9.4.16 The Voice Final

"You will choose your ultimate winner,"  said Wailing Willis, in the introduction, as if it made the slightest fucking sense.  Then Paloma Faith took to the stage, talking even more drivel and bollocks than should be humanly possible.

Jolan

Yes, The Voice was underway; the Final was set to present two hours of testing television.  After just six minutes, we had some music, courtesy of Jolan.  It seemed he'd heard it through the grapevine.  Sadly I could fucking hear him hearing it and singing about it.  'Jolan' sounds like a brand name for artists' putty or something; where do such names come from?  Anyway, he milked the fucking song to within a teat's throb of a sore.

Ricky suddenly though he was Abraham Lincoln, with an impromptu speech. Willis referred to him as James Bond, and Boy George suggested David Cameron; WTF?  Will.i.am reminded us that this was the last time The Voice would be on BBC television, and my mood lifted very temporarily.

Lydia

Marv was sitting on a red sofa, confirming his ineptness as an interviewer, host, presenter and general TV presence.  "It's a dream come true said Linda, Lydia's mother," in the VT.  Original eh?  Grandma Dotty had back-combed her hair especially, and I feared for her going up in three seconds, should a stray spark catch hold.  "It's Lydia!" said Marv, by way of introduction.

"Everything's Gonna Be All Right, she warbled.  It was sure to be, in about 1 our and 45 minutes. The rapping part of the song, in a voice that made me want to put my foot through the television, was the prelude to her Leona Lewis impression.  It was better than Jolan, even if she was a gushing pain.

"Lydia has been an architect, to construct her own songs," said Iams, and I'd know idea she'd studied for so long to be qualified as an architect.  Paloma said something (not sure what, but is was valueless) before George confirmed she'd "done Essex proud".

Kevin

Kevin was up next, singing 'Stay'.  I was bored after 13 seconds.  'You leave me speechless, absolutely speechless, " lied Wailing Willis, because she didn't stop talking.  "On point," said Boy George; YAWN.  Paloma 'The Teeth' Faith gargled through some compliments, and then "super dope" was Will.i.am's contribution to the comments.

Cody

"She is a very unique individual," said Boy George, taking a leaf out of Willis's book of non-English.  Mad World was a shit song choice.  What a shame that no one had a thought to be slightly more original and adventurous with a song that we hadn't heard 34 million times.  Still, she's an interesting person, and still managed to make something of it.  Paloma talked shit about weeds growing through cracks in the pavement, confirming her need for a straight-jacket.

Marv

His testing questions on the sofa were cunting crap.  Jolan confirmed he has no personality.  The Essex girl said something formulaic, and the camera flicked to Grandma in the audience, away from any naked flames.  Kevin was supported by 'Liberty X' in the audience.  The value of this was not discussed.

So after the first round of singing, Cody was clearly the most likely to win. "Whoa, they're on fire here tonight," said Willis about the audience, and I wondered fleetingly if Grandma has found a Bic lighter.  Then we were told that round two was about to start - the duets.

Jolan & Ricky

The shouty song was suitable for masking the lack of talent (mostly regarding Ricky) and I could have done without hearing even a second of the noise. Pathetic trash.

Cody & Boy George

Another terrible song choice - 'Imagine'.  There's no way that will ever really make a brilliant impression in a singing contest.  George warbled, and made Tony Bennett sound good!  A really wasted opportunity.  YAWN.

Kevin & Ricky

Ricky proved beyond any doubt whatsoever that he cannot sing.  The first 30 seconds of Ricky making a noise was horrendous, just before it carried on being horrendous for the rest of the duet.

Lydia & Will.i.am

"Will arks if I can hang out in the shtoodio," said the TOWIE representative in the VT.  Her dad was (to listen to) Micky Flanagan, and I could have done with 5 minutes of him instead.  The song choice was clearly going to be one that required no singing from Will.i.am.  I was correct in my assumption.  The melody was provided by Lydia, along with some groaning when Will did his talky bits.  This was complete fucking rubbish all round.  'Dope' in the true sense of the word, Will.

