Last week, so-called 'celebrities' managed to come out with more bollocks. On MSN there was a selection of quotes that included pure pointlessness, and it was only Professor Green who managed to say anything that was worthy of applause at all - clearly he's the most educated of this sorry rabble below.
Professor Green
"I'd put all of TOWIE in prison. Or maybe I'd kill them all and the country's IQ would rise!"
Well done for that - totally on the money and sensible as well.
Melanie Sykes
"Get off Twitter and get back into bed! God you are insatiable! I love it!"
We do not want to know about any of this, you sad individual; get a grip. Just because a 26-year-old wants to poke you for a short while, don't get carried away.
Katie Price
"I'm not thinking of weddings 'cause obviously I'm not divorced from the tranny yet."
You are so shallow and unattractive - physically, and more importantly, personality-wise.
Jessie J
"Last year I was a girl, this year a woman because I get my bum out more."
You're certainly talking like an arse, and most of your input on The Voice was bollocks, because there was a severe lack of honesty from all judges.
Cheryl Cole
"She's a free spirit . . . . She doesn't care if she calls somebody a **** on Twitter."
Yep, Rihanna is certainly a loose canon, and doesn't give a shit - and quite frankly I don't give one about her and her self-obsessed ways - or you, luv. Still getting tips from Marcel Marceau?
Rihanna
"Cheryl Cole is hot. I would like just to watch her . . . picking up stuff on the floor, bending over."
Please can you desist in making any form of comment on any matter. You are in the newspapers so much that it is beyond a joke - as is the compulsory reference to your being 'born in the Bahamas' or more commonly (because writers seem to love using the word) 'Bajan'. Whatever happened to 'Barbadian' then? Anyway, Your fantasies over the mime artist are of no interest to me.
Twitter is the curse of humanity and of a stifler of freedom of expression. No longer can useful comment find a way to a receptive audience. Instead, we are suffocated with shit. I am sure there's a clever analogy to be made here, to do with atoms, electrons and bombardment. Tweets are bullets sent from the guns of twits who haphazardly scatter uselessness in all directions.
...
Monday, 4 June 2012
Sunday, 3 June 2012
3.6.12 It's All About the Invoice UK
There we are, the end of an awful dose of television over many weekends. Yes, The Voice UK has finally been euthanised. This rather expensive torture has ended and we can now all just hope that we can see much less of Will.i.am on our screens. Maybe he will spend time on an autobiography. It should be called 'Dope' and that's in the literal sense, not the way he uses the word.
So, it was the final show yesterday - something that I had grasped well before one of the judges! I say this because after Bo had started off the show with her breathy stuff, Leanne sang, and Jessie J's first comment afterwards was: "You know what, you just reminded me this is the final." She followed this up immediately with: "I'm just so proud of your growth." Now, I cannot work out (a) why Jessie can claim to be proud of anything associated with Leanne, who was nothing to do with Jessie on the coaching side, and (b) what sort of growth Leanne has got - hopefully a small unobtrusive cyst rather than something serious!
Will.u.disappear had already beaten Jessie though, in the race to say something silly - which he did after Bo's song, when he referred to there being no "ostacle" rather than "obstacle". He'd then failed Maths as well as English, with his announcement after Leanne finished, that he was going to be 1000% honest. Nob.
Bo started off with an effort that was safe and suitable - Nothing Compares was so appropriate, because indeed nothing does compare to this show, and Reggie is also a Nothing Compere. Leanne came on and proved her voice is good, but I wished there could be a little less wailing and noise, and the obsession with singers (no, they are not fucking 'artists') going up and down the scales; singing 100 words involves 357 notes, apparently. However, she was okay. Then we had the disaster that was Tyler.
The lead-up to his song involved, necessarily, the picture of Amy Winehouse, and I groaned at the continued link and sob stories. Then he sang. Well, actually he wailed like fuck, possibly after having received a kick in the nuts by Tom Jones (?) so that the noise was high pitched and shit. Tyler warbled "I'll Be There" while I shouted "I Hope You Fucking Won't Be" at the TV. Jessie's grammatically flawed "We still haven't went out for dinner" was the most useless comment of the night (discounting everthing Reggie ever says, ever ever). Danny came out with: "You're basically dueting with yourself on stage" which I took to mean "you're wanking on stage". Fairly on-the-money, there, O'Danny Boy. However, he then said: "In rehearsals you sounded hoarse but now, crystal clear falsetto." I'd have preferred the horse singing!
Mrs MWSC then provided amusement with an observation from left field. "When Jessie J is just talking and doesn't have any make-up on, she looks like Gok Wan." Wonderful!
Vince came on to relay another complete mess of a song, singing too high, and throwing in a couple of "huh" noises - tourettes, I'd say. Jessie could not gush enough about him - verbally, not literally!
"There's a little famous saying: 'save the best till last'. I just have to say that Vince knows himself, he styles himself, he's talented, he's one of the nicest people I've met, he chooses his own clothes, he chooses his songs, he's strong . . . . " Apparently he's got more attachments than a Kenwood Chef, and even brushes his own teeth! And there's me thinking that all this is irrelevant in a show that claims "It's all about the fucking voice" although without the F-word. Danny then amazed me by admitting that he'd never heard of the song - 'Many Rivers To Cross'. Where's he been all his life? Ireland? Will.i.am.a.twit could say no more than "dope".
Reggie wasted a minute of my life before saying "Holly, it's back to you" and we were on to the duets. First up was the coming together of Bo and Danny. Despite their closeness and mutual respect, I don't think it was literal. Vocally, this was dreadful. Bo breathed and added some Irish noise to the mix, while Danny tried to rap - but struggled. His dancing was a cross between that of a leprechaun and Morrissey.
Afterwards, Danny managed his favourite mumbo-jumbo: "I wanted to paint her out in the best light."
Next to fill our screens was the combined mass of Tom Jones and Leanne, who sang "Mama Told Me" and I wished Mama had told them 'not to sing'. It was so middle of the road - which would have been the best place for them. Still, it could have been worse. I caught a glimpse of Will.i.bother looking bored, and then looking at his fucking phone.
