Posts Tagged ‘Arse’

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.

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Nick Ferrari at Breakfast – LBC

June 19, 2007

 

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, 11.6.07

June 11, 2007

 Dickhead

Just over a week ago it was my grandfather’s 100th birthday. In between his moving reminiscences of times past, he hit upon the father of his beloved wife Alice, my grandmother, who had died a decade earlier. My granny was from southern Ireland and her father used to beat the shit out of her. He then died of alcoholism. My grandfather, in front of some of our Irish family, declared that in his opinion Irishmen were, and I quote, ‘professionally unstable’. A terrible, sweeping statement, which caused stifled gasps from some of the guests, including yours truly. Well. He’s 100, he been around, more so than this blog would have you believe I thought, his experiences and all that… The racist old shit.

Enter Prick Fucknall. As soon as I saw him, a poisoned blood vessel migrated up my back and popped behind my eye. Now, let me get this straight, one can accuse me of projecting my vitriol in order to sensationalise my posts (I don’t, I hasten to add), but when something of genuine horror greets me, I’ll either fight it or fuck off. Seany is this person, a horror straight off the racecourse, a baffling and revolting mixture of ‘Irish charm’ with the sort of self-adoration reserved for the likes of Bono and Geldof. Put it this way, I know he will have a genuinely offensive collection of porn. Without doubt this is the most awful housemate to have ever entered the BB house, bar none.

What’s beyond worse, and I mean unspeakably worse, is that he likes Tracey. You know – in a rude way. Really, if there is any quark of a chance that those two have any form of contact with each other, this includes a conversation lasting over 30 seconds, my TV is history.

The other new bloke, Bumcrack, the overtly gay, very camp gallery assistant from Greece – he’s not going to win any prizes for subtlety. ‘Sex is my vice’ he shrieked at the other contestants, or was it the viewing public? Either way, I nearly snipped off my own piles. He resembles a homosexual from antiquity. You know – the ones that would dress up as gold painted angels before being roughly had by decadent merchants from the East. He seems to be quite clever though, irritating as he is. I don’t like him.

A quick mention of Ziggy… Now he has ‘competition’ (purely in the form of a pair of extra willies, one without designs on the ladies, the other far too horrific to even regard) he’s going for broke. Chanelle, the recipient of his affections, has been subject to a new, more aggressive campaign of sexual harassment. Chanelle is nasty, nastier than has been previously noted. She’s running the show more than the other housemates realise, Ziggy is being allowed to indulge in clandestine snogs, it’s not the other way round. I think Ziggy knows this which is why he is becoming increasingly desperate for attention. If it fails with Chanelle, I can see him waking up the twins just so they can watch him take a sleepy Carol up the Gary Glitter.

But today’s blog is dedicated to Lesley, the sad, lonely, self-effacing insecure turd that she was. I reckon she was getting a much better time of it at the hands of the BB editors/producers because the hysterical old cunt reminded them of their mothers. From day one I couldn’t stand her, she’s the sort of person to scream the place down because someone dropped a French Fancy the wrong way up on the recently upholstered Chesterfield. She’d start off by assuring the terrified guest that it’s not a problem/we all make mistakes type thing before throwing a prolapse-derived wobbly, resulting in said guest being removed by her fanny hairs and thrown on to the street.

Lesley – she could make a volcano out of pile of cake crumbs. This is born out by the way she treated her time in the house. For Lesley, it was Stalag Luft 3. It was all about dealing with the enemy, about coping with adversity in the face of terrible hardship. The final straw was when Fucknall, being coerced by the hard-glue hooters of Charley, ripped her duvet off. A cuntish thing to do I’ll admit but her reaction was enough to cause me to stand, point and go AH-HAR at the screen. 

You see, throughout her time in the house you could’ve actually been forgiven for forgetting that she VOLUNTEERED to go in, that it was HER DECISION to be involved. She wasn’t captured, coerced into being in the fucking house… Yet we all paid by having to put up with her Easter Island visage with moaning patronising words coming out of it. Lesley thought she was so much better than anyone – better bred, manners, education, intelligence… but in the end she was just another prick who forgets that they asked for everything they get as well as what will come.

