Most weeks, I have a look through the TV Guide, to see what delights are contained within the glossy pages. There is little that's ever a delight, as most of the schedules are packed with shite, repeats and nauseating excuses for programmes. Anyway, I digress. My keen eye noticed very quickly a rather unexpected pattern, or coincidence.
Saturday 11.35pm and Wednesday 11.00pm (5Star)
Get Him To The Greek
Film (2010)
Sunday 11.30am (ITV)
The Greek Islands With Julia Bradbury
Julia reached the island of Chios
Sunday 7.00pm (Channel 4)
The Great Pottery Throw Down
It's Greek Week, and the contestants are challenged to sculpt a nude statue and throw jugs on the wheel.
Tuesday 10.00pm (Channel 5)
My New Greek Life
Chartered surveyors Alex and Charley open a hotel in Corfu
WTF?
Elsewhere, I cannot help but highlight the railways obsession.
Saturday 8.00pm BBC2
Great American Railroad Journeys
Saturday 11.00pm Yesterday
Chris Tarrant: Extreme Railway Journeys
Sunday 8.00pm Channel 5
Walking Britain's Lost Railways
Mon - Fri 6.30pm BBC2
Great Asian Railway Journeys
Mon - Fri 3.45pm BBC2
Full Steam Ahead
Wed & Thu 8.00am BBC2
Great British Railway Journeys
Wednsaday 8.00pm BBC4
World's Busiest Railway 2015
Friday 8.00pm Channel 5
The Yorkshire Steam Railway: All Aboard
...
Saturday, 15 February 2020
Wednesday, 12 February 2020
12.2.20 HS2 - Get It Right
I seem to find myself listening regularly to arseholes on the radio who have trouble with the letter 'H'. So severe is the level of fuckwittery that I feel obliged to highlight the matter now.
Consider the sentences below:
a) I hate ham sandwiches.
b) I ate ham sandwiches.
In the first, it is made quite clear that I dislike ham sandwiches, and so it is hardly probably that I would eat them under any circumstances. In the second sentence, there is no view expressed regarding the liking or disliking of this food, but instead, a simple declaration (though without any notion of when) that I consumed some. The meanings are so radically different, all because of the 'h' that appears in sentence a) as the second letter, while it is missing in sentence b).
Assuming there is no southern accent in play, where the letter 'h' is commonly dropped, we can distinguish rather easily between the word 'hate' requiring the expulsion of a light breath to capture the 'h', and the word 'ate' that needs no such effort.
Now we must compare this with the word 'aitch'. You will notice there is no 'h' at the beginning. As a result, the pronunciation is identical to that of 'ate' in the first part. Actually, if the 'ch' sound were added to ate, to form ate-ch it would be the same to the ear. The eighth letter of the alphabet is H, spelled aitch, so it does not start with a fucking H!
Cunts in the media who cannot pronounce HS2 should NOT be commenting on it, period. Get off the airwaves and off the TV, and fucking learn how to speak.
...
Consider the sentences below:
a) I hate ham sandwiches.
b) I ate ham sandwiches.
In the first, it is made quite clear that I dislike ham sandwiches, and so it is hardly probably that I would eat them under any circumstances. In the second sentence, there is no view expressed regarding the liking or disliking of this food, but instead, a simple declaration (though without any notion of when) that I consumed some. The meanings are so radically different, all because of the 'h' that appears in sentence a) as the second letter, while it is missing in sentence b).
Assuming there is no southern accent in play, where the letter 'h' is commonly dropped, we can distinguish rather easily between the word 'hate' requiring the expulsion of a light breath to capture the 'h', and the word 'ate' that needs no such effort.
Now we must compare this with the word 'aitch'. You will notice there is no 'h' at the beginning. As a result, the pronunciation is identical to that of 'ate' in the first part. Actually, if the 'ch' sound were added to ate, to form ate-ch it would be the same to the ear. The eighth letter of the alphabet is H, spelled aitch, so it does not start with a fucking H!
Cunts in the media who cannot pronounce HS2 should NOT be commenting on it, period. Get off the airwaves and off the TV, and fucking learn how to speak.
