28.12.14 Josie Cunningham Strikes Again

Just when it seemed hardly possible that Josie Cunningham could sink any lower in anyone's estimation, there's news of her latest shenanigans regarding the father of her baby.

It is apparently the case that this thick woman has had to sort out a DNA test for three potential fathers.  What a sad state of affairs; not only is it proof (as if any were needed) that JC is a waste of space who finds herself in such doubt over who the father is, but it proves there are three very, very desperate individuals who have obviously passed her some bodily fluid.

It is more laughable that this, though.  The latest update confirms that this doughnut of a woman believed she was the girlfriend of a Hull City footballer, and that he might be the father.  It turned out that he was not who he said he was, and Josie Cunningham tweeted: "I feel so dirty, ashamed and devastated.  I've been completely manipulated by a man for 18 months pretending to be a Premiership footballer."  She forgot to add "gullible" and "thick" to the tweet.

The other two in the frame for fatherhood were a surgeon and her best friend's boyfriend.  The surgeon should have had higher standards, but apparently mated with the awful woman while she was working as a prostitute.  As for the third contender, I shudder to think whether there is a single gram of morality between the pair of them.

The final farcical element of the whole piss-pot is that in revealing to the candidate for "dad" the results of the DNA tests, she put the wrong ones in the envelopes before posting them.  This resulted in her having to tell the 'temporary' father that he was not in fact the winner.  Lucky escape, then, for one of the three twats.  Not content with being such a fuck-up, she's now moved on to a new boyfriend, showing no aptitude for anything resembling judgement let alone common sense.

The latest male to decide Josie Cunningham is worth attention?  Judge for yourself whether the pair look destined for matrimony, and a "happy ever after" life.  By the way, I wouldn't want you to think I was inviting your judgement based on looks alone, so I'll just confirm that his last partner was punched in the face so hard that her jaw and cheekbone were broken, and he was jailed for 21 months.  This was not the first time he'd assaulted a woman.  There you go . . . take a punt.

...

27.12.14 Awful Grammar of the Month

Cuntish Grammar of the Month

The award goes to WeBuyAnyCar.Com and its latest advert that includes the words:

"To sell your car quick and easy . . . . . "

This blatant use of adjectives instead of adverbs is a fucking disgrace, and I urge all sensible people to boycott WeBuyAnyCar.Com, henceforth to be known as WeDon'tSpeakEnglish.Cunt

...

25.12.14 Who Nominated Michael Buble?

Please can someone advise me on the culprit responsible for awarding Michael Buble the right to have a monopoly on Christmas?  My Christmas has fuck all to do with Buble, and takes NO lead whatsoever from the ubiquitous middle-of-the-road disaster who allegedly has some sort of appeal.  Why the TV channels believe it prudent to afford him time to regurgitate shite is also beyond me.


Sunday 21st December

ITV3 at 9.00pm: Michael Buble Home For Christmas

Monday 22nd December

Channel 5 at 9.00pm: Michael Buble's Christmas

Tuesday 23rd December

Channel 5 at 7.50pm: Michael Buble's Christmas Songbook

Wednesday 24th December

Channel 5 at 5.35pm: Michael Buble's Christmas

ITV3 at 6.30pm: Michael Buble Home For Christmas

Thursday 25th December

Channel 5 at  6.10pm: Michael Buble's Christmas Songbook

Channel 5* at 7.00pm: Michael Buble's Christmas Songbook

Friday 26th December

Channel 5* at 7.00pm: Michael Buble's Christmas 2014

...

24.12.14 Alternative Christmas Message

Please do not give me any Season's Greetings, which by default suggests that the two weeks or so spanning the run-up to Christmas followed by New Year constitutes a 'Season'.  This is no more a 'Season' than a collection of episodes on a fucking DVD, which is of course a 'Series'.

You may wish me 'Happy' or 'Merry' Christmas, and similarly hope I have a 'Happy' or 'Prosperous' New Year.  You may, instead, call me a complete cunt, which is absolutely fine.  But please do not suggest there's any 'Season' involved, nor refer in any way at all to a fucking Festive Period. The cunts who devised this pathetic term need shooting.  What utter shit.

On this Christmas Eve, I wish all readers an enjoyable ten days, during which I am sure there will be opportunities to have drinks and relax, plus catch up with family and friends.  With regard to the New Year, please give consideration to the length of time during which you extend hopes for the prosperity and enjoyment of others.

It is unacceptable to be wishing folk a "Happy New Year" after the first week of January.  If anyone is tempted to pester me in this regard after 7th January, they can fuck off, and I will most certainly NOT be returning the 'compliment'.

...

23.12.14 Awakening of the Month

"As soon as the bench cracked underneath me, I knew my weight was a problem."

This was a quote from Karen Dawson, whose plight has been relayed to us courtesy of the Mail Online.

I rather think that her weight was a problem a very long time before she sat on the church pew and it broke beneath her.  The wooden bench was struggling with the size 38 Welsh woman who was almost 27 stone.  She was at her mother-in-law's funeral.  In her account of the event, Mrs Dawson said: "As we watched the coffin being lowered, I wanted the ground to swallow me up."  The ground would have needed to open up a long way!  It seems this incident spurred her to lose some weight, and she's now dropped to 18 stone. Not sure this all qualifies as 'news' though.

...

22.12.14 Whose Turn Today?

The Daily Mail Online provides a never-ending supply of so-called 'celebrities' parading in swimwear, 'frolicking' on beaches, cultivating toned muscles in a gym, or simply doing pretty much anything that draws attention (after having made sure that photographers know exactly what's going on, of course).

Today's crop of crap includes:

Denise Welch, metaphorically shouting 'look at me' in a red bikini.  Desperate for attention, and for us to decide that she looks good at 56 after having lost two stone, she has blatantly sought the focal point of a few dozen lenses, so that she's in the news again while parading on a beach in Spain.  Sad, tired, haggish actions.

Leigh-Anne Pinnock, of Little Mix fame, is of course rather younger, and quite appropriately has a rather more attractive body.  Nevertheless, and despite the view being rather better on the beach in Barbados, it is still not a newsworthy event.

Millie Mackintosh is as ever in the gym, trying to extend the thigh gap, and narrow her legs even further.  We know all this courtesy of the Mail Online, which seems to have a remit that includes keeping us all updated on just how skinny she is, and how flat her stomach is.

Imogen Thomas has resurfaced, although it is impossible to establish any reason at all for her appearing in red underwear, saying she'd like to appear on I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here one day.  Perhaps she ought to establish herself as a 'celebrity' before aspiring to such dizzy heights as a hammock in the jungle.

Ariana Grande has a standing order with the Mail Online, and the deal involves the inclusion of a daily photo confirming the pertness of her bottom, and preferably on view above legs clad in boots.  The vacuous nature of this phenomenon is clear for all to see.

Helen Flanagan has appeared in today's line-up for a specific reason, surprisingly.  It is to announce that she is three months into a pregnancy that should see her trusted with a baby unless someone steps in to question the sense of allowing this.  The father is Scott Sinclair who plays for Manchester City.  I have used italics because actually, he rarely actually contributes, and when he does, it's for just a few minutes.  Still, two million quid a year for typically 200 minutes of football per season is bound to give him time enough to help out Helen while buying everything needed without worry over the cost.

Olivia Wilde gets coverage as well, with shots of her in a bikini as she "shows off her incredible post baby body just eight months after giving birth". This standard or journalism is as criminal as the subject matter.  Still, some lucky photographer got to go to Hawaii with his Nikon.

Victoria's Secret - a generic VS model has also featured today, as always. This time it's Angel Martha Hunt "in a lacy white string bikini as she frolics in Miami," we are told.

Alex Gerrard is in Dubai, making sure that she's well turned out.  The photos of her in a turquoise bikini on a beach are as uninspiring as Stevie's oratory skills in a post-match interview.

Daisy Lowe is pictured making a telephone call as part of a calendar video for a magazine.  This has necessarily involved copious amounts of cleavage that we need to see for some reason.

...

21.12.14 Today's Television

Channel 5 is rarely responsible for any decent (or responsible) broadcasting, and generally serves up shit on a shovel for viewers silly enough to arrive at its tuning frequency.  Nevertheless, it does at least act in an up-front manner in clarifying its intentions when airing a sequence of films starring the same lead actor.  Thus, there is design in the schedule that sees Clint Eastwood (even if the guy gets a ludicrous amount of special attention) featuring in a fun of films.  Thus, Channel 5 is showing Space Cowboys, Gran Torino and Unforgiven tonight.