Some will do well out of this. Laura is still my favourite to win but Nikky is coming up fast. I like her a lot and she, unlike fucking Lesley, is doing a whole lot more for the modern women than that humourless wanker could in a lifetime.

Big Brother 8 – 3.6.07

June 4, 2007

Ziggy Turd 

Now Ziggy played git.

“Daddy’s home” announced Ziggy (‘music producer’ and ‘ex model’) to an entirely empty lobby. Self-consciously brushing over this hilarious display of backfired nonchalance, he entered the house. I reckon as soon as he was chosen for BB he spent endless nights thinking of what he was going to say when he first went in, he didn’t say anything when he entered the living room because he’d simply run out of ideas.

Ziggy (‘Ziggy’ for fucks sake, I bet he’s really called Colin) is a self-assured humourless prick. He has one of those prat haircuts, all highlights and product. He’s a toned, tall twat. If he liked himself any more, he’d be a permanent geyser of white-hot spunk. Ziggy has a tattoo – an ‘I’ll have that one’ tattoo from a parlour in Surbiton. We know he has a tattoo because he wears sleeveless t-shirts and points it toward whoever he’s talking at, the big butch tool.

As soon as he walked in, most of the housemates’ clothes fell off. At one point, Chantelle, the self styled Posh Spice look-alike with a brain the size of a marble and tits to match, stood in front of Ziggy in his t-shirt, coquettishly acquired a few minutes earlier and as far as I could glean, nothing else. The other protagonist of operation flap was Emily, David Cameron’s lolly, whose knees have decided to take a break from each other. Charley got her charlies out in the pool but as they’re made of rock hard glue it doesn’t count.

Speaking of Charley she’s shaping up to be the BB berk, one minute she’s abusing the Queen’s English in a diatribe of misdirected invective at whoever is within earshot and the next she’s crying, or at least pretending to do so. Her conversation, when she’s not objecting to the colour of air, is clubbin’ and Premiership footballers. She’s an unashamed namedropper, this was pointed out by Emily who was displaying the padded crutch on her knickers, Charley didn’t understand a word she’d said, so she got cross anyway.

My other bone of contention rests solely at the paws of Lesley. Lesley – the lantern jawed warthog – is a conniving, shit-stirring old battleaxe. The only person that rivals her at all for out-and-out selfishness is cyber-tits. She thinks very highly of herself and looks down on everyone else. Horrid, right down to her vulgar earrings. As soon as she opens her miserable pie-hole, someone is being patronised. She’s trying to control the group and to some degree, due to a combination of stupidity and cowardice, she’s winning. Hitler was just like that.

Tracy is a fucking mental, more volatile than a retard holding an M16; I really can’t stand this one. She’s in a league of her own. Putting aside the sound of her voice, an angle-grinder trying to burp, I’m still trying to work out how she fundamentally communicates. I can hear bits of English among her anachronistic rave twaddlings but her facial gestures have a lexical choice all of their own. She seems to permanently resemble an orangutan shitting out sprockets. Despite what I’ve said about the others, I hope she goes first as I am genuinely, genuinely afraid of seeing her naked. I’d rather examine Carol’s growler with a Maglite through an inserted toilet roll tube.

As for the rest, they seem largely okay, the okayist of that lot being fat Laura who’s not put a foot wrong by my high standards. I must admit, despite being prone to weeping without reason, I’m warming to hairy old Aunt Flo too, the political porcine that she is.

The other housemates seem to be just getting on with it, I’ve not heard a peep out of the dear little twins, bless their cotton lobotomies and I think Shabnam has absconded.

Still, I’m enjoying it thoroughly but as already mentioned, I’ll enjoy it a heck of a lot more when Tracey has gone back to her haystack.

