How To Have Sex After Marriage

 

Last night I got drunk. Not only did this result in me taking my better half’s keys with me to work by mistake, locking her in the flat like some possessive psychopath and ruining her morning, it also meant that I watched this rubbish last night while round at my mate’s hovel. The subsequent review might be tarnished by my wobbly view and the Grolsch windscreen I watched it through.

From what I could gather, a married couple sat about and suffered an interview situation where three ‘experts’ (Christ alone knows what they’re experts in) assessed their problems. The first test of their relationship seemed simplistic to the power of a bajillion. They scored one another on big flip-pads out of ten on three fronts: interestingness, looks and sexual attraction.

Problems, for me, kick in at this point. For a start, Channel 5 are actively grinding years of marriage guidance counselling into a five minute sequence in which a hapless couple of berks, usually working in marketing or PR, make tits of themselves with magic markers on an almost-unwatched terrestial channel. Also – if they get a mark of five or lower for more than two of the three topics, are as yet unmarried and without offspring – surely the best advice is to tell them to split the fuck up? Being with someone you find boring and don’t fancy seems to be a bit of a pointless exercise, and no amount of televised activity is likely to help. You’d need a brainwasher to aid the situation, not a two-bit Channel 5 ‘expert’. It riles me, this rubbish, it really does.

They marked each other and didn’t get above five for any of the criteria, had a little cry then were separated for a week. It was in their week apart that we watched them find themselves with an expert each.

First up, the bloke did some manly things to assert his inner-bear. He swang from trees like a monkey, climbed a ladder and did other physical things, all whilst bizarrely sporting a leather jacket. Clearly image comes before performance in his worldview. The fact that he looked like a flabby Ian Beale is clearly beside the point. Obviously, any manliness he felt he’d built up from all this was kind of absorbed and spoilt by the fact that he admitted, on television, that he is completely squashed like a wingless gnat beneath his lady’s domineering thumb, the ponce.

In order to rid herself of her violent oppressive tendencies, his no-longer-beloved spent a bit of time learning how to be submissive (believe me, it’s not worth saying ‘ooer’ – she didn’t put on a French maid’s outfit or anything). The process entailed making dinner for an actor and being polite to him for a WHOLE afternoon. Bound to reverse an entire personality disorder, eh? She then went and tried on some lingerie with a woman who, if she didn’t have fake jubblies, definitely had a VERY supportive bra. Tits and thumb-woman swished around in the pants department of a rubbish shop and looked like they were as clueless as to what anything in the universe actually meant as the viewer was.

Finally, the couple went on their reconciliatory date after their obligatory established-reality-television-process makeovers. These makeovers were wholly unsuccessful, I ought to add, with the girl ending up looking like a flamenco dancer who’d let herself go and him resembling a randy 80s undertaker. When they kissed, I myself was almost reunited with the premium strength lager I’d poured onto an empty belly, in the form of sick. They snogged like truanting children, tongues flapping about and lips slobbering all over one another’s filtrum.

They said the sex that followed was ‘explosive’ in the final wrap-up, marking each other around the ‘8’ and ‘9’ mark in all criteria, not realising that this could only really be very much a temporary restoration of their relationship’s spark. Seeing as they were separated for a week and talked solidly about sex for those seven days, they were bound to have had a fumble. The pressure was immense – if they’d have bottled it and spent the night sexless they’d seem even more ridiculous than they already did. And on the telly n’all.

Really, judging by the way they dribbled over each other and fumbled and tugged during the snogging scene, they really need to look at their technique, above all else. Doctor Swineshead wouldn’t have bothered with the makeover, manliness training or lingerie shopping. He’d have prescribed hardcore, European SEXPORN to mend their ways. Watch and learn kiddies.

They’d be taking part in group DPs and experimenting with glory holes in no time, the slags.

