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'.