a message on a toilet wall, you need to be put down. What the FUCK is wrong with you?! Ok, first off, who takes a marker pen into the toilet with them, really?! The answer is; NO-ONE. No-one carries a marker with them at all times. So already you’ve pre-planned your act of vandalism... WANKER. So you get into the toilet and sit down, what to write? Do you show people how fucking funny you are? Or shall you blow their minds with some philosophy? Go for humour.. ‘WANTED; BUTCH MAN FOR LONG TIME LOVIN, THINK URE MAN ENUFF? CALL ME’ And you write your friends number… HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, FUCKING HELL!! FUCKING FUCKING HELL!! LOL!!! HAHAHAHAHA, IT’S FUNNY BECAUSE IT’S YOUR FRIENDS NUMBER!!! YOU REALLY ARE FUNNY!!!!!! OH MY FUCKING GOD, THAT IS SO. FUCKING. FUNNY. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Seriously, these people need finding and putting to sleep. Worse than that is the pretentious ‘clever’ graffiti. If you’ve ever been to the Cowley Club, you’ll know that it is covered in such prolific statements as ‘Cameron is a pig’, ‘Fuck Thatcher’ and my personal favourite ‘It only takes one tree to make a thousand matches but only takes one match to burn a thousand trees…’ Wow… you’ve BLOWN MY MIND. Well done. Also, Stereophonics lyrics in an anarchist club? NICE.

Some people are so fucking retarded and disgusting it hurts my head. Fuck.

Friday, 25 March 2011

Online Gaming Nerd Rage

Since I was a about 4 years old I have been obsessed with computer games. From early arcade games, computers and consoles to modern technologies, I have spent a large portion of my life in front of a computer/TV screen. Admittedly it sometimes terrifies me to think of how many months/years of my life have been spent with a control pad/keyboard in hand shooting people in the face and shouting "noooooob" at them, fucking up dragons with wizards spells and shit, solving puzzles and trying to unlock that urban myth of a scene where Lara Croft gets her fun bags out...but I don't regret it.

The world has witnessed unimaginable changes in the computer games industry since the 90's, with a steady flow of new technologies, games consoles and hardware innovations, the games industry has never been more popular. One of the main reasons attributed to this surge in popularity is online gaming, giving gamers the ability to test out their skills against other gamers worldwide.

This sounds like a nice idea in theory, people of different nationalities coming together for a bit of friendly competition. Maybe we can learn about each others culture whilst enjoying a relaxing game? Maybe we can make friends for life and play as a team? Just maybe we can attain world peace....right? WRONG, this is about as likely as crazy teenagers running around a dark flashing room, eating bright coloured magical pills and gurning uncontrollably whilst mind numbingly repetitive 8 bit music plays after being influenced by Pacman! Actually that was a bad example.....but you get the point.

Online gaming has seemingly descended into a pit of self loathing, hatred and frustration for many of it's users...me included. What should be a relaxing past time has turned into an experience that has people temporarily losing control of their temper (and their dignity), and regressing to child like behavior. These are my top reasons for hating the snivelling little brats that pollute the world of online gaming...

