31.12.16 Skelton Zoo

In April 2011 I found it necessary to post something after a visit to Middlebrough Zoo.  Middlesbrough of course does not have a zoo . . . well, officially.  Such was my amazement at the visit to Asda, I was driven to record the experience. With somewhat lesser enthusiasm and obligation, I now find that I am writing once more after a brief visit to Asda.  Not that I have avoided this establishment for posts in the interim; no, the Asda experience is one that recurs and thus haunts any sane human.

Today's excursion was intended to be perfunctory in nature, as a means to invest the minimum effort and attention whilst securing essential goods.  I knew it would be less than successful at the entrance.  The car I was following decided that the painted-on mini roundabout needed a wide girth - so much cuntin so that I feared it was circumnavigating the country!  It swung back into line, just as Apollo 13 managed to gain momentum from a swing around the moon, and I followed it into the car park.  The cunt suddenly stopped on the bend, and then decided to indicate right.  In this way, I was informed that the twat was entering the parking lane that was suppose to be unavailable as an option.  The No Entry sign fell on blind eyes, just as my "fucking cunt!" fell on deaf ears.

Parking was easy, once I fended off the temptation of running down a woman intent on keeping to the centre of the aisle for cars.  TMWSC Junior and I entered the zoo, and prepared to gather sustenance. We were met with the sight of three members of staff considering what should be done with three 65-inch Polaroid televisions.  I of course knew the answer to this instantly, but decided not to avail them of my considered opinion.  Instead, Junior and I edged past into the first aisle.

The TUC biscuits that were stacked a few days ago were now 50p instead of £1, signalling that Asda's presumption on the needs of the general public in respect of TUC biscuits was somewhat revised, and more in keeping with reasonable pricing.  Whilst we 'trolleyed' past, I made a mental not to check on the TUC cheese sandwich variety in due course.

I went nowhere near the left-hand side of the store, which includes among many non-food items, the toiletries aisles.  This was the location of my recent frustration at the Asda pricing policy, which in unofficial terms, is:

Confuse the fuckers as much as possible; chop and change pricing, as well as packet sizes, and always try to get away with robbery under the guide of rolling back prices.

The last time I was in the end aisle was to marvel at the 200ml Nivea cream being sold at £6.  This is the exact same item available in other shops at £1.99. Anyway, enough of the non-food section, or I will find myself bemoaning the fact that Asda chooses not to sell Macleans toothpaste.

Junior and I were in the market for mince - pork mince to be specific.  None was for sale, other than a variety that contained 20% fat, and of course that is only of real interest to desperate shoppers.  The vegetable section presented itself, and sprouts were nowhere to be seen.  Clearly the nation has just swallowed every cuntin sprout that an EU worker has picked over the last few weeks.  Carrots were the only alternative to go with swede and leeks.  It was at the end of the aisle that I felt homi-cuntin-cidal.

Junior and I were forced to take a long route to get round the bend.  It was akin to the trajectory taken by the twat at the roundabout, on the way in.  Four fat fuckers were chatting; their bulk and the two shopping trolleys were providing a real obstacle to progress.  I tried to counter the centrifugal force by leaning towards the bulk of the last arse, and shaved it (metaphorically).  I heard another fucker moan that "people just barge past rather than saying excuse me".  These chitter-chatter-cunts were so out of order that if I'd have had the nerve, I'd have rammed them into the car park.  However, I would have needed to be Hulk Hogan to have stood a chance of achieving that, and so I moved on from sumo city to the chickens.

After catching to chickens (I had the advantage because they were dead, trussed and bagged) the yoghurts beckoned, and Junior made his selection. Obviously I could not get any Activia yoghurts, on principle.  At £2.40 for four little pots, I felt the need to abstain.  These are of course the pots that are available on some weeks at £1, before reverting to £2.40 for no reason at all. Occasionally there is some sort of settling effect on the world stock markets, and the spot price for yoghurt allows a £2 sale price.  However, in most cases, it's either £1 or £2.40.  Fucking Asda!

I should point out, just for balance and in the interests of those who are not hooked solely on strawberry yoghurt, that the Cardbury's Pot of Joy 4-pack can vary in a similar way.  At £2, I ignored them today, but two weeks ago I was able to indulge at £1, and select the 'pots of mild satisfaction'.

There was a kerfuffle at the end of one aisle when I wanted to leave it and turn the corner.  an idiot has gone past but was now reversing, and another person was loitering without any idea of 'intent' as a concept, let alone as a reality. Basically, people were in the way, and unable to decide what to do. The Asda re-stocking trolley added more annoyance to the equation.  Junior and I negotiated the situation with aplomb.  At this point I became aware of a tribe of shoppers who spent more time on their mobiles than attending to the task of selecting food.  Junior and I managed to choose aisles that were not at the same time inhabited by these numpties.  The choice of black bin bags was strange;overpriced decent ones or shitty cheap ones.  There was no middle ground at all.

After getting lager, it was time to find a checkout that would allow speedy exit from the establishment.  This proved be be tricky.  I first opted for a checkout that seemed likely to involve a minimal wait.  One customer was just finishing packing and was almost ready to pay, and between me and him were the pair of women with a kid, the ones gabbing on phones I'd seen earlier. Unfortunately I had not counted on their ability to fuck about.  Their shopping was split into multiple 'portions' and so spread on the checkout belt.  I persevered though, because how long could they possibly delay me?

It seemed the answer was 'longer than I'd thought'.  The killer moment came when I thought it was my turn to start putting food on to the conveyor belt, but then I saw another basket of food in the top of the stack of empties, ready to be loaded up.  The fat fucker no doubt slipped it out of her snatch while I wasn't looking, because it materialised from nowhere . . . . well, from her twat, obviously.  Junior and I moved to another line, and proceeded to put our purchased on to the belt.