Tyler & Will.ful.damage.to.ears
This was a car crash of a performance, and hilarious in its total and utter shittiness. Will has traded on kudos that he's never actually earned, and when asked to perform, he showed his inability in the singing department. Oh yes, he can play the fool, talk crap, and wear silly clothes. He can try to be some sort of guru, and create a reputation for being something 'special' - but he cannot sing. In fact, he has admitted this, and has to use autotune. Anyway, yesterday he managed to provide Tyler with no help at all, other than a great number of "Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh" noises. Admittedly the song was one of the worst creations since thumbscrews, muesli or Pol Pot, but Will chose it! It was not just Usher shit, it was utter shit. Towards the end, when Will did say something other than "Oh" or "Ow", he was flat as hell. The flat shit (so a cowpat, then) was just dire. The sound should have been cut by the BBC, and 'Embarrassment' by Madness should have been played over the pictures. At the end, the three other judges remained seated - they'd all stood at the end of the preceding three efforts. That says a lot.
I like anagrams, so thought I'd look at the four pairings and see what they threw up, once I'd thrown up after the last of the four duets.
Bo + Danny = Any Bond? ['No' is the simple answer to that]
Vince + Jessie = Jive Scene Is . . ['What, better than this?' Too right]
Leanne + Tom = Mental One ['Who, Tom?']
Tyler + Willi.i.am = Lame - I Will Try ['Not hard enough, though']
After we'd heard Vince pronounce Wembley as 'Wem-ber-lee-stay-dee-erm' and Jessie tell us "Vince is ready to fly" [if he's kicked hard enough into the air, I'm sure he'd try] we were introduced to Ed Sheeran while votes were counted. Vince was booted - off rather than into the air.
After the remaining three had each sung his/her favourite song for us again, there was some pointless stuff from Reggie, and I sensed that Tyler was getting special treatment with his questions. Back to Holly, and we had a comment by each judge. Will and Tom, as below:
"In 2002 the UK changed my life by making 'Where is the love?' number one. In 2012 the UK changed my life with The Voice. You guys didn't have to accept me." Newsflash, Will - we haven't!
"In 1963, Decca Records . . . . . . . yawn . . . . . "
Maroon 5 sang something or other, at some point, but I am not commenting on it, as it was irrelevant, and anyway, "there is nothing maroon that's worthwhile" is a longstanding philosophy (and quote) of mine.
Then the judges sang each other's shit, with Will doing the least, of course. After a final final re-re-re-recap, it was time to end the wait, so Holly told us. After the newspaper articles in the week, including a centre page spread covering Bo and Vince and their respective plights, challenges, lives and sob stories, with no mention of Leanne, it was wonderful to witness Leanne getting the nod, and fucking up the manipulative twats who run things. The fact that this woman is probably lovely, but a cruise ship singer with little chance of selling many albums is irrelevant. The underdog bit the organisers. She's got an excellent voice, and so it is fitting that she was named the winner of The Voice UK. It's a shame though that whilst on this technicality she has won, there's not much chance of success for her style of music and singing.
The cost of all this? Apparently £22 - £24 million. Will's reported salary? £500,000. It's all about the invoice, eh? Maybe Will isn't 'dopey' then (?)
...
So, it was the final show yesterday - something that I had grasped well before one of the judges! I say this because after Bo had started off the show with her breathy stuff, Leanne sang, and Jessie J's first comment afterwards was: "You know what, you just reminded me this is the final." She followed this up immediately with: "I'm just so proud of your growth." Now, I cannot work out (a) why Jessie can claim to be proud of anything associated with Leanne, who was nothing to do with Jessie on the coaching side, and (b) what sort of growth Leanne has got - hopefully a small unobtrusive cyst rather than something serious!
Will.u.disappear had already beaten Jessie though, in the race to say something silly - which he did after Bo's song, when he referred to there being no "ostacle" rather than "obstacle". He'd then failed Maths as well as English, with his announcement after Leanne finished, that he was going to be 1000% honest. Nob.
Bo started off with an effort that was safe and suitable - Nothing Compares was so appropriate, because indeed nothing does compare to this show, and Reggie is also a Nothing Compere. Leanne came on and proved her voice is good, but I wished there could be a little less wailing and noise, and the obsession with singers (no, they are not fucking 'artists') going up and down the scales; singing 100 words involves 357 notes, apparently. However, she was okay. Then we had the disaster that was Tyler.
The lead-up to his song involved, necessarily, the picture of Amy Winehouse, and I groaned at the continued link and sob stories. Then he sang. Well, actually he wailed like fuck, possibly after having received a kick in the nuts by Tom Jones (?) so that the noise was high pitched and shit. Tyler warbled "I'll Be There" while I shouted "I Hope You Fucking Won't Be" at the TV. Jessie's grammatically flawed "We still haven't went out for dinner" was the most useless comment of the night (discounting everthing Reggie ever says, ever ever). Danny came out with: "You're basically dueting with yourself on stage" which I took to mean "you're wanking on stage". Fairly on-the-money, there, O'Danny Boy. However, he then said: "In rehearsals you sounded hoarse but now, crystal clear falsetto." I'd have preferred the horse singing!
Mrs MWSC then provided amusement with an observation from left field. "When Jessie J is just talking and doesn't have any make-up on, she looks like Gok Wan." Wonderful!
Vince came on to relay another complete mess of a song, singing too high, and throwing in a couple of "huh" noises - tourettes, I'd say. Jessie could not gush enough about him - verbally, not literally!
"There's a little famous saying: 'save the best till last'. I just have to say that Vince knows himself, he styles himself, he's talented, he's one of the nicest people I've met, he chooses his own clothes, he chooses his songs, he's strong . . . . " Apparently he's got more attachments than a Kenwood Chef, and even brushes his own teeth! And there's me thinking that all this is irrelevant in a show that claims "It's all about the fucking voice" although without the F-word. Danny then amazed me by admitting that he'd never heard of the song - 'Many Rivers To Cross'. Where's he been all his life? Ireland? Will.i.am.a.twit could say no more than "dope".
Reggie wasted a minute of my life before saying "Holly, it's back to you" and we were on to the duets. First up was the coming together of Bo and Danny. Despite their closeness and mutual respect, I don't think it was literal. Vocally, this was dreadful. Bo breathed and added some Irish noise to the mix, while Danny tried to rap - but struggled. His dancing was a cross between that of a leprechaun and Morrissey.