World’s Worst Sex Change Surgeon

 

I’d browsed an article in some shoddy broadsheet about this chap somewhere down the line and been slightly disturbed by what I’d read. That doesn’t compare to how disturbed I was by what was shown on TV last night. Christ. Any man that watched it without clutching his family jewels at least five times has clearly never received a kick to the knackers, snapped their banjo or caught their old chap in their fly. This was ‘ooyah TV’, the kind of thing that makes grown men weep and women shudder with nausea. My missus, in fact, spent almost the entire show behind a cushion, which was weird because she was the one who changed the channel to this parade of nastiness in the first place.

Clearly, you can guess from the title of the show what was going on here. John Ronald ‘Butcher’ Brown is quite a narcissistic chap, seemingly bent on operating on hapless cheapskates despite never having earned a license to do so. Add to this the fact that his specialism was gender realignment and you’re guaranteed some of the nastiest real-life TV you’re ever going to see. Brown operated from his garage on transsexuals unable to find a willing doctor to operate on them, and unable to stump up the cash for the op. Brown offered a cheap service that apparently worked very well for some. His technique, according to those who’d successfully undergone his blade, was to lop off the little fellow, remove the chads and then ‘minimise’ the winky – thus making it a clitoris. Now, I’ve never seen a clitoris that looks like a bell-end in terms of size, shape and colour before (and I’ve read a bajillion jazz pamphlets in my time, believe you me), but apparently his method was successful from time-to-time. Blimey.

When it went wrong, it really, really went wrong. After moving surgery to Mexico to escape the police, at one point Brown operated on a couple of gay chaps who fetishised amputees. One of them actually wanted their left leg removed as they felt it would improve their sex life. As no normal surgeon would do this, they gave our mate, Butcher Brown a tinkle and he did the honours. Chap turned up, leg came off, chap died of blood loss, thankyou very much. Nice work, Butcher Boy. After this slight mishap, a truly depressing (and thoroughly minging) turn of events. Brown performed a sex change operation on the butchest bloke you’ve ever met and made a right bloody mess of it. In turning the winky inside out he punctured the rectum. This resulted in the transsexual involved being given a fanny that pooed. I’ll repeat that. A fanny that leaked poo.

Think about that.

A fanny that leaks poo.

Now. With that in mind (a fanny that leaks poo), imagine a million shots of grainy actual footage from Brown’s surgery of him cutting off members willy nilly, in some cases with a not-fully-anaesthetized patient moaning in pain. Imagine those shots interspliced with the narrative of the documentary, seemingly randomly, and have a think about whether you could’ve handled watching it. Bet you couldn’t. I could, because I’m tough.

At the end, Butcher Brown was interviewed in prison.

– ‘Do you feel any guilt for what you’ve done?’
– ‘No. Not really’.

At least he’s honest.

KFC 2

 

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?

Britain’s Fattest Teenager: Hidden Lives

 

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.

Skins

 

*American voiced deep-voice voice-over man voice*

THE 80S BROUGHT YOU PRESSGANG

THE 90S BROUGHT YOU HOLLYOAKS

And God looked round at what he had created and saw it was good.

So for 2007 we have Skins.

Skins is the bawdy tale of a group of Bristol friends who appear to be around upper sixth age (or year 13 or whatever it’s called these days) , takin’ drugs, shaggin’, boozin’, fightin’ and basically doing everything that you probably did between the ages of 16 (or younger if you were a delinquent) and 20 but squishing it down so it appears that this all happens on a twice daily basis.

I (vaguely) remember being at 6th form, but I’m sure I had to do work for my A-levels and have a Saturday job at Primark. That wouldn’t make such cutting-edge yoof-orientated programming though, admittedly.

But so much has changed since those heady days of 1994-1996. Did the good burghers of Hollyoaks have their own myspace pages? No, because the internet had hardly even been invented then, and it took forty minutes to download a single page, and it was more interesting to make mix-tapes anyway. But the Skins people do. Look at their faces here and here and here and . . . well, you get the idea.

It’s quite badly thought through though. Sid, for example, is the geeky-cool one. We have seen (in the last episode), the inside of his bedroom. He has a computer with internet access in it. How is it then, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that he last logged into his myspace account on the 29th of January this year? I am a 29 year old woman with a full-time job, yet I check mine more often than that (on works time, admittedly). IT JUST DOESN’T ADD UP.

