Archive for September, 2007

The Wright Stuff (again)

September 12, 2007

Wright 

Did you happen to catch The Wright Stuff medical phone-in last Tuesday morning? If not, you missed the most revolting 15 minutes of television I’ve witnessed in a long time.

First to phone in was a man whose penis had gone all bent out of shape thanks to his bad diet (for examples of a bad diet see Piqued). This wasn’t all that bad, considering what came next.

Because next up was a man who, when he sat at his computer and farted, had an oil he described as being ‘like that liquid on the top of a curry’ leak out of his arse and contaminate his chair. He didn’t describe whether he was cursed with this mysterious arse-oil when he farted on other seats, so I was led to believe it only happened when he farted at his computer. The doctor suggested it might be pancreatic cancer – an illness I had no idea made you fart oil whilst looking at the internet.

Next was a man who’d picked up arse-worms whilst trekking around India. The doctor suggested he look at his arse in the mirror but, arse-worms being the shy little devils they are, he’d have to catch them off guard. The plan was to lull them into a false sense of security by turning off the lights, then catch them in the act of wriggling out of the guy’s anus by shining a torch at them as he crouched in the dark straddling a mirror looking at his own arsehole.

Finally there was the guy who, when attempting a fart, ended up belching instead. Of course, this being the most disgusting phone-in show ever devised by man, the belch stank of farts. He wasn’t best pleased. Who would be? Farting out of their mouth like that? Imagine if you did it at a dinner party? Or in Smith’s?

For years, my grandfather has been thundering at me that television has gone down the pan. For three decades I’ve dismissed his cries and wails as the moans of a hoary old misery guts stuck in a time-warp of Morecambe & Wise Christmas Specials and Dad’s Army. After seeing this … this … whatever it was, I am now in complete agreement with him.

Nigella Express

September 11, 2007

ooof 

I was a Nigella virgin before last night, in that I’d never seen any programme featuring the yummy mummy ever before in my pristine life. Like the big fat naughty nanny that she is, last night she snapped my hymen rigorously as I settled down to the outright mess of  upper class twattery that was Nigella Express. And it hurt. Oh boy, did it hurt.

I’ve heard it said that Nigella is considered sexy by quite a few fellows, clearly those who like a bit of meat on a lady (and there’s nowt wrong with that, I hasten to add). She’s also been praised for her curves, for having the gumption to avoid slimming down for the cameras. Good for her, say I, but let’s not dwell on it as I don’t see people lining up to praise me for my love handles, so the fact she’s fairly normal-looking is irrelevant. Especially when one considers that, on last night’s evidence, she’s a mad-eyed, contemptible braggart whose television muck I shall never, ever watch again.

Christ all-bloody-mighty! I’ve never seen a housewife so smug! She waddles about the place like a balloon on clown shoes, showing off about the size of her larder. She parades her indescribably awful little offspring in his nu-rave outfit (who can’t skateboard for toffee, I ought to add). Worse than all this, she grins with a terrifying, gaping grimace whenever she looks at the camera, making grating asides about portion sizes to make us think ‘hey! She’s fat which makes her great – she’s just like us!’.

No, no, no! She’s not ‘just like us!’. She is, in fact, just like any richer-than-average, self-satisfied bastard who doesn’t have to do a proper job for a living. She’s the sort of person who says ”darling’ instead of someone’s first name, for Christ’s sake. She’s a boring, overhyped ne’erdowell who earns too much money, too little of which is taxed, and she should be exterminated.

NB: The food she cooked was shit.