Afterwards, Danny managed his favourite mumbo-jumbo: "I wanted to paint her out in the best light."
Next to fill our screens was the combined mass of Tom Jones and Leanne, who sang "Mama Told Me" and I wished Mama had told them 'not to sing'. It was so middle of the road - which would have been the best place for them. Still, it could have been worse. I caught a glimpse of Will.i.bother looking bored, and then looking at his fucking phone.
Tyler & Will.ful.damage.to.ears
This was a car crash of a performance, and hilarious in its total and utter shittiness. Will has traded on kudos that he's never actually earned, and when asked to perform, he showed his inability in the singing department. Oh yes, he can play the fool, talk crap, and wear silly clothes. He can try to be some sort of guru, and create a reputation for being something 'special' - but he cannot sing. In fact, he has admitted this, and has to use autotune. Anyway, yesterday he managed to provide Tyler with no help at all, other than a great number of "Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh" noises. Admittedly the song was one of the worst creations since thumbscrews, muesli or Pol Pot, but Will chose it! It was not just Usher shit, it was utter shit. Towards the end, when Will did say something other than "Oh" or "Ow", he was flat as hell. The flat shit (so a cowpat, then) was just dire. The sound should have been cut by the BBC, and 'Embarrassment' by Madness should have been played over the pictures. At the end, the three other judges remained seated - they'd all stood at the end of the preceding three efforts. That says a lot.
I like anagrams, so thought I'd look at the four pairings and see what they threw up, once I'd thrown up after the last of the four duets.
Bo + Danny = Any Bond? ['No' is the simple answer to that]
Vince + Jessie = Jive Scene Is . . ['What, better than this?' Too right]
Leanne + Tom = Mental One ['Who, Tom?']
Tyler + Willi.i.am = Lame - I Will Try ['Not hard enough, though']
After we'd heard Vince pronounce Wembley as 'Wem-ber-lee-stay-dee-erm' and Jessie tell us "Vince is ready to fly" [if he's kicked hard enough into the air, I'm sure he'd try] we were introduced to Ed Sheeran while votes were counted. Vince was booted - off rather than into the air.
After the remaining three had each sung his/her favourite song for us again, there was some pointless stuff from Reggie, and I sensed that Tyler was getting special treatment with his questions. Back to Holly, and we had a comment by each judge. Will and Tom, as below:
"In 2002 the UK changed my life by making 'Where is the love?' number one. In 2012 the UK changed my life with The Voice. You guys didn't have to accept me." Newsflash, Will - we haven't!
"In 1963, Decca Records . . . . . . . yawn . . . . . "
Maroon 5 sang something or other, at some point, but I am not commenting on it, as it was irrelevant, and anyway, "there is nothing maroon that's worthwhile" is a longstanding philosophy (and quote) of mine.
Then the judges sang each other's shit, with Will doing the least, of course. After a final final re-re-re-recap, it was time to end the wait, so Holly told us. After the newspaper articles in the week, including a centre page spread covering Bo and Vince and their respective plights, challenges, lives and sob stories, with no mention of Leanne, it was wonderful to witness Leanne getting the nod, and fucking up the manipulative twats who run things. The fact that this woman is probably lovely, but a cruise ship singer with little chance of selling many albums is irrelevant. The underdog bit the organisers. She's got an excellent voice, and so it is fitting that she was named the winner of The Voice UK. It's a shame though that whilst on this technicality she has won, there's not much chance of success for her style of music and singing.
The cost of all this? Apparently £22 - £24 million. Will's reported salary? £500,000. It's all about the invoice, eh? Maybe Will isn't 'dopey' then (?)
...
Saturday, 2 June 2012
2.6.12 Cunting Bunting
It's not the celebration of the Diamond Jubilee that's the problem at all. Having witnessed the shambles of a 'parade' today from my kitchen window, I can say that the problem is the organisers who make decisions about where to hold events, and whom to include in these goings on.
Yesterday, at the small Town Hall opposite, the caretaker commenced the 'mounting of the cunting bunting' task. It involved putting Union Flags on the railings outside the building. Three hours later, there was not a single square inch of black railing that was not within a square inch if bunting. She excelled in her task of loopong and re-looping 2.4 miles of conjoined flags around the ironwork. Hanging a line of flags between building can look good and it creates a sense of celebration and an almost festival atmosphere - it's the idea of fucking bunting. Wrapping it round and round some railings three foot off the ground is not quite as effective! As she finished her task, the vicar of the church next door arrived with equal determination to do his bit. The side railing of the council entrance borders the small pathway to the church, and the entrance gate - also metalwork.
Mr Holy decided to adopt a dual approach (as opposed to a duel approach, challenging Mrs Caretaker) and go for a large Union Flag on each metal door, and in all other areas, bunting of the pennant variety. Yes, we had on view a long string of red, white and blue triangles wrapped around the arched metal gateway, the lampost, and on to the railings next door. Some triangles overlapped other triangles, just as flags overlapped flags. It is quite clear that the establishments had over-ordered. I have just posted something about this year's council tax, and I recall I am paying towards the building opposite, and so towards the cunting bunting. I am also paying for the landscape gardening; on Thursday, for about six hours, two blokes worked on a small area not much bigger than my fucking living room, doing fuck all.
With preparations like these, and a sea of red, white and blue to behold, it was this morning that all efforts would come to fruition. The dampness in the air gave way late morning to very light rain, but first thing it was dry, and noisy. From 9am, there was chatter from outside in the street loud enough to mimic school assembly when no teachers are around. I looked outside to see a rabble. Nothing was being done, there was no focus to anything, and the make-up of this throng was as diverse as jumble sitting on 24 trestle tables in a village hall - with a colour scheme to match. The main accomplishment of those present was to loiter in the purest sense. Vacant minds, idle chatter, vagueness of bodily movement, and absent intellect all coalesced into a mob of pointlessness.
I spotted a local ex-teacher dressed in a smock, apparently now one of the Vicar's helpers. If her attitude and views mirror those which she displayed in her dealings with children, then I suspected she'd be slagging off everyone, and possibly head-butting people and then kicking them when they're on their knees praying. There were, dotted everywhere, young people in camouflage, and a sea of cadets in white hats. For some reason, dozens of people in anoraks were watching, waiting for something to happen; nothing did. I went to get a newspaper, and negotiated the heaving mass of obesity that filled the side road.
