Glastonbury Festival 2007

Lovingly pared down from this article on Piqued.co.uk

 

Some people never leave their homes, after my trip to fucking Glastonbury I now understand why.

Thursday 

On the Thursday morning, oh it seems a world away, I met my bro and his missus at some godforsaken hour in the morning at Sainsbury as we had a few more items to pick up in order to facilitate our stay in a environment that would upset the residents of Darfur.

Off we all rolled, our hearts full of joy and anticipation, for the 2.5 hour journey to a large, huge, plot of land near Shepton Mallet in Somerset.

On the Thursday the festival was just starting to find it’s feet, the main stages are closed but the stalls and bars are functioning sufficiently. Despite the heavy rain that has been pervading the region for, well, forever, the going wasn’t too bad, my Doctor Marten boots saw me good and because there were only 2/3rds of the 175,000 expected, getting around wasn’t too much of a trial. I’d arranged to meet a mate, in an area called Lost Vagueness (Christ, doesn’t the name alone annoy you?) an area right on the outskirts of the site.

The walk back the fucking camper van took nearly an hour, the ground was already beginning to show signs of serious deterioration due to a resurgence of rain and the feet from the movement of people from one place to t’other.

Friday

I was woken by the thunderous sound of rain on the roof, sides, and from all I know, the underside of the van. Despite their tent bearing up well, my bro and his missus joined me in the relative security of the vehicle to cook breakfast and make tea. The rain came down so hard we had to delay our trip into the site by an hour; partially due to the cruel realisation that I’d at last have to wear my fucking wellies and my objection to the fundamental fact that if I didn’t, I’d be soaked to the bone.

By now the ground was getting difficult to navigate through and it seemed that the numbers for the previous evening had quadrupled, there were people absolutely bloody everywhere. The first band we saw were The Earlies, I wished I’d been late. Unfortunately I was late for the first 10 minutes of Modest Mouse as I’d wholly underestimated the time it would take me to walk 200 fucking metres through an Amazonian Swamp and nearly one 5th of a million people. Once there I caught one of four of the best acts of the weekend. I stuck around for The Automatic who were accompanied by heavy rainfall, I and the audience held fast, it was worth it despite the little shrieking git who bounces over the stage like Daffy Duck having a fit.

I made it back to the Pyramid for Amy Wino. She’s not bad, certainly has a pair of pipes on her but worth all the hype? I don’t know. Naughty Amy was off her box so I decided to join her and I rolled a big fat joint and got so stoned I got the fear. Food saw it off, a big cardboard plate of peas, beans, carrots, gravy and a single steaming pie, it was rather delicious and I celebrated with a pint of the local, a Somerset ale called Wirrey or something. It was a fucking sensation, so much so that by the following day they ran out of it and I’d forgotten what’s its called. Whirrey? Whir.. who cares.

The day was starting to get complicated, as the crowds began to pour into the Pyramid stage for Bloc Party my brother and his missus were keener to get stuck in the front, being a card carrying claustrophobic I remained in a position behind the giant screen and auxiliary speakers, providing me with a certain degree of comfort whilst not compromising on sound or vision. It was an okay set, a little bit too arrogant for want of a better negative but I know what I mean at least. After it was the turn of the fucking Fratellis. Foolishly I accepted the invitation by text from my bro to place near the front that was apparently ‘spacious and arsehole free’. Why on earth I wanted to even acknowledge their existence let alone get nearer to the cunts is beyond me but the area I found myself in was neither spacious and most certainly not arsehole free. By now the mud had turned parts of the ground to deep puddles of shitty, muddy soup which resulted, predictably I suppose, into swimmingly pools for wankers intent on covering themselves and as many people in fucking mud. What with that and all the ‘do wop tee do’ from the band I was outta there like I was on fire after 15 minutes.

Glastonbury mud is clay based, its deceptively soft but sticky, its cloying, clogging mud from hell. It can rip your wellies off in a second, it slipperier than a British Gas salesman in anal lube and it seems to have a limitless depth. In short it’s like trying to walk through quick drying cement. Throw in hundreds of thousands of people moving in every conceivable direction you may understand why my legs of have gone from those of a 90-year-old invalid to Thierry Henry in the space of a few days.

