Posts Tagged ‘Cheese’

cheestrings

April 29, 2008

The cocky little fucker walking about the school with his hand filled with ‘cheestring’. The angry teacher wishing to know more about this child’s cheesy comestible…

’What’s that?’ the angry teacher fumes, pointing at the yellow bendy lump of gittery in the infants callous hand. Both he and the boy look down ‘pon the item in question.

‘Well…’ says the boy, an expression of assured knowingness, before we’re hit with a baffling five scene montage. Sped up footage of green, green grass growing out of the soil under an azure blue sky. A cow’s gob munching on said grass, milk spunking into a bucket. A factory with huge cubes of cheese passing on a conveyor, then suddenly a packet of cheestrings materialises.

Sorry? What was the bit between the cow’s milk and these massive lumps of symmetrical cheese and now this miniscule bundle of cheesy hair? Some devilry has taken place – alchemy – and the first three aspects of the montage are supposed to justify the last? I beg to differ.

Like the witch employing subterfuge in order to carry out maleficia, nature has been exchanged for a packet of… well. What? What the fuck is it? It would seem that it is made from ‘100% cheese’ but something had been done to it make its texture akin to muscle sinew. Something unholy, something evil…

The advertisers are trying to present cheese as healthy and natural. Whilst delicious cheese is a processed and unhealthy foodstuff, it’s a lump of fucking fat. In this form it has been reprocessed into something you could stick a wick in and set fire to.

After being blasted in the face with this ludicrous short we return to the cheeky young cunt in front of the scowling teacher.

‘Cheese’ the little bastard says, like he’s just got one over on the ‘The Man’, like he’s stuck it to ‘The Man’ by eating some fucking cheese and he saunters off looking all smug and suchlike.

Since when has any act of teenage rebellion involved cheese? Waving a knife about, trespassing and killing a dog are all bona fide run-of-the-mill acts of rebellious expression in the young. I accept that. But eating fucked-up cheese in the corridor at break time?

I have every sympathy for the teacher. Way before he’d a chance to get a word in I’d have run up soundlessly to the little tyke, landed a flying kick to his neck and, when down, pounded the living shit out of him before saying ‘what’s that? what’s that?’ ad infinatum, referring to the bit of yellow protruding out of his broken fingers. The advert would end with a cow being slaughtered by naked Viet Cong and topped off with a single shot of a man’s hat.

Let’s face it; it has more of bearing on reality than the fuck presented by these, erm, fucks.

Next week, The Renault Clio, an external sign of inner paedophilia.

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How To Have Sex After Marriage

October 18, 2007

Bride and groom 

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.

Wife Swap: When The Police Get Called In!

May 21, 2007

Noelie & Robin

After a weekend of all-out boozing I can handle watching any old shit, and so it was that I managed to watch all of Shipwrecked (trustafarian, fake-tan berks bitching) and then got myself involved with Wife Swap on Sunday evening. But this wasn’t just any old Wife Swap – this was Wife Swap: When The Police Get Called In!

I’m so pleased they put that tag line after the colon there – I don’t trust myself to process information and I’d like, at this point, to thank Channel 4 for taking my idiocy for granted and telling me exactly what was about to happen, thus rendering the show pointless. Not only did they make it obvious from the title, before each ad break they showed about five seconds worth of footage from the next chunk, in each instance pretty much all you needed to know about the next fifteen minutes. Again, this made any peripheral footage redundant.

Wife Swap’s always been a parade of grotesques and last night was no different. Usually we’re served up a middle to upper class couple clashing with a working class/ poverty line partnership and then invited to watch the fireworks go BANG. This time, in only a very minor change to that formula, the middle class types swapped with a nouveau riche couple, all garish clothing and tasteless decor. Noilie, a strange man-woman with what looked like augmented breasts, leopard-skin leggings and two costumed lapdogs was the partner of Robin, a multi-millionaire. Robin beat John Inman on the camp-scale and I found it hard to believe he wasn’t out and proud – from his dangling gold jewellery to his pink pringle sweater by way of his pencil moustache. Everything about him screamed ‘screaming homosexual’. But their relationship seemed to work, she attending to his every need and he apparently charming her faux-satin socks off.

In the middle class coupling we met Adam and Melissa. She, as with many of this new generation of middle class mothers, was obsessed with all things organic, eco-friendly cleaning products and living as ethically as possible. She used a lemon to clean the toilet. On the opposing team, Noelie used a full kettles-worth of boiling water and half a litre of bleach, daily. I’m surprised her bog hadn’t dissolved. Despite Noelie and Robins’ complete lack of regard for the environment (which is more forgivable than outright snobbery), they weren’t as dumb as one might have thought.