Over on Film4, which never succumbs to evenings of a sole lead actor taking precedence over supposedly good films being show, we have a rather pointless schedule that commenced at 4.35pm, when Dear John commenced, starring Channing Tatum, a most unusual and annoying name, you'll no doubt agree.  This is followed by Step Up, again starring the oddly names bloke, ahead of Magic Mike at 9pm, with, yes, Channing Tatum.  Two days ago, Channel 4 was showing 10 Years, starring Channing Tatum, which I watched. I am a bit fed up with Channing Tatum and so will be avoiding Film4 today.

ITV4 has opted for Spartacus this afternoon, consuming 3 hours and 50 minutes of the schedule.  The main channel (ITV) thinks it appropriate to give us a "Christmas Special" of Vicious.  This horrendous act is simply outrageous, but there is a single mitigating factor - it is on at 11.15pm, when I'll NOT be watching.

The remakes, repeats and refuse littering the TV listings meant that very little can be deemed 'viewable'.  The three-hour joviality line-up on 5* is hardly attractive.  From 9pm until midnight, there's a chance to see Autopsy, and Whitney Houston's Last Hours, then those same last hours in respect of Michael Hutchence, ahead of the final in which Anna Nicole Smith shared (posthumously) her last moments alive via a documentary.  A dead loss.

...

21.12.14 Chickens

Today - Fresh Chicken

Mrs MWSC has just come back from the Cunt-Op.  Her mission was to purchase a chicken and some milk.  This demanding task was going to provide us with something to eat in a couple of hours time.  With Junior, she crossed the road (unlike the chicken, as it turned out) and managed to make a purchase.

Upon her return, she presented me with some Voltarol Pain-ese and some Deep Heat, as I sat on the sofa with a hot water bottle against my neck [long story, so I won't bore you].  She had just put the milk in the fridge.  I discovered that she also bought some "Nice Chocolate Biscuits", a bottle of Jack Daniel's Tennessee Honey, and Junior had managed on this expedition to acquire four litres of Sprite plus two packets of Jacob's Club.  Not a chicken in sight!


Two Weeks Ago - Frozen Chicken

TMWSC: "I've taken a chicken out."
Mrs MWSC: "Why?  What did it do to you?"

...

20.12.14 Strictly Come Dancing Final

At last - the 'Final' of Strictly Come Dancing, after so many weeks, the majority of which were tainted by the inclusion of Judy Murray.  Needless to say that this final has more than two finalists, because that's the way things are nowadays.

Caroline Flack has been revealed in the last 48 hours as someone who was professionally trained, spending three years being taught to dance in a performing arts degree course.  This small but highly relevant fact was kept quiet by all parties until now, courtesy of the Daily Mail.  This snippet clearly makes any vote for Flackers an endorsement of the educational process rather than any encouragement for a legitimate dance contestant.

The final should of course have seen a line-up of Frankie Bridge, Caroline Flack and Pixie Lott.  This would satisfy the apparent need for a final containing more than just two contestants, without stretching things to the ludicrous four that is deemed necessary.  Sadly a fuck-up from all directions saw Simon Webbe get through in place of Pixie, at which point she'd scored the highest tally of points during the whole series.  Then Jake was ousted by Mark Wright who got Len's casting vote, despite having no proper Rumba moves in his shoeless prance.

Frankie - Samba = 39/40

"Well done My Darling," said Tess, with her first use of the night.
"My Darling" was included in Bruno's speech.
"You have redeemed yourself, Darling," said Craig.
"Good luck My Darling," said Tess, as she ushered them away towards Claudia.


Mark - Cha Cha Cha = 35/40

"You came from the dance gutter, Darling," included Craig in his comments.


Caroline - Cha Cha Cha = 40/40

"Well done, My Lovely," said Tess to Caroline, as she ushered her away.  I sensed a change of tack from Tess, after the shortage of Darlings.


Simon - Charleston = 39/40

Kristina decided to wear a pair of white knickers that showed during the dancing in an off-putting way, in contrast to the black costume.


Frankie - Show Dance = 38/40

"It did look a bit like you were training a horse," said Craig, regarding the three benches.
Behind Claudia, the others were imitating horses, trotting backwards and forwards.  In this regard, Judy Murray was for the first time not out of her depth.

Mark - Show Dance = 35/40

"You could probably sell DVDs, Darling," said Craig.
"You were flying around like Harry Potter on a Nimbus 2000," said Len.


Caroline - Show Dance = 40/40

A "My Darling" from Tess, after an interesting dance to say the very least.


Simon - Show Dance = 39/40

"You have taught him brilliantly, My Darling," said Craig.
"Off you go My Darling," said Tess.


This marked the end of the first part, and the start of voting.  I think the only thing we can all be certain of is that Tess Daly should follow Bruce Forsythe and leave SCD.

The 'padding' involved some talking by the finalists, and Mark was up first to comment on his Shtrikly [sic] experience.  The vote-counting requirement led to a forced break of 55 minutes, a totally unnecessary length of time to kick one off, especially as voting stopped after just 20 minutes.  This no doubt had something to do with us being fed "Atlantis".  I obviously switched over, though NOT to Harry Potter & The Half-Cuntin Bloody-Fuckin Prince.


Part Two

The first couple ejected was Mark and Karen, which was at least in keeping with the judges' scores.  Tess gave him a "My Darling", which hardly came as a surprise.


Frankie - Paso Doble = 39/40

"Well done, My Darling," said Bruno.
"Commendable, Darling," from Craig.


Caroline - Charleston = 40/40

"They're on their feet in the studio, My Darling," said Tess.
"A dazzling routine, My Love," said Tess, as she ushered Caroline away.
"It's raining tens, hallelujah," said Tess, and I groaned.


Simon - Argentine Tango = 40/40

"It takes two to Tango," said Tess.


Final Leader Board
Caroline - 120
Simon - 118
Frankie - 116


The series recap allowed the votes to be counted, and we were able to realise just how bad some of the participants were.  Then it was time to realise (yet again) that Take That can't sing, and that the show's singers alongside Dave Arch are rather better!  The three numpties in their pale blue outfits were embarrassing.  Their little "dad dancing" routines were simply awful.

These Days they're shit.  This medley of songs proved mediocrity on their part and boredom on mine.

Tess growled her intro to "the class of 2014". Murray arrived on stage via a crane masked by a bunch of balloons and then jumped into the arms of Anton du Beke, recreating the horrible experience of a few weeks ago.  Tess then horrified me with news that for a 'special' next week, we will be getting Bruce Forsyth!  That's how to ruin Christmas.

The padding, recapping and dragging out of the show started to eat at my nerves, and I longed for the result to arrive.  Just when I thought that might happen, I found out I needed to get further input by way of the judges, and their views on the dancers.

At Last - The Result . . . . . . . . Caroline and Pasha

...

20.12.14 Disgraceful Television

Last week's television offerings included some examples of disgraceful practice by the channels, which seem not to worry about taking the piss out of viewers.

On Saturday, we had yet another in the relentless forcing-down-our-fucking-throats of Harry Potter.  This time it was The Prisoner of Azkaban who was wasting 2 hours and 40 minutes of the ITV schedule.  This feat of laziness was surpassed by both Channel 4 and Channel 5, later that night.  Channel 4 chose to eat up three cuntin hours of the schedule [from 6.00 - 9.00pm] with 100 Greatest Toys with Jonathan Ross.  This repeated marathon was so much of a piss take that Channel % obviously felt entitled to try and match, with its TV's 50 Greatest Magic Tricks, aired from 9.10pm until five-past-midnight.  This allowed any useless individuals to observe 150 doses of shit over six hours.

Channel 5 decided to repeat this approach on Sunday, with three hours of Britain's Favourite Christmas Songs.  The repeat of pure padding came hot on the heels of a repeated hour of Michael Buble, always a trial and never acceptable television.  Then yet again, Channel 5 managed to dredge up Greatest Christmas TV Moments the very next day, to plug a three-hour gap.

Over on ITV, there was Bette Midler: One Night Only, which was in simple terms one night too fucking many.  BBC2 offered a pathetic hour of alleged entertainment by way of Canterbury Cathedral, at 9.00pm, in which the treasurer applied for a £12million grant from the Heritage Lottery Fund.  What a fucking disgraceful act, and total misuse of money!

Back again to take the piss on Tuesday was ITV, with Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, eating up two-and-a-half hours of prime-time TV.  At ten-past-midnight, BBC3 got in on the act, and gave an hour to Russell Brand in a most disgraceful endorsement of this fucktard.  Russell Brand: End the Drugs War was the programme title.  As ever, the BIAS BROADCASTING CORPORATION sticks to its guns.

On Thursday, ITV chose to confirm its ability to annoy the fuck yet again with a totally unnecessary repeat of River Monsters, the vehicle for the most awful Jeremy Wade to grin into the camera while annoying fish as well as me.