It took me nearly two hours to get to the cabaret tent. I was back in time to see Jeff Green. This was a, if not the, Glastonbury highlight for me. His act was so funny I spent a full hour honking like a goose, tears down my cheeks, breathing issues, the fucking lot. He’d managed to achieve that rarest of things that only a stand up at the top of his game can do, perpetual laughter from the room that occasionally peaked to hysteria. He was filthy, observant and delivered his jokes with the charm of a gentleman. Outstanding.

Saturday

Saturday was the best day of the lot. Firstly, a splendid set by Biffy Clyro and then CSS a likeable Brazilian punk/electro outfit that forced good weather on the crowd. When the sun did appear the whole of Glastonbury let off a single roar of appreciation that really did feel quite, well, special. So much so it reminded one why one was at the fucking place in the first place. These were salad days, Glastonbury at it’s best, drinking in the sunshine with friends that had arrived by design or spontaneously, to share in the music and the whole atmosphere of the place. Despite my overall negativity of the experience, that’s one thing that I did engage with, largely, the people there are very decent and at times one does genuinely feel part of a celebratory collective, even when alone.

My brother and I had arranged to meet a mate at The Glade for one of my favourite bands of all time, The Ozric Tentacles. Without wishing to go into a history lesson, I’ve seen this band dozens and dozens of times over the years, mainly when they were unsigned and you could by their tapes for £2 and a hash cake for the same amount. This was the best music act of the weekend. The venue was a funky covered stage set up in a copse, the green light radiated off the trees by the flashing lighting rigs and lasers looked magnificent.

The band came on, lifted off the tops of our heads and poured some gorgeousness in, I danced, we danced, everyone fucking danced. Even when the set stopped dead so some crew could help out some poor tripper who’d freaked himself out, we danced. For a nearly an hour it was unsurpassed joy and energy, I was whacked out of my noggin and I didn’t care. At last I’d really found what I had come for.

Sunday

By contrast Sunday was the worst day. Due to the bastard pissing rain we didn’t actually get into the festival til 4pm, I managed to cover the end of The Young Knives set which was magnificent, if I’d been in a better spot and seen the whole gig it would’ve been way up there. The struggle back to the Pyramid stage was almost impossible, by now parts of the site were totally inaccessible, and those that were heralded nasty surprises, I watch a girl fall up to her waist in a chasm of mud, to the left and right of me people were falling arse over tit and the general sense of humour that had pervaded the festival spirit were flagging, this wasn’t fun.

After we went and ate, kebabs, bloody good they we too and I went off to see Ian Cognito in the cabaret tent, I didn’t fancy The Who because the Pyramid stage area was virtually impossible to navigate and The Chemical Brothers on the Other stage don’t push my buttons. I made the right decision by my standards, Ian’s act was blistering, cynical, offensive and hilarious. It seemed a very fitting way to close the festival, though he was a lot funnier than most of the past 3 days. As I slid back to the van I passed a stage were Bill Bailey was performing. I bumped into a couple of likely lads from Derby, nice chaps, we shared a spliff together and I headed off into the fucking rain for the last time. When I got back my bro and his missus were attempting to get out of their wet clothes. I sat in the front, they in the back and we chatted and ate all the snacks we’d bought from Sainsbury, well most of them, I chucked a bag of Cheese Balls all over myself as I attempted to converse with wine.

Monday

Monday morning began early; we thought getting out of Glastonbury would take an age. As it turned out getting out at all was impossible because I’d drained my battery operating the small fridge in the back. Mercifully our neighbour helped us out, we packed up our stuff and attempted to leave.

At last we were headed back for London. I was shattered and the last thing I wanted to do was drive, but drive I must. We hit a fucking huge queue near Andover that took well over and hour to conquer which put my schedule back somewhat. I suffered a creeping trip through South London, which was made considerably worse by the sudden and violent need to take a behemoth shit.