Also, in a recent episode, Tony, the smug-faced kid from About A Boy dumps his girlfriend. They are back together now, but he remained in her ‘top friends’ while they were still split up. Hardly likely, is it. I moved someone out of my top friends for not replying to an email once, let alone pulling my heart out of my chest and stamping upon it.

Having reread all this, it might seem odd to spend so much time stalking virtual-teenagers through the internet, but it’s not. Okay? Don’t be so fucking judgmental! I FUCKING HATE YOU, YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME. I DIDN’T ASK TO BE FUCKING BORN.

*slams bedroom door*

Freaky Eaters

 

I wanted to watch Tattoo last night, a German film about a mental man who cuts intricate tattoos from the backs of alternative types – cyber goths, crusties, you know the sort. Dragons’ Den had ended (a strange episode filled with in-fighting amongst the Dragons, which was entertaining) and I rubbed my hands and nads together as I loaded the DVD player and prepared for misery. But then the DVD halted. DVDs are always broken these days. I fancy a return to VHS. Anyway, it wouldn’t bloody work and so regrettably me and the missus ended up watching BBC3’s ‘Freaky Eaters’.The programme details the rehabilitation of individuals who have somehow managed to forge themselves a very limited daily diet from which, psychologically they’re unable to veer from. They pick one foodstuff and they’re set on it, for life. Last week it was a shaven headed geek who could only stomach pizza and this week we were served up an Essex girl with a chip butty fetish. I like pizzas and I like a good chip butty, but if one of those was the only thing I was allowed to eat for every meal, I suspect I’d be bored by lunchtime and possibly suicidal by the time breakfast came around again. Variety is clearly the spice of life. To deal with the problem, the BBC sends in a dietician and a psychologist to solve the problem eating pattern. So over the course of an hour they set to work reversing the complex.An hour is a bloody long time. It’s two episodes of Dad’s Army. For some reason, Dad’s Army is the gauge I use to measure TV time and it’s something I’m unable to shake off. It’s the same with money and pints of lager. I count cash in blocks of £2.50 because that’s how much a pint of premium lager was in the pub when I was a teenager. We have these little habits, created in our formative years and they inform our decisions for better or worse. Freaky Eaters argues that the reason their participants have these bad habits is that they made one such decision early on in life and haven’t the facility to break the habit, despite the fact that their digestive tract is probably beginning to resemble a gnawed hose, even in their late 20s. Seriously, on a diet of chips I’d imagine she doesn’t shit for days on end.I can believe that this happens though. With the shaven headed chap, his pizza fixation was a result of a strange relationship with his father, who died while he was quite young and in a process of rebellion against his parents. So his diet was one way of continuing this resistance to admitting his natural love for his father. He talked this through with a counselor, spent time trying different food with a dietician and fixed his mind up good and proper. The cameraman got his tears from the rest of the family and everyone was happy.

Last night, however, the Essex girl they picked was not, perhaps, the best choice. They narrowed her chip butty kink down to the fact that when she was younger she had some form of bronchitis, meaning that if she ate and coughed at the same time, she would gag. The inference being that her problem stemmed from her mistrust of food in general. But then, when going through counseling, she giggled when asked questions about this period of her life, refusing to think that it might be the root of her extremely high carb diet. When offered different foods from the dietician she turned into a complete Daddy’s girl, spoiled and noxious and, let’s be open here, a right royal pain in the arse-end.

My feeling that she was simply the type of girl who had never found herself wanting, who was waited on hand and foot by her parents and doting boyfriend, was compounded when the ‘reveal’ of the programme arrived after 50 long, tedious minutes. To see if her gross obsession with fried spuds had been headed off at the pass she was taken to a posh restaurant with her boyfriend who, he had told the camera, prayed she would choose something other than chips. Guess what gang? She ordered chips, chips and only chips.

So not only was her time wasted, her boyfriend’s time was wasted and her family’s time was wasted. Oh – and the dietician’s time was wasted. And the psychologists. And mine and my missus’s time was wasted. And anyone who bothered watching this pile of crap’s time was officially, undeniably and irretrievably wasted.