Archive for March, 2007

KFC 2

March 20, 2007

Sanders 

The disgusting ‘Mum’s Night Off’ campaign seems to have fallen on its arse. Such was my fury following my last whinge on WWM I ended up writing to the ASA about it and within a matter of days got a long personally written letter that converged upwards to such a sharp degree I had a fucking nosebleed reading it. For example, on the matter of that scratty little Prol dropping a bucket of rubbish the size of Vanessa Feltz into the (not recycle) bin…

“While we do regulate the content of commercials, we do not regulate the ‘creative’ content to this extent and do not feel that a brief shot of a child disposing of some rubbish is likely to influence a consumer’s methods of waste disposal…’

I felt her argument somewhat missed the point. In fact if she’d said ‘we do not regulate the ‘creative’ content…’ to my face I’d have said ‘regulate this’ in a Terminator-esque manner and blown her eye out with a Magnum or something.

Either way I’ve not seen or heard of the campaign since. It’s been replaced by something as equally utterly sickening… Food Porn. The commercial kicks off with the words, ‘white boneless chicken breast’. This is a brave mood as KFC are actually acknowledging that the matter being waved in your face was actually a living breathing creature as opposed to something really lovely that comes from La La Fuck Land where all manner of pain and death is substituted by rosy cheeked infants chuckling at Christmas trees made of fudge. Still, the words ‘bone’ and breast’ in one breath should set alarm bells ringing.

As an aside, I’m fairly sure the voice over ‘artist’ is the same bloke that does the advert for the Weetabix Week in which he gets a fucking bonk-on for all the ‘surprising’ shit sloshed over it in a lilting Southern Irish accent. He virtually ejaculates at the sight of the merest dusting of chocolate (‘whaarz dat? ITSZ CHARKLATz!!!!!’) presumably to emphasis that, yes, it’s okay, you’re still being healthy, it’s Weetabix, yes, you can be healthy and eat (a fucking tiny bit of) chocolate… there is no war, no, no children die from bombs and famine, everything is alright, everything is okay…shhhhh, shhhhhhhhhhhh.

The KFC ad isn’t dissimilar as it features chicken tits being smothered in some cochineal-infused gak whilst Murphy the Fuck loathsomely feigns his desire to ram every single putrid lump into his maw whilst he massages his veiny member into a state of nut-busting eruption. As this diatribe of rape-inspired hyperbole hums along in the background, the featured imagery is nothing more than red-hot German filth. We see the chicken breast being repeatedly teased apart like a porn stars clout by pristine female fingers, slow motion shots of gelatine-based matter being lasciviously pasted over plump, engorged breasts… In a tone almost exactly the same as the Weetabix/chocolate incident, Murphy alerts us to a huge glob of this menstruation sauce dribbling off the saturated offal. ‘Look, LOOK!’ the cunt cries… And with this the sham is exposed, everything clicks to back to normality. Order is restored.

KFC consider their audience to be of such insignificant IQ that they have to tell you what it is you’re actually seeing. Not content with making your food look like something you buy under the counter in an Amsterdam grumble shop, do they have to actually employ someone to explain that what you’re seeing is indeed, what you’re seeing? (help)

This in turn means that anyone who even considers incorporating this muck into his or her system is irreversibly damaged. They must be neutered for the sake of humanity because it will lead to more and more Mum’s Night Offs as we lose grip of our core values, fundamental respect for each other and our planet as the England we know falters and stumbles its way into the waiting hands of the faceless corporate machine that will purvey and survey our basic existence. If it hasn’t happened already.

Shit…

Chicken Mc Twizzler anyone?

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Britain’s Fattest Teenager: Hidden Lives

March 19, 2007

Fat Kid 

Although it may seem at times that I’ll watch any old shit, I am in fact quite particular about which kinds of shit I allow to seep through my eyes and penetrate my brain. I enjoy programmes that I can get a laugh out of, albeit for the wrong reasons and ‘Britain’s Fattest Teenager: Hidden Lives’ (Not very hidden if it’s on TV, I thought) last Wednesday was no exception. This slice of health propaganda was a kind of televised fat kid sandwich placed lovingly in between ‘Bodyshock: World’s Biggest Boy’ on Tuesday and ‘Mind the Fat: Does Fast Food = Slow Kids’ (shit title) on the Thursday.