Whittling Down

"The competition has never been closer," lied Marvin, after an inane exchange with the contestants regarding the covers for the winner's single.

"It's time to get serious," said Marv, as the two presenters got ready to confirm the two contestants making it through to a sing-off.  Marv . . . 'serious' . . . seriously?

Jolan got through (?) along with Kevin.  It should have been Cody and Kevin. So Ricky won on the judging side without the final two having to sing another note - despite the fact that Ricky himself managed only bum notes on both his duets with them.

Still half hour to go at this point.  YAWN.  Next came two airings of the same corny song.  Kevin was surely going to win.

Yes, after many many weeks of The Voice, the BBC has finally declared that 'The Voice' is in fact a bloke who was in Liberty X, a successful band.  Wow.

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30.3.16 The USA Is Fucked

It looks like the American People will have a choice between Donald Trump and Hilary Clinton.  This can only be described as a truly horrendous choice.

The radical and utterly bonkers Trump is unelectable, and yet the idiot is increasingly looking like a serious contender.  I fear for the USA and in turn, to a noticeable degree, the world.

Who stands in his way?  The odious and completely diabolical Hilary Clinton, a woman who should have no chance at all in securing the Presidency.  Sadly, the fact that her opponent is a lunatic means Clinton has, quite preposterously, a decent chance of winning, better than she deserves by a lifetime of atonement.  This vile untrustworthy creature is no doubt pleased as fuck that Trump is her opponent.

I claim no smugness, as Britain suffered the terrible two-faced fucker known as Tony Blair for far too long.  Allegedly, and with seemingly rather good cause, this war criminal is smugly touring the world making many millions of pounds, touting his dubious talents as a squirming twat who can get away with all sorts. His associations with people and regimes of disrepute is simply astonishing.

So, back to America, and the fate of the USA.  Trump would be an in-your-face disaster who is a loose canon.  Clinton is a devious self-serving waste of space, more untrustworthy than Trump, and ready to do whatever it takes to get power.  Hobson's choice, indeed.

Sorry to say, then, that the USA is cuntpletely fucked.

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27.3.16 Woman Lays "Cunt" on Kyle

Hilarious story in the Daily Mail Online !

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27.3.16 Queues & Other Things

Deciding which queue to join is a challenge.  Last Thursday, I had a dozen lanes before me, to pay the toll and get to the other side of the river.  Obviously I managed without any supernatural powers to select the lane where the car driver in front was about to be a cunt.  Yes, the task of putting £1.60 into the machine was over and above the competence level of the driver.  I waited while all around me, numerous cars headed into the tunnel.

On the Wednesday, I'd already experienced far worse, courtesy of the duty free shopping at Malaga Airport.  I had some vodka and some Jagermeister, and six tills to choose between.  I made my choice and lived to regret it.

Two Toblerones and a litre of Baileys!  Some party he was planning.  WTCF was he buying this shit for anyway.  It beggars belief that someone really needs to buy overpriced Toblerone at a fucking airport.  However, my gripe is less with the pissing chocolate than with the digital cunting world.

The bloke presented his mobile phone to the till operator; the screen displayed what should have been a bar-code that could be scanned.  As we all know, as part of international security control, the purchase of Toblerones HAS to be subject to the presentation of a boarding pass.  Mayhem would ensue if anyone was allowed to simply buy shit without red tape.

Rather than a paper boarding pass, the traveller used his smart phone, that turned out to be a fucking thick phone.  Despite his efforts to fiddle, scroll, pinch, punch [oops, no, that was what I wanted to do] and tap, there was no progress. The till operator wiggled the scanner but it picked up cuntin fuck. I continued to wait.

Having taken over, and unsuccessfully tried to get the bar-code to register on her scanner, she decided the best policy was to manually enter the reference. For this, she needed her glasses, and so with further amazement and disbelief, I carried on standing there like a twat while she pissed about looking for them. She opened the case and adorned her windows to the world, and started tapping slowly on her till, peering at the reference on the tiny thick-phone.  In doing so, he had to fend off the traveller who seemed intent on having another fiddle, pinch and scroll (on his phone, not her fanny).