The listings for Christmas week and New Year week show further examples of lazy TV.  Apparently the time of year gives ITV licence to show as many Harry Potter films as it wants, so we get The Half-Blood Prince, then The Deathly Hallows: Part 1 and a few days later, Part 2.  This can't compare, though, with the further painful counting programmes, with Channel 5 showing Greatest Ever Christmas Movies (3 hours) plus Britain's Favourite Christmas Songs (3 hours) yet again.  Three further hours was deemed necessary for 28th Dec, with Most Shocking Celebrity Moments.  This did nothing to dampen enthusiasm at Channel 5 and so New Year's Eve offers us Britain's Favourite Sitcoms (3 hours).

I have a bone to pick with ITV because yesterday's showing of Bette Midler: One Night Only was a repeat of the showing four days earlier - hardly 'one night only' then, eh?

...

16.12.14 Mushroom Tuesday

I am clearly missing something.  I've been made aware of the various phenomena that now infest our Decembers, including Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Manic Monday and Wanking Wednesday.  Nowhere have I seen on any fucking rota the phenomenon of Mushroom Tuesday.  Whatever shit the Daily Mail rustles up, it has clearly failed to alert me on this matter.

I observed, as most of us did, the idiots scrambling for cheap (shit) televisions from supermarkets on Black Friday.  Then, following on from the stupid online buying extravaganzas and the serious delays in parcels being delivered, we have had silence regarding any further specific days, other than a pathetic mention of a 'White' day.  I know the Americans have other events that we'll no doubt "inherit" in due course, including Giving Tuesday, White Wednesday and Grey Thursday (Gray in the American spelling).  In the UK, no cunt has seen fit to warn me of Mushroom Tuesday.  I've not been told to queue overnight, or be prepared to kick a fellow shopper in the groin en route to the vegetable aisle.

It would appear to be the case that 16th December is officially Mushroom Tuesday.  Unluckily for me, I was not up early enough to join the queue for mushrooms, and discovered to my cost that at 4pm, any sight of a mushroom at Asda was going to be impossible.  Sadly and annoyingly, I was presented this afternoon with a completely empty display; not a mushroom in sight, of any variety, of any size, either loose or packaged.  When the fucking hell did a rush on mushrooms become any sort of event that would engender the enthusiasm that might see local cunts swarming to the doors of Asda in search of mushrooms?

All I can say, in summary, is that I have somehow missed the massive publicity regarding Mushroom Tuesday - or -  Asda is an entity that has today displayed a complete cunting lack of stock control, leaving it devoid of anything mushroom-like!

...

15.12.14 News In The Last Week

Cilla

It seems Cilla Black is struggling with afflictions.  Aside from her arthritis, she is apparently now totally deaf, and I consider this an affront.  There is no fairness when her mouth is still going strong, and we are not deaf!  She is thus free to inflict noise upon us with no sense of responsibility, and without having to hear it herself.

Brand

Russell Brand has been confirmed as an unfunny hypocrite and a prize-winning fucktard.

Priest

For once there's been a story about a priest and children which does not involve 'interference' in the usual way.  This time, we have learned of an event which has left youngsters upset at the hands of Father Dennis Higgins.  He told the kids that Santa did not exist during a mass attended not just by eleven-year-olds from the St Thomas More Catholic School, but seven-year-olds from St Anne's Catholic Primary School.  The poor children were fucked up enough already, after being told of the existence of a God who demands their presence at masses and is the only God they should believe in.
Further information available in the news report highlighted yet further concerns, after I read that the head master comforted the youngsters by saying he had spoken to Father Christmas.  He relayed news that Father Christmas was sorry to hear about the confusion and that he promised he would arrange for his elves to write to each of them, and reassure them that he would definitely be coming to visit them this Christmas.

This is a form of abuse that will leave the kids fucked up.  A priest in his eighties tells kids the truth, while himself believing in a most dubious dollop of religious nonsense.  Then the head master lies to them with some mumbo-jumbo that will come back to haunt him when the kids later lie about dogs eating their homework.  Talk about a fuck up.

Religious Inflation

If you thought that inflation was quite low, then think again.  Costs have soared threefold since 1992, based on news this week.  Twenty-two years ago, chartered accountant David Barras stole £10,000 from the Citizens Advice Bureau, and was jailed for a year.  A church council in Bradford gave him a second chance, mostly based on Barras having 'found God'.  It turns out that £30,000 has gone missing from church funds, and he was prosecuted. His penalty this time around was a two-year sentence, with a victim surcharge of £100.  No sign of the thirty grand, though!  What a fiasco, and poor judgement by the church.

Lily Allen

Yet again, this undesirable woman has made herself even less desirable or likeable after her unnecessary moaning.  Her Twitter obsession appears to be just as severe as that of Rio Ferdinand, and the pair seem to conduct their lives via the tweets that followers endure.  Sadly, despite NOT following either of them, I cannot escape the vacuous shite that's digitally thrown as food for the masses because the media then decide to follow every move, fart and tweet, making sure the shite is smeared MY way anyway!  Her latest instance of nuisance relates to Fleur's song on last Saturday's X-Factor.  We learn now that Simon has this week been speaking to Lily about being a judge on his show, and is now pleased that he said 'no'.

Whatever the truth behind the various claims on the song and on Lily potentially being a judge, I am VERY pleased to learn that this awful woman has almost certainly burned her bridges with Simon Cowell.  Let's hope that there's no reconciliation at all, or a few millions people would have to suffer Lily Allen on next year's X-Factor.  Now That's What I Call Scary!  Simon, please can you try rather harder to find a decent replacement for Scary Spice after her woeful inclusion this year.  As for the other two vacant spots previously kept warm by Louis Walsh and Cheryl ForNando's-SearchChicken please consider Harry Hill and Katie Melua.

...

14.12.14 X-Factor Final & Result 2014

Dermot arrived on stage, thinking he was James Bond.  More 'Basildon Bond'. Olly Murs, Demi Lovato, Sam Smith and One Direction were announced as on the line-up for the night.  Then, amazingly the four judges signalled to us included Mel B.

I read this morning that Mel had a mystery illness, and was in extreme agony because of a stomach ulcer.  She left Andrea to fend for himself, taking on the two other contestants, the psycho Syco corporation, ITV, sound technicians, anti-Italians and MI5, the Witches of Eastwick and a load of others.  The smiling (but still threateningly ugly) Mel suggested she'd been hooked to last night's show and was frantically texting.  These are the actions prescribed by emergency doctors for patients suffering acute pain from a suspected ulcer, and being 'near death'.  Were it not for the quick-thinking taxi driver, "she could have died" claimed a 'friend'.  It seems she was lucky enough to flag down Fred Housego rather than the dim smiling one one driving a cab - star of the "Educating Joey Essex" show.  Disgraceful, Mel; go away!

Lie of the Night Number 1

Dermot O'Really? to Mel B - "We missed you last night."

The next few minutes was taken up by all the has-beens, and I was unnecessarily reminded of many who should instead be in a vault somewhere. The two finalists were also in the mix, confirming that they are no fucking better than the average of this cacophony.  "What A Feeling," they all sang. Yes, "Nausea" most certainly.

"What a hum-dinger of a show we had last night," said Dermot.  It certainly hummed all right; it was shit!  He was leading up to yet another recap, and "the story of last night".  Fucking disgraceful.  We are being served two fucking hours of low level television so that we can find out which of the two remaining acts is going to be called the winner.

Olly Murs and Demi Lovato arrived to pad out the show just a bit more, and what a waste of three minutes!  What a wailing cunting racket, especially from her!  I'd get more entertainment watching a demijohn.

Dermot O'Dreary asked the judges for their highlights of the series -

Elf - "Fleur last week with Labrinth and Ben last night with Ed.  That was simply because his memory is now so short term that he cannot remember past last night.
Sicknote couldn't think of one.
Cheryl Psychotic Amoeba - "There's been a lot of highlights, but getting to know this one," and at this point she joined a lifted hand with Sicknote . . . and I was sick.
Simon - "Fleur singing last night."  Yawn.

Ben Haenow

After THIRTY THREE MINUTES of this two-hour chunk of shit, it seemed that the actual contest was going to move on with a song by one of the two loafing about in the wings.  "Man In The Mirror" was rasped out and shouted at me by a twat wearing the same jacket that he sleeps in.  An awful song, screeched like fuck.  Twenty bods appeared on the stage to help him out for the last bit.  The word "Change" appeared on the backing screen, and someone should have added "channel".

Elf - the usual crap slipped out of his mouth.  This is supposed to refer to Louis, but in actual fact it's just as accurate a contribution for a critique of Ben!
Mel B [aka Sicknote] - "I started off in this competition not too sure about you."

Lie of the Night Number 348

Sicknote continued - "Then you became the artist and the superstar that you are.  That was a job well bloody done."