Hidden Lives (Channel 5) concerned itself with big, fat blubber-boy Jonathan Wallace, an eighteen year old chubbawit from
Hartlepool who was truly digging his own grave with his teeth. Until my eyes had grown accustomed to his unholy appearance I was genuinely staggered by the sight of his bulbous head which I half expected to burst at any moment and spray volcanic ash in all directions, the way the swollen lump that was protruding from Mount St Helens had in 1980.

The programme followed Wallace’s journey toward a gastric bypass, a journey in which we see him stuffing his face every five minutes and generally just looking like a hideously distorted interpretation of a human being.

As well as being morbidly obese, he suffers from sleep apnoea as well as being dyslexic and plain thick. For these reasons I was trapped between sympathy and disgust watching this, although any sympathy I had for this grotesque figure eventually gave way to utter displeasure due to Wallace’s attitude.

His philosophy seemed to be ‘fuck it’, which would be fair enough if it wasn’t for all the personal and medical help he was being offered to shed his mammoth load, which was, in my opinion, more than he deserved.

During the part of the programme where my sympathy was still intact, we see Wallace explain how is life is a kind of living hell, in which he had obviously suffered the cruelty of bullying. I was slightly taken aback as he explained “They call me a fat cunt and that”. Then again it was Channel 5. The bullying had also included taunts of ‘Waller, Waller, Waller’ (as in Rik Waller), in a Kebab shop of all places. It regularly cut to shots of Waller, sorry, Wallace as he walked down the street trying to mind his own business, which proved impossible as his epic proportions encroached on the freedoms of others in various ways, consequently becoming other peoples’ business.

The camera also looked on mockingly as every now and again we would see the behemoth truffle-shuffle his way through a kickabout in a park with a load of what looked like 12 year olds.

“Ironically, he wants to be a chef”, says the narrator’s voice. How the fuck is that ironic? This titan worships food! It seems completely natural to me that he would want to spend his every waking moment around food.

It is around this time that we are informed by our narrator that he’ll probably be dead in five years if he doesn’t alter his lifestyle.

On top of this we are told that his bypass op could finish him off, I listened to this piece of information with cold ambivalence, unsure as to whether I could even give a fuck if it did.

One of my favourite moments was Wallace’s guided tour of his fridge freezer. In particular the part where he waves a box of Cod in Parsley sauce before the camera and proudly declares – “I can eat five of these at once”. I also enjoyed the part where his mate says; “He loves leftovers!” with the misshapen Wallace sitting next to him, grinning uncontrollably in agreement.

The low point of the show was graphic shots of the stomach stapling op and the inside of the lard-arse’s guts, something which neither man nor beast should have to have witnessed. After the op, he is told his appetite will shrink dramatically and that he will only be able to eat very small amounts, a warning Toad-boy disregarded as he frequently continued to over-eat, making himself vomit in the process.

A process which I’m confident will never end until he finally stops soiling the earth with his vile presence.

Britain’s fattest teenager was just one in a series of programmes that explores the media’s current obsession with fat, but quite what-in-shitting-Christ the point is beats me. There are fat people and fat kids everywhere, always has been and always will be. But all of a sudden we human beings want to be perfect. Well we’re not. We’re a bunch of cunts. Deal with it.