The pair of them seemed to be enjoying the debacle as though it was some sort of technical tango.  I, on the other hand, was sensing a rise in blood pressure that put me half way up the scale - zero being placid and amenable, 10 being ready to knock some cunt's head off.

At last she was happy, and the authentication needed for the purchase of two triangular lumps and a cream liqueur was successfully entered into Malaga Airport's computers.  No doubt Interpol would be overjoyed, and would assume the Triangular tubes were legitimate chocolate rather than Semtex.  It was then time for him to pay.  Out came the cuntin credit card; yawn.

***

While waiting to learn the gate number for boarding, I went to a machine to get a bottle of water.  I noted that the price was 1.70 euros, exactly 40 cents more than a year ago, when the dispensing machine was a more basic model.  Now though, the machines are multi-functional massive fuckers, capable of accepting Visa, Mastercard, American Express, PayPal, Green Shield Stamps, IOUs, Bearer Bonds, Krugerrands, Smarties and of course good old coins.  Luckily for me, the Toblerone Tosser was not around, and more importantly not in front of me - otherwise he'd be wobbling a thick-phone contactless, brainless mobile at it, or else from his wallet picking a card to use.  I opted for ordinary money, and effortlessly obtained some water without wireless/digital/dreadful/diabolical needless complication.

***

As I went through the boarding gate, I spotted behind me in the queue a man wearing a three-berth tent.  I was shortly to be in a middle seat, and prayed that he was not going to sit next to me . . . . . and overflow.

Standing on the ramp down towards the tunnel connecting the plane to the terminal, my fellow passengers and I all sweated while the lights intermittently but consistently went on and off.  I was passenger 41.  With so little to do (other than sweat) when waiting to board, counting the passengers in front of me seemed a reasonable thing to do.

I spotted the Man From Del Monte lower down on the ramp, on the other side of the 'snake'.  Passenger 12 was dressed in a pale linen suit, checked shirt and loafers.  He sported a Panama hat, and had under his right arm a folded Daily Telegraph.  Whilst the real Man From Del Monte was known for saying "Yes", this one said fuck all as he stood alongside his wife, a drab woman with a non-plussed look that for some reason reminded me of a character from Trumpton, or maybe Chigley. Then it came to me . . . . she reminded me of Windy Miller! [So, Camberwick Green, then]

At last we moved forward.  Pigeon step by pigeon step we inched towards the plane, ready to be cramped as fuck for three hours.  As I stepped on to the plane, I sat the non-verbal Windy Miller and Man From Del Monte in seats one and two.  Twenty minutes later, Jordan (the air stewardess with the annoying voice) was, in preparation for the safety demo, asking for our "full and complete attention".  I wondered what the difference was between 'full' and 'complete'. Then she invited us to (as ever) sit back, relax and enjoy the flight - which if course was impossible.

Among other things that caused distraction was the short woman in the seat next to me who was giving head to a baguette.  This necessitated, it seemed, the need for an extended little finger (?)

Meanwhile, two seats away, a woman with more phlegm than a Flemish Phlegmatic with Flu was relentlessly proving her credentials, coughing up mouthfuls of vileness.  Horrendous.

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28.2.16 Cheryl Has One Direction

It seems there is no end to Cheryl's bed-hopping, and name changing.  Her one direction is the next bloke.  I wonder who is next on the growing list of Mrs/Miss/Ms Cheryl-Cole-Tweedy-Fernandez-Versini-Payne [CCTFVP].

When CCTV dispensed with 'Tweedy', she hung on to 'Cole' for dear life, despite ejecting the oddly-behaved Ashley Cole.  His name was seemingly more attractive than the bloke himself.