The Apprentice, Series 3, Episode 8

May 17, 2007

Simon Ambrose thinks he's the man 

The world of corporate branding, no matter what the experts tell you, is dominated by one cold, hard rule. Mark E Smith put it best when he garbled some brilliant, unrelated nonsense about the ‘three Rs’ – ‘repetition, repetition, repetition’. Repeat your brand name at any given opportunity – stamp it into the empty, blinkered heads of the masses. Flash your logo whenever you can. One word intertwined with one image, and there you have your branding. Repeat it a mind-numbing amount of times and pray that your target is stuck with it for life. And that, as we all know, is what corporate branding is.

In this series of the Apprentice it’s becoming clear that the tasks are structured a lot more rigidly. Essentially it boils down to this: listen to the brief, word-for-word. Follow it to the letter. Don’t allow peripheral annoyances to bother you and you’ll win. Sugar say: ‘best of British produce’ – get the finest quality Brit foodstuffs you can lay your paws on. Sugar say: ‘Get all the products on the list’, don’t worry about a bit of tardiness. It’s actually amazing how this hasn’t sunk in for some of our cast of hopefuls, but still, it hasn’t. Meaning the quality of the series remains.

Incidentally, Sugar was on Jonathan Ross last week, and he slagged off the likes of me, calling us armchair critics a yiddish word (‘kvetsch’, possibly?) which sums up those who mock without trying. He has a point, but nevertheless, let’s focus on where the losing team fucked up, and balls to Sir Alan.

Ghazal was taken up on her offer of being team leader, looking to prove a point as she failed to shine last week. She led a team of girls – Naomi, Kristina and Katie. Ah – Katie. Dreaded Katie – the scourge of this series. Katie said, at one point, that she hoped Kristina would get fired in a ‘physical sense’. Which suggests she wants Kristina dead. Killed by gunshot. She’s a nice girl, ain’t she?

As Naomi – herself an experienced ad executive – prepared to take a leading role, coming up with an umbrella concept for them to brainstorm (vomit-inducing word), Katie stole the reins from her loose grip and began pushing the name ‘JAM’ for the trainers. It was given to the designers and the logo promptly branded onto the footwear. As the brainstorm (again, horrible word that – can’t believe I’m using it) progressed, Katie coerced Ghazal into using the tired pun on sole/soul, coming up with ‘Music’s In Your Sole’ as a strapline. Not great. They couldn’t tie it into the name JAM (though there is actually a tenuous link), and thus their branding was all over the bleeding shop, to use Sugar parlance.

Jadine, finally at the forefront having skulked in the shadows (has she been on holiday?) took charge of the other team and made the decision to go with an all boy’s group. With Tre, Simon and Lohit on side, she cruised to victory. Despite the utterly woeful advert they produced, they branded heavily. In fact, I’m sick of the word ‘street’, which was the name of their product from the off, alongside the tagline ‘Reclaim the Streets’. Cheesy as a fetid cock, but it sticks in the mind. In fact, it’s indelible, I can still hear Hampstead-boy Simon’s attempt at bustin’ a flow over some urrrrban beats as he told the massive to reclaim the streets. His crap patois is still ringing through my poor shell-likes. Subtle, it was not. Why not get Jadine or Tre to do the voiceover? Admittedly Lohit might not have sold many running-shoes with his softly camp approach.

They also got Simon to do the dancing for the video as they couldn’t find any actual dancers. The sum total of his skillset was the ability to pull off a handstand. Shite-bollocks dancing, Tre called it and I couldn’t have put it better myself. ‘I’m a dance-man’, he repeated to himself, over and over. ‘You’re no 50 cent. More like 2 bob’, Sugar more accurately had it. He seemed tickled by Simon’s performance though, his mask slipping slightly in the boardroom. Golden boy Simon somehow won the day yet again. They all got to make cocktails in the Savoy afterwards, and then put those cocktails in their faces. The lucky bastards.

In the boardroom, fun and games. Ghazal’s tactics of defence were simultaneously clever (bringing back Katie and Naomi – the worst performers) and idiotic (shouting meaningless nonsense whenever asked a question or criticised). Katie largely kept quiet whilst Ghazal needlessly laid into Naomi. We, Katie, Sugar and Ghazal all know that it was Katie’s fault the task was failed, with all her talk of urban consumer ‘Jay’, the street kid she’d invented, presumably drawing on her experience of working with down-and-out Etonians.