Cheryl Icelandic Volcano - "Ben, I wouldn't change a thing about you right now.  I applaud you for the courage to follow your dream, and I encourage you to do it."  Twat.
Simon - "You just killed that song".  MURDERED more like, and fucking dumped in acid, via my fucking ears!

Fleur East

Elf - "You can sing, you danced, blah blah."
Sicknote - "What can i say you just came out hear and killed it tonight, killed it."
Cheryl PlusPostage-AndPacking - "Your whole 10 yares of passion are explod'n on that stage tonight."  The "Pet" at the end was implied.

One Dimension

The 1D bods doled out some noise alongside Ronnie Woods, asking "Where do broken hearts go?"  Fuck knows, and who cares?

Ben

"Vote Ben," said Elf.
Sicknote - "I do truly think that that song was made for you.  You pulled it back and then you put it out there."  What tosh.
Cheryl NoWayIs-SheWorthIt - Ben, Ben, whatever happens tonight you chased your dream."
Simon did a This Is Your Life recap.

Fleur

She confirmed that her range is limited, and that without some rapping, songs can be a bit limp when she sings them.

"Vote Fleur," said Elf.
Mel talked complete crap.
Cheryl TheCountdown-Conundrum - "You are in the final of X-Factor." Thanks, Tweedy.
Simon - "I really wish I could give the prize to both of you."

Sarah-Jane Crawford was again invited by ITV to 'interview' (and I use that word more loosely than a slipknot) people screaming.

A welcome relief arrived by way of the 17th advert break, and a lull in the sob stories, the whining, the wailing and the OTT use of the word "amazing". "They have sang there hearts out this weekend," said Dermot So'Ungrammatically. They HAVE SUNG or they SANG, Dilbert O'Dear Me!

Despite his having appeared already, a few weeks ago, someone thought it necessary to have Sam Smith back for a second helping.  Ice cream, yes. Custard, yes.  Sam Smith, NO!  He sang Stay With Me, and moaned his way from one end of the song through to the end.  It had a great impact on me, as I now fancy . . . . some custard.

"Well that wasn't a very special song," said Mother of TMWSC, as thousands screamed.
"When I think about it, all this is crazy," she continued.  "It's not fantastic."

Thanks, Mum, because you summed up so simply that all this fuss is so silly.

Result

Dermot felt the need for a quick check with SJC / CJD, who pointlessly contributed nothing in two ten second segments.

"The winner of X-Factor 2014 is . . . . . . . . . Ben"

"I don't think he's a fabulous singer, do you?"
A telling question from Mother of TMWSC

Sadly that's the last we will probably ever see of the Elf on X-Factor, as by next year he'll have lost the power of thought, speech, and be reliant on a carer.  I hope sincerely that Cheryl RedLeicester-Caerphilly is told that she is NOT invited to participate in next year;'s competition at all.  Mel B needs to go to a cave and hibernate for 27 years.  Simon needs to rejig the whole X-Factor competition, as I am bored as fuck.  Needless to say that I'll not be singing along, downloading or buying a hard version of anything X-Factor related.

Who got Simon's Mini?

...

13.12.14 The X-Factor Final (Or Conspiracy?)

After so many weeks of torture, sprinkled with a a modicum of entertainment, we have arrived at the final of X-Factor.  Every cloud has a silver lining, and in tonight's case it was the non-appearance of Mel B, the unfortunate victim of a mystery virus.  This threw up (steady, no specific cross reference intended) the requirement for a stand-in, and Tulisa obliged, complete with someone else's lips.  I recall Mel's comment in an earlier week was that "Everybody gets ill from time to time, you just have to get on with it".  Rather hypocritical, eh?

Mel B has a Mystery Illness

The four judges appeared, introduced by Dermotitis who'd arrived on stage via parachute, and sadly there was no illness preventing the appearance of Cheryl Tweedy-Cole-Femidom-Vaseline.  Equally disappointing was the good health of Take That, and what is now a trio that can't sing rather than a quartet [I will ignore the previous (5th) member who could never sing].

"I didn't think much of that," said Mother of TMWSC, and I suspected that Take That would not be best pleased with her heckling from the sofa, and the implied proper name of the group, I Didn't Think Much Of That.  Dermot said something bland (no change there) to Barlow, and from the sofa came "Yes, but you can't sing."

Ben Haenow

Ben went to Sainsbury's, and then The Swan, his local pub.  He then screamed into the microphone and we endured the padding and shit that is typical of the stuff that makes X-Factor programmes last an hour longer than necessary.  In the street, in a bandstand reclaimed from Camberwick Cunting Green (or was it Trumpton) he impressed a partisan crowd with so little.

Enough of the VT shit, lets move on to the singing.
"Why's he in a box?" said Mother of TMWSC.
"Best place for him," said Mrs MWSC.
"Six feet under," said TMWSC.
"Don't be so horrible," said Mother of TMWSC.
Not quite Gogglebox, but it was only 20 minutes into the show.
"It's all production and no singing," Said Mrs MWSC
"Why are they all prancing around," said Father of TMWSC
"And he came out of a box," said Mother of TMWSC
"I love the song and I know you've had a really long journey," said Elf.
Tweedy weed into the microphone, and made noises that can only be described as a series of noises that sounded like vowels.

Sarah Jane-Crawford [CJD]was then seen in a pointless link to a squealing rabble, so that we could then ask ourselves why the fuck she was involved at all.

Andrea Faustini

It was Andrea's turn to be the centre of attention on the VT, talking Italian (much like Robert De Niro) and eating.  Then it was a turn at the Albert Hall, to an ovation and a Cornetto for afters.

The singing came on, while about ten women waved their fans.  "Fannies" would of course have provided rather more by way of entertainment than this very tired song choice, as old as Louis Walsh's certificate for his first use of the word "potato".  We did get the gurning, as he forced out the last line while a girl in red clasped his leg.

After a geography lesson from Elf regarding Andrea's whereabouts for the week, he reeled off the standard crap for which we all tolerate and disrespect Elf..

"You came into that room with your little PUG jumper, blah blah, ai, aeo, oie, aye, a, ee, ue, pet".  The Twat from the North had spoken..
"I thought it was a fantastic choice of song," said Simon.
Tulisa managed to use the word "amazing" yet again, along with "epic" and "brilliant".
Andrea was asked for his comments by Dermot, but the output was inaudible.
"They've given him a malfunctioning mike," said Mrs MWSC.
"Shame they didn't give it to the northern twat," said TMWSC.
Then CJD popped up on screen to confirm there is a lot of support for Andrea. I yawned.

Fleur East

In the interests of fairness, I will note less of Fleur's run-up to tonight, considering she's already been shown so much favouritism and red carpet.  If Fleur had been in charge of the 'Yes' campaign, Scotland would be independent.

The singing was preceded by some speed rapping, and then the casts of Thriller, Cats, Miss Saigon, The Rocky Horror Picture Show and 17 people auditioning for a part in a remake of Flashdance.

Elf talked complete shite for 42 seconds non-stop, making no sense and offering humanity nothing more than a lack of silence, until his mouth had to stop due to lack of direction from a working brain.
Tulisa said something or other which was bland and not worth recording.
Cheryl FourSeasons-Vivaldi mentioned totally irrelevantly "Girl Power" like some sort of out of date cunt from the 1990s.
Simon simply churned out the sob story guff and so the last remnants of integrity seeped away.

Meghan Trainor

"What language are they singing in?" asked Father of TMWSC.
"What are they trying to take off; Jamaican or something?" he continued.
"I haven't understood a word yet," the next observation.
"No trouble," piped up Mother of TMWSC
"No Treble," corrected Mrs MWSC
"The tune's better than the words, I think," said Father of TMWSC

This continued while Mrs MWSC and I watched and listened to Megan sing "All About That Base".  Mother of TMWSC was content to watch and mishear, while Father of MWSC watched - and heard fuck all.

Ben Again

The preamble to the stage performance with Ed Shearan was cringeworthy, with Simon proving how dire he can be.  Obviously on stage Ben was able to show just how much worse he is than Ed.

Andrea Again

Matched with Ella Henderson is no bad fate, and after the intro by Andrea, "It's ma pleasure to introduce etc." she came on stage and served the song that everyone has heard repeatedly for so long now.

"How was that for you?" asked Dermot, showing us he has the ability to ask searching questions that strike at the heart of any performer's being!  Andrea had to struggle on with a microphone that was clearly buggered, and I couldn't help thinking this was part of a conspiracy, and was provided for him on purpose?)

Fleur Again

Labrinth appears on stage to sing with Fleur, who struggles with low notes quite badly.  Fleur gets an established singer, Ben gets Ed Shearan, but Andrea gets an ex-X-Factor contestant.  Ben and Fleur get Simon Cowell pushing them forward, and Andrea gets an ex-X-Factor judge.  This performance from Fleur and Labrinth was hardly much cop.  The favouritism oozed on stage.