Jean-Bernard Fernandez-Versini had, in Cheryl's view, a name to die for, and so it was that they married somewhere-or-other.  Thus, uPVC inflicted upon us the mouthful that further encouraged us all to simply refer to her (if we had to) as 'Cheryl'.

Rihanna, Beyonce, Madonna, Lorde, to name but a few, don't need a second name.  Cheryl, on the other hand, is expecting us all to use a fucking Rolodex to contain her numerous entries.

Sadly not all of the One Direction chaps can find love as openly.  H&L are obviously having to delay their public launch.  I suspect they wish they could go back to their earlier days.

Oh well, I am sure they will come clean at some point.  For now, I have enough to amuse myself with, as TCP snuggles up with Liam for lovey-dovey pics on social media.

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28.2.16 Weather Bollocks

Generally a quiet picture

Rain slipping its way into northern England

Some punchy old showers

One or two spits and spots of rain

Fresh temperatures

Top temperatures are mild, 16 or 17

The weather will be trundling along

Rain is set to trundle its way north

Sleety snow

Pesky showers

Rain knocking on the door

Showers turning wintry

Some winteriness on the hills


These are all quotes or extracts from weather forecasts, in which presenters talk bollocks, and display no competence in English let alone meteorology.

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27.2.16 Begging Charts

Unfortunately things have got out of hand.  There are of course many worthy causes for which money might be raised, and I have little doubt that there are multiple charities already in existence for each and every cause you may come up with.  With 165,000 registered charities in the UK, the word 'Charity' is no longer a useful term in any regard at all.  Someone doing something good for charity is not necessarily a useful undertaking these days, nor is it necessarily as charitable as you might at first think.

The vast majority of 'charities' are in fact little more than entities wanting a tax break, displaying a minimal basis of attempting something good or useful as a qualification for their status.  The uncontrolled expansion of the market is nuts, and unlike the world of business and commerce, charities preserve themselves ahead of any thought for the cause.  Where are the mergers?  Where is the cost-saving in the charity world?

Anyway, the big ones are now intent on treating donations as transactions, with no focus on the fund raising tactics other than 'playing the numbers'.  This is evidenced so well by the TV adverts, which of course cost a fortune.  I personally have little desire to encourage them to fritter a fortune on adverts which are seemingly justified as soon as the charity concerned gets a penny more than the outlay on them.  Ludicrous.  This is similar to someone wanting to raise money for saving the Lesser Spotted Guacamole via sponsorship, but the cost of the trip to Peru has to be taken out of the money raised.  Basically, pay for someone's holiday!

The government need to revisit the charitable benefits regime, and encourage some consolidation in the sector.  Cost savings through mergers would reduce wastage massively, and there would be much more going to the good causes. As things stand, it's a fucking farce.  They are all competing with each other to vie for our money, instead of there being a combined effort to improve the percentage of money that is available actually going to do good, rather than simply pay for offices, staff, cars, visits and numerous jobs.  This 'big business' then gets breaks to clutter high streets with stores, which are staffed by volunteers.

I suggest that if there are, say, 50 charities for a cause, then there are probably 50 sets of offices, photocopiers, phone systems, stationery cupboards, etc.  If there were a single entity for that good cause, then I guarantee less would be wasted on running costs.  The whole thing is a mess.

The real disgrace is the uncontrolled use of the word 'Charity'.  These are businesses!

Of the adverts touting good causes, some want a lot, some less but on a rolling basis.  Anyway, here are some of the adverts that of course need to be paid for by your DD or text.

Salvation Army - £19.00
Dogs Trust - £5.00
Childline - £5.00
Wateraid - £2.00 per month
Samaritans - £5.00
Save the Children - £2.00 per month
Macmillan - £5.00
Unicef - £3.00
Blue Cross For Pets - £5.00
British Heart Foundation - £3.00 per month
Great Ormond Street Hospital - £3.00 per month
NSPCC - £3.00 per month
Sponsor a Donkey Sanctuary - £2.00 per month
Actionaid - £5.00
Guide Dogs For The Blind - £1 per week to 'sponsor a puppy'


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