Later, after everyone who was going to participate had disappeared, I discussed with Mrs MWSC what the criteria for particpation were. It seems to us that this 'event' was not for the people of the community at all. Not that I am envious in the slightest of the involvement of others - but I was not allowed to be included, and I live opposite the town hall, and the church, and in the centre of the supposed (alleged) 'community'! I think the problem lies in my failure to join a local organisation with a fucking compulsory uniform. If I were dressed like Eisenhower, Rommel or the Archduke Ferdinand (or even a Girl Guide) I would no doubt have gained automatic inclusion.
At just before 11am, daugher-in-law jumped out of her skin as we sat in the living room. "What's that?" She jumped up and looked out of the window, and I came to look as well. A police car had stopped diagonally across the main road, and we heard the sound of a band. It wasn't U2 or Dire Straits (although, come to think of it . . . . . maybe it was 'dire' . . .) but the local amalgamation of noise-making folk who like to dress up. The local drum-beaters (it's not pheasant shooting season for a while yet, so they're at a loose end) marched along, followed by a rabble. The 'parade' turned left, obviously deflected from the path it might have taken if the police car hadn't been in the way, and went past the steps of the Town Hall. The followers of the noise kept worse time than the rats probably did when following the pied piper in Hamelin. The ranks included some who'd forgotten their uniforms, so, the pretend soldiers marching in green camouflage were 'given away' by a few extras in their midst wearing white polo shirts. The Sea Cadets (who I believe have something to do with boats) were carrying machine guns even though most were not old enough to have a driving licence, and the soldier-types were each carrying nothing more threatening on their person than a bottle of coke, or a cigarette lighter. Around and about anyone who might claim to be legitimately involved in walking in a nearly-orderly fashion were numerous unauthorised walkers in Primark clothing (for best) and a few down-and-outs who keep charity shops in business.
D-I-L and I moved to the kitchen window, and saw the throng doing nothing in particular, outside the Town Hall. The parade had carried on, but fifty yards on, there's nowhere to go, so it in effect 'rebounded' and a mob formed. I have heard of 'Party in the Park' and other phrases that suggest glee and some fun, and some purpose. D-I-L and I witnessed 'Rabble in the Road'. After a while, and some dismay at how pointless some things are and some people's actions are, the human mass moved to the church. As if by magic, the side road was clear.
Mrs MWSC called me, excited by the weirdness of the view from the kitchen window. Yes, at midday, people were coming out of the church. In the road, outside the gates, were three religious figures in curtain material of a sandy colour, one with a mitre and staff. [They were not three wise men, although they did demand a "Why? Why? Why?"] Those filing through the gate were greeting the three unwise nobs and then doing a U-turn to go into the gate to the town hall. There were a few kids with face paint loitering in the fine rain, probably pleased they hadn't washed and that the paint had something to cling to. As the mini-chavs looked on, people oozed from the church past the three stooges, grinning, chatting and generally being impressed by nothing at all. I suspect that two fourteen year old girls in combats concentrating on texting are unlikely to participate much in the defence of the realm, but they endured the dressing up with a giggle. The uniforms and sashes and berets and hats suggested this was a convention of fancy dress enthusiasts. I saw what I thought was the Grim Reaper, and Nosferatu, but Mr Blobby was not present today. The self-congratulatory smugness filled the air as the annointed ones with gold chains around their necks mixed with clergy and toy soldiers who seem to have taken over from Cubs and Scouts. There were more feet shrouded in metal toe caps than people with any idea why the fuck they'd just spent an hour of their lives in a church. This whole thing seemed to be about doing something for the sake of it. Group up, march two hundred yards, go to church for an hour, and go home after a quick shuffle into and out of the Town Hall.
In the grim Town Hall, there were no doubt a few spam sandwiches providing a highlight and climax to the morning's exertions. How is this anything that could be mistaken for a celebration? How does it involve the community? What the fuck? This was the most non-inclusive fiasco that could have been dreamed up. I suspect it was a way of boosting church attendance figures, with a sandwich as a reward, using (targeting) local youth groups and their parents as fodder. That meant local councillors, a few police and some extra clergy were roped in to recognise the local efforts, as were a few older people who could dress up in a doctored Salvation Army uniform, using a curtain tassle to mimic some sort of Commonwealth uniform of which no one would dare challenge the authenticty. What I found remarkable was that I witnessed at least three hundred people associated with the goings on today - and not one of them was anything other than white. That is quite simply outrageous.
This farcical event was pointless. In a large town, with space and a way of offering something worthwhile to the community as a springboard to a more general celebration, this could have worked. Here, with no space, no community, no reason and no point, it defies logic. Unfortunately the 'Jubilation' that should have been linked to this sorry effort was missing completely. Imagine staging a Champions League football match at Whitby Town FC and you'll get a sense of the stupidity of this parade in such a location. The difference would be, though, that those lucky enough to see the game would be pleased.
...
Yesterday, at the small Town Hall opposite, the caretaker commenced the 'mounting of the cunting bunting' task. It involved putting Union Flags on the railings outside the building. Three hours later, there was not a single square inch of black railing that was not within a square inch if bunting. She excelled in her task of loopong and re-looping 2.4 miles of conjoined flags around the ironwork. Hanging a line of flags between building can look good and it creates a sense of celebration and an almost festival atmosphere - it's the idea of fucking bunting. Wrapping it round and round some railings three foot off the ground is not quite as effective! As she finished her task, the vicar of the church next door arrived with equal determination to do his bit. The side railing of the council entrance borders the small pathway to the church, and the entrance gate - also metalwork.
Mr Holy decided to adopt a dual approach (as opposed to a duel approach, challenging Mrs Caretaker) and go for a large Union Flag on each metal door, and in all other areas, bunting of the pennant variety. Yes, we had on view a long string of red, white and blue triangles wrapped around the arched metal gateway, the lampost, and on to the railings next door. Some triangles overlapped other triangles, just as flags overlapped flags. It is quite clear that the establishments had over-ordered. I have just posted something about this year's council tax, and I recall I am paying towards the building opposite, and so towards the cunting bunting. I am also paying for the landscape gardening; on Thursday, for about six hours, two blokes worked on a small area not much bigger than my fucking living room, doing fuck all.