Exorcist – The Beginning

March 16, 2007

Exorcist The Beginning 

Now then …

The man from Pirates of the Caribbean is asked by the man from Chariots of Fire to go to post-war Africa to retrieve an artefact from a church that’s just been unearthed by the bloke from The Madness of King George. The man from Pirates of the Caribbean flies off to Africa and hooks up with the man with the horrible teeth from Snatch, some woman I can’t remember the name of and a priest who may, or may not, have been in some teen films I haven’t seen. The man from Pirates of the Caribbean used to be a priest in the war but gave it all up (or lost his faith) after having to choose who was to be shot in the face by a Nazi who had just shot a five year old. The woman (who’s very attractive but does not, I repeat not, get her tits out at any stage in the movie) has a tattoo she got in a concentration camp, the man from Snatch has a face covered in ugly yellow sores and the priest from teen films (probably) has a side-parting and excellent teeth.

Something evil is afoot! The man from Pirates of the Caribbean, the teen vicar and a black man who is supposed to be African (but is clearly from Stroud) descend through the roof of the buried church and discover Jesus on the cross upside down – this signifies Satan’s on the loose again. The man from Pirates of the Caribbean goes to talk to the attractive woman who doesn’t get her tits out about something whilst the priest goes off to do something else. Next, the man from Pirates of the Caribbean goes off to Nairobi to witness a bald French man (who has carved a swastika on his chest) stab himself in the neck and bleed to death.

Meanwhile, back at the camp, two boys argue over a trowel.

One of the boys is eaten by dogs. The other boy is placed in hospital where he is cared for by the attractive woman who may or may not have great boobs if only she’d pull ’em out (which she doesn’t). Whilst all this is going on (or possibly after it’s happened) a tribeswoman outside gives birth to a baby covered in maggots. This is a bad thing.

The man from Snatch (who’s face looks bloody awful by now) is killed whilst trying to grab a bottle of booze. The man from Pirates of the Caribbean spends all night digging up coffins and having flashbacks whilst tribesmen try to free the child with the trowel of evil spirits. The boy (or the Devil perhaps) breaks their legs. The next day the man from The Madness of King George finds the man from Snatch strung up in the church. This angers him for some reason, so he shoots the chief of the tribes-people. Later he shoots himself after a butterfly comes out of his mouth.

A sandstorm descends and everyone kills everyone else. Meanwhile, the two priests discover that Satan is possessing not the boy (as you’d been led to believe for the last two hours), but the attractive yet sadly fettered woman who used to be in a concentration camp. The priest with the side-parting goes off to the church and is killed by the attractive woman. The man from Pirates of the Caribbean then turns up at the church and, through a series of holy adventures, casts the Devil from the woman’s body.

She dies anyway.

Finally, the man from Pirates of the Caribbean has a second meeting with the man from Chariots of Fire where he gives him a burnt piece of something. He then goes to the Vatican. This is the end of the movie.

You get all that?

I fucking didn’t. 

Freaky Eaters. Again.

March 15, 2007

Choc 

Christ – it’s like some sort of vacuum, sucking me into it’s hideousness! Last night, Freaky Eaters managed to somehow reel me in like a fresh and naive trout on a particularly devious angler’s line. BBC3 will surely be the end of me. Along with Dog Borstal and Help! My Dog is as Fat as My Face!, Freaky Eaters is default television. It’s always on and I’m always half asleep and inclined to watch the televisual turd smears they wipe my screen with.
It’s important to point out that I found within my frail body the ounce of fortitude required to turn the TV off before my mind was sneezed out of my clenched face by a rebelling brain. Even I can only take so much.

So. Freaky Eaters, again. Yesterday we travelled to Newcastle, or Middlesborough, or somewhere up there in the land where they say ‘war’ instead of ‘your’ and enthuse that things are ‘reet canny’. Lovely people, but violent – and greedy too, as it turns out. A young lady (whose name I forget) was eating chocolate to assuage her feelings of worthlessness. No surprise there then, not a massively big deal. But when we were shown the sheer amount she was putting away, I was actually shocked. Real shock, not mock concern. She could eat nine full size Crunchies in minutes without feeling sick. And her method of eating was actually terrifying – slowly and blankly biting off huge mouthfuls and then swallowing whole. It was like watching the act of vomiting, but in reverse, and with delicious, chocolatey puke.