So was it worth it? Spending four days in a raincloud and having to risk your life taking a piss in pissy mud, with other people watching you piss as their piss goes over your welly tops, having to pinch back unholy turds because you can’t face the stinking plastic chod bins again, having to spend so much energy getting a pint it was hardly worth the effort, well maybe that’s going a bit too far. Yes, the music and the company were good when I had it, the people were nice and when the sun was out and you were settled it was as good a place as any in the world to be. But it was all let down by the other factors.

One other thing, Glastonbury makes a big song and dance (literally as it happens) about the environment, all the carbon footprint ‘I count’ stuff is surely turned over and fucked in it’s freckle by the sheer fuel burning mechanical logistics of getting the site prepared, the bands that have to be flown in from around the world, the audience to congregate in one spot from all over the country and beyond. I reckon my carbon footprint is greater just by my having to do over 5 washes just to get the mud off my fucking clothes.

Still, I would consider going next year. Maybe. Maybe? Actually, fuck it. I’m watching it on TV. If at all.

Tycoon (Week 2)

 

This week, the disputably humanoid Peter Jones and his motley crue of shameless arse-kissers carry on where they left off last week in attempting to turn their mainly shoddy business ideas into something so astoundingly brilliant that they will knock baby-faced beanstalk Peter Jones’ socks off.

Something tells me it ain’t gonna happen. Ever. Well, not for most of the so-called entrepreneurs on this programme anyway. Among those expected to fail miserably are camp Tom (and his teen newspaper) and Elizabeth – that snotty-faced bint whose feeble brainwaves have materialised themselves in the form of fruity vodka smoothies, while the chances of success for the others still hang in the balance.

If you need a recap as to who the rest of the contenders are, then here you go: Eco-bag man Justin, whose invention is simply a bag to keep plastic shopping bags in,  former glamour model Lauren, with her hair extension business, (who, by the way, is quite attractive but resembles a waxwork dummy) and toy-fancier Ian, who came up with the remote-controlled-crash-proof-indoor helicopter concept, which is just what the world has been waiting for, clearly.

Also in the running are Cathy and Helen and their gardening for women thing (Sod), which isn’t just for women anymore, it’s now for everyone, though what it is that they are specifically offering still evades me.

The six competitors have so far been trying to market their respective products, attempting to sell as much of their wares to whoever will take them as they can, with the goal obviously being to make as much money as possible.

In this episode, Jones has supplied each set of entrepreneurs with their own individual targets to try to complete in time for the next meeting, where they will be scrutinised, resulting in the weakest of the six businesses being shut down. The meeting also being the point at which each business gets to double any money they have made, as Jones had arranged to personally equal any profit gained. As it turned out, only Sod and Helicopter boy had made anything substantial anyway, Sod making around £3,500 and ‘Copter boy with approximately £4,000. None of the others made any profit at all, aside from bag man Justin who had raised the princely sum of £80.
Before this meeting however, Peter Jones had set up a press launch to see how the soulless drones manage to cope with the media. The most memorable point of which seemed to feature camp Tom, who, after managing to get several top newspapers interested in the possibility of adopting his free student rag as a weekly supplement, delivered such a life-draining presentation that all interest swiftly died on it’s arse, leaving the wilted boy pondering the many errors of his approach as well as his product.

The next best thing in this sequence was hearing Elizabeth, who looks like Gillian McKeith’s slightly less evil twin, claim that her drink is “as refreshing as a cup of tea would be if you were in the desert”. Now I don’t know about you, but the last thing I would want if I was traipsing through a desert would be a hot drink of any description.

Sod hardly featured at all in this episode for some reason, and neither did the eagerly anticipated Paul McKenna. In fact McKenna only got one scene in which he semi- successfully brainwashed Eco-bag man into becoming a good speaker. To be fair it did seem to work, but fortunately it wore off later; halfway through a presentation to Peter Jones.

Elizabeth, who cried last week, cried again this time. Partly because she really can’t hack it and partly because she didn’t get to meet McKenna. I noticed from the trailer at the end of the show that she weeps again next week too. So that’s something to look forward to. If only she were not so nauseating and contemptible, I really would feel a bit sorry for her.