When it came to what has now become the regular ‘Katie-dig’ section, she was branded a ‘loser’ by Sugar, having been on the losing team for 6 out of 8 tasks. You can’t really argue with that. Sugar put it in football terms, and 6 points out of a possible 24 is surely relegation form. However, in a slightly artificial moment of drama, Sugar switched from a huge Katie-critique to Ghazal and fired her. Which is a shame as she’s a bit of a smasher in the looks department. Especially when sitting alongside the boardroom face of Katie, which is essentially a rictus grin on a puce/purple backdrop of wobbly skin.

Somehow, Katie holds on. Her card’s marked and she’s disliked by a nation, but somehow her claws remain on the corporate ladder. God willing, she’ll slip spectacularly.

The Apprentice, Series 3, Episode 6

May 3, 2007

 Scary Panel

Are you interesting?

Finally Lohit actually featured in an episode – he was Project Manager on a task that saw the idiots packed off to France to sell English food to the French. Still, somehow Lohit managed to slide pretty squarely into the background. For some unfathomable reason the programme was edited as though Simon was the team leader, focusing on all his strengths (good French language skills) and weaknesses (two-faced silver-tongued berk). Up against Lohit – it was the moment I’d personally been waiting for since day one – Paul was to lead a team for the first time. And what a cloyingly posh, sneering simpleton he proved himself to be.

Dazed by his love for the nauseatingly fawning Fido Dido, Paul seemed to make every wrong decision count. Usually on this show, we’re shown a selection of mistakes by both team leaders. This time round, Paul clearly made so many boobs whilst staring at Fido’s that the errors actually submerged any mistakes Lohit made. It was an hour long Paul Disaster Movie, and all the more enjoyable for it.

The only errors I can remember being made by Lohit (and I’m sure you’ll pull me up on this) were his poor French ‘I have some products for you – are you interesting?’ and sharing a twin bedroom with Simon. As they turned out the light, Simon said ‘If you can’t be good, be careful’. I’m not sure he had control of his mind there – I’ll leave the insinuation for you to work out.

So, Paul had complete control and he screwed things up with all the might his puny frame could summon. Think of some English foodstuffs that might appeal to the fussy French palette. Stilton perhaps. Wensleydale. Hot English pies and crumbles. Strawberries and clotted cream. Yum. Now think of the kind of processed cheese you get from the off-licence when you’ve spent all day drinking and require cheese-on toast before your stomach eats itself and you puke up your kidneys. Imagine lumps the size of breeze-blocks of that kind of cheese in a nasty plastic wrapping. Imagine trying to sell that to a Frenchman, in France. Imagine going home with with it again. Imagine binning it, as you realise you are a complete fucking tool. You’d feel shame, wouldn’t you? You’d hold your hands up and say ‘bad idea’? Not so Paul.

Another mistake was to draw on his army days when cutting corners in finding a suitable stove to cook sausage samples on. Christ knows what he was doing with a flammable jelly, and that same good Lord only knows why Adam persisted in trying to get the bloody thing to work for several hours. Adam, while we’re at it, also blew a pocketful of cash on a nasty advertising hoarding that read ‘Traditionals Foods of English Mans’. It was a garbled, technicolour vomit-mess. But he was only following orders, it transpired.

In the end, the completely terrifying but refreshingly sensible Kristina tried to wrestle back some degree of sanity by sweet-talking her way into a local cafe and using their frying facilities. Things began to sell. Where was Paul while this happened? He was selling sausages for the price he paid for them and trying to flog pork to a fasting Muslim. Genius.

The boardroom was 12 minutes of very predictable banter. It was crystal clear Paul was going to go. He had to. He also fell into the trap of choosing people to go back with him into the boardroom simply because he didn’t like them, or thought he could blame them. This isn’t Big Brother – this is survival of the fittest. How could Paul have thought for one second that Kristina might have got fired? She’s got ‘Apprentice Winner 2007’ written all over her thin-lipped face. Maybe he was trying to save Fido Dido. Which means we have to put up with her for another bloody week. Blast.