The introduction took a good twenty minutes and by this time I was not only completely shattered from a good, honest day’s work but also nauseous to the point of needing to wash bits of sick from my lips after watching this poor unfortunate fill her stomach with crap. When they sent the shrink in, it became apparent that his conclusion was pre-prepared. He didn’t listen to a word she actually said. He decided that fear and anger had made her so gluttonous. Nothing to do with a low self-image then? Nothing to do with the fact that her parents have a shitload of confectionary stashed away in every corner of the house? I think they should take this bastard’s PhD away. I also think that if BBC3 are going to exploit those with eating disorders, they might try and name the show something other than Freaky Eaters, which is possibly the most heavy-handed title for a show about damaged people that I think I’ve ever heard. Me and Freaky Eaters are going to have a bit of time apart from hereon in.

Now, who fancies a Blue Ribband?

Haunted Homes

March 14, 2007

Mia Dolan

How I managed to stay perched on my sofa throughout this cavalcade of pure TERROR I will never know. Shock after shock after pant-wetting shock streamed across the cathode ray as me and the missus clawed at cushions, barely hanging on to our sanity as the next world revealed to us the unrelenting horror of the spirit domain.

Not really, gang. It was utter shit.

Mia Dolan is apaprently the bestselling author of a book called ‘The Gift’. Whether that’s related to the overrated film ‘The Gift’, I’m not sure and can’t be halfway-arsed to research, but let’s assume she’s not. She is also the frontwoman for ITV2’s Haunted Homes. This is another of those shows ITV2, LivingTV and all those other nothing-television channels knock out from their no-budget production orifice when desperate to fill their schedules with something other than static, despite the fact that static would actually be far more challenging television.

The formula for this one (and I should know, I’ve sat through the tedium of two of them for some reason) is as follows:

An ex childrens’ TV presenter who clearly didn’t make the grade walks around, shedding charisma as he goes, stating the bleeding obvious at the opening, ending and between scenes. He tells us nothing of worth and only serves to annoy every viewer with his attempt at gravitas and stupid leather jacket.

He links to Mia who is sitting in a council house with two members of the idiot public, in the dark, with one of those special cameras they used in the Blair Witch. They need one of those cameras because they are sitting in the dark. They are waiting for a ghost, in the dark. Grown adults, sitting in the dark. Waiting for a ghost. And me, sitting at home, watching some grown adults, sitting in the dark, waiting for a ghost. This is a stupid, vacuous world we live in.

The night vision, I think, is meant to have the effect of making everything eery. It actually just makes Mia look even weirder, if that’s at all possible, like some mutant car crash in which Gillian Taylforth and Vanessa Feltz have merged with Pat Butcher’s arse. It also serves to make Joe Public (who generally sits there either crying or giggling) look uglier than they were in the light.
Ineveitably a member of the crew will knock over a baking tray down in the kitchen or drop a Dime bar in the bog and everyone will freak out.
‘What the [beep] was that?’ the ‘contestant’ will scream.
‘It’s just the spirit world communicating with me’ Mia will sagely inform them, nodding certainly.

You just feel like barging in there, turning the fucking lights on and kicking the shit out of everyone present.

After the event, Mia sits around with her terrified prey in a winnebago. They constantly refer to this ‘winnebago’ as a safe house. ‘We’ll talk through what we saw in the Winnebago’ Mia says. ‘Let’s go over now to the Winnebago’ to study the findings’ says the kids’ TV presenter. IT’S A CARAVAN.

After this it’s downhill all the way (if that’s possible). A molish sceptic wanders in there, also in the dark, and tells them they’re imagining it (unbelievably, he’s getting paid for that) and then Mia goes in to the property with some candles and starts an ‘ancient incantation’ to exorcise the spirit. At least, that’s what she claims. What she actually does is blather on in her husky Jackiey Goodie tones in what is meant to be Latin. I studied Latin, and she is speaking the language, but she appears to just be repeating the word ‘Omnibum’ over and overagain, which wouldn’t get you very far in the forum. I’m not sure if it’d uproot a malevolent spirit or not, but it certainly made me shift over to the other side.