When it came to crunch time after the meeting, Jones narrowed the worst of the bunch down to two, waxy Lauren and paperboy Tom. Lauren, who so far seems quite sound, despite her plastic dimensions, got Peter well and truly riled when she revealed some sensitive information about her business over the phone to a stranger. She was blabbing, it turns out, to Sir Phillip Green, who was pretending to be a journalist. This was something Jones had arranged in a bid to get Green interested in her business. Jones considered the blunder to be catastrophic though, as for all she knew she was sharing compromising details with a potential rival. Aside from being almost entirely pointless, drippy Tom found himself on the chopping board for hiring an ex-editor of OK! magazine to basically create his product for him. A product by the way, which went from originally being a newspaper to becoming yet another celebrity gossip mag.
In the end, Lauren was saved and it was Tom who got his marching orders, which is probably for the best, as everything he said sounded like a double entendre, which I found unnecessarily disturbing.

Peter Jones lacks both the straight-talking manner and killer lines delivered by Alan Sugar which contribute to The Apprentice being such an entertaining show, but this is still pretty watchable, especially as it seems to be livening up a bit now with some bitching creeping in between the contestants. I will say this though, I’m already absolutely sick of hearing the word ‘tycoon’ and it’s only the second episode. Last week the word was uttered so frequently that it completely wore out it’s own sense of meaning.

Vacancy / Hostel Part 2

 

Does ‘torture porn’ exist? Not in mainstream cinema, if you ask me. The point of both of these recent horror movies is that you’re gunning for the victims to escape. And if there is any violence onscreen, it’s hardly protracted. Horror films work off the odd flash of a gruesome sight – the fundamental basis of the genre being the power of suggestion. Even Cannibal Holocaust, with castration and impalement on the agenda, don’t linger too long on the special effects. Ok, so it did linger on the native chick with the pole through her fanny for quite a while, but that was only because the special effect was so bloody good. And anyway, Cannibal Holocaust isn’t mainstream cinema.

Vacancy and Hostel Part 2 are two very different beasts that have been placed willy-nilly in the same ‘torture porn’ cage. ‘Torture porn’… it’s a complete misnomer. Granted, I haven’t yet seen Captivity which, from recent reviews, may well fit the tag, but I’ve recently had a gander at these two and any sadist hoping to have one off the wrist over the nastiness within will be sorely disappointed.

Understatement is key, and though many critics might lambast Hostel Part Two in particular for violence against women, it’s pretty liberal with its use of power tools and blades if you ask me. And what really surprised me is that, for the sequel, Eli Roth decided to use a plotline. In fact, two plotlines that meet in the middle. Which is a step forward from the first instalment which was an exercise in linear pedestrianism. Having said that, it doesn’t stray too far from the formula, meaning the teenagers who went to see Hostel One will get their shocks. Personally, I felt that I’d seen it before. The element of surprise – the hell the innocents were being taken to – was no longer unknown. It drained a massive part of the element of terror. The action sequences were slicker though and, most impressively, the dialogue didn’t sound like it’d been written by a frat boy with a hard on (which is essentially what Eli Roth is – and probably proud of it).

Vacancy is different to Hostel Part 2 and a world away from the visceral violence of the films it got lumped in with. In fact, it has more in common with stuff like The (original) Hitcher (except it’s much better) and also shares a bloodline with Spielberg’s Duel. It’s not even, to my mind, horror in the perceived sense. It’s a tense, taut thriller with little in the way of violence. It piles on the suspense and relies entirely on our sympathy for the main duo – and it got that sympathy from me. It’s a very old fashioned date movie that happens to have used the fear of starring in a snuff film as a very basic grounding for the shocks to float off.

Both are worth seeing, but if you’re a psychopathic misanthropist, don’t worry too much about getting the Kleenex out.