It’s interesting to consider how Adam is the only contestant from the North of England who is left in the house and reflect on how this influences his treatment from all the other bastards. Looking closely last night, it’s clear that he’s simply being bullied. Perhaps his nervousness when project managing the tiger-lolly task was fed a little by the fear that he’s being ousted as a Northern commoner by the more privileged of the pack – and here I’m looking at Fido ‘should-have-gone-three-weeks-ago’ Dido and Simon. It’s simple bullying. I just hope he toughens up and gives as good as he gets.

I think more of Jadine‘s malapropisms and gobbledegook is what’s required to keep things funny rather than nasty over forthcoming weeks – the business world ain’t all sandwiches and biscuits after all, right?

The Apprentice, Series 3, Episode 5

April 26, 2007

Tit Eating Fish 

Some blonde-on-blonde ‘art’ action after nine ‘o’ clock on BBC1? Surely not.

Actually, it was only the Apprentice.

Kristina Grimes – whose name makes her sound like a tart in a sitcom – took on Natalie Wood and to be honest it was clear from the off who was going to win this. Grimes is so self-assured she could sell you your own body for a cool half mill, whereas Wood is a well-meaning sort who hasn’t quite got what it takes to be number one in the business world (because what it takes is a psychopathic outlook on humanity and ethics).

This week’s task was to ‘take on the art-world’. The candidates would decide which two artists’ work they liked (of a very limited selection) and then try and flog them in an informal gallery setting. My problem from the very begin was that the art they were looking to flog was essentially commercial photography rather than anything truly interesting. Every picture on display wouldn’t have looked out of place in a high-end Arena. But then, I am a self-confessed art-buffoon who got an ‘E’ at A Level, so I’m probably wrong on that score.

The only photographer whose work I liked, the small rodenty chap with the insane pictures of his mum and dad prostrate on the floor in animal masks, was shunned early on as the teams went for the the most sellable and less interesting stuff.

I have to confess, I was with Fido Dido on this one. She at least had a sense of what she was talking about and seemed engaged with the market in a vague way. The fact she didn’t sell a picture is somewhat irrelevant – surely selling art is about making contacts above all else, rather than selling product wholesale.  Obviously that would make a series in itself and wouldn’t suit the Apprentice at all, so they made a difficult and complex industry into a simplistic buy, buy / sell, sell thing, and it didn’t work at all. If Tre is a better artist’s agent than Fido Dido, I’ll eat my own balls.

Speaking of Tre, once again he provided the only real comedy. This stemmed from the fact that he clearly has a very real problem with women, and more specifically, tits. He took all the pieces by one artist who apparently made work based around the ocean and the body against the wall, owing to the fact that it displayed a crab’s claw gripping a large breast’s nipple. His reasoning behind this? ‘I don’t wanna look at no tit-eating fish’.

A crab is not a fish, Tre. You fucking bozo.

My favourite moment last night was upper-upper class twit Paul ringing around to arrange guests for the viewing. “Hi, yah, I’m calling from a company called Stealth. Ya – Stealth. Ya – Stealth as in ‘Stealth Bomber'”. If someone that posh called me up and said that, I would assume that either the MOD were on to me for some reason and wanted to splash my guts onto concrete, or I’d have thought I was subject to a wind-up. Posh people are so amusing sometimes. And so rich, the bastards.

Adam, in his defence after the debacle of last week, has made back some ground after selling well and sticking to his principles. I reckon he’ll be in the final three. But it’s not worth a gamble – this programme is so unpredictable that I’d be wasting my hard-earned. I also enjoyed the entirely unnecessary shot of Naomi‘s bottom as she was massaged at a spa, as I’m sure a million teenage boys enjoyed it throughout the country.

Finally – what’s happened to Jadine? She was almost entirely edited out of this week’s edition. Maybe she made herself nauseous and had an off day.