Leaving the car park I was pleased to be out of the place.  The fifteen minute escapade was more frustrating than necessary.  To cap it off, I was forced to swerve on the way home after the car in front braked and swerved.  It was avoiding a cunt who I saw had stopped rapidly and pulled up on to the kerb, all because he was on the phone.  It would have been safer for all if he had actually driven while on the phone, rather than take ludicrous action after accepting a call.

What an unrewarding visit.

...

17.12.16 Strictly Come Dancing Final 2016

The 2016 Final got underway, and I wondered just how many cliches might be offered up from the judges and contestants.  It didn't take long for a excellent example of a rather mixed version from Ore:

"I think we can smash it out of the park," said Ore.

In actual fact they simply danced, breaking nothing in the process.  It was pretty good; he and Joanne danced to Singing In The Rain and scored 39/40.  Gene Kelly's widow was there to watch, and take a round of applause for being Gene Kelly's widow.

Kevin and Louise (the latter being the only person as boring as Cheryl Cole-Tweedy-Fernandez-Versini) where up next to attempt a Cha Cha Cha. Annoyingly they did the Flashdance number and the only feeling I had was one of resentment because it was a million miles less entertaining than the film sequence.  The lameness of the stodgy performance did real damage to the 1980s memories. Sorry, Louis, but this was the dancing version of weak karaoke.

Darcy had to remind us Louise was in the final and the only 'lady',  What a fucking twat.  38/40.

Finally we got to Danny and Oti, who are clearly the best and most consistent performers over the whole series.  The Quickstep had a couple of mistakes; Len made the point that Danny was the catalyst for others to up their own performances.  36/40.

The pathetic attempt at humour by Tess and Claudia was painful, regarding the former breaking a mirror.

"You have to go big, but there is no room for slip-ups," Ore told us, ahead of his show dance.  Fortunately he managed to avoid any slips, and performed really well.  Darcy gushed, using every word other than her stalwart - "attack".  40/40.

Louise and Kevin were moving to One Moment In Time, and not a moment too soon it was drawing to a close. I simply find her a slow-motion clod-hopper. "The best lift was the one you gave to my heart," waffled Bruno.  Then Darcy proved her elocution lessons have for decades been spectacularly unsuccessful.  38/40.

Danny and Oti provided something spectacular themselves - a wonderfully original performance that entertained.  "There was sparks coming off that dance floor," said Darcy (avoiding the English language) and then she reverted to use of "attack".  The dance was a 40/40 but it was better than some others that have scored 40.

Ore did a Jive as his favourite to present, and got 40/40 for it.

Louise did her Argentine Tango, and did my head in in the VT before it even started.  She could get away with her inability to display energy with this dance, with Kevin pushing and pulling her.  Len admitted to giving her nothing less than an 8 all series, and my view of Len's judgement diminished. Another score of 40/40.

Danny represented his Samba, which scored 40 the first time.  Of course it got the 40 it again deserved.

Tess introduced us to Emeli Sarn-dee rather than a singer with a similar surname.  The racket that was forthcoming was no better than that offered to us by Tess.  The singing was mediocre, and not as good as the house singers on SCD.  Move on, Emeli.

Ore and Joanne won, and I cannot really argue, even though I'd have picked Danny.  At least Louise was not awarded the glitterball.

...

11.12.16 X-Factor Final

I have refrained from getting involved this year.  Ordinarily I'd have been blogging numerous times over the three months, but the format is tired, the judges are twats, and the contestants have had appeal that has been more limited than the parking in Westminster.  It has in the main been a pleasure not to fuss over ensuring attention every weekend.  I have of course seen some of it, and have not actually given a fuck about any outcome.

Saturday

Today I have watched the repeat of the Saturday Show, ahead of tonight's effort that will decide whether Matt or Saaaaara wins.  Yesterday's show was a mixture of good singing, poor singing, and engendered apathy at a level I didn't know I could summon.

The three chaps who chose a Beyonce song to kick off with were clearly the weakest of the three finalists.  This was exposed as fact when their second effort with Clean Bandit and Louisa Johnson was shocking.  Louisa was just as weak as the chaps!

Matt was predictably predictable.  Okay, high pitched and rather un-entertaining.  He was of course handicapped more so than Five-Past-Three were with Louisa . . . . he had to suffer the input of Nicole Scherzinger.  Us viewers have of course had to put up with the insufferable yoghurt-touting twat for many weeks.  She joined in his song with her customary overbearing vocals. Considering there are thousands of potential singers that could be seconded for the finalists' duets, surely to fuck there is a basis for banning Arsehole Shitsinger from being involved?  Does anyone else suspect Nicole and Matt are 'up to something' ?

Saaaraaaa Aaaalto is allegedly considering changing the last letter of her name from 'o' to 'a'. Actually, I have just made that up.  Her singing was of course better than the other two acts, and she was able to demonstrate the 'X' that's supposedly being looked for in this competition.

Elsewhere, whilst there is sympathy for Louis Tomlinson, after his mother has just died, but sadly his performance was horrendous, and the weakest of the whole evening.  I think he has most certainly lost direction.

Sadly Honey G didn't lose her direction and arrived on stage to relay her usual tripe.  Why she was invited to stomp around I have no idea.  From the S to the H to the I to the T - . . . Honey . . . Shit!

Five-Past-Twelve were ejected (of course).

Sunday

Tonight's final part of the final has apparently needed to command two hours and five minutes in the ITV schedule.  Yes, there will be about 35 minutes of adverts/trailers within that time span.  Kylie kicked it all off with her overrated whining, and it turned into a singalong with the two finalists joining in, as well as the audience.  After some more padding, Dermot O'Dreary bored us with his formulaic, generic tosh.  It was a genuine pleasure to go to the break.