  • The inability to accept their own incompetencies- We've heard it all before. "You're cheating! LAG! (latency that causes the game to fall out of sync with actions of a player and the reaction of the game), YOU'RE CHEATING!!" As soon as the nerd rager starts to lose, they will blame every available variable that may have contributed to their poor performance, when in fact the game is working perfectly well and their inadequate dexterity and strategy is at fault. The noise that a nerd rager makes when agitated can only be likened to a nasal voiced child that has snapped after his 100th atomic wedgie/milk money robbery, and the sound awakens something inside of you that invokes the undeniable urge to flush said nerd ragers head down a toilet or give them a brutal Chinese burn!
  • People that talk shit on their headset- Unfortunately on-line gaming has a chat room element to it, and we all know what happens in chat rooms! Unless you are using your headset to communicate with players that you are in a party with, you will at some point be subjected to a torrent of immature school boy abuse by some irritatingly high voiced child. The best thing to do is just mute the people that are annoying you, but often you will become so enraged that you will sink to their level and use your headset to challenge them to a duel with your tongue sword. They will emptily threaten to track you down and kill you, try and insult your country of origin (e.g. "hey buddy, I fucked the Queen"), tell you that you have no dick and eventually resort to racism. At times this will make you wish you could turn into a Tron Lightcycle, drive down the network, shoot out of their router port and batter them!
  • People with shit connections- What are you on fucking 56k dial-up? If you don't have a half decent connection, don't fucking bother. You just turned up to a gun fight with a teapot...now piss off!
  • Children that play 18 rated games- Before I write this, I am not making this point from the perspective of somebody that cares about the moral responsibility that parents have to protect their children from offensive material. I'm not going to tell you how to look after your kids, all I ask is that you keep them the fuck away from the games that I play! I was playing Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2 (Battlefield Bad Company 2 is the don though!) during the day, and happened to be on a team with a group of young lads. They asked me my age, when I replied they started insinuating that I was a paedophile, using Xbox live as a method for grooming children! I pointed out to them that this game has an 18 rating, and they shouldn't be playing. They then told me that I was far too old to be playing computer games, and must therefore be a nonce. As I tried to argue with them they laughed, and I felt like an incredibly uncool Mr Belding esque character, desperately trying to be down with the kids but embarrassingly failing. I retired for the night to do some serious soul searching...despite the fact that I'd just got a Pave-low.
  • People that quit- Games like FIFA 11 have become unplayable if you have any skill, as 8 times out of 10 your competitor will quit as soon as they start losing. This is incredibly frustrating, as you are being robbed of both your time and XP points. I wish people could take a beating like a man, rather than living in the denial that they never lose.

I think we just have to accept that cretins exist in every corner of the world, and have infiltrated all forms of communication media....which sadly includes computer games. For some reason it seems that being given the ability to communicate remotely (and anonymously) with others triggers an impulsive behavior to argue with and abuse this stranger. Add a competitive element to the purpose of the communication, and the douchebag inside you unwillingly comes out to play.
I am very occasionally guilty of moments of nerd rage, which only fuels my hatred for this juvenile behavior more.

Come on nerds, can't we all just get along?

Saturday, 5 March 2011

Yellow Fever

"There is no doubt having a tan makes you feel thinner, sexier and healthier"

What the fuck is wrong with people, seriously? I honestly cannot see why any sane person would think getting a fake tan is a good idea. Whether it be sprayed on, painted on or burnt on by a sun bed, it always looks shit and always makes you look like a prick. A really weird culture has built up over the last few years where some people feel that by being pale, they are unattractive. So in an attempt to look "sexier" they do everything they can, to go as orange as they can.

OMG I am real worryed bout goin out 2nite. I aven't ad any sun coz of all the rain an now I look all pale an washed out, it's so gross. Honist, I look lyke a milk bottle.

Fucking hell. With all the problems in the world, the thing you're worried about is having your skin look its natural colour? Seriously, Whitmore are reforming, surely that's more terrifying?! I really can't work out why there are so many bright orange people walking the streets. All I can blame is our celebrity culture. People buy the Sun or Heat or whatever and see pictures of celebrities in bikinis living it up on holiday, looking tanned. So idiots start to think that that is sexy and in an attempt to look like celebrities, they roll around in a vat of bronzer. NICE ONE, CUNT. There is NOTHING sexy about you being painted orange!

Maybe you want people to think you've just come back from a holiday somewhere exotic? Couple of problems there... First up, fake tan looks just that, FAKE, clue's in the name, prick. Secondly, without wanting to use the world 'slag' you're dressed... cheaply? Sporting 3 inch heels, a tiny skirt with your thong showing, a boob tube and with what looks to be a tribal tattoo on the bottom of your back, whilst stumbling around the city centre at 4am doesn't scream 'I CAN AFFORD FOUR HOLIDAYS 4 YEAR' I'm sorry.

If you're going to do it, fucking man up and go the whole hog. That or don't bother.

How do you know if you're wearing too much fake tan? Well, are you wearing ANY? Yes? then it's too much. FUCK OFF.