...
12.2.20 Cookery Is Fuckery
The cooking world is now officially full of complete fuckery . . . of the English language. Yes, I know that "fuckery" is not a real word, but I feel authorised to introduce it as a perfect label for the horrendous utterances of TV cooks, chefs and commentators.
I'll just wash my hands off
We have to roast these off (ref sweet potatoes)
I would recommend washing them off
We're gonna leave these here to rest through
Strain off your butter beans
We'll let it cook down
Let it reduce down
This nonsense is everywhere, and it's as if the food world has insisted on some training for all those associated with food - so that they talk utter shit, and introduce unnecessary prepositions at every opportunity. The above examples are the tip of the cunting iceberg!
Tom Kerridge recently came out with:
"We sweat it off" and "They've been marinaded"
Madness indeed.
...
I'll just wash my hands off
We have to roast these off (ref sweet potatoes)
I would recommend washing them off
We're gonna leave these here to rest through
Strain off your butter beans
We'll let it cook down
Let it reduce down
This nonsense is everywhere, and it's as if the food world has insisted on some training for all those associated with food - so that they talk utter shit, and introduce unnecessary prepositions at every opportunity. The above examples are the tip of the cunting iceberg!
Tom Kerridge recently came out with:
"We sweat it off" and "They've been marinaded"
Madness indeed.
...
Monday, 10 February 2020
10.2.20 Shocking Radio 4
Unfortunately I have to report that the quality of English on Radio 4 has fallen to an all time low. That's not to say there has been any decent level of grammar and English in recent years - I have heard so much shit for a long time now - but that I now sense a scaling up of shite.
Sue Perkins this evening talked about "eating a large amount of carrots" with not the slightest hint of embarrassment at delivering such a poor comment. "Number" rather than "amount" was clearly the proper way of saying what she wanted to say. During the news, before Sue's arrival, I had to listen to a muppet newsman talking about being "VULNERABLE" but without the first "L". He also decided that the five-syllable word "TEMPORARILY" was better delivered over the airwaves with just three syllables. What a stupid cunt, and what a fuck of a pronunciation that caused the word to be unintelligible.
I also heard this evening the woman protester discussing the HS2 project, but without the cunting ability to say "HS2" properly. This clearly meant she lost all authority, and had no right to even speak on the subject.
Still, Greg Smith, the new MP in Buckinghamshire, was on last week, struggling himself to pronounce "INFRASTRUCTURE" and coming up with "INFASTRUCTURE" as an alternative. He too stumbled with HS2, alternating between proper pronunciation, and the fucked up "H".
Evan Davis is the most nauseating whisperer on the station, but closely followed by Nick Robinson. Their delivery styles, whilst different, are a challenge to any human ear and the presence of either is a cause of depression, upon turning the radio on.
The overuse of the word "SO" is enough to cause a car crash, as the listener is struck with radio rage. "Kind of" and "sort of" litter the air as useless contributors struggle to get shit from their withering brains to the microphone.
Arghhhh.
...
Sue Perkins this evening talked about "eating a large amount of carrots" with not the slightest hint of embarrassment at delivering such a poor comment. "Number" rather than "amount" was clearly the proper way of saying what she wanted to say. During the news, before Sue's arrival, I had to listen to a muppet newsman talking about being "VULNERABLE" but without the first "L". He also decided that the five-syllable word "TEMPORARILY" was better delivered over the airwaves with just three syllables. What a stupid cunt, and what a fuck of a pronunciation that caused the word to be unintelligible.
I also heard this evening the woman protester discussing the HS2 project, but without the cunting ability to say "HS2" properly. This clearly meant she lost all authority, and had no right to even speak on the subject.
Still, Greg Smith, the new MP in Buckinghamshire, was on last week, struggling himself to pronounce "INFRASTRUCTURE" and coming up with "INFASTRUCTURE" as an alternative. He too stumbled with HS2, alternating between proper pronunciation, and the fucked up "H".
Evan Davis is the most nauseating whisperer on the station, but closely followed by Nick Robinson. Their delivery styles, whilst different, are a challenge to any human ear and the presence of either is a cause of depression, upon turning the radio on.