A really long trailer for the film Passengers was followed by an ad for knee pads from Amazon.  I then needed, it seemed, to receive instructions from Facebook on how to share things, before Jean Paul Gautier was touted by a strongly accented bloke.  ITV then advertised itself!  A truly useless break was over. The double mention of TalkTalk was annoying, as my TalkTalk internet connection has been down for an hour - so ShushShush then.  Completely coincidentally, Then Aaaalto was off singing It's Oh So Quiet (Shh).  She was good.

After more intro crap from Shitlingers, it was Mattterry's turn to wail and whine, in the style of Sam Smith.  The writing was on the wall, stapled alongside Mattterry's bollocks, as he sung at a pitch to frighten dogs at a thousand yards. Osbourne had clearly had a few vodkas, and praised him inappropriately. Nicole - "What am I gonna do with you?"  I think she is desperate for a shag. She talked some more rubbish, avoiding use of the English language, and probably shared Osbourne's hip flask.

The ad break featured yet another cuntin trailer for The Only Way Is Essexmas.

Madness took over the proceedings.  No, not Saaaara, but the band from the Eighties, with Suggs wearing his trademark dark glasses.  We all pretended not to notice that he has lost what little vocal oomph and ability that he ever possessed.  Luckily the whole audience (and the country) knew the words and helped him out a bit.

After the ad break, we were attacked by The Misfits.  The Four Knobs of the Apocalypse (the judges) gave them a standing ovation!  The rejected contestants 'sang' a song that we all could have done without seeing and hearing.  More padding followed as O'Dreary asked the judges for their highlights of the series.  Shitslinger = sucking Matt's knob; Osbourne = Vodka; Simon = made money; Elf = Potatoes, to be sure.

More adverts preceded a VT with Mattterry waffling on about fuck all.  He then G-clamped his nuts, ready to sing again.  One Day I'll Fly Away, he squeezed out.  The camera cut to ShirtZinger, who was gazing adoringly.  Osbourne talked to him like he was two.  Cootchy koo.  Simon told Matt that he liked him because he wanted to win.  Tosser; say something useful.  After the family "proud of him" and "I just want to make them proud" stuff,  Up next, Saara.

"The Fin could win," said the Elf.
Shitshunter mentioned for the 17th time her 'Wild Card' selection.
Judge Cowell gave us his summing up from the bench, and he clearly wanted her to win.
Osbourne said something or other.

Her parents and friends on the VT wished her well, and her grandparents looked like Mr & Mrs Claus!  The recap confirmed to us all that there is no substance to Mattterry, and that Saaraaalto is superior by a mile.

After yet another break, O'Dreary introduced Little Mix.  For some reason Charlie Puth had to feature.  There was NO POINT in him featuring!  The song (Oops Baby) is shit and no more than a nursery rhyme.  Puth pissed off for the next song, which was Touch - another howler.

Dermotitis got some last pointless words from the two contestants, and it was time again for an ad break.

The Result

Cuntin farce.

...

3.12.16 The Death of ING

I have no idea who these people are - the idiots who try to reinvent for the sake of it.  They fuck about with the English language just to annoy me.  I am not talking about the pretentious bands that drop a vowel from the name to somehow seem cool.  Despite my irritation, I do accept that this is part of an image or brand that is trying to be created/claimed/promoted.  In a similar way, Renault (or should that be Renlt or maybe Renau?) has marketed a car called a Captur.  Again, irritating but to some degree understandable.  Less acceptable is the TNT brand of Whistl with no 'e'.

I am not directing my annoyance today at the idiots on the radio last week, one of whom was a woman with a drawling voice who talked about people "engaging with fashion".  The stupid twat meant "buying clothes".  I gritted my teeth when she talked about "a pant" rather than trousers.  The Americanism pants rather than trousers I can handle, but losing the 's' no way.  They some cunt a few days later was talking about "a pyjama" for fucks sake!

No, my gripe and focus for this post centres on the death of three letters, and the outrageous abuse of the language when there is simply no basis for doing so, no branding aspect, and a cuntishness from invisible maketing arseholes.

In Aldi two weeks ago, I was incensed by an item for sale at £3.99.  It was not the price that drove me to that state, but the cardboard circle that accompanied the item.  The packaging referred to the product as a Fry Pan.  It was of course a cunting Frying Pan.

Elsewhere you will be exposed to Swim Shorts, so does that mean it's okay to wear a dress gown rather than a dressing gown?  Is it now a sail boat?  Fuck off.  The 'ing' is necessary.  It's a driving licence.  An eating disorder.

The disappearing 'ing' is not only wrong, it's a cunt travesty!

3.12.16 ITV Tipping Point

What a dumbed down cunting load of fucking shit!  I am struggling for the words to describe the nauseous serving of crap that is presented as prime time Saturday evening television.  Watching Tipping Point is arduous.

The questions are so pathetic, it's clear that the "celebrities" are being given an easy ride - AND YET . . . .  the three idiots are unable to display an ounce of cuntin common sense.  Devise Van Outen was unable to answer one question that required her to give "the 4-letter abbreviation commonly used to refer to the General Certificate of Secondary Education!  I have no intention of reeling off another dozen examples of dire mental ability displayed by the three participants.

Audley Harrison, standing alongside her is clearly punch drunk thick, or was thick before being punched.  Either way he was a complete embarrassment.  I cringed watching this shit.  Harry Redknapp - stay at home, chap!

The commercial breaks were as bad as the fucking programme.  I've just sat through the last one and have had to endure no adverts, just two over-the-top trailers.  One was for ITV itself, the self-obsessed cunts.  The other was an extremely long trailer for ITVBe and The Only Way Is Essexmas.  Even typing this has brought me out in a rage.  I do not watch ITVBe for the simple reason that it's where ITV has quarantined its useless cunting programmes.  This should have helped me avoid them, but NOT when the cunts are touting the fucking shite every other break!