The Rejects

Stevi Ritchie rode in on a rocket, and then Chloe Jasmine wailed out of tune. Lead vocals got underway with Stevi killing this song completely.  But no, Chloe managed to grab the corpse and kill it again!  What a cunting catastrophe.  "The Time of My Life" was perhaps the worst song choice for this rabble, considering their presence ensured I was most certainly not having such a time.

Wagner arrived with two tits (well, four because the two women were not deformed).  Katie Waissel reminded me she was still alive, and I didn't thank her for it.  Chico arrived and joined in, but I have no idea who the two blokes in silver jackets were.  The X-Factor Greatest Tits.

Dermot was on screen after the 83rd break, to introduce us to the judges and gain some last minute insights.  Obviously Simon said nothing we didn't expect, Elf said "Fleur, Fleur, Fleur" and I was tempted to shout "Oi, Oi, Oi" in response.  Let's agree to ignore the woman purporting to be Tulisa. "Cheryl, you are independent, you can say what you like; who do you like?" asked Dermot.  This was clearly a testing question, and would have stretched the intellect severely of anyone thus interrogated by Dermotitis. With nothing by way of intellect, Cheryl FebrezeOr-SomeVanish waffled about enjoying herself, and other than that she was "having a good time" I learned nothing. She simply couldn't and didn't answer the question.  Twat.


The Result - Part One

As ever, "In no particular order" came Fleur as the first contender through to the final.  Then Ben was announced, proving the success of the conspiracy theory evident so very clearly this week to anyone with a brain.  With dignity he accepted his fate, and during the recap we realised that he is most certainly a nice chap.  I suspect that Mel B will announce her mystery illness is still in place, saving her from appearing tomorrow as well, and having any link with her charge, Andrea.

There is just ONE reason why Mel B might deserve our respect, and that is linked to the conspiracy theory.  If she learned of, and was not happy with, the engineering of the outcome for the final two, then obviously she may have chosen to 'develop' the illness that remains a 'mystery'. Having no part of the charade would of course be a perfectly appropriate course of action!

Let's tune in tomorrow and see Fleur pick up the prize.

...

9.12.14 ASDA - At War With Walmart

Not for the first time, I have had to survive the "Trial By Ordeal" that is a visit to Asda.  My health is regularly threatened by the tribulations that accompany the trials, and my survival and return this evening warranted a beer immediately upon the unloading of the car.

Cashpoint

The ATM was offering fuck all in the way of functionality, and so my preference to use cash was blocked within seconds of leaving the car.  Just as well I had my credit card on me.  Junior was elected Chief Trolley Pusher, though he did not actually have much choice.  We entered the green grotto with a mild sense of purpose, despite the annoyance of no cash in my pocket.

Shaving Gel

I looked at the display, and was irritated, because the various canisters available under the Gillette brand were ALL marked with "Shave Gel".  I noticed that just as Lidl was last week selling a product called "Irritation Defense", Asda too was promoting this atrocious example of the use of language.  There is simply no excuse for this, and no DEFENCE!  Wilkinson Sword was guilty of the same "Shave" crime, as was Dove.  I looked at the Asda own brand versions, and they too were thus described!  Only Nivea was capable of describing the contents of the metal tube as Shaving Gel.  I picked one up and silently thanked Nivea for holding out, in a world of cunting crap, where we suffer similar incorrect terms like "swim shorts".  Some cunt or other will no doubt decide that it's a "skip rope", and test the patience of old ladies soon with "knit needles".

Cushelle

Asda is simply unable to act responsibly when marketing stuff.  Loo roll in packs greater than 4 is supposed to provide added value, and one might be forgiven for thinking that a purchase of 12 Cushelle toilet rolls would result in some sort of saving.  The twelve pack is available at £5.  Meanwhile, the larger 'denomination' of eighteen rolls is only a quid more!  No logic whatsoever, and customers will undoubtedly lose out in some cases.

Empty Shelves

The excellent offer on Activia yoghurts was a real tease, as there were none available in any edible flavour.  The shelf designed to hold boxes of mini mince pies was empty.  I was similarly miffed in a number of areas, because the store was a useless fucking excuse for a supermarket.  This did not stop the staff from being inconvenient, by blocking aisles with trolleys laden with stuff that was not needed any time soon.

Volatile Prices

Obviously the prices of stocks and shares go up and down, and anyone trading in them needs to have their wits about them.  In the same way, the prices of knives and steamers are susceptible to market forces, and can vary. This must be the explanation for the difference in the prices on two items since the Friday visit.  Four days ago, a particular knife (a Kitchen Devil) was £4 instead of £6, and a set of pans to steam vegetables was up to £12 from the Friday market rate of £8.  I rued missing out on the steamer set, and cursed my lack of judgement.  How was I to have known that the market would change so radically, pushing up the worth of steamed vegetables and the means to make them so?  "Fuck off, Asda," I thought, and kept moving.

Batteries

I picked up some Duracell AA batteries, pleased that there was an offer on. Then I tried to find the 'C' and 'D' sizes.  Nothing loomed.  I roamed the store, and neither Junior nor I was able to stumble across anything alkaline in a size C or D.  I asked a stock-taker.  I knew he was a stock-taker because he had a large digital terminal, and was pissing about while squatting, assessing the items on the bottom shelf while logging information.  I resisted the urge to let him know that the Activia shelf was cunting empty, and asked about batteries.  "They're at the tills," he said.

Lager

Having cobbled together the bones of a subsistence shopping trip, I moved on to the penultimate requirement from this trip.  At £11 per case of twenty 440ml cans, I loaded five into the trolley.  Then it was time to find a checkout operator who was more capable than a paraplegic squat-thruster.

Batteries 2

At the tills, I found a pathetic selection of batteries in sizes C and D.  They were some sort of Ultra Super Life-Saving Deluxe Cuntishly Expensive version that proved to be unnecessarily and cuntishly expensive!  I realised within a second, not least because I needed 8 of the C variety and 4 of the D variety, that I would be better off financially if I ordered them from a company in the Channel Islands, and so did not add to the contents of my trolley.

Checking Out

In my frustration, I'd made a small mistake, picking up three multi-packs of AA batteries.  They were priced individually at £5.50 but the offer was £6.00 for two.  Clearly the third of my three was a pointless purchase.  Luckily I was aware enough to spot this during the scanning process.  Asda's corporate habit [or perhaps AFFLICTION] is to advertise offers and then not apply them at the tills during the checkout process.  I queried the £5.50 I'd seen and was given a choice.  The checkout chap said he'd get me another one if I wanted. I opted for what I thought would be the speedier approach, and asked for one to be removed from the bill.

A couple of minutes later, after I'd put my credit card into the machine, the checkout chap asked me to leave my card in for a couple of minutes; I was puzzled, but the explanation was volunteered without my having to ask.  It turned out that he needed authorisation for the 'void' of a £5.50 charge, and this was because it was "over five pounds".  Thus, I had to stand idle like a twat holding a "Space at This Checkout" sign while we all waited for a cunt with a cache of keys to arrive, insert the right one, punch a few numbers and allow the checkout chap to close the transaction without any query regarding the situation that required his fucking presence and 'authorisation'.

Penguin-gate

I checked my receipt.  I noticed that the two packs of Penguins were logged at £1.39 each, yet I was convinced they were on offer, just as they have been for at least ten weeks.  I know this because Junior picks up two packs on every visit.  On this occasion, he'd done the exact same thing as we progressed down the relevant aisle.  I was perplexed, and so Junior and I moved towards the "Customer Service" desk.

[I also noted that according to the receipt, I'd purchased "Shave Gel".  This was obviously inaccurate, though in keeping with Asda's endorsement of the stupid convention for renaming products.  I knew different, of course, as I was in possession of "Shaving Gel" - exactly what it says on the tin.]

At the counter, I was pleased to see no one pondering upon the purchasing options for invisible cigarettes, and no one putting on lottery tickets for the 24 residents (and individual requirements) of an old people's home.  Once the chap paying cash (he'd obviously not had to rely on the Asda ATM) for some logs and a bottle of Cava (WTF?) had finished, I was served by "Crystal" [not her real name].

Crystal made it clear, after telephone consultation, that the Penguin offer was not applicable to all varieties.  I was not really aware of what Junior had opted to put in the trolley.  It was alleged that despite every week for so many weeks having been one where any penguin pack was included in the running offer, today was the day where the vaguely aligned price tickets applied to the Toffee and Orange varieties, and NOT the Mint or Original varieties.  Junior, who had picked up an Orange and an Original had therefore sinned against humanity, and fucked up the order of things.  This FTSE meltdown had led to the charging of 2x £1.39 rather than 2x £1.00.  Junior would have to eat two packs of the Orange variety.