The overuse of the word "SO" is enough to cause a car crash, as the listener is struck with radio rage. "Kind of" and "sort of" litter the air as useless contributors struggle to get shit from their withering brains to the microphone.
Arghhhh.
...
Sunday, 2 February 2020
2.2.20 Caprice
Dancing On Ice is certainly the means for Philip Schofield to earn a pretty penny, what with the inflated salary, and the relentless advertising of We Buy Any Car, his association with which will be adding handsomely to his bank balance. One day he'll actually have to earn a living rather than simply go through the motions, while staring at the autocue.
This week, Caprice Bourret exited the show. I was already under the impression that she is a spoilt, over indulged person who craves attention. Worth an estimated $30million, I wondered how she would take to the ice, and not very well has been the outcome. Citing grievances with her partner, she managed to get him (Hamish) ousted and a new bloke came in. One week later, he's obviously no good either, as she decides to quit. She should be sued by ITV for fucking off. I am sure details of the issues will become known in due course, but I suspect rather strongly that none will exonerate her from being a spoilt brat. That's hardly a surprise though:
Capricious Adjective Given to sudden and unaccountable changes of mood or behaviour
Caprice Proper Noun Woman on DOI who has demonstrated she is capricious
H
This programme should never have been resurrected. The voice-over man managed to refer to Aitch as Haitch. It's a sad day when your name is a single letter, and some cunt cannot even pronounce it.
...
This week, Caprice Bourret exited the show. I was already under the impression that she is a spoilt, over indulged person who craves attention. Worth an estimated $30million, I wondered how she would take to the ice, and not very well has been the outcome. Citing grievances with her partner, she managed to get him (Hamish) ousted and a new bloke came in. One week later, he's obviously no good either, as she decides to quit. She should be sued by ITV for fucking off. I am sure details of the issues will become known in due course, but I suspect rather strongly that none will exonerate her from being a spoilt brat. That's hardly a surprise though:
Capricious Adjective Given to sudden and unaccountable changes of mood or behaviour
Caprice Proper Noun Woman on DOI who has demonstrated she is capricious
H
This programme should never have been resurrected. The voice-over man managed to refer to Aitch as Haitch. It's a sad day when your name is a single letter, and some cunt cannot even pronounce it.
...
2.2.20 Marr-Gate
There are two types of people in this country (aside from the obvious split between 'leavers' and 'remainers'). I refer to the other major split - the classification that arises from the ability to stomach listening to Andrew Marr.
Yes, there are those with a strong stomach who manage okay in hearing the voice of Mr Marr, and those whose constitutions are rather weaker, and find that his voice churns the stomach as readily as fuck!
I am in the latter group, and find my ears rebel, confuse my brain, which in turn sends a signal to start my guts groaning.
...
Yes, there are those with a strong stomach who manage okay in hearing the voice of Mr Marr, and those whose constitutions are rather weaker, and find that his voice churns the stomach as readily as fuck!
I am in the latter group, and find my ears rebel, confuse my brain, which in turn sends a signal to start my guts groaning.
...
Saturday, 1 February 2020
1.2.20 The Voice Is Awful
I checked in with The Voice UK today, and was suitably horrified. As ever, the programme was dominated by the judges, the self-obsessed foursome whose collective ambition was to hog more airtime than any of the performers. I suggest renaming the show The Four Fuckwits.
The first up was an eighteen year-old, who sang nothing special. Meghan Trainor turned. Sadly not away from us and off stage, but in her chair. We then had to witness a sobbing hug before the adverts came on.
Second up was another young woman who wanted to make her parents proud; well there's a novelty, eh? She wiggled around and shouted, mostly out of tune. Yet, willie-am and the awful Trainor woman turned around straight away. Right at the end, Murs and Jones also turned, the parents had a fit, and Willis wailed as normal. Olly made a joke about Tom not knowing what she was singing, plus he made the compulsory reference to Tom being "Sir Tom Jones". She went with willie-am.