Friday, 4 March 2011


London. What a fucking SHIT HOLE.

I had the dubious pleasure of visiting our capital city this week and it was the most pointless, stressful and money draining experience of my life. I guess I should start from the beginning, my band were recording with my friend Ben this week who lives on a ship on the Thames. Luke and I decided to get the train up together on Monday, we got to the station and brought our tickets. Point one - The ticket was £17, even WITH a Young Persons Railcard. WHAT THE FUCK?! Why is public transport so much more expensive to go to London?! It's like you're being taxed for visiting the cesspit.

Anyway, we brought tickets to London Bridge as that was the closest to where we were going. Fine. We looked at the board, no trains. OK, we'll go to Victoria and get the tube. As much as I hate the tube, we were already running late so we maned up. We got off the train at Victoria and walked towards the barriers. We were carrying gear so we went to the maned gate at the side, Luke walked though no problem. I showed the guy my ticket 'Stop!, Go over there' and the guy pointed to the excess fare stand. I try to ask what I've done wrong but the cunt is looking the other way now and as we all know, once you've turned your head, it is physically impossible to hear anything behind you.

So I wander over to the stand, pass the ticket to the guy and tell him what's happened.

'Brighton to London Victoria is £17 please...' and he holds out his hand
'Your ticket is to London Bridge, this is Victoria, you haven't paid'
'I have! Look, my ticket is in your hand!'
'Doesn't work like that'
At this point, I know I'm not going to win and we're running late so fuck it. 'Can I just pay the difference?'
'Yes, the difference is £17'
'But I've already PAID you most of it?!'
'Brighton to Victoria is Southwest trains, you brought Brighton to London Bridge, that's First Capital Connect. You've paid them, you've not paid Southwest Rail...'
'For fucks.... Ok fine, I have a young persons ra...'
'You can't use Railcards on jumped fares'
'I DIDN'T JUM... oh for fucks sake, here...' and I pass him the money. So, so far this had cost me £34.

I go back to that barrier and it's unsupervised, I walk through with no-one checking my ticket. FUCKING DO ONE.

Luke and I walk to the tube station talking about how shit London is and swearing we'll never come back. We climb down to the Underground station and it's chaos. Staff everywhere are setting up barriers, all the ticket machines are closed and a voice over the loud speaker is telling us that the Victoria's systems are going down. I need to top up my Oyster card but can't seem to do it anywhere. I head to the nearest attendant who is taking a barrier apart.

'Excuse me, sorry, where can I...' The guy stops what he's doing, stares straight at the floor and points a finger towards the ticket gates.
'You need to ask someone else' ...Great. Thanks buddy. We walk deeper into the station and find the last three working ticket machines. After waiting in the queue I scan my Oyster card, top up a fiver and I'm ready to go. I walk to the gate and scan it *BEEP* SEEK ASSISTANCE. Fucking hell. I walk to the gate with an attendant.

'Hi, sorry, I jus...'
'Our systems are going down, you'll have to sort it out at the other end' and she beeps me through. Whatever, she was REALLY rude, but at least we're on the way. We get our tubes and get onto the DLR to East India. A couple of stops in a guy comes round to ask for tickets, I pass him my Oyster card.

'Excuse me, you haven't paid'
'No' I say, and I explain about the systems and the lady.
'No staff would buzz you through, you haven't paid'
'No really she did, I topped up an...'
'Your balance is empty, there was no top up'
'What?! I did!' At this point everyone on the train is looking at me.
'Could you step off the train please?'
'What?!! No! I topped up! The woman... the systems!!'
Luke weighs in to help me, 'Honestly, he did top it up I saw him, the woman let him through'
'I'd like to meet this 'woman'' Says the ticket guy.
Luke tries a bit of humour, 'I'd like to see her again too, she she was pretty hot...' Nothing, not even a smile... BAD AUDIENCE.
'...Please step off the train'

We get off the train and I'm, painfully aware that he's still holding my Oyster card, train ticket and Young Persons card.