With preparations like these, and a sea of red, white and blue to behold, it was this morning that all efforts would come to fruition. The dampness in the air gave way late morning to very light rain, but first thing it was dry, and noisy. From 9am, there was chatter from outside in the street loud enough to mimic school assembly when no teachers are around. I looked outside to see a rabble. Nothing was being done, there was no focus to anything, and the make-up of this throng was as diverse as jumble sitting on 24 trestle tables in a village hall - with a colour scheme to match. The main accomplishment of those present was to loiter in the purest sense. Vacant minds, idle chatter, vagueness of bodily movement, and absent intellect all coalesced into a mob of pointlessness.
I spotted a local ex-teacher dressed in a smock, apparently now one of the Vicar's helpers. If her attitude and views mirror those which she displayed in her dealings with children, then I suspected she'd be slagging off everyone, and possibly head-butting people and then kicking them when they're on their knees praying. There were, dotted everywhere, young people in camouflage, and a sea of cadets in white hats. For some reason, dozens of people in anoraks were watching, waiting for something to happen; nothing did. I went to get a newspaper, and negotiated the heaving mass of obesity that filled the side road.
Later, after everyone who was going to participate had disappeared, I discussed with Mrs MWSC what the criteria for particpation were. It seems to us that this 'event' was not for the people of the community at all. Not that I am envious in the slightest of the involvement of others - but I was not allowed to be included, and I live opposite the town hall, and the church, and in the centre of the supposed (alleged) 'community'! I think the problem lies in my failure to join a local organisation with a fucking compulsory uniform. If I were dressed like Eisenhower, Rommel or the Archduke Ferdinand (or even a Girl Guide) I would no doubt have gained automatic inclusion.
At just before 11am, daugher-in-law jumped out of her skin as we sat in the living room. "What's that?" She jumped up and looked out of the window, and I came to look as well. A police car had stopped diagonally across the main road, and we heard the sound of a band. It wasn't U2 or Dire Straits (although, come to think of it . . . . . maybe it was 'dire' . . .) but the local amalgamation of noise-making folk who like to dress up. The local drum-beaters (it's not pheasant shooting season for a while yet, so they're at a loose end) marched along, followed by a rabble. The 'parade' turned left, obviously deflected from the path it might have taken if the police car hadn't been in the way, and went past the steps of the Town Hall. The followers of the noise kept worse time than the rats probably did when following the pied piper in Hamelin. The ranks included some who'd forgotten their uniforms, so, the pretend soldiers marching in green camouflage were 'given away' by a few extras in their midst wearing white polo shirts. The Sea Cadets (who I believe have something to do with boats) were carrying machine guns even though most were not old enough to have a driving licence, and the soldier-types were each carrying nothing more threatening on their person than a bottle of coke, or a cigarette lighter. Around and about anyone who might claim to be legitimately involved in walking in a nearly-orderly fashion were numerous unauthorised walkers in Primark clothing (for best) and a few down-and-outs who keep charity shops in business.
D-I-L and I moved to the kitchen window, and saw the throng doing nothing in particular, outside the Town Hall. The parade had carried on, but fifty yards on, there's nowhere to go, so it in effect 'rebounded' and a mob formed. I have heard of 'Party in the Park' and other phrases that suggest glee and some fun, and some purpose. D-I-L and I witnessed 'Rabble in the Road'. After a while, and some dismay at how pointless some things are and some people's actions are, the human mass moved to the church. As if by magic, the side road was clear.
Mrs MWSC called me, excited by the weirdness of the view from the kitchen window. Yes, at midday, people were coming out of the church. In the road, outside the gates, were three religious figures in curtain material of a sandy colour, one with a mitre and staff. [They were not three wise men, although they did demand a "Why? Why? Why?"] Those filing through the gate were greeting the three unwise nobs and then doing a U-turn to go into the gate to the town hall. There were a few kids with face paint loitering in the fine rain, probably pleased they hadn't washed and that the paint had something to cling to. As the mini-chavs looked on, people oozed from the church past the three stooges, grinning, chatting and generally being impressed by nothing at all. I suspect that two fourteen year old girls in combats concentrating on texting are unlikely to participate much in the defence of the realm, but they endured the dressing up with a giggle. The uniforms and sashes and berets and hats suggested this was a convention of fancy dress enthusiasts. I saw what I thought was the Grim Reaper, and Nosferatu, but Mr Blobby was not present today. The self-congratulatory smugness filled the air as the annointed ones with gold chains around their necks mixed with clergy and toy soldiers who seem to have taken over from Cubs and Scouts. There were more feet shrouded in metal toe caps than people with any idea why the fuck they'd just spent an hour of their lives in a church. This whole thing seemed to be about doing something for the sake of it. Group up, march two hundred yards, go to church for an hour, and go home after a quick shuffle into and out of the Town Hall.
In the grim Town Hall, there were no doubt a few spam sandwiches providing a highlight and climax to the morning's exertions. How is this anything that could be mistaken for a celebration? How does it involve the community? What the fuck? This was the most non-inclusive fiasco that could have been dreamed up. I suspect it was a way of boosting church attendance figures, with a sandwich as a reward, using (targeting) local youth groups and their parents as fodder. That meant local councillors, a few police and some extra clergy were roped in to recognise the local efforts, as were a few older people who could dress up in a doctored Salvation Army uniform, using a curtain tassle to mimic some sort of Commonwealth uniform of which no one would dare challenge the authenticty. What I found remarkable was that I witnessed at least three hundred people associated with the goings on today - and not one of them was anything other than white. That is quite simply outrageous.
This farcical event was pointless. In a large town, with space and a way of offering something worthwhile to the community as a springboard to a more general celebration, this could have worked. Here, with no space, no community, no reason and no point, it defies logic. Unfortunately the 'Jubilation' that should have been linked to this sorry effort was missing completely. Imagine staging a Champions League football match at Whitby Town FC and you'll get a sense of the stupidity of this parade in such a location. The difference would be, though, that those lucky enough to see the game would be pleased.
...