Yes, I am certainly at my cunting 'tipping point'.

9.10.16 X-Factor Results Week 1

Osbourne

The first show was, overall, a complete embarrassment for ITV.  Yes, we all expect the usual mix of stuff and guff, but this time around, the standard has dropped significantly - and some doubted that was even possible.  Sharon Osbourne talks to some contestants as though they are kids in nursery, and in the process, shows herself to be best suited to playing a weird and wacky witch, who lives in the forest in a cottage made of candy.  Louis is the Elf with not the slightest clue about . . . . well, anything, actually.  Nicole has already started with the Schermazing and Schershite Schit.  Simon is just a nob. All four of them are addicted to lying, and relentlessly blowing smoke up the arses of the contestants, most of whom are at best mediocre, and at worst, Bratavio.

Louis Lunacy hit the ground running . . . . .

You've got soul
You're the perfect pop star
You made it your own
Great song choice
You nailed it
The song suited you
You deserve to be here
You deserve to be on that stage
You smashed it
You've worked so hard
You gave it your all
You've got a great recording voice
You're young, you're talented
They came out like pop stars
She totally owned it

Here's a damning indictment of X-Factor, AND the mediocrity of everything - only today did I even notice that Brooks Way had not performed.  Seems there's some sort of scandal involving one of the chaps lumping someone.  The duo slipped through the auditions, and somehow slipped into the live shows courtesy of Louis's lunacy.  Now they've been ejected from the competition.  I think the people who vetted the acts for ITV were the same people vetting Sam Allardyce for the FA.  It is unbelievable that as a result, at 8.30pm this evening, Bratavio thus had a one in eleven chance instead of one in twelve.

At least in today's results show, Dermot O'Dreary didn't dance.  Sharon Osbourne got a birthday cake, though that seemed pointless to me - she can get a fix of sweetness any time she wants by eating a chunk of her house. [See paragraph 1].

James Arthur arrived on stage to mumble some shit and display how X-Factor can produce a winner with the talent of a chipped bottle washer.  If he was in the competition this year, he'd come tenth, one place ahead of Bratavio, and two places ahead of Brooks Way.

What the fuck is a 'lifeline vote' and why do we need one?  Brantano, Saaara Aaaalto and Freddy Parket were left on stage, and each hoped to receive a lifeline.  I ate my supper and of course didn't go near a phone, or App.  More beef stew was consumed, as I endured the adverts, and then we found out who was given a lifeline - Freddy.  He'll be here to kill us all softly with his song next week.

Saaara the aaaardvaaark came on to the stage and mumbled a few words before some higher pitched whining kicked in, and then the full pelt wailing took over.  "I'm alive, I'm still breathing," she wailed.  Brontosaurus cat-walked on to the stage, and then the disaster commenced.  Yes, the car crash got underway. Every out-of-tune word was another car in the pile-up.  This was fucking atrocious.  My ears rebelled, and I decided I'd rather be punched the Brooks way than listen to this crap.

The Vote

Louis was always going to stick with his twats, and even though he said Saaara was 'incredible', he was true to form - a lunatic.  Sharon obviously kept Saaara. Shitslinger talked schit but at least voted to eject Bratavio.  Simon said "this was like a Guinea Pig versus a Racehorse," and got rid of the two chaps - thank got.

On a scale of Bratavio to 10, they broke the laws of physics and were worse than Bratavio.

....

8.10.16 X-Factor Ad Nauseam - 2016 Competition

The nightmare truly gets underway today, after the lunacy of the 6-chair challenges, most notably in respect of the hapless and hopeless champion of the lobotomy, Louis Walsh.  As the epitome of an oxymoron, this disaster of a 'judge' has no sense of judgement, and yet is empowered enough to deal us all a cruel blow by fucking up at choosing the best three from his final seven.  Yes, folks, at every stage, Louis is a loser.

Smug Simon will display smugness, and talk bollocks while talking up a show which is riddled with shite.  The piss is so surely being taken out of the viewers that there need be no ad breaks for trips to the loo.  Of course, the ad breaks and competition announcements, recaps and other padding constitute a third of the schedule, so we had better all be prepared to have our pain cycle stretched.

So who is lined up for us:

Sam Lavery

I was driving through the Tyne Tunnel this week, and above the entrance (surely a distraction to drivers) was the illuminated message "X Factor - Vote Sam Lavery".  It would seem that the competition is not about talent, but instead is one where regional voting is to determine things.  Why the cuntin fuck was this sign allowed?  I ask this in terms of a) driver safety b) musical taste, and c) geographical bias.  Whatever, Louis will be calling her a pop star, and reminding us all that she is only 17, the same as his IQ.

Giftie Louise

She has never had the best voice, but in the shows so far has managed to present herself confidently and determinedly.  This has demonstrated a presence and assuredness that marks her out as a contender.  She is certainly very mature for her 20 years and is going to do well.  I suspect her presence, movement on stage and general presentation will serve her in much the same way as was the case for Fleur East, meaning that the okay singing will be complemented and assisted.

Emily Middlemass

She is one of the favourites, and is perhaps one of the more natural personalities in the competition. I expect her to do well, and though she is 18 years old, has a fair amount of confidence.  I remember her not quite making the live shows a couple of years ago, when she deserved to go through.  The only real danger comes not from the resident elf, Louis, out to criticise song choices to try and dig at Simon, but from Ryan Lawrie, the drip with whom she's paired up.  His influence can be of little benefit to anyone, or anything, even a needy puppy.