'So your name is Peter Smith?'
'You came from Brighton?'
'Ok, I'm writing you a ticket'
'WHAT?! For how much?!?!'
'What?!?!?' Pretty much the second I scream this, Luke bursts out laughing and pointing at me.
'You should have purchased a ticket like your friend'
'You didn't top up, Sir. Just give me your details' And like a fucking doyle I list off my address and postcode and agree to pay the fine in the next £21 days or it will go up to £50. So, so far my journey has cost me £34 train fare, £5 'missing' Oyster card top up and a fine of at least £25. FUCK OFF LONDON.

Fuck me, this is turning into an essay....

Anyway, the next day I went into the centre of London to meet Sam. I get there early, and have a walk around Holborne. Everyone is rude as fuck and seems to not see me so after about ten minutes of pricks walking into me and not saying sorry decide to find some booze. It's just gone midday so I find a little pub off the beaten track and think maybe I'll get some peace and quiet. I walk in and the fucking place is rammed already. Wall to wall yuppies in suits playing on their iPhones. I think again, but remember that alcohol is the answer and go to the bar to order a pint. 'That's £4.60 please...' You're fucking KIDDING?! After two pints I feel like I've been mugged. £9.20 for two drinks is a fucking disgrace.

After getting horrifically lost, I meet up with Sam and go to a museum. After an hour or so of looking at aborted things in jars, we make a move. We need to walk about a mile to pick up Sam's bags and then another mile to the tube station. It takes fucking AGES. Everyone is barging into us, walking in front of us and rushing past us. I swear it nearly took an hour just to get to the bags. then we walked to the station. At this point I snap and decide to play 'Hardest Rock'. I walk in a straight line, not moving for anyone. After a couple of minutes of knocking people (and one small child) out of my way I think better of it. I decide I can't become one of these London Cunts, I would rather die then join them. And I go back to ducking out of other peoples way.

We reached the tube station bang on rush hour but there's a problem, two of the four entrances are closed. There is a crackly voice coming over the P.A. telling people that to 'ease over crowding' they have closed two entrances so we need to use one on the others. THIS MAKES NOT FUCKING SENSE!!!!! Surely to ease over crowding you should OPEN two more entrances, not CLOSE them... SURELY?!

EURRRGGHHHHH.... By this time the little glimmer of hope that lives in my head has died and all I can think about is drowing myself in a bathtub. We crossed the road (getting beeped at by taxis) and forced our way into the stairway. I felt like I was a Gladiator in Ancient Rome walking into the arena, only instead of Italian virgins throwing rose petals over me, I have a sweaty deadlocked prick, leaning over the barriers, pushing a newspaper in my face 'Evening Standard, mate? Wanna Standard? Do ya?' NO! NO I FUCKING DON'T! FUCKING FUCK OFF!! FUCK FUCKING OFFFFFF!!!!!

ARRRRRGGGHHHHH!!!! London is a fucking HOLE. It is overcrowded to fuck and everyone acts like a fucking CUNT. It terrifies me that I may be going to University there next year. I'm really tempted to withdraw my application and refuse to step foot in anywhere closer to the centre than Kingston from now on. I really can't understand how people can move there. Two of my friends moved last Summer... Rather them than me. Fuck that place. So there you go, my two days in London.

The whole time I felt like one of those cartoon characters that has a small rain cloud over their head that follows them around all day. How can anyone like the place? Seriously?! The sheer amount of people, the noise, the smell, the pollution, the light pollution, the tube, the smugness of the residents, the tourists, the prices, the disgusting fucking Thames, the shit tourist sites... fucking everything. I wish the ground would open up and swallow the place whole.

Thursday, 3 March 2011

Gillian McKeith

It is a truly perplexing world that we live in when somehow the ideas of Gillian McKeith are entertained for even a second. This witch "doctor" has become one of the leading nutritionists in the UK, despite her collosally irritating personality and more than dubious credentials. These are my top reasons for desperately clasping for the remote when this excrement detective opens her dead behind the eyes face....