I walked with Junior to the aisle, picked up an extra Orange pack, and returned to the Customer Service counter.  There, Crystal decided I needed to know that the Toffee variety is "really nice".  Her enthusiasm and excitement was weird.  I yawned (metaphorically) because I personally have no interest in Penguins (the biscuit, I mean . . . . although, to be fair, the living creatures are of little relevance either, unless they are featured in an annoying - but thankfully shortened for the last week or so - John Lewis advert).  It is worth noting that DILWNSC has previously described the Penguin as "the scum of the biscuit world," and I am inclined to agree, and commend her forthright view.

I realised that 78p was to come my way, but hadn't realised this would require a secure and stringent process to afford me the benefit.  I had to insert my credit card (the one used for the original transaction but not to obtain an 'original' penguin) and enter my PIN.  I obliged, and left the store wondering why anyone would rave about a Toffee Penguin.

Off Her Trolley

After Junior took his seat, and I had loaded the shopping in the car boot, I returned my large trolley to the source of metal-cages-on-wheels.  As I earned the reimbursement of a quid for my efforts, I was asked a question by the woman next to me.  This was the woman ramming her metal forward, and getting nowhere fast.  "Why won't it work for me?" she asked.  "Because you need to put it with the other small trolleys," I said.  This dipstick of a twat was trying to ram a small trolley into the backside of a large trolley, for the prize of her quid back.  She demonstrated to me that the IQ of the average Asda shopper is somewhere (in pence) between half the price per pack of Penguins, and half of the price per pack of Penguins which qualified for the offer [so, between 50 and 69.5].

I drove away, ready for a lager.

* DILWNSC = Daighter-In-Law Who Never Says Cunt

...

8.12.14 Royal Variety

RVP - Oh dear, what a jumbled mixture of shit and good stuff.  I refer NOT to Robin Van Persie, but the Royal Variety Performance.  There was the usual deference shown by all to the arriving Royals, on this occasion William and Kate.  Alfie Boe managed to kill the National Anthem in the style of some sort of West End production - obviously he knows no other way to conduct himself.

Geoffrey Palmer was the unseen announcer and sounded as deadpan as ever. Michael McIntyre was his usual funny self in the opening few minutes, gently taking the mickey out of the Royals.  Then it was time to move on with the various acts.  On more than one occasion I was to find myself willing Michael McIntyre to herd off the stage muppets with no talent, and give me something to laugh at.

Bette Middler

She sang "Be My Baby", in the style of a washerwoman mangling a baby to its agonising death.  Who the fuck decided not to warn this old biddy that singing shite like that was not, under any definition, entertainment?  The squinting, puffy 'singer' doled out the abysmal words to an abysmal song quite abysmally.  I stared into the abyss and wondered whether to jump, but luckily she stoped wailing the shit before I actually jumped.

The English Gents

This was an unusual act, including some novel balancing and shows of strength.  In essence this was a good portrayal of something that is rightly included in a 'variety' performance, so fair play to the two chaps.

Demi Lovato

The "dazzling" Demi Lovato was thus introduced by Geoffrey, though with rather limited conviction.  "Let It Go" was the message yelled our way by the overrated woman who modelled a dress made from the leftovers of a primary school collage.

McBusted

Why the hell this rabble has a monopoly on the non-word Supergoup is beyond me.  Never in the fields of music or entertainment has there been such a poor use of English to describe a complete racket from any collective on stage. They were performing something called 'Air Guitar' and shuddered, as did Mrs MWSC, at the pathetic song, singing, music and background rabble that joined the chaps on stage.

Jack Whitehall

This is the only bloke in the country less funny than Russell Brand.  He is quite frequently inappropriate with his choice of material, and wildly off the mark in assessing whether something is funny and therefore worth saying. The sycophantic cuntish waffle that he spluttered was in keeping with his persona.  "I was bullied quite badly at school," said he, in one of his "jokes". Not bullied enough, clearly.  The boredom in hearing about his supposed upper class upbringing was akin to that of watching a paint of undercoat dry.  "Ladies and gentlemen, you've been an absolute delight," he finished with.  "And you've been a fucking twat," said I.

Simply Red

Michael told us that sales of albums by Simply Red had topped 65 million. About the same as Michael earned in pounds sterling last year, then.  "I'll keep holding on," sang Hucknall, and I considered this fairly accurate, seeing as I was under the impression he'd finally fucked off and Simply Red had disbanded.  The medley of songs was starting to grate, when he started his third song without finishing either of the previous two.  This twat would have started to sing along to Schubert's Unfinished Symphony if he'd been allowed the time.

Stephen Mulhern

This childish performance reliant totally on audience participation would have been better suited to a child's birthday party.  "Oh no she didn't."  "Oh yes she fuckin did!"  "It's behind you!"  Yawn - Lame as fuck.

Pumeza

A woman in red managed to warble some high-pitched stuff for about 90 seconds.  I've no idea why it was felt necessary by those in charge to include her in proceedings.

Sarah Millican

A complete waste of space and most definitely a pointless appearance.

Ed Sheeran

This was a typically solid contribution, and put right the dwindling quality level from previous participants.

Shirley Bassey

She did what she does.  There's not really a lot more that can be said. Formulaic, predictable and shit, and such a long way from being inventive, entertaining or relevant.  Yawn.  When will the establishment stop giving her OTT recognition?

Saigon

Any appearance from ANY rabble introduced as "The Cast of . . . . " on any show is generally fucking awful.  This time it was Saigon, and 'awful' was indeed appropriate for this bollocks.  Why was so much time devoted to this keg of cunting crap?  "I hope you're putting something appropriate on this rubbish," said Mrs MWSC as she went off to the kitchen.  I shouted out the above comments, and she was pleased with the input from me.

Ellie Goulding

Her dress was longer than an unwound Andrex loo roll, and pretty much covered the stage.  "Overdressed," I'd say.  She sang well enough, though, and so was perfectly acceptable.

Trevor Noah

He was certainly interesting, and quite funny.  Just when he was getting going, the slot seemed to have come to an end.  Why did we have so much shit earlier on from the likes of Bassey and the Cast of Something-or-other?

Collabro

Simon introduced the five chaps, the prize winners from this year's Britain's Got Talent.  It was a safe offering, with harmonies that were thought through rather than thrown towards us (like the recent X-Factor contestants such as Stereo Kicks).  Soothing enough sounds, building while I typed my blog and tried to get to the end of the sentence on or before the last note of the input from the five-some.  Voila!  Perfect timing.  We could have collaborated!

Alfie Boe

As sure as there's a fart in the Annual Flatulence Championships, Alfie Boe is available for general hoity-toity bollocks on TV or stage.  He came on singing a medley of middle-of-the-road stuff instead of standing in the middle of the road and tempting car to run him over.

Hamish McCann

The maile pole dancer was good.  Of course, if it was a woman on stage, it would have been viewed so differently, and in a less complimentary outcome. That's equality for you.

Russell Kane

This man struggled to justify his presence at the event, and did not succeed.  I did not laugh once.  He should be caned; he would have been if this was coming from Singapore.  Pathetic.  He's had months to plan what he was going to say, and he came up with this!

Ladysmith Black Mambazo Inala

WTF?  It may perhaps be described as 'ethnic' but that does not mean it wasn't shit.  It was in fact shit.  Sadly it lasted slightly longer than the timescale for me to Google what the ensemble was called, after the lightning intro left me non-plussed.

Adverts

Now that's what I call Musicals was advertised.  "If anyone bought me that, I'd snap it in front of their fucking face," I said out loud to a reclined Mrs MWSC.  Generally, the adverts in all of the breaks were collectively an onslaught of shit comprising in the main a stream of plugs for albums from those performing, or of the same ilk.  Arduous indeed.

Rod Woodward

Fucking funny!  The oddest accent, interesting delivery, and good material. Why didn't he get given Russell Kane's time allowance as well?

One Direction

This will be one of their last performances, I suppose.  There can be no doubt that the 'split' will come within a year.  This was so Radio 2 / Middle-of-the-road that I fail to see why this is the cause of so much adulation on the part of nine-year-old girls and people with limited IQs.  If this is the "biggest band in the world", then what the cuntin fuck is there to be done in the musical world anymore?  It makes no sense.

...

7.12.14 X-Factor - Result and Final Line Up

Tonight the pain of X-Factor was upon us once more, with the results show that culled the survivors to a trio.  Some might argue that this was three too many, and I'd be inclined to agree.  Surely there has to be a revamp, because a twelfth series with no changes to the format will be hell on earth, and something to be avoided at all costs.