Comic Relief Does Fame Academy

March 13, 2007

Vine 

Karaoke Torture on BBC 1 

Comic Relief does Fame Academy. Oh dear.

Comic Relief does Fame Academy up the shit-pipe.

Make that Comic Relief does music up the shit-pipe hard, and agonisingly.

In fact, this isn’t a singing contest, its brutal murder. The spirit of music is being slowly and excruciatingly skull-fucked to death by a hapless bunch of wannabes, tronabees, never-gonna-bes and Christ-will-you-stop-now-please?!

Like most reality television these days, it’s partly a who’s-who of who-the-fuck-are-they-and-why-are-they-alive? It’s got fat Barry off Never-enders, who to be fair, seems like a nice bloke, (although he snacks on deep fried foetuses for all I know) and Tim Vine, a squeaky clean comedian who, if memory serves, holds the current British (maybe world) record for most gags per minute. (It’s something ridiculous like 15 jokes per second, 14 of which are just various parts of his face and head looking odd). Having said this, his act is pretty funny and I quite like him.

Another one is Colin Brainchild or whatever his name is – that Quimhead from T4, whom I do not like because he makes me wretch from almost every orifice. Can I just stress again how much I really don’t like him; he is, to put it bluntly, a cunt who I am physically and mentally incapable of liking.

Also guilty are: unfunny fool, Mel ‘I’m wacky, I am’ Gedroyc (change your fucking name!) and that dim-witted irritant Tara Palmer-Tompkinson (I’m not even gonna bother).

Oh, and football’s Ray Stubbs, who is definitely not human. I’m thinking some kind of sasquatch cum bogey-man hybrid / chimera thing. But, for argument’s sake, I could settle for the abominable snowman. His reactions, expressions and emotions are not of this realm. Either he’s something else or he was raised by sheep-fish on an underwater mountain.

Anyway, I’ve never heard of the other half of the contestants, but they’re all either horrible or rubbish, both in some cases.

The judges just sit there like lumps of shit being clapped and booed. This format is so transparent:

The Garret creature is the ‘nice’ one, and the two cheese graters perched either side of her take it in turns to be the nasty one, although one of them (the one who I suspect feverishly wanks himself into a stupor of an evening with a crumpled, sticky Polaroid of Simon Cowell clasped in his left hand) is a fair bit nastier than his camp-arsed colleague, who tries to achieve an equal amount of cheers and boos per show. The Cowell-wanker seems to thrive off the boos as if his life depended on them and in his role as the villain, tries his damnedest to coax them out of the live audience at every given opportunity. I have observed him actually feeding off boos like a kind of reaction scavenger with an insatiable hunger for negative energy. Don’t get me wrong, he is right to tell them they’re shit, but the way it’s done is so contrived. He’s like the anti-Tim Vine, gleefully powering toward a world record of 800 boos per minute.

However, I suppose I shouldn’t really be so hard on this programme. It is for charity after all.

Fuck that – it’s sick and must be shut down at all costs.

Crufts

March 12, 2007

 

Caught the last 5 minutes waiting for the Adam Curtis documentary at 9pm, that’s 5 minutes I’ve lost for good. It’s a fucking weird event Crufts, there is something unholy about it. It gives me grave cause for concern.

I think the whole aspect of have a creature then ‘making it’ do stuff it doesn’t want to do by, ultimately, being a shit to it, is horrendous. Feeding it stuff it wouldn’t eat if it were allowed to freely forage… everyone knows dogs like stuff from bins and wasps, then to fiddle and preen it as if it were ones own hair just add’s insult to injury.

All the people involved in Crufts aren’t right. That’s right – all of the people I’ve ever seen involved in this meat market for dogs are fucking strange. The winner for Best in Show, a long-haired creature, was being fiddled over by an American bot merchant. Clare Balding was interviewing him as he was ‘positioning’ his hairy dog on the podium. I noticed a magnum of champagne, was that for the dog?