Rome

 

Thank fuck for that – Rome‘s back. This episode kicked off straight after the events of the final episode of the first series and, for the uninitiated, here’s the lowdown on the runners ‘n’ riders:

Lucius Vorenus – Local politician. Tried hard to be the family man, found out his wife had been carrying on with her sister’s brother, tried killing her with a big knife, she jumped out of the window and died.
Titus Pullo – Big violent bastard. Killed loads of people last time around, ended up as a gladiator, killed more people, fucked loads of women, killed more people, fell in love with a slave-girl, found out she was carrying on with someone else, killed him.
Julius Caesar – General/Dictator. Subjugated the Gauls, had Vercingetorix strangled in the Forum, got up to political shenanigans, had epilepsy and worried about baldness, fucked shrivelled-up hag Servilla, pissed her off, got murdered by her son and his mates.
Mark Anthony – Caesar’s mate. Fucked (well … raped) anything that moved, killed people, machinated, fucked Caesar’s neice Atia, smirked a lot, shagged random peasant girl against tree in front of whole waiting Roman army.
Atia – Tits-out MILF sex bitch. Plotted to gain favour for her son Octavian, offered up her daughter to become sex play-thing of Pompey, became sex play-thing herself of Mark Anthony, was given gift of black man with enormous penis, enjoyed penises in general, a sex version of Nadia Sawahla.
Servilla – Lesboid shitbag uber-bag hag. Fucked Caesar, fucked Atia’s daughter, got shunned by Caesar, plotted against Caesar, convinced her son Brutus to kill Caesar, dabbled in Roman equivalent of voodoo, not even a GILF.
Octavian – Caesar’s nephew and Man Who Would Be King. Struck up unlikely friendship with Titus Pullo, helped Titus murder Vorenus’s wife’s sister’s ‘usband, shagged his first woman in a brothel on the insistance of his mother (MILF extraordinaire Atia), witnessed Caesar having a fit.
Octavia – Atia’s crappy daughter. Told to become plaything of Pompey, became lesboid plaything of hag un-GILF Servilla, not at all ‘sporty’ considering what her mother gets up to between the sheets.

So there you go. This episode showed the aftermath of Caesar’s and Vorenus’s wife’s deaths. All manner of stuff happened. In one scene Anthony, randy as a bull, woke to find Atia changing into her funeral garb for Caesar’s funeral and demanded a fuck out of her. Atia told him to behave himself, so:

“I’m not getting out of this bed until I’ve had a fuck,” replies Anthony, grabbing his balls.
“Oh for …” says Atia. She turns to one of her servants and says, “Go and fetch that German slut from the kitchens.”

Later we see said German slut, starkers and breathing heavily, as Anthony dresses for the funeral with a big smirk on his face. I don’t think the German girl had a choice in the matter. But then, on Anthony’s previous form, most women don’t seem to get a choice in the matter (and women think they ‘ave it hard nowadays).

Meanwhile Vorenus, who has cursed his kids for not telling him about his wife carrying on with her sister’s brother, discovers they’ve been taken prisoner by a local money-lender. With Titus (who’s now married to the aforementioned slave-girl whose t’other half he beat to death in series one) in tow, he tracks the money-lender down, kills every man, woman, and child in the money-lender’s tavern, then corners the money-lender.

“Where’s my fucking kids?” he roars (or words to that effect), covered from head-to-toe in blood.
“I took them in payment for your many slights against me,” replies the money-lender, “I fucked ’em, killed ’em, and threw their bodies in the river.”

At which point Vorenus, failing to see the funny side, cuts off the money-lender’s head.

Loads of other stuff happened during the course of the show involving politics, funerals, the validity of Caesar’s will, Roman stuff and what-have-you. I imagine the gratuitous tit-shot/brutal violence ratio will be ramped-up as the weeks roll on (it did last time, so fingers crossed). I fucking love this programme. Rome … seig heil!

Big Brother 8, 21.6.07

 

Shameful though it is, I’m really enjoying BB this year. So many little, niggling interpersonal relationships have been born out of the staggered entrances, which was something of a masterstroke by the cynical producers. Thanks to the late entries we have Ziggy engulfed in total paranoia and Billi reverting to infantilism over Z’s relationship with Chanelle. We also have the charmless Jonathan lusting over control-freak Nicky, Tracey stuck entirely on the sidelines (similar to the way Pete was on the periphery at this stage last year), Liam, Brian and  the twins being amiably dull and Carol going slowly more insane. Charley is going from strength to strength in terms of her self-destruction. I’m thoroughly enjoying watching her. Car crashes have never been so glamorous.