The Elf has confirmed to the media that he's exhausted, although he omitted to add "demented" and "stupid" to the update.  Mel and Cheryl NoWayIs-SheWorthIt have been on less than good terms, if we are to believe the stories floating around about the fallout.  For my money, Scraggy Spice needs to be dumped [and I would make an exception on my dislike of fly tipping in this case] while the annoying Cheryl Fruitella-Darjeeling needs eliminating much more than Stevi Ritchie ever did!

The programme kicked off with a crap performance by Fifth Harmony, instead of a scrap between Mel B and Cheryl AssaultIn-TheToilets which would have been so much more entertaining.  The wailing five-some was proof that talent is not needed to get on TV.

The recap VT included the quote from Mel B - "Ben Haenow just killed it". Fuck knows what he killed, and what he used to kill it, but Rentokil must be keen to sign him.   "Andrea absolutely killed," said the Elf, a few seconds later.  We will never know what Andrea actually killed, as Elf forgot to finish the fucking sentence.

Sam Bailey then came on to the stage to waste three minutes of my life.  She more than succeeded, complete with frowns to the camera, some high pitched noises that attracted no alien beings despite earnest effort to do so.  For someone with such a good voice to serve such bland shit is rather criminal. Behind her were dozens of people trying to enhance the noise coming our way, but neither the violins nor the backing singers did much that was constructive in this regard.  What a weird and lame song, Sam!

"We've missed that," said Dermot O'Really?  The gap in  her teeth matched the size of Dermot's brain, as he decided to give her a peck on the cheek ahead of her departure.  The break came, to release me from the grip of this shit on screen.  Sadly one of the adverts was for Sam Bailey's album, The Power of Love,  in the format of a 'Gift Edition'.  I haven't got anyone I dislike enough to get it for them.  The 'While Stocks Last' footnote on screen seemed silly to me, as that will be a 'Fucking Long Time'.

Dermotitis managed to inform us all that with 4 millions votes cast, it was the greatest amount of votes ever, avoiding the correct English that would have led to his use of the word 'number' instead of 'amount'.

Fleur was announced as through to the final, followed by Ben.  Simon looked as smug as ever.  I decided I wasn't keen on spending £1.54 on the competition to win Simon's car, and opened a can of lager in the break, ready for the sing-off.

The next section should have come with a public heath warning.  Sadly ITV failed in its duty of care, and after the break, I was cuntingly exposed to some absolutely awful SHIT courtesy of a giggling twat in a dress and one Michael Buble.  This assault on my ears was severe, dire and dusgusting.  The small talk afterwards was nauseating in the extreme, and Dermot was a sycophantic nob.  For one in my life, an advert break was welcome relief from this rubbish. A break folowed by a crap 'song' and another break was hardly prime time viewing.  In this "two-cunt sandwich" the outside breaks were the best bit!

Fortunately there was no lingering Buble or woman in black, and it was time for the sing-off.  Lauren warbled along and was followed by Andrea, who gurned as usual, while trying to fart.  The nervous wailing was only outdone by the facial expressions that defied humanity.  Still, he was rather more likely to win than Lauren based on this level of input.

Cheryl WinkBingo-Graffiti was up first for the voting, and she stuck with Lauren
"You peaked for me tonight," said Scraggy Spice, regarding Lauren
"You took it to church yet again," said Scraggy Spice, regarding Andrea
The Elf saved Andrea, and Simon did the same, meaning Andrea was through to the final.

Fair play to Lauren, displaying level headedness and a maturity in defeat that's rarely seen.  This makes a change from the tears, and Dermot hugging a blithering idiot.


Elimination Log

Lauren Platt = Week 9
Stereo Kicks = Week 8
Stevi Ritchie (Wild Card) = Week 7
Only The Young = Week 7
Jay James = Week 6
Paul Akister = Week 5
Lola Saunders (Wild Card) = Week 4
Jack Walton (Wild Card) = Week 4
Jake Quickenden = Week 3
Chloe Jasmine = Week2
Stephanie Nala = Week 2
Overload Generation (Wild Card) = Week 1
Blonde Electra = Week 1

...

7.12.14 Strictly Come Fiasco

There is no accounting for the eccentricity of the British Public, or the stupidity of the BBC's scoring system for Strictly Come Dancing.  Tonight, in what's been referred to as a "Quarter-Final" (even though there are not four separate contests) we have witnessed the outcome of the voting for six remaining contestants.  Pixie Lott has managed to be one of the very best performers week after week, yet after finishing second on the leader board, she found herself in the bottom two, having to fight it out for a place in the next round.

Meanwhile, Mark "Shtrickly" Wright is ushered through to next week despite being bottom in the scoring.  It can therefore be deduced that making progress in this competition relies on having a fan base that produces enough votes to undo all the proper criticism and remarks made by people who know what they are talking about.

This whole situation mirrors that of the voting power of the general public in a General Election!  It is sadly the case that there are just too many people with the power to vote who have no cunting clue about what's what, or any proper basis for casting a vote.

The dance off should of course have been between Mark Wright and Simon Webbe,  Instead, Simon took on Pixie.

Craig saved Pixie
Darcy saved Simon
Bruno saved Pixie
Len saved Simon [casting vote]

What a cunting travesty!  Unbelievable bollocks!

...

7.12.14 Seasons Not To be Cheerful

The world is so full of shit utterances that it pays to be aware of how to avoid being part of the complete dross.  Notice the word 'so' in the previous sentence; it is serving a useful function, to emphasise just how full of shit our world is.  It is not being used gratuitously by idiots who think it is smart to start any/every sentence with a "So" to somehow 'set the scene', and prove pomposity is entrenched in the speaker's mind.  The pretentious use of "so" is a fucking cunting disgrace.

"I will smack the next person who misuses the word around the head with a giant swede.  So, if anyone about to take me up on the offer with a stupid comment beginning with the offending word?"

This is an appropriate use of "so".  I was preceded with some information which has a direct bearing upon the second piece of information.

Elsewhere in the shitty world of dialogue is the incessant bollocks dished out by weather forecasters, or perhaps more accurately, weather presenters, as no cunt tends these days to forecast anything - that's left to professionals. Hence, we are forced to suffer a 'filter' between the work of legitimate forecasters, and the dumb presenters who relay the information in inappropriate ways.  These include reference to "cold temperatures, warm temperatures and freezing temperatures," as if a temperature (numeric value on a set scale) can have any degree of inherent warmth - or lack of it.  Twats.

This week I hear a cunt say, "temperatures would be trickling down" as if a temperature is a splattering of piss on a window!

In a similar vein, we have the non-stop references to cheap prices.  Again, a price is a number linked to a scale in a specific currency.  The goods may be expensive or cheap, but prices are high or low, as with temperatures.

What else is fucking with my head?  The cunting continuous [perhaps cuntinuous might be sanctioned by the OED if I make an application] use of "sort of" and "kind of" as a qualifier to just about anything at all leaving the mouths of people with insufficient authority to speak a fucking word.  The are generally people who also think nothing of splattering sentences with the word "like" at will.

Then we have the language fashion victims who love to latch on to certain words, and ram them into my fucking ears with glee and no awareness that they are cunts.  "Uber this" and "uber that" as a way of accentuating or emphasising is NOT acceptable.  People use this term thinking it's acceptable when it is not.  Notice I used the word "use" rather than "utilised the word "utilise" in the previous sentence.  That's because there is so very rarely any need for "utilise" unless there's a desire on the part of the speaker to be pretentious.

Email is pronounced with an emphasis on the initial letter/syllable, and the sound that needs to be made is exactly the same as the letter 'E' that it relates to - short for 'electronic'.  In the same way, the term E-commerce has forced its way into the language.  These are at complete odds with the word Ebola and any pronunciation of it!  It is NOT fucking E-bola [as in 'tombola' but with a letter 'E' as the first syllable].  The river, after which the disease is named, is pronounced with an unstressed (unlike me!) initial letter, and it is not an abbreviation of 'electronic'.  Should any twat ever invent a lucky dip mechanism that is computerised, then maybe E-bola could be a term used to describe such a facility.

There are four seasons; Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter.  'Fall' replaces 'Autumn for Americans, which we all understand.  There is no season that exists which might qualify as "festive".  The term "Festive Season" is fucking horrible and wholly inappropriate.  "Seasons Greetings" is a useless term, and in effect means Happy Winter, Happy Spring, Happy Summer or Happy Autumn depending on when one twat says it to another.  The final misuse of the term 'Season' relates to television programmes, which arrive with us in a collective format known as series.  They most definitely do NOT deserve to be collectively described as forming part of a "Season".  This bollocks is perpetuated by twats in charge who have decided that whatever happens in the USA must be okay and consequently become the norm in the UK.


...