Friday, 1 June 2012
1.6.12 May - Grammar of the Month
More of the usual stuff -
- "The next act are a duet" [Are it? Thanks Ant, from BGT]
- "The next couple of weeks are very crucial." [Degrees of cruciality now; Radio 4, Farming Today]
- "The bacteria was practically gone." [Colgate advert]
- "Does it mean fewer bigger apples or less apples in general?" [Radio 4 - after starting off so well; shame]
- "As the team continues their search." [TV programme, The World's Largest Snake]
- "If the temeratures became that warm again . . ." [As above]
- "The highs and lows of Jason Donovan's life is revealed." [ITV announcer]
- "The combination of ingredients just don't work." [Oliver Peyton, Great British Menu]
- "Full of easy-to-make recipes." [A plug for Gok Wan's book on TV, but one doesn't make recipes]
1.6.12 May - Quotes of the Month
1st Place - "They set out; they achieved to be in that top four." [Alan Shearer]
2nd Place - "What's the definition of 'foraged'? Is it that some cunt's collected it in a wicker basket?" [TMWSC, watching Great British Menu]
3rd Place - "I feel I have to wear heels because I need to be a bit more grown up now that I'm going to university." [Debbie]
4th Place - "She's got a face like a rhombus." [TMWSC]
5th Place - "Have you got a killer allergy you don't know about?" [ Daily Mail}
6th Place - "The trouble with wellies is that they never actually fit properly - unless you're three yoears old." [TMWSC]
7th Place - "Still a muggy sticky old feel." [Sian Lloyd, on weather forecast]
8th Place - "Let's get the boys on the baize; when he's good he's on fire - it's Steven Maguire." [Compere at the World Snooker Championships]
9th Place - "She looks like a turn in a vacuum pack." [TMWSC, ref a woman pulling a face on Come Dine With Me]
10th Place - "Look what I put my hair through - Mondays it's straight, Wednesdays it's curly." [Liv Tyler, in a pained and pathetic voice on a Pantene advert, whining that she's got it so fucking tough]
11th Place - "I think visitors will find that there is plenty to see." [Gallery Director, Ralph Rugoff, commenting on the display that includes invisible paintings - some with invisible ink and some which were just blank paper in a frame]
12th Place - Great British Menu Selection
(a) "It looks aesthetic on the eye."
(b) "Little tiny baby strawberries." [Small then, eh?]
(c) "If it fails we could end up with a disaster." [Fucking obvious]
(d) "Very tailor-maid and quite unique." [A bit different then, eh?]
...
2nd Place - "What's the definition of 'foraged'? Is it that some cunt's collected it in a wicker basket?" [TMWSC, watching Great British Menu]
3rd Place - "I feel I have to wear heels because I need to be a bit more grown up now that I'm going to university." [Debbie]
4th Place - "She's got a face like a rhombus." [TMWSC]
5th Place - "Have you got a killer allergy you don't know about?" [ Daily Mail}
6th Place - "The trouble with wellies is that they never actually fit properly - unless you're three yoears old." [TMWSC]
7th Place - "Still a muggy sticky old feel." [Sian Lloyd, on weather forecast]
8th Place - "Let's get the boys on the baize; when he's good he's on fire - it's Steven Maguire." [Compere at the World Snooker Championships]
9th Place - "She looks like a turn in a vacuum pack." [TMWSC, ref a woman pulling a face on Come Dine With Me]
10th Place - "Look what I put my hair through - Mondays it's straight, Wednesdays it's curly." [Liv Tyler, in a pained and pathetic voice on a Pantene advert, whining that she's got it so fucking tough]
11th Place - "I think visitors will find that there is plenty to see." [Gallery Director, Ralph Rugoff, commenting on the display that includes invisible paintings - some with invisible ink and some which were just blank paper in a frame]
12th Place - Great British Menu Selection
(a) "It looks aesthetic on the eye."
(b) "Little tiny baby strawberries." [Small then, eh?]
(c) "If it fails we could end up with a disaster." [Fucking obvious]
(d) "Very tailor-maid and quite unique." [A bit different then, eh?]
...
1.6.12 May - Jess of the Month
1st Place - "When you get a car, something happens and you develop busitis, and you don't want to get on one." [Jess, who now doesn't need buses]
2nd Place - "Getting to the doctors and sitting on a warm chair is so horrible."
3rd Place - "Bread stinks, doesn't it!"
4th Place - "That's like a lump of human thigh or something." [Jess, ref a gammon joint boiling in a pan]
5th Place - "Redcar is on Prince Charles's Concern List."
6th Place - "I don't like dealing with greens." [Ref the '25' chips in poker]
7th Place - "She's a packer." [Ref Emma, who loves to pack, apparently]
...
2nd Place - "Getting to the doctors and sitting on a warm chair is so horrible."
3rd Place - "Bread stinks, doesn't it!"
4th Place - "That's like a lump of human thigh or something." [Jess, ref a gammon joint boiling in a pan]
5th Place - "Redcar is on Prince Charles's Concern List."
6th Place - "I don't like dealing with greens." [Ref the '25' chips in poker]
7th Place - "She's a packer." [Ref Emma, who loves to pack, apparently]
...
1.6.12 Olympics Agony
I am fed up already with the Olympics. With the European Championships and Wimbledon happening, I am more than satisfied with sporting input in the coming weeks. However, it seems I'm fucking obliged to be swamped with everything 'Olympic', whether I want to be or not.
I do wonder whether Little Chef is being threatened with legal action for its description of an all day breakfast called an 'Olympic Breakfast'. Despite the fact that the company has had this on its menus for decades, I would not be surprised by some sort of issue arising. Why do I think this might be so? Simple - it seems there are cunts out and about, making sure that common sense is not applied, and that any reasonable attempts to promote and enjoy the Olympics are thwarted. As ever, some of the spoilsports are arseholes who take it upon themselves to interfere. These are the same people who step in to be potentially offended, on behalf of groups who are not actually offended by things. It is the way things are now, and twats deny freedoms of expression on issues of race, religion, sex, culture, health & safety, and other things.
A florist was ordered to take down an Olympic rings display after being told it breaks trademark laws. The five rings of tissue paper in the shop window, alongside a trophy and some medals, was intended to do little more than show some enthusiasm and patriotism. However, trading standards officers stepped in to be cuntish, and they warned the owner that she could be sued by sponsors over unauthorised use of the logo.