If I’ve left anyone out, it’s because they’re either dull or likeable.

So last night we were given one of BB’s little twists. Usually a complete disappointment – think of Stuart’s surprise eviction or Eugene winning half the money – this time round BB, I think, may have got it right.

In the event, the plot twist was as follows. A hundred grand, the supposed prize money, was to be given away. The three nominated contestants would choose among themselves who to give the cash to, and then BB would not tell them what was actually happening at the end of the series. In actual fact, there’s still £100,000 to be handed to the victor, but the contestants won’t know that.

Ideally, and I’m really hoping this is the case, the housemates will believe the only remaining benefit of staying inside will be the ‘journey’. Some will fake their way to the end believing in this pseudo-spiritual voyage, ulitmately losing the plot and revealing themselves to be fame-hungry maniacs, while others will show their true colours very early on and just fuck off.

Others, ie the twins, won’t understand what’s going on and stand stock-still and dribble for a fortnight. As for Seany, he’ll hopefully implode in on himself in a cloud of dusty irrelevance.

They gave the cash to Liam, by the way – the tree surgeon with the personality of a tree. Presumably they felt sorry for him.

The Ziggy / Chanelle ‘love’ thing that’s going on is actually quite fascinating. Last night we had a classic moment of male / female interaction. Ziggy, hoping to reveal a little vulnerability and have his paranoia washed away with some kind words, was speaking to Chanelle as they lay in their bed.

‘What if things don’t work out for us? They might not’ he said. The response any man might require from this little insecure outburst would be as follows:

‘Of course they’ll work out. I really like you’.

Not too difficult to grit your teeth and say that, eh ladies?

Obviously, being female, Chanelle had to seize the upper hand, thus prolonging the argument whilst victoriously spinning her beau’s world into utter confusion.

‘I don’t know why the hell you’d even ask me that?’ she exclaimed, before exiting the bed in labia clutching panties to go and muck about with the other housemates, leaving Ziggy in horrible limbo as she flirted with professional empty-head, Billi.

Chicks eh?

*prepares for claims of sexism*

Tycoon

 

From the off, Tycoon unashamedly dresses itself up in The Apprentice’s still-warm clothing and embarks on an intro of sweeping cityscape shots, accompanied by exactly the kind of music you’d expect a show like this to have; a kind of power-percussion number with strings, culminating in a contrived attempt to present the show with some poise and sophistication early on. Then we see that gangly cash-bastard Peter Jones’s bonce getting out of a car and we are immediately reminded of Dragon’s Den, and then the picture is complete. It’s Dragon’s Den meets The Apprentice. On ITV. And it does seem slightly odd that this has ended up on ITV as it is so clearly a mish-mash of successful Beeb output.

ITV obviously want some of the action, but unfortunately, the action has already passed through the Beeb’s system, and all ITV can do is kneel down and drink the pissy wastes of the BBC’s success. Anyway, Peter Jones, who is either an expressionless cyborg or a friendly terminator, has selected six wannabe’s to pander before him to vie for the title of ‘the tycoon’.

Each candidate has been handed £10,000 by the lanky streak o’ piss himself, and they must dazzle him with their array of entrepreneurial skills in attempting to pitch a business plan and subsequently launch a product plucked from each of their own personal greed-fuelled daydreams.

When Jonesy is sufficiently aroused, he will then choose one of the grovelling muppets to donate yet more money to.

The contenders are as follows: A pair of green fingered ladies who have some kind of gardening ploy up their sleeves, only I can’t quite remember what exactly (I wish I’d paid more attention), some posh tart who dreams of mixing fruit and vodka together to make piss weak alco-pop-cum-smoothy drinks, and a real wet weekend of a man who used to be a bodyguard for the Sultan of Brunei no less, and a creation he calls the ‘Eco-bag’. Not sure of it’s exact function though (I wish I’d paid more attention and drunk less wine).