Incidentally, Clare Balding. How on earth this square faced bean-flicker got on to the TV in the first place is to me an anathema. Maybe by presenting Crufts she was hoping to get a rosette for best in breed? She got a bit upset because, apparently, the winning dog was in some way related to one of her dogs, or her, I got confused. I felt sick. Why was she upset, what is the MATTER with her? Either way, I smell cheating. (The other presenter was that nice chap who won Castaway, Ben Fogle… but what the fuck was he doing presenting Crufts? Whose idea was that? Why?)

After the dog and his owner got presented with a trophy the au fait American bloke picked his dog up off the podium, put him on the floor of the arena then skipped around with his dog hopping behind. He then put the dog back on the podium, corrected the dogs hind leg as the way it was stood wasn’t to his liking and gave its hair a comb. What the fuck was he thinking? What a cunt.

I don’t know much about dogs but I know when they’re too hot they pant. In the space of 5 minutes the dog had gone from a regular pant to having full blown respiratory problems, its tongue was out by nearly half a foot and it’s mouth was so wide open it appeared as if it was trying to regurgitate a pigeon. How fucking cruel is that? Just so a few people and its weird owner could derive some sort of revolting pleasure.

It’s a disgraceful display of exploitation in my opinion, coupled with an undercurrent of bestiality. I think the BBC should take a long hard look at themselves.

Clare Balding should be put down by the way. I think that’s best for everyone.

Skins. Again.

March 10, 2007

“She watches it so you don’t have to!”

Having seen many an ‘arthouse movie’ in my time, I am quite used to seeing deviant nudey sex stuff on screen (I’ve just realised that ‘arthouse movie’ looks like a euphemism for porn in that context. Well it’s not, I CAN ASSURE YOU). However I was quite surprised to switch Skins on the other day and witness a straight teenage boy fellate his gay friend while his girlfriend cried silent tears of misery. In a Russian youth hostel. If this had been on in an trendy leftfield cinema, I’d have been stroking my chin and going “yes, what an interesting sexual representation of the essential dichotomy between men and women in the heterosexual relationship” (ok, really I would have been sniggering at the word blow-job).

So, Tony is turning into a sexiopath (that is a proper medical term what doctors use), and using his smug-faced, funny-eyebrowed good-looks to weave his evil web round the rest of the Skins, male or female, gay or straight.

In yesterday’s episode, Michelle finally broke free of his manipulative tentacles. Side note: not that you would know this from her myspace profile where she proudly exclaims that “My Brad Pitt is the one and only Tony Stonem. He’s definitely the fittest boy in Bristol (and quite possibly the world!) He’s gorgeous, a total genius, supremely confident and…did I mention he was fit?”. Come on Michelle, it’s not that hard to click ‘edit profile’ (though as mentioned before, I have my doubts that these profiles are actually maintained by the Skins themselves).

I shall now reveal what Tony did to her yesterday and you can decide whether or not she should rethink whether Tony can stay in her ‘top friends’. After giving token gay Skin, Max, (poor Max doesn’t merit a myspace page, bless him) a blowjob while Michelle watched in horror, AND getting off with a posh girl in front of her (yeah, yeah, quite bad I hear you say – I will add the information that this was on a stage in front of about hundred people including Michelle and her friends, after serenading posh girl with “God Only Knows”), Michelle finally got rid. Being a pretty lady, she was not lonely for long however, and soon met posh-girl’s brother and got on very well with him (so well that they were naked in bed about 10 minutes later). This ANGERED Tony, who then took loads of photos of posh-girl in various states of undress, including one that I believe can be likened to a shot of a big-toothed river mammal in certain circles, arranged for posh-girl’s brother’s phone to be nicked (keep up), transferred the photos to posh girl’s brother’s phone, then sent them to Michelle so it looked like posh-girl’s brother had taken some saucy snaps of his very own sister!

I think that is absolutely amazing commitment. When I was a teenager and you split up with someone and then wanted to get back together with them you just plied them with cider and black, wore your nicest Levellers t-shirt and then snogged them on Taunton High Street. Sorted.