  • You are what you eat- If you have been unfortunate enough to watch this horrendous spectacle, then you will have seen "Dr" McQueef" relentlessly pester and bully fat people into changing their frankly disgusting diets into something that has been approved by the fetid ginger skeleton herself. Her colourful use of scare tactics have an overwhelming sense of callousness that is unmatched, and the extreme lengths that these shock tactics go to are appauling! It is difficult to see how her intentions are good when she leads her hapless obese pets out into their gardens to be confronted by a tombstone made of chocolate and butter, with their name ominously spelled out on it like she's the fucking "Ghost of Christmas Past" showing Flabaneezer Huge what will happen if he doesn't end his revolting fat binge!
  • Doctor? Bitch please!- Dr (?) Gillian McKeith has been mired in controversy since details of her false accreditation from "The University of Make Believe, Lollypop Lane, Faketown, Neverland, USA" were eventually investigated. Dr Doolittle was subsequently forced to remain from referring to herself as an accredited Doctor, and has since adopted the far less impressive moniker of "holistic nutritionist"....a title that screams "new age hippie ballbag" to me. When I think of a doctor, I would never associate the aggressive manner or cold indifference that Ms McKeith insensitively doles out to her patients with a REAL professional...people would simply not stand for it. The seemingly endless practice of becoming a fully qualified doctor is a long and arduous process, and for this charlatan to claim that she has earned this title is an insult to doctors worldwide. If PHD was an ackronym for "Permanent Head Damage", I think she would have undoubtably graduated as a fully qualified nutjob with flying colours!
  • "The Awful Poo Lady"- Ms McKeith (now that we have established she is not a doctor) has rightfully earned this nickname for her unhealthy obsession towards the fecal matter of the unhealthy. She excitedly disects and sifts through the rancid droppings of others like Indiana Jones on a treasure hunt, taking great pleasure in highlighting the malnourished subject that she's wrist deep in. I often think that she collects mementos of her patients excrement and stores it in a macabre methodical ritual, labelling her subjects for later enjoyment like a serial killer and their grisly trophies.
  • Odd grasp of human biology- For a supposed expert, Ms McKeith lacks an important understanding of even the most basic scientific conventions. Here is an example...Ms Mckeith once absurdly claimed that eating chlorophyl would be beneficial to an individuals health due to to its concentrated oxygen content, which had the ability to oxygenate the blood. if you are unfamiliar with chlorophyl, it is a pigment found in plants and algae that is an essential part of photosynthesis (if you don't know what photosynthesis is then go back to school!). In order for photosynthesis to occur, there must be light for the plant to absorb. This begs the question, how would chorophyl become oxygenated without a light source? Is she proposing that we shove a flashlight up our anus and photosynthesise internally? Surely this is proof enough that her grasp of science is not professionally sound, and her words should not be held with any regard.

(The after effects of Ms McKeith's attempt to vaidate her point by internally photosynthesising with the use of a 10" torch)

I think that Ms McKeith has dishonestly profited off of those that believed her to be an accredited expert, and was allowed to peddle her snake oil advice unchallenged for too long. Whilst the intentions of a professional intent on changing an individuals diet for the better is honorable, I feel that the advice of a quack like Gillian McKeith is null and void due to her highly questionable credentials and scientifically incorrect statements. When you combine this with her ugly attention seeking personality, you are left with an incredibly dislikeable person that is more than worthy of a hateful rant!

If you truly are what you eat, I dread to think of the repellant poison that Gillian McKeith has been hungrily stuffing herself with....

Friday, 25 February 2011


I like to think I'm a very liberal person. If I ever have kids I would support anything they wanted to do and any life choices they made... except one. If my (fictional) son or daughter came to me and told me they wanted to play the drums, I would disown them. I've been playing drums for about... 15 years? And trust me, there is no biggest waste of time and money in the world.

I wouldn't say playing drums was forced on me, but it was something that was always going to happen. My Dad used to play drums in an RAF marching band (TRU PUNX) when he was in the forces and there was always a pair of drum sticks floating around our house. I eventually took it up in secondary school and took a few lessons with the school drum teacher. Which leads me onto the first reason to not play drums; The cost.