Also in the running are: A woman desperate to see her extra super-special hair extensions (apparently they’re better somehow) hit the shelves, a ridiculous camp little fellow who wants to launch his own free student newspaper and some dullard and his harebrained remote-controlled indoor helicopter concept – the helicopter will be crash proof so he claims and ideal for living rooms etc, although I can’t believe that it never occurred to anyone that everything else in the room would have to be fucking crash proof as well. Bizarre.

So, here is my interpretation of what happened next – The two gardeners wanted to call their business ‘Garden Girlies’. Peter said no. They changed their name to ‘Sod’, and surprisingly, Peter loved it, though personally, I prefer ‘Buggery’, or maybe even ‘Rape’ (that was not a confession). Posh tart ended up inventing a drink that already exists and floundered like a legless ape in trying to come up with a name for it. Her original idea was ‘Vopples’, an ingenius play on the words vodka and apples. That was rejected though as Jonesy pointed out that it wouldn’t work with the other flavours she planned on making. She then came up with a plethera of equally awful suggestions such as ‘Frusion’ before settling on ‘Fruka’, which was also rejected when Jonesy pointed out that saying “Do you want a Fruka?” sounds like “Do you want to fuck her?”. Fair point.

The camp paper boy failed to acknowledge that there was any competition for his impending student rag despite the fact that the pie-fingered Piers Morgan had already released a similar product, entitled ‘First News’ (I think). Paper boy later completely ballsed up during his pitch by presenting Jonesy with a mock-up of his newspaper, essentially a single sheet of A3 paper with the ‘news’ printed on each side. Jonesy was not amused and despatched a rather amusing bollocking the way of the boy.

After trying to sell their products, ‘Sod’ came out on top making just over a thousand pounds in profit, while Eco-bag man made £35. As far as I could tell no-one else made a bean. And for some strange reason, old lankypants decided to give the extra money (£20,000) to indoor helicopter boy, so he could swan off abroad to drum up some interest or some such nonsense. To be honest, by this time I had drunk far too much wine and was – am – a bit worse for wear.

Right at the end, Peter met the posh mother Fruka at the end of a pier and told her that he felt a bit like closing her business down. He should have just pushed her in the water though because she began to weep and beg and claimed to posses the ability to move mountains, at which point Peter got scared and walked away.

He really is a funny one, Peter Jones. There’s something other-worldly about the man. I could easily be convinced that he is just a puppet at the mercy of miniature creatures who control him by pulling levers in his brain. When he’s not being driven about in the back of a car wearing various pastel shades, he’s doing other amusing things like explaining how he lost a fortune in his 20’s, consequently having to “sleep on a floor”.

Still, can’t wait ’til next week when Paul McKenna tries to motivate the desperate fools with optimistic words and thoughts.

Nick Ferrari at Breakfast – LBC

 

For some reason, possibly the same reason that I put myself through the televisual shredder that is The F Word, I tune into Nick Ferrari most mornings while ironing my shirt and doing everything I can to banish the day’s hangover. If you haven’t seen him trying to snatch a little bit of limelight on current affairs shows before or if you happen to live outside of London, he’s the fat twonk above.

Nick basically pushes his point of view so far to the right that he’s skirting on the edge of Daily Mail nazism every single fucking morning.

I play a game with myself every morning (not that kind of game, pervert) wherein I think about the events of the previous day and then, before tuning in to blubbery Ferrari, try to guess what he’ll be covering and what angle he’ll take on it. This morning I emerged victorious from my front door, having correctly guessed that, without condoning racist language, Nick would go some way to defending the late Bernard Manning based on the era he came from. It’s the easiest game in the world, now I think about it.

Ferrari’s regular guests include Mark Dolan of Balls of Steel fame. Jane Moore the Sun columnist also turns up to talk shit occasionally, as well as a handful of other  Telegraph-type journos who are completely out of touch with reality and who seem content with the fact that your average phone-in listener is a racist, homophobic shyster in a white van. And me. With those kinds of pals on board, you can imagine it’s a laugh-a-minute.

Worth a listen if you fancy being sick on your bacon.