Another break arrived to provide more by way of entertainment than The Voice. The music from the Boots advert was great, and this was followed by equally good noise from the McDonald's advert and then Sia singing as Natalie Portman pranced around and fell off a pier. Even the Coors Light advert was bearable. Miss Dior gave us another 10-second blast of Sia, and I was thus reminded that some people do actually have a voice and can sing.
Back to the shit, and a bit of shit banter preceded only the third applicant, a 31-year-old named Priscilla, who is apparently a "full time mum". I was under the impression that any woman with a kid is actually a mum, 24 hours a day...... so full time. Her speaking voice was hard to listen to, so for her sake I was hoping her singing was rather better. The face pulling got underway, this time not just by the four coaches, but Priscilla herself. She wobbled, shouted and sweated through the messy 'song' and offended my ears. No one turned, thank goodness. "What happened? What went wrong?" asked Priscilla to the cameraman afterwards. "You were shit, luv," said I. The coaches sat analysing things, and talking bollocks.
The fourth woman in a row was another mum, who works, so is she a full time mum? Anyway, her two kids were sweet enough. She wailed more than Willis ever could, and sang shit about Jesus and the Holy Ghost. I couldn't hear all the words, but apparently it's a spiritual world. All I know is this woman made a complete cunting racket. Only willie-am turned around - idiot. "You completely got my attention from the first word you sung," said the illiterate Olly. No shit, Sherlock - she shouted like fuck! Tom mumbled "strong" and "powerful", as he's prone to do, then returned to his semi-comatose state.
After the break, the coaches sucked each other off while we listened to sycophancy and cringeworthy crap. Then a bloke appeared, as contender number five. A self-indulgent chap bared his soul to us, while bigging himself up, ahead of singing his own song. He was no James Blunt, but I suspect he aspires to be. "Take Me Home" was the song, and nobody did. He left. "That was a definite mistake," said Tom. "He was good" said Tom. "What am I doing here?" said Olly. The four returned to self congratulation, and story telling. Name dropping by Tom was up and running. Olly primed Uncle Tom for a song, and Tom was enticed to sing. "It's Not Unusual" was delivered to all by Tom. It's certainly not unusual for us to be served up such a dysfunctional show.
Wailing Willis announced details of a competition, and how to spend two quid hoping to win. Break time arrived. At the hour mark, the sixth singer appeared on stage, and I considered the throughput for a moment. Five so far had sung for two minutes each, so ten minutes in all. The other fifty minutes had been consumed by adverts, VTs and the shit exchanged between the coaches. Criminal.
Number six was a seventeen year old girl, and I hoped the Pastor's daughter was not too churchified, especially as her name was Blessing. She was good; Olly turned around. The other three whinged and tried feebly to explain why they didn't turn around. "You're a baby," said Trainor Woman.
I felt privileged to be served the seventh contender without ITV needing a break first; two singers in one segment of the programme. Sixteen year old Holly was next up, a Scottish girl who was nervous as fuck. "Is she going to be a whiner or a shouter?" asked Mrs MWSC. I offered no opinion. It turned out to be neither. She warbled and adopted a silly mumbling voice. However, she veered off into some shouting a bit. Trainor Woman and Olly both turned around. They all marvelled at her being sixteen, as though a sixteen year old has never before sung a fucking song. Trainor Woman whined, and talked utter shit in her pitch to be her coach. The Glaswegian picked Trainor Woman, and so began her journey to dementia.
After the final ad break, we were set for the eighth person, who turned out to be the second bloke of the evening. Little Olly and Uncle Tom both turned, and Wailing Willis hugged the family stage-side. Apparently Trainor "panicked" and should have turned. It's just pressing a fucking button, dear. Its been put right in front of you, big and red, so stop bleating - it's the one thing you are there to do, press if you like someone's voice. He went with Tom.
...
The first up was an eighteen year-old, who sang nothing special. Meghan Trainor turned. Sadly not away from us and off stage, but in her chair. We then had to witness a sobbing hug before the adverts came on.