Honey G

The inclusion of Honey G in this year's live shows is so much more to do with those orchestrating the competition than any relevance to talent.  She's been put through at the expense of worthier people, so that we can be annoyed at her in due course.  Her delusions and confidence combine to give us a crazy presence that in the next few weeks cannot end well, whether musically, emotionally or with regard to entertainment. The flop will be a metaphorical belly flop.  Sharon will try to convince us that Honey G is 'for real' and is talented - in much the same way that she did all those years ago regarding Tabby.  Silly moo.

Saara Aalto

Saadly she was given a second chaance, and this overly eaager semi-professionaal taalent show aaplicaant will almost certainly aannoy us to bits. Her clear voice is not without some merit, bit saadly it is presented to us by its owner.  The Finnish woman will finish early in this competition, and do so aafter struggling to be understood - and I don't mean linguistically.  Having said that, she opted for French in her second song at the 6-chaair chaallenge.  I find her aannoying.  She has no X-Factor, but does have a dollop of A-Factor.

Relley C

I struggled to understand how Relley C got through.  I rather think Sharon Osbourne was going for a set, much as one does in Monopoly, and so needed Relley C to go with Honey G and Saara A.  I do not predict great things, and expect her to last only while (or if) the dross is cleared out in the first couple of weeks.

Matt Terry

Is he the one that allegedly "the girls will love" (Louis being an honorary girl, of course)?  I am already bored and have run out of things to say.

Freddy Parker

Not sure how he got through, and as with Matt, I have very little to say, other than recalling slight annoyance.  Maybe he'd rubbed shoulders accidentally with Saaaara Aaalto.

Ryan Lawrie

The weakest and wettest of the boys (and he did have to go some) Ryan managed to get a place in Nicole's last three by some weird magic.  There is no logical reason or any reason linked to an ability to sing, why he managed to get included, unless there was some sort of Cowell command that his own act (Emily) needed comforting and cuddles.  In a sleight to Sharon, he avoided giving this 'honour' to the rapper, and so it's Ryan who's charged with applying honey to Emily's G spot.  Get ready for the lame comments about the two being an 'item'.

Louis 'The Elf' Walsh has surpassed himself this year, after a disastrous contribution in the lead-up to the live shows.  Never in the field of human decency, integrity and intellect has there been such a fuck-up.

Bratavio

Bradley and Ottavio - two of the worst excuses for singers ever to grace the stage are about to annoy the cuntin fuck out of the UK, and most certainly me! Fuck off, X-Factor, and your fucked up standards of decency.  Four of Diamonds must be pulling their nails out at the injustice!  The Elf is the numpty who will oversee the mess, as these two twats parade and wobble and warble.

Brooks Way

They were, until now, The Brooks, but the name has been tweaked.  Sadly these nondescript brothers haven't been, so they continue to shuffle down the middle of the road, towards mediocrity.  I suggest we park them up in a cul-de-sac fairly early on, but somehow they'll linger, I suspect.

5 After Midnight

Surely it should be 3 After Midnight?  They are a long way from being mint, but very likable chaps who bounced around at Judges' Houses.  I can hear the numerous references to "having fun", especially of course from The Elf.  I think they'll do okay, and there are a number of far worse acts filling the lineup this year.

....

27.8.16 Prescriptions, Eggs and Zulus

This morning was intended to be normal, with a quick trip to the shops, and no reason to get frustrated.  However, North Yorkshire befuddlement kicked in.  I left the house, and called in at the Post Office to get stamps.  I was beaten to the door by a woman with child.  Sadly the child was an annoying little cunt, and the mother (or Gran, I couldn't tell) was a useless twat with no authority.  I stood behind her, as we all waited for the chap at the counter who was commanding total attention from the two servers, as he seemed to be withdrawing a large amount of money, including many bags of coins.  Who the fuck needs to do this on a Saturday morning?

The little cunt decided to tamper with some toy cars that were for sale on a stand.  He whined and pleased for shit.  The big twat allegedly in charge of him was devoid of any power of persuasion, let alone authority, and had the panache level of a fucking granite block.  Instead, she amplified his moan with her own cuntin' whining, and attempts at telling him what to do (and not to do). I noticed a circular stand containing dvd/cd language courses for sale at £14.99. The top one was Learning Persian, and at the bottom I was astonished to see Leaning Zulu.  What the cuntin fuck?  I have not seen a black man in over ten years in this part of Royston Vasey - sorry, North Yorkshire.  Who on earth, well, locally, would consider on the off chance opting to pick up a course in learning fucking Zulu?

Mafia man was still having his money counted and I decided to leave.  I could always call in on the way back when attention might be forthcoming.  I crossed the road to Lloyds Chemist, and handed in a prescription.  It would apparently "only take a minute" according to the uniformed assistant.  With no one else in the shop, I had no reason to doubt her word.  I decided to nip to the Co-op for a paper and Lottery ticket.

I got my paper and a ticket, and ignored the weird 'event' that was underway, involving the attempted sale of cakes (of unknown origin) that were sweating on a trestle table to the side of the tills.  The sunshine was killing them slowly. Obviously the main characteristic of any cake is its moistness, and these little fuckers were being drained.  Drained of any enthusiasm, I limped to the chemist, hoping for a swift pick-up, having already pained the rip-off charge.  "It won't be a minute," said the assistant, a different one from five minutes earlier.  A man entered, with a hand that needed some input.

I never got to see the hand, but heard all about it.  It was not painful, but it was sore when touched.  It had swollen, and he had no idea what had happened.  It apparently could have been a cut, a bite or a close encounter with the third kind. He wanted some appropriate cream to put on it, if any such cream existed.  The assistant decided that the pharmacist should be called.  As if by magic, a Zulu appeared!  Yes, the irony was phenomenal.  The black man was helpfully and courteously unhelpful, suggesting the chap with the dodgy hand ought to wait a couple of days, but he did not miss the opportunity for a sale, and suggested also some anti-inflammatory cream.  A woman in a suit appeared and told me my prescription would be ready soon but it had to be checked.  This was the role of the Zulu.  [I am of course being politically incorrect, but for comic effect feel entitled to milk this irony to within an inch of its life].