Does this mean that I have just made use of the logo in an unauthorised way that could lead to legal action? I am not sure, because I am simply reporting news and opinion. There are lots of things that we should be concerned about in life, and in the UK today there are challenges that require everyone to appreciate the situation and pull together. I therefore find it amazing that there are people who think that tissue paper in the shape of some rings is cause for intervention. When I was in primary school it was often scrunched up tissue paper stuck to coloured sugar paper and card with Copydex that formed the core of a collage. Are inspectors touring schools, I wonder, to look at kids' efforts on display in the assembly hall, to make sure there are no infringements?
On a similar note, not related to the Olympics
Elsewhere, shop owners have been affected by more nonsense. They had planned to hang bunting across their street to celebrate the Jubilee. However, highways officials from the council have demanded use of cherry pickers and that roads be closed, on H&S grounds (as cuntin ever, eh?) AND that there is in place a £5,000,000 insurance policy. The 140 metres of bunting stitched by some women will now have to be redeployed. Apparently the chairman of the traders' association concerned said the officials were "a bunch of party poopers." I think you can all guess what I would call them instead!
On TV the adverts now have a high probability of having links to the Olympics. Just because a company is daft enough to spend a fortune on advertising does not mean I will be inclined to buy its products. "Official supplier of bog roll to the 2012 Olympics teams" does not mean I'll be wiping my arse with the stuff the company sells. The fact that some unknown athlete [who should be known now, because her name appears on screen, and yet I still cannot recall it] says her 'personal best' is a Subway snack that contains less than 5% fat does not mean that I will for the first time ever eat one of the things. Also, why is an Olympic competitor advertising an electric fucking toothbrush?
It is scandalous that the tickets for the Olympics are printed in the USA and then flown to London for posting out - but I've posted about that already.
It is scandalous that 95% of all official (a euphemism for overpiced) merchandise is made abroad and not in the UK when it's apparently 'London 2012' - but I've posted about that already.
It is scandalous that transport workers have demanded and are getting extra money for doing their jobs, and working on the buses and tube, because they might be a bit busy - but I've posted about that already.
It is scandalous that in today's paper there's confirmation of yet another farce - the banning of people attending events with food and drink on their person. That's right, it seems that 'airport style' security will mean the confiscation of liquids in bottles over 100ml (ie. one and a half gulps) and food. Picnics and cool boxes will be banned. So, those with tickets that have paid a month's mortgage for will have to battle with traffic, but not have sustainance by way of food and drink when they arrive at their chosen event - unless they make a purchase at official food outlets. I have already explained what 'official' means, and in the case of food and drink, it will mean a conversion rate that in some cases devalues your money to a sixth or seventh of its value outside of an Olympic venue! Yes, instead of drinking a 25p bottle of water you brought with you, you'll have to drink a £1.75 bottle available from the official retailer. I wonder if at airports, Travelex will catch visitors to the UK and publish that £1 Sterling buys you £0.14286 Olympic Sterling, plus commission of course. On other items, the exchange rate is not so bad. A 330ml bottle of Heineken is £1.00 at Asda, but £4.20 in the Olympic world, so only a 320% mark-up.
A spokesman has apparently said that guards will confiscate picnic boxes, but a sandwich should be fine. Hang on, what size of box or container determines it as a 'picnic box' then? What are the dimensions, please? Even budget airlines give you advance warning of the size limits on hand luggage. What about cool bags - because they are most definitely not 'picnic boxes' and are easier to carry, or secrete on one's person? Finally, what constitutes a sandwich? A single round, or a triple? Can it be in a cardboard triangle? Does the carrying of two sandwiches escalate things to a classification of 'picnic', leading to confiscation? What about rolls and a Danish pastrey come to that? If a roll can be taken into a venue in lieu of a sandwich, where is the line drawn on length. 6" Sub? 12" Sub? This is madness, and further, saying a sandwich "should be all right" is not very assuring. Over-zealous budget airline staff can sometimes make a woman put her handbag into her hand lugguge before taking three steps past the boarding desk and then taking it out again. Are twats at the Olympics entrances going to force people to one side and force feed them.
I fear that if there a sun cream official fucking sponsor, then the guards at the gates will be binning any cunting container over 100ml and forcing a later purchase from an official retailer - at £11.99 per 200ml. Will those queuing have to put liquids in a polythene bag not exceeding 20cm x 20cm? Sandwiches cannot be put in polythene without the risk of them going off a bit and 'sweating'. A sandwich box is no good, as some cunt might classify it as a mini-picnic.
There is a need for clarification, and unfortunately people in charge never consider properly all the details and options, and pitfalls, let alone give clear advice.
Anyone with any sense will be at home, watching a bit of TV if they feel obliged to see a twat flick a tiddlywink into a plastic beaker, or a small sailing boat zigzag its way across a lake or meander just off the coast of Weymouth. That way, a 50p can of Carlsberg is but a fridge away, as are as many sandwiches, nibbles and dips as would constitute a 'picnic' should one decide to step into the garden.
My final whinge is that the television channels are ob-cuntin-sessed with "Team GB" and everyone in the media is so fucking biased that watching anything for the fun of watching a competitive event is impossible. Instead, we have to hear about the British competitor, non-fucking stop. If you're not in Team GB, you don't count. Often, we'll see a race with a GB hopeful who turns out to be hopeless, and then the coverage will switch to "The men's bumble-bee catching with A4 card and a jam jar" from Oswestry because heat seven is about to start and nineteen year old Giles Butterworth from the Liskeard Athletics, Apiology and Horticultural Club is about to set off, and hoping for 'bronze' if he avoids getting stung. I want to see good sport without such blatant partisanship at an obscene level. Meanwhile, idiots with overpriced tickets will have been stung a whole lot worse than anything that could affect Giles in Oswestry.
...
I do wonder whether Little Chef is being threatened with legal action for its description of an all day breakfast called an 'Olympic Breakfast'. Despite the fact that the company has had this on its menus for decades, I would not be surprised by some sort of issue arising. Why do I think this might be so? Simple - it seems there are cunts out and about, making sure that common sense is not applied, and that any reasonable attempts to promote and enjoy the Olympics are thwarted. As ever, some of the spoilsports are arseholes who take it upon themselves to interfere. These are the same people who step in to be potentially offended, on behalf of groups who are not actually offended by things. It is the way things are now, and twats deny freedoms of expression on issues of race, religion, sex, culture, health & safety, and other things.