Drum lessons in 1996 (FUCK) were £18 an hour. I remember that specifically as my Mum nearly had a heart attack when I told her. On top of that, I needed to buy my own sticks. £8 a pair. WICKED. So basically, I had very few drum lessons. Just enough to learn a beat and then I was on my own. Since then I must have spent thousands and thousands of pounds on this piece of shit hobby. Two drum kits, countless bits of hardware, an obscene amount of cymbals and what must equate to a forests worth of fucking drum sticks.

Seriously, this shit is expensive. I worked all summer cleaning tables in Pizza Hut to buy my first drum kit, and even then I couldn't afford a fucking good one. I dread to think how many Cymbals I've been through costing between £150-£200 a go... nearly 20? You'd think that something made from sheet metal would be pretty sturdy, right? WRONG. They break, they crack, they split and as soon as it happens, you're fucked. Yeah, they have warranties, but they only last a year and the average cymbals life span must be about 366 days. It's a fucking scam... And don't even get me started on fucking drum sticks... £8 a pair and the break in fucking sound check?! Fucking do one. So, there you go, drums are seriously expensive. Reason one.

Reason two; Drums fucking suck. If you learn the Piano or the Cello or something like that, you learn specific songs, melodies and scales. You get something for your money. My sister has been playing piano as long as I can remember, if she wants to play something for someone she can sit down and play some Beethoven, if she wants to relax she can sit down and play Chopin. What the fuck am I going to do? 'Hey look everyone! Bass drum!' *THUD* ...Great. Drums are the musical equivalent of the guy who turns up to a formal dinner party fucked out of his face with a prostitute on his arm. Everyone is sitting around having a nice time, talking about current events and then Drummy Drummond turns up screaming and being sick everywhere. Drums aren't an instrument, they're a fucking nuisance.

After my few lessons my mum asked to see what I'd learnt.
'Yeah Mum, I've learnt loads! Check this out!' *BASS DRUM - SNARE - BASS DRUM - BASS DRUM - SNARE*
'Oh... what song is that?!'
'......All songs?'

It might sound like I'm putting this on for comedy effect, but I'm not, drums are THAT dull. After my few lessons I basically thought 'Well, this sucks... I wonder how fast I can play this beat?' And that's pretty much all the fun I could get out of it. Don't get me wrong, I love doing bands, going on tour, drinking loads and visiting water parks, but the worst part about being on tour is the actual gig part. Great... 30 minutes of hitting stuff. WOOOOOOOOOO.... OK, so you've brought your drums, you've learnt your 4/4 beat. Next you join a band and start playing gigs.... MASSIVE ERROR.

My friend was telling me about a guitar pedal the other day that's basically an amp in a pedal and sounds wicked. He knows someone who has started using it for gigs, so basically he rocks up with a guitar in a gig bag, a distortion pedal and this amp pedal. Bass players now just need their bass and a Sansamp (another tiny pedal that sounds wicked). Drummers? Sticks, Cymbals, Snare and Pedal... at least. Usually your own snare stand too. You have no idea how heavy this crap is to carry.

So by this point you're in a band. Think you're pretty cool, ay? Nope, you're a drummer. You sit at the back of the stage, looking like neanderthal man, hitting things with sticks, getting sweaty and grunting. There is NO way to look good playing drums. A few years ago when Blink 182 got big I played so many gigs with drummers who tried to be Travis Barker. Playing exactly like him and making themselves look like EVEN MORE of a fuckwit. You can try to dress it up in any way you want, but at the end of the day, you'll never make drumming look cool. Just accept you made a shitty life choice. You're sweaty, you're constantly poor and you have arthritis in your wrists and elbows. The dreams over.

Lastly, Drum Solos; What the fuck is the point in a drum solo? I remember my Dad telling me once that he saw Deep Purple in the 70's and the drummer did an 18 minute drum solo... EIGHTEEN FUCKING MINUTES?! Fuck off.

TOM.... Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. Can you really imagine ANYTHING worse?
So there it is, don't let your kids play drums. As soon as their old enough, they'll resent you for it.