I waited some more, and then some more.  Assistant number one was lining up packets of massively overpriced tablets, so they looked 'nice'.  Eventually the handyman left the shop, having bought some cream.  I considered that the four fucking staff were collectively devoid of any urgency in their efforts to serve the community.  After the pharmacist unbelievably bought something for himself from one of the two uniformed assistants at a till around the corner, he then returned to the main till and collected a small red basket.  Two minutes later he walked back to the till, and contained within the red basket was, at last, a white sealed packet with my prescription inside.  He checked my address, pointlessly, as no other cunt had handed in any prescription in the last half hour!  As I left, I heard him checking with one of the two gawping assistants that I had paid.

I called in at the butcher for some free range eggs.  Despite having the exact change ready (£1.20) there were none on the counter top, so I was denied the opportunity of leaving my money and taking the eggs.  I quickly surmised that my wait would be annoying, as I was behind two people. Unsurprisingly there were three other people in the premises, but only one serving, of course.  The current transaction was for a sandwich involving hot food, and I considered that the butchery business had undergone an unwelcome transition; I left the cunts to it.

Forgetting to get stamps, I returned home flabbergasted at the complications and annoyance that had arisen in just fifteen minutes within the immediate vicinity of my house,

Ho hum.

...

14.8.16 No Blue Badge

Outside Lidl last Sunday, I watched a red Fiat pull up in one of the Disabled parking bays.  When a bloke and a woman hopped out, I was curious as to one or other's disability.  A check of the windscreen confirmed no sight of a blue disabled badge.  They looked at the potted plants, and then went inside to do their shopping.

Dis-cunting-graceful behaviour.  Who the fuck do they think they are?

...

14.8.16 Why the United States of America is Fucked

In the modern world, we are so often told that "choice us good".  That's great for a general statement, but what happens when the choice available is far from good?  This is exactly the case in the USA.

The country is faced with the dire option of having Trump or Clinton as President.

Both are odious creatures whose credentials for being President are alarmingly non-existent.  This being the case, what possible hope is there for decency and competence for hundreds of millions of people?

Evil Witch, not to be trusted at all

Anyone who trusts this woman, or thinks she can be trusted is away with the fairies, actually where Trump lives.  A conniving and manipulative dishonest woman is surely no role model let alone a serious contender for ultimate power!

If she were a patriot, she would retire from politics and let someone else have a chance.  But she seems to think she has a right to office, as if it is her destiny.  Sadly Trump's existence may make that come true.

She will drone on like an irritable cunt for years, smug and devious to the core, if allowed, if elected. This would be a travesty, and yet the real travesty is that she is potentially a winner because she attracts the alleged quality of being "a safe pair of hands" for the country.  How sad is that.

Dangerously Mouthy

Donald Trump, along with his plastic wife, manages to annoy millions at a time with his ludicrous pronouncements.  He threatens stability with his outbursts, and will be a nightmare of a President. Ordinarily he should have no chance of winning.  However, he does have a chance, because his rival is an horrendous choice of candidate put forward by the Democrats.  Why there seems to be an expectancy from that party (and a sense of complete entitlement on her part) that Hillary deserves to be top dog is beyond me.  It is this state of affairs that has allowed Trump to give it a go with a chance of success.

The question on many lips is "Will Trump actually be that bad, or will he get better, and once in office be a bit less of a loose cannon?"  Anyone able to find a "Yes, most likely" outcome will surely turn to him, and successfully avoid the sin off voting in Cunton.  Many will not do so, and be fearful of DT having real power.

What a fucking mess.  (Still, I cannot claim the UK is much better, having allowed the evil Tony Blair to stay in office for so long.)  In summary, it is the dire state of politics and the so-called system that has let everyone down, and given them this awful choice.  Some might say that the system is so awful it is no surprise that the head-to-head is between two thoroughly unacceptable beings.

...

14.8.16 Football Bollocks

The football season is underway, and so it's open season for the twats who have no command or understanding of the English language, or even the slightest awareness of grammar.  On Match of the Day, Alan Shearer is, as ever, harping on like a nob with his "asking questions of" theme, as though every man in a shirt is a quiz master.  To kick off the season, we've just had these:

We wanted to galvanize each other together.  [Mike Phelan]

You get the ball in and around him.  [Ian Wright]

It's gonna be a long, hard season.  [Yawn . . . Shearer]

In case you're in need of further evidence, perhaps it is time to review the last 12 months.  It must be time to reflect on the complete bollocks that's talked by the presenters, pundits and commentators. There is no end in sight regarding the relentless crap that leaves mouths, while pay levels for the culprits seem inversely proportional to linguistic prowess.  A basic level of English is not even a requisite, let alone an ability to think about what's being said, content-wise. The inanity of the exchanges confirms we would all be better off having no 'expert' opinion included in any TV programme.  For those who seem to talk about quality, and typically the lack of a little bit most commonly in the 'final third', the idiots are somehow oblivious to their own complete lack of quality. As for grammar, words fail me.  Here is a sample of what I'm talking about.

Jermaine Jenas is clearly on a mission to beat Alan Shearer to the top spot, with his utter drivel, all delivered under the guise of trying to seem intelligent.