A florist was ordered to take down an Olympic rings display after being told it breaks trademark laws. The five rings of tissue paper in the shop window, alongside a trophy and some medals, was intended to do little more than show some enthusiasm and patriotism. However, trading standards officers stepped in to be cuntish, and they warned the owner that she could be sued by sponsors over unauthorised use of the logo.
Does this mean that I have just made use of the logo in an unauthorised way that could lead to legal action? I am not sure, because I am simply reporting news and opinion. There are lots of things that we should be concerned about in life, and in the UK today there are challenges that require everyone to appreciate the situation and pull together. I therefore find it amazing that there are people who think that tissue paper in the shape of some rings is cause for intervention. When I was in primary school it was often scrunched up tissue paper stuck to coloured sugar paper and card with Copydex that formed the core of a collage. Are inspectors touring schools, I wonder, to look at kids' efforts on display in the assembly hall, to make sure there are no infringements?
On a similar note, not related to the Olympics
Elsewhere, shop owners have been affected by more nonsense. They had planned to hang bunting across their street to celebrate the Jubilee. However, highways officials from the council have demanded use of cherry pickers and that roads be closed, on H&S grounds (as cuntin ever, eh?) AND that there is in place a £5,000,000 insurance policy. The 140 metres of bunting stitched by some women will now have to be redeployed. Apparently the chairman of the traders' association concerned said the officials were "a bunch of party poopers." I think you can all guess what I would call them instead!
On TV the adverts now have a high probability of having links to the Olympics. Just because a company is daft enough to spend a fortune on advertising does not mean I will be inclined to buy its products. "Official supplier of bog roll to the 2012 Olympics teams" does not mean I'll be wiping my arse with the stuff the company sells. The fact that some unknown athlete [who should be known now, because her name appears on screen, and yet I still cannot recall it] says her 'personal best' is a Subway snack that contains less than 5% fat does not mean that I will for the first time ever eat one of the things. Also, why is an Olympic competitor advertising an electric fucking toothbrush?
It is scandalous that the tickets for the Olympics are printed in the USA and then flown to London for posting out - but I've posted about that already.
It is scandalous that 95% of all official (a euphemism for overpiced) merchandise is made abroad and not in the UK when it's apparently 'London 2012' - but I've posted about that already.
It is scandalous that transport workers have demanded and are getting extra money for doing their jobs, and working on the buses and tube, because they might be a bit busy - but I've posted about that already.
It is scandalous that in today's paper there's confirmation of yet another farce - the banning of people attending events with food and drink on their person. That's right, it seems that 'airport style' security will mean the confiscation of liquids in bottles over 100ml (ie. one and a half gulps) and food. Picnics and cool boxes will be banned. So, those with tickets that have paid a month's mortgage for will have to battle with traffic, but not have sustainance by way of food and drink when they arrive at their chosen event - unless they make a purchase at official food outlets. I have already explained what 'official' means, and in the case of food and drink, it will mean a conversion rate that in some cases devalues your money to a sixth or seventh of its value outside of an Olympic venue! Yes, instead of drinking a 25p bottle of water you brought with you, you'll have to drink a £1.75 bottle available from the official retailer. I wonder if at airports, Travelex will catch visitors to the UK and publish that £1 Sterling buys you £0.14286 Olympic Sterling, plus commission of course. On other items, the exchange rate is not so bad. A 330ml bottle of Heineken is £1.00 at Asda, but £4.20 in the Olympic world, so only a 320% mark-up.
A spokesman has apparently said that guards will confiscate picnic boxes, but a sandwich should be fine. Hang on, what size of box or container determines it as a 'picnic box' then? What are the dimensions, please? Even budget airlines give you advance warning of the size limits on hand luggage. What about cool bags - because they are most definitely not 'picnic boxes' and are easier to carry, or secrete on one's person? Finally, what constitutes a sandwich? A single round, or a triple? Can it be in a cardboard triangle? Does the carrying of two sandwiches escalate things to a classification of 'picnic', leading to confiscation? What about rolls and a Danish pastrey come to that? If a roll can be taken into a venue in lieu of a sandwich, where is the line drawn on length. 6" Sub? 12" Sub? This is madness, and further, saying a sandwich "should be all right" is not very assuring. Over-zealous budget airline staff can sometimes make a woman put her handbag into her hand lugguge before taking three steps past the boarding desk and then taking it out again. Are twats at the Olympics entrances going to force people to one side and force feed them.
I fear that if there a sun cream official fucking sponsor, then the guards at the gates will be binning any cunting container over 100ml and forcing a later purchase from an official retailer - at £11.99 per 200ml. Will those queuing have to put liquids in a polythene bag not exceeding 20cm x 20cm? Sandwiches cannot be put in polythene without the risk of them going off a bit and 'sweating'. A sandwich box is no good, as some cunt might classify it as a mini-picnic.
There is a need for clarification, and unfortunately people in charge never consider properly all the details and options, and pitfalls, let alone give clear advice.
Anyone with any sense will be at home, watching a bit of TV if they feel obliged to see a twat flick a tiddlywink into a plastic beaker, or a small sailing boat zigzag its way across a lake or meander just off the coast of Weymouth. That way, a 50p can of Carlsberg is but a fridge away, as are as many sandwiches, nibbles and dips as would constitute a 'picnic' should one decide to step into the garden.
My final whinge is that the television channels are ob-cuntin-sessed with "Team GB" and everyone in the media is so fucking biased that watching anything for the fun of watching a competitive event is impossible. Instead, we have to hear about the British competitor, non-fucking stop. If you're not in Team GB, you don't count. Often, we'll see a race with a GB hopeful who turns out to be hopeless, and then the coverage will switch to "The men's bumble-bee catching with A4 card and a jam jar" from Oswestry because heat seven is about to start and nineteen year old Giles Butterworth from the Liskeard Athletics, Apiology and Horticultural Club is about to set off, and hoping for 'bronze' if he avoids getting stung. I want to see good sport without such blatant partisanship at an obscene level. Meanwhile, idiots with overpriced tickets will have been stung a whole lot worse than anything that could affect Giles in Oswestry.
...
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