6.12.14 X-Factor: Penultimate Show

Prelude

It seems that Cheryl Tweedy-Cole-Llandudno-Cinzano has fallen out with Mel B (Scraggy Spice).  The cause of the tiff was supposedly Scraggy's vote to ditch Lauren Platt rather than Stereo Kicks.  How utterly unprofessional of the double-barrelled one.  Yes, Scraggy is without doubt a right pain in the arse (worse even than a silly rose tattoo) and was voting with an ulterior motive rather than honestly.  But I seem to recall that both Scraggy Spice AND Cheryl Fandango-Indeedy were guilty of pathetic voting when they both decided to save Stevi Ritchie, leading to his survival for one extra week.  For Cheryl Ducati-Suzuki now to throw a wobbler simply because she didn't get her own way last weekend shows her to be a right prima donna.

I refuse to call this weekend's palaver a "Semi Final" because it isn't.  There are, in normal circumstances, TWO semi-finals that precede any Final, and the format for X-Factor (and a fair few other competitions) does not work this way. Just because there are four fucking contestants still left in this penultimate show, it does not make it a Semi Final - so let's agree to move on regarding the mislabelled ordeal.

Betting Odds

Ben Haenow - 77/1
The constipation must by now have created a blockage more severe than the one stopping signals reaching the brain of Louis Walsh.  His strained tones are able to ruin most songs, and it is likely he will again create another couple of wailing performances.  The only real nod to a softer approach is when the gravel voice softens mildly, to pea shingle.  This one dimensional performer is about 77th as good as Simon claims he is.  Smug Cowell clearly thinks he has a great chance of winning with Ben.  Sadly he's not entirely wrong, but if an album deal is ever offered, the resultant output would have less allure than Edwina Curry in IACGMOOH.

Andrea Faustini - 16/1
Here we have a likeable chap (well, in very small doses) who has been lent to us by Italy.  He wants so much to "have fun" (the pastime of all contestants and apparently the basis for which they all expect our appreciation, votes and applause) and he loves to sing.  I doubt he'll be up for next year's I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, then, because only non-singers like Jake get that chance.  The face-scrunching and gurning is rather off-putting, and there's certainly a bias towards ballads that means we get formulaic performances served to us.  It is therefore essential to listen to him with eyes closed.  Let's all hope that he doesn't win, or Scraggy Spice will never let us hear the end of it, in her northern tones that sap my energy for breathing, and threaten life itself..

Lauren Platt - 22/1
It's likely, despite the odds, that Lauren will leave the competition before the others.  She has a good voice, but as far as any real presence goes, nothing at all.  A nice enough teenager who has progressed well beyond a hairbrush (steady, now) and is conceivably in the peripheral vision, if the papers are to be believed, of a One Direction member [I'm not sure to whom it belongs, though - ha ha!]. Whilst I've nothing against this grounded girl, I can't help thinking that there is simply nothing about her that could be counted as the 'X' which is supposed to be the target of all the efforts over the last twenty or so weeks. Still, her mentor certainly doesn't have the X-Factor, but somehow manages to receive misplaced adulation from thick youngsters.  I refer of course to one Cheryl FourFingers-Viagra.

Fleur East - 4/1
There can surely be no doubt that out of the four remaining contestants, Fleur is the best all round performer, the most polished entertainer, and the most interesting of them.  That's not to say she is without limitations, as her voice most certainly does have limits that are evident when a greater range is called for on some songs.  Nevertheless, it is quite reasonable that she is the favourite.  Smug Cowell will fancy his chances more with her than with Ben, and will gloat like a cunt if Fleur and Ben make up the final two.  I guarantee that Louis will at least once announce to her, "You can sing, you can dance, and you've got to be in the final; people at home, vote Fleur."


Advertisement Feature

I have had to endure this last week the pathetic touting of some piss in a pot, that goes by the name of Stormflower.  Cheryl BluePeter-Daktari has decided that a perfume can be marketed on her behalf, to try and get extra dosh out of the gullible public.  The voice-over states: "Stormflower - the debut fragrance from Cheryl".  The most worrying conclusion is that if this is her 'debut' fragrance, then sure as there's wee in Tweedy, there'll be another pot of piss launched in the future.

I notice that there is no appearance of her full name, and it suits Cheryl Sudoku-Tsunami on this occasion to drop the surname that she is intent on lumbering us with on every other fucking occasion.  For my money, I reckon there's already a perfume that's been around now for some considerable time, which could have had a "Y" added at the end.  Even better, and more accurate, would have been the deletion of a "T" and a "D".

Saturday

My Saturday night started with Strictly Come Dancing at 7:00pm, although Dermotitis O'Dreary told me it was only just starting at 8:00pm.

Fleur

"You look incredible," said Mel B(ollocks) and I yawned.
"I'm sure a lot of people want you for Christmas, dressed like that," said Cheryl.

The truth of the matter is that she has no oomph in her voice, and thus has no real power that makes us feel she's a star.

Lauren

She managed to deliver a formulaic version of a song that did not set the world alight.  Nice enough but certainly no "X" in it.

Whilst the Elf didn't like the song much, Mel said she wanted to see Lauren 'peak'.  Well, suck her clit, then, you pain in the fucking arse!

"That song means so much to so many people blah blah blah," said Cheryl Gestetner-Hitachi.

Ben

"There's less of us here now," said Ben Haenow, avoiding use of "fewer" rather than the incorrect "less".  Oh well, no real surprise that he cannot speak English.

The minute he started singing I decided that the song was cunting bollocks. This was horrendous shit and a travesty!  Cunting crappy shitty awful nightmarish shiiiiiite!  Crap!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  What the cunting FUCK, Simon?  How could you allow this awful mess to proceed?

"You've got the talent," said the Elf, and proved he's a completely useless twat.
"You sang it like a rock star," said Mel.  Arsehole extreme!
"You are one of the nicest guys we've had on this competition," said Cheryl NoCheeseON-HerCracker.  Well that's got cunting NOTHING to do with having the X factor, you moron!

TMWSC: Verdict = AWFUL shite!

As for the contribution from Nonna Rita, Dermot you twat, find someone else to speak to!

Andrea

He went out for an Italian meal during the VT, and we were enlightened regarding his homesickness, and his concern that he is "only one step from the final", yawn yawn yawn."

Stars were shining brightly, according to his singing, and I was instantly bored. Whilst Mrs MWSC seems to think he is a sweet boy who needs adopting, TMWSC thinks he's a boring fucking pain in the arse whose albums would sell only to those with no real taste in music and with money to burn.  "Christ was (apparently) born" some time or other, based on the lyrics.  Yawn yet again.

"That is how to sing a Christmas carol," said the Elf, along with "You have to make the final".
"If I'm being honest, I didn't like it," said Simon, "I absolutely loved it."  You fucking numpty!
"I was holding back tears." said Mel.  Useless git!
Dermotitis said something in Italian, and I wondered which pizza he preferred.

After round one, I am dismayed that these four managed to get to the final.

If all four of the contestants released an album now and the charge was £1 per album, I would buy none of them.  This is a sad state of affairs, proving how utterly pointless the whole process is and how irrelevant the outcome is!

Lauren

She started flat as a pancake, and progressed to a waffle, before adopting a crumpet's position.  The One Direction song was not worth singing in the first place, and she managed to provide a rendition that was as entertaining and acceptable as a piece of junk mail.  The useless offering was sadly confirmation that however likeable she may be, she has not got any X.

"You were born to sing and you're so young," said the Elf.  Twat.

"You sing on point," said Mel.  Stupid arse!  You've missed the point, Mel; you are a waste of space.

"It's easy to forget that everybody else is far more older than you are," said Cheryl KerplunkOr-Jumanji, displaying a complete level of stupidity and a non-grasp of the English language.  TWAT!

Fleur

She proved she is the best performer without a shadow of a doubt. "Everybody vote Fleur," said the Elf.

"You killed it," said Mel.

It was certainly head and shoulders above the other three.

Andrea

"Don't let them shave your beard," said a member of his extended family, via the link to Italy.  I don't think it's about the beard, somehow.  The song choice was horrendous - Wrecking Ball was a dropped bollock!

"You're like the peoples diva,"  said Elf.
"You touch so many people," said Mel B, in some sort of homage to a serial sex offender.

Ben

Hallelujah was served to us and I decided I didn't need the first helping, let alone another portion.  When will X-Factor decide to opt for some decent songs that are new and interesting, rather than the same old stuff that has been doing the rounds for years?  It was over in 90 seconds, but 89 seconds too late.

"We've heard that song so many times before, but you've certainly made it your own," doled out Louis the Elf.

"Up until now you have been a rock God," said Mel, talking complete crap!
"I want to praise you for your journey," said Mel, talking complete crap!

Mel didn't like the song choice, and it was certainly a boring selection for us to devour.  Ben's mumbling and crying was naf as fuck.

So that is that," said Dermot O'Nearly and he slipped into the process of relaying what numbers we need to call for placing votes - obviously irrelevant to me!

...