Q: What are they missing?  [Gary Lineker]
A: A little bit of quality in the final third.  [Danny Murphy]

There was some heroic performances.  [Danny Murphy]

I expect a good new few additions next season.  [Danny Murphy]

He should not be getting beat.  [Jermaine Jenas]

They was overran at times.  [Jermaine Jenas]

He was kept getting into these positions.  [Jermaine Jenas]

We're gonna try and clamp this out completely.  [A Shearer classic]

The most unlikeliest of goal scorers.  [MOTD commentator]

They couldn't be any closer separated.  [Elidh Barbour]

Question marks about the Chelsea defence.  [Jonathan Pearce]

Once again, question marks in that Bournemouth defence.  [Jonathan Pearce]

I'm gonna minimalise the risk.  [Jermaine Jenas]

Gary's not somebody who goes down unless he's got a problem.  [Danny Murphy]

Look at the amount of numbers they've got.  [Jermaine Jenas]

He has to real concentrate on that one.  [Jermaine Jenas]

Swansea played a real good part.  [Jermaine Jenas]

They haven't really exerted themself.  [Andy Townsend bollocks]

There's a little bit too much reliant on Sergio Aguero.  [Trevor Sinclair]

Like any good striker, he's in the office.  [Trevor Sinclair]

They put in 4, 5, 6 passes, and kept the ball patient.  [Glenn Hoddle]

He's got goals in him; he can score goals.  [Andy Townsend]

He likes to drag people in and around the ball.  [The wanker maestro, Andy Townsend again]

When you're playing all the others in and around him.  [Change the record, Andy Townsend!]

It didn't have the support in and around him, did it?  [Shut up, Townsend!]

They've got to get someone in and around him.  [Another Alan Shearer classic]

,,,

28.5.16 Britain's Got Talent Final

Britain's Got Talent has quite typically ensured that singers dominate the line up.  Still, there are a few finalists who don't warble.  Sadly someone thought it appropriate to invite Katherine Jenkins to warble like a twat during the start of the programme, to introduce the judges.  A fucking horrendous racket was served up by her, oh so cunting needlessly!

The public's 'wildcard' act was rather predictably a fucking dog.  The ballet dancers were put through by the judges.

Balance Unity  1 / 5

His semi-final performance did not warrant qualification for the final, so I was not holding out any hope of a decent final performance.  He fidgeted and wobbled along with various theme tunes and music snippets, while pulling faces.  I was bored before the first minute was up.  Overall, fucking lame. "What a way to start the show," was of course leaving the lips of the comperes before Walliams even got a chance to speak - and then say the say fucking this, as always.  Yawn.

Time for the first "quick break," as announced by Ant.  The first advert up was for the Suzuki Vitara, featuring Ant and Cuntin Dec! 

Richard Jones  4.2 / 5

Something non-singing and non-dancing; well what a turn up!  What an original and well-pitched performance and story.  Very interesting and fitting, and a brave type of performance.

Time for "a break." and as it was not announced as a "quick" one, I decided I could served myself seconds of the roast chicken dinner. the stupid competition meant I had even longer to load my plate.

100 Voices of Gospel  - 0.0025 / 5

The screaming shite that was served to us in the auditions was outrageously awarded the golden buzzer.  And so it came to pass that tonight we were served another helping of shite.  The lead singer was/is/always will be a verbal bully, and a shouting fucker.  How can anyone be so unlikable?  Then she made it worse by singing/shouting/wailing about Jesus!  FUCKING CUNTING HORRENDOUS!  "I don't know where to start," said Alesha.  I fuckin' do! "That was what we call perfection," said Simon, and I lost any smattering of respect that still remained for him.

Alex Magala  4 / 5

This chap has shown us he is dedicated as hell.  His approach to entertaining us is severely radical.  I resisted the urge to try anything like this at home, and Mrs MWSC was able to breathe easy (and not get the Flash ready to mop up blood).  Amazing input from a chap who pushes boundaries.

Mel & Jamie  2 / 5

Without a break, we were into our third act in a row!  The first time these two were on stage, it was good, and the mother stood back.  In the semi-final, she dominated, and I was surprised they got through.  Tonight I was unsure what the plan would be.  As it turned out, it was a rather boring dirge, and I was bored as hell.  The shit song was a cliche and a half, and so the best from these two came from that first audition.  Simon commented in line with this until his comment on tonight, saying it was as good as the audition . . . well, it wasn't!

"Time for a another quick break," said Dec - well it was overdue, wasn't it!

Shannon & Peter  2.2 / 5

This performance was pretty much what I expected.  I did not agree with Simon, though, as this time it was not any improvement on the last effort.  Still, they will have enjoyed getting to the final.

Jasmine Elcock  5 / 5

Superb!  A truly lovely performance and person.

"Time for a quick break," said Dec.

Trip Hazard  1.5 / 5

I thought we'd got rid of the dog, but I'd not reckoned on the cuntin public vote reintroducing the mutt.  I was bored to death.

"We'll take a short break now," said Ant.

Beau Dermott  3.8 / 5

Sadly she's not especially likable, and whilst she is an accomplished singer, the stuff she sings is hardly of much interest.

Craig Ball  3 / 5

This seemed like a bit of a challenge for him, and it started to show as he lost his bearings.  There was nothing new here.

Boogie Storm  0.5 / 5

Never has an act been so unworthy of being in a final.  Utter SHITE.

"Time for a break now," said Ant.

Wayne Woodward  4.5 / 5

Solid as ever; he's a natural at this.  What a personality.


Who knows how the public will vote in the 16 minutes allocated for the task.

...

14.5.2016 Eurovision Song Contest Final

Petra Mede & Mans Zelmerlow

The annual madness that is Eurovision means a marathon television session as usual. The schedules allowed three and a half hours for this year's event from Stockholm.  Graham advised us that while the semi-finals usually filter out the dross, this year a couple of howlers have crept through.  I think it is fair to say that every single year there is dross on stage, whether in the semis or in the final.