Second up was another young woman who wanted to make her parents proud; well there's a novelty, eh? She wiggled around and shouted, mostly out of tune. Yet, willie-am and the awful Trainor woman turned around straight away. Right at the end, Murs and Jones also turned, the parents had a fit, and Willis wailed as normal. Olly made a joke about Tom not knowing what she was singing, plus he made the compulsory reference to Tom being "Sir Tom Jones". She went with willie-am.
Another break arrived to provide more by way of entertainment than The Voice. The music from the Boots advert was great, and this was followed by equally good noise from the McDonald's advert and then Sia singing as Natalie Portman pranced around and fell off a pier. Even the Coors Light advert was bearable. Miss Dior gave us another 10-second blast of Sia, and I was thus reminded that some people do actually have a voice and can sing.
Back to the shit, and a bit of shit banter preceded only the third applicant, a 31-year-old named Priscilla, who is apparently a "full time mum". I was under the impression that any woman with a kid is actually a mum, 24 hours a day...... so full time. Her speaking voice was hard to listen to, so for her sake I was hoping her singing was rather better. The face pulling got underway, this time not just by the four coaches, but Priscilla herself. She wobbled, shouted and sweated through the messy 'song' and offended my ears. No one turned, thank goodness. "What happened? What went wrong?" asked Priscilla to the cameraman afterwards. "You were shit, luv," said I. The coaches sat analysing things, and talking bollocks.
The fourth woman in a row was another mum, who works, so is she a full time mum? Anyway, her two kids were sweet enough. She wailed more than Willis ever could, and sang shit about Jesus and the Holy Ghost. I couldn't hear all the words, but apparently it's a spiritual world. All I know is this woman made a complete cunting racket. Only willie-am turned around - idiot. "You completely got my attention from the first word you sung," said the illiterate Olly. No shit, Sherlock - she shouted like fuck! Tom mumbled "strong" and "powerful", as he's prone to do, then returned to his semi-comatose state.
Dementia Sets In
After the break, the coaches sucked each other off while we listened to sycophancy and cringeworthy crap. Then a bloke appeared, as contender number five. A self-indulgent chap bared his soul to us, while bigging himself up, ahead of singing his own song. He was no James Blunt, but I suspect he aspires to be. "Take Me Home" was the song, and nobody did. He left. "That was a definite mistake," said Tom. "He was good" said Tom. "What am I doing here?" said Olly. The four returned to self congratulation, and story telling. Name dropping by Tom was up and running. Olly primed Uncle Tom for a song, and Tom was enticed to sing. "It's Not Unusual" was delivered to all by Tom. It's certainly not unusual for us to be served up such a dysfunctional show.
Wailing Willis announced details of a competition, and how to spend two quid hoping to win. Break time arrived. At the hour mark, the sixth singer appeared on stage, and I considered the throughput for a moment. Five so far had sung for two minutes each, so ten minutes in all. The other fifty minutes had been consumed by adverts, VTs and the shit exchanged between the coaches. Criminal.
Number six was a seventeen year old girl, and I hoped the Pastor's daughter was not too churchified, especially as her name was Blessing. She was good; Olly turned around. The other three whinged and tried feebly to explain why they didn't turn around. "You're a baby," said Trainor Woman.
I felt privileged to be served the seventh contender without ITV needing a break first; two singers in one segment of the programme. Sixteen year old Holly was next up, a Scottish girl who was nervous as fuck. "Is she going to be a whiner or a shouter?" asked Mrs MWSC. I offered no opinion. It turned out to be neither. She warbled and adopted a silly mumbling voice. However, she veered off into some shouting a bit. Trainor Woman and Olly both turned around. They all marvelled at her being sixteen, as though a sixteen year old has never before sung a fucking song. Trainor Woman whined, and talked utter shit in her pitch to be her coach. The Glaswegian picked Trainor Woman, and so began her journey to dementia.
Trainor Woman
After the final ad break, we were set for the eighth person, who turned out to be the second bloke of the evening. Little Olly and Uncle Tom both turned, and Wailing Willis hugged the family stage-side. Apparently Trainor "panicked" and should have turned. It's just pressing a fucking button, dear. Its been put right in front of you, big and red, so stop bleating - it's the one thing you are there to do, press if you like someone's voice. He went with Tom.
...
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