Big Brother 8 – 18.6.07

 

Thank fuck Shabs has gone. She was actually starting to cause me medical complications; so unremittingly illogical and affected was she that I was finding myself mentally rewinding back through pyschobabble comments in conversations just to assure myself that, yes, this is really a genuine psychopath I am watching. MIND (the charity for mental health) have openly criticised Channel 4 for allowing a Looney Tune onto their show. The psychologists on ‘On the Couch’ have clearly been briefed on damage limitation here, I mean Shabs could have genuinely lost it live on air, we’re not talking about the odd burst of random giggling here, we’re talking about a woman on all fours with someone’s bollock hanging out of her mouth.

If you care to go on Youtube and do a bit of research you’ll already know that a few weeks ago Shabs appeared on ‘Britain’s got Talent’ in a scene so mortifyingly toe-curling, my shoes nearly burst open. If this isn’t bad enough (it really is, watch with restraints) she also appeared on Channel 4’s embarrassing illnesses. Her ‘embarrassing illness’ was a bit of an itchy head, yet she pitched this medical irrelevance as if she had eyes for fucking nipples (or vice versa if you like).

This twat knows no bounds, you’ll see her again, probably on the news but I’m bracing myself for the gutter press to leak the story that she’s starring in an adult version of Happy Feet.

So, the new contestants. Frankly I don’t mind any of them, though how on earth how Billi has the balls to call himself a male model is beyond me. You could open a manhole with that nose. In addition he has the figure of Britney Speares, cameltoe included. Liam seems a nice straightforward sort, Jonathan could become a handful I think but at this stage, fine. Brian too seems okay, despite his Christopher Lee playing Dracula haircut and unashamed intention of doing something so disgusting to those twins I should imagine their father is muttering at a kitchen knife.

The rest of the housemates haven’t really done anything to cause a radical rethink of my recent blog on this topic. Laura, Nicky and Carole are odds on to win, I still don’t mind the Greek bloke despite his musical accent, Tracey is still barking like a rutting stag all the while gurning like Jim Bowen with cataplexy, Seany remains a prize blue-eyed berk and Chanelle is still a worrying combination of both the Barbies, the doll and Klaus Marie.

Fucking Charley is now the most awful housemate of all time. She seems unable to leave those melted plastic armpit implants alone, she fiddles with them perpetually. Sometimes one will poke out of her shirt like a dead otter’s head, always accompanied by an intense frown she’ll half heartedly try to drop it back into the position intended by nature. She always fails of course, hickory is more flexible. She’ll have someone’s eye out you mark my words.

Speaking of words, or to be more accurate, belt-fed mortar bursts of aggression being fired out of the mouth of the Gorgon, who is incandescent with rage because someone failed to respect her bogies, how does she manage to find time to inhale mid-oration? I’m convinced all that hair is some sort of crude third lung; it’s the only possible solution.

(She still has a cracking little botty though.)

The one housemate who has let themselves down most this week has to be Ziggy. He really doesn’t like any male competition at all, which is a fucking weird. He strutted about like Bernard Matthew’s pride cock for the first few days, his gander was goosed when the two new male housemates arrived but was visibly relieved when he found out that they (claimed) to be fairies.

He was just settling back into his alpha male role when four new male housemates arrive. This was too much, he looked physically sick as each one walked in and proverbially smacked the end of his engorged member sharply with the back of a cold spoon. The way he reacted to this threat was fascinating, and, dear reader, you must try and catch him at it, it’s so much fun in a despatching an injured fox way.

Ziggy gave me and I’m sure you, the impression that he was quite, well, poshish. Well spoken suburban type, clearly with an ego that spies on his self-consciousness with military precision but, nonetheless, more coherent than is necessary.

Now watch him talking to the new ‘lads’, he went from Lord and Lady Hamilton’s Lawn Tennis clubhouse in Royal Tunbridge Wells to selling pornographic postcards on the Ol’ Kent Road. This wasn’t a case of downward convergence; this was a 35 stone wide boy plummeting to his death from the top of Bow Church.

I’ve lost whatever respect I had for him; frankly, he may as well have just scrawled a schematised drawing of Che Guevara on his chest with one of his stools.