Belgium 

What's the Pressure?  More like 'What Was the Point?  Maybe you had to be there to get into it; unfortunately it was a flop.

Czech Republic

I Stand.  What dreary load of tosh.  I wish she'd decided to sit, backstage. Alas, we had to endure her whining and wailing.  "Stand down, luv," I implored. Dire.

The Netherlands

Slow Down.  Middle-of-the-road stuff.  Bland and with some dubious singing here and there.  The sort of song you'd never want to hear the first time, let alone again.  Give me back my 3 minutes!  After two minutes he stopped for ten seconds.  Sadly that was not the end and another minute came.

Azerbaijan

Miracle.  A woman called Samra warbled her stuff.  Inane drivel lyrically, and rather awful musically.  It was always going to take a miracle for this to get anywhere.  I think she got the gig for her looks, as she simply can no singing ability.  This was horrendous.

Hungary

Pioneer.  Freddie strained away, and avoided (to our cost) a fucking good cough.  As a result, we had to listen to his throat rasping.  Three jiggling backing singers were bizarre, but not as strange as the monk banging a drum and having a fit.  This was just a racket and needless.

Italy

No Degree of Separation.  No idea what she was saying at all.  She seemed to get into it.  It was very wordy - in Italian of course.  The, half way through, she switched to English for 30 seconds!  I think it may have been quite good, but her singing was weak.  Peculiar performance.

Israel

Made of Stars.  Not quite Savage Garden but he made a decent attempt.  Yes, it was fairly repetitive but that's to be expected at Eurovision.  It started to lose its way as the volume increased in the second half but it was the best after the seven.

Bulgaria

If Love Was a Crime.  Graham built this up, but it was not worthy of his intro. The singing was atrocious, and for me, that's a rather important element in a fucking song contest.  It was catchy in a horrible way, as it offended ears in a catchy way!

Sweden

If I Were Sorry.  This was interesting, and a nice change from the amateurish pop that's served up most of the time.  Slightly self indulgent but nevertheless it was a long way from offensive.  It will do very well.

Germany

Ghost.  "There isn't a single thing about this woman that doesn't annoy me," said Graham!  He was on the money.  Her pitch was at a level that hurt my ears, and I willed it all to end early.  Sadly is droned on.  Awful.

France

J'ai Cherche.  The chorus was catchy - You-ou-ou-ou-ou, he said, in between various rubbish in both English and French.  It was weak, and so dreadfully repetitive that I willed it to end.  I could do with not hearing that again.

Poland

Colour of Your Life.  I was annoyed instantly because the word 'colour' was written 'color'.  This is the Eurovision and not an American event.  His desperation as he sang was annoying as hell.  Why do performers insist on assaulting ears with a vengeance?

Australia

Sound of Silence.  The sound of silence would be better than most of the acts so far.  This effort was not too bad.  A bit too much wailing and repetition but at least she was marginally better than most at singing.  Why Australia has been adopted permanently is simply ludicrous.

Cyprus

Alter Ego.  The lead singer couldn't sing, and so this desperate attempt at performing was doomed to failure.  Flashing lights, cages and smoke could not help in any way.  This was embarrassing, and should get nil points.

Serbia

Goodbye (Shelter).  The woman in black had a weird style and struggled to pronounce a single word correctly.  This had a detrimental effect, because all the way through I was fucking fuming with her misplaced passion, and perverse use of sound.

Lithuania

I've Been Waiting For This Night.  This followed the Eurovision formula very well.  Some quiet bits, a loud and catchy chorus, a building volume as we were all supposed to buy into it.  Unfortunately it was rubbish.

Croatia

Lighthouse.  "The backing singers may be in some sort of witness protection programme," said Graham.  A strange sound, though not actually that bad.  The trouble was that I could stomach a bit of her, but not the full 3 minutes, and as they passed (so very slowly) she got worse, and more grating.

Russia

You Are the Only One.  "Thunder and lightning, it's getting exciting," he sang, and I disagreed.  The special effects on stage were good, but that's got fuck all to do with it!  This was a serious attempt to win.

Spain

Say Yay!  This was a club dance track, and although it was all a bit messy, it will no doubt appeal to many.  I must say that I quite liked it.  Obviously I have had to lower my standards significantly to find anything bearable this year.

Latvia

Heartbeat.  This was hard work to listen to.  It was all over the place vocally, and featured intermittent shouting at full volume.  There was nothing to recommend it to anyone who is not hard of hearing.

Ukraine

1944.  What can I say.  This was a one-off and so hard to evaluate.  I commend the originality and suspect that she is Ukraine's answer to Kate Bush.  I found it very interesting and off the wall.  Hopefully it will do well.

Malta

Walk On Water.  I wished she would indeed walk on water, at a steady pace west, across the Atlantic.  Pretty awful, cliche trash, and annoying as fuck!

Georgia

Midnight Gold.  I have no words.  This was terrible when the chap was singing.  

Austria

Loin D'ici.  Sung in French, and better than France managed!  It was okay, but so, so repetitive.

United Kingdom

You're Not Alone.  I hadn't heard this beforehand, and I don't feel I'd missed out in any great way.  It was passable, and certainly much better than many of the acts.  Sadly, the UK is not liked generally, and always struggles for votes.

Armenia

LoveWave.  "You-ou-ou-ou-ou-ou," she wailed, and replicated the entry from France.  She thinks she's Anastacia, but she wailed just a bit too much, questioning any link to music.


This year's entries and performances fell a long way short of last year's.

Result

1sr Ukraine
2nd Australia
3rd Russia

[Arguably none is in Europe]

...

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.

...

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.

...

27.3.16 Woman Lays "Cunt" on Kyle

Hilarious story in the Daily Mail Online !

...

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.

...