During a polite dinner, having had a gutful of sanctimonius bullshit from the insufferable Adam, Noelie raised the hilariously apt point that Adam drove an enormous 4×4 – thus making him a complete hypocrite. He couldn’t defend himself from that accusation and this is where the swap ended. The reason the police were called in? Over in the other house, Robin and Melissa were having drinks with a friend of Robin’s called Malcolm. Malcolm was pissed out of his tree. At one point (we didn’t see this) he apparently ‘patted’ Melissa’s bottom. We did see him try to give her a peck on the cheek. She seemed amused by the whole situation and told him to go home to bed.

It would seem that, after Adam called off the swap, he and Melissa flipped out, possibly due to embarassment and decided to go to the police with this bizarre claim of a sex attack. Melissa knew that the cameras would have got everything and dropped the charges two days later, but those two days were a front-page nightmare for Robin and Noelie. Malcolm, the alleged perpetrator of the ‘attack’ was filmed in tears, worrying about his nine year old daughter.

At what point did Channel 4 think it would be best to stay out of the investigation, only voyeuristically filming with no actual input? What did they do to protect Malcolm? Apart from the tagline, this was packaged as an average, run-of-the-mill Wife Swap, when in fact it contained evidence that someone had lied to the police to besmirch someone else’s reputation. Fair enough, but where was the condemnation of the accuser who was blatantly making her story up? Watching this whole sorry, stinking farrago made me feel dirty.

But not as dirty as Pornography: A Secret History over on UKTV History a bit later.

Fat Man’s Warning

May 4, 2007

Steve Daly 

I’m glad I’m not fat. If I was, I would be even sicker than I already am of all of the health based scare-mongering going on.

This time it’s a fat American who thought he’d drag his unwanted, sagging mass into the
UK to warn us that we’re heading for a plague of pigshit if we keep munching burgers and cakes, etcetera, in Fat Man’s Warning, last Sunday.

His name is Steve Daly. Apparently he’s a comedian but I wouldn’t be surprised if his act just consisted of him poking fun at himself for being fat in the hope that others might not.

It’s hardly worth mentioning that his feet are too fat for normal shoes or that he can barely do anything other than eat. Nor is it worth saying that he’s on the verge of death, they always are in these programmes about massively obese food botherers. Anyway, there’s no way his heart can keep pumping blood around that mess for much longer.

I read an article about his quest in a local rag prior to it’s airing, and I recall a quote by Daly in which he claimed that “Britain is about four years behind
America, and soon you’re all gonna be as fat as me”.

Later in the show he again reiterated that Britain is about four years behind America.

Two things here, This unsightly shit is an arrogant arse, who clearly thinks we are so stupid and ignorant about the weight debate, that we need some stinking pile of shit to come over here and ‘save us’ with his one man crusade. Well I happen to think he should sort himself out before he mouths off outside KFC or McDonalds with his banner aloft, trying to spread fear among the public.

Next, I would beg to differ that we are indeed four years behind America. It sounds to me like something Americans tell each other to feel good about themselves.

So anyway, you get the picture, he visits
Britain’s towns and cities pestering those foolish enough to engage with him. He waddles around with a placard saying ‘I love KFC, look at me’, trying to strike up preachy conversations about food with locals.

In one scene, Daly prowls the streets protesting about himself again, and starts a conversation with some teenage lame-brain who commented that the government should ban McDonalds and the like, since they know it’s unhealthy. At this point Daly praised the boy for his intelligence in saying this.

Good idea, why not ruin it for everyone just because some fat hoovers have no self control?

Those who can’t regulate their eating habits deserve to suffer. Some may say they should be lead them down to the bottom of the garden like worn out dogs and shot for being the broken creatures they are, but obviously, I would never say such a thing.

Anyway, the show was shit. In fact, this programme was so one dimensional it felt like a conversation with Jade Goody.

Daly is a useless toilet with no people skills, who isn’t even particularly clever or articulate. As for being a comedian, he must have left his joke book at home because he didn’t crack one gag, and if he did, then I didn’t hear it.

I felt that the scene where he coaxed a bunch of young kids to climb inside his trousers was bumbling into the arena of the perverted, but somehow he got away with it. Ok, he wasn’t wearing them at the time, but still…

In one of his sermons he cries “A child, when it’s obese won’t make it past fifty three years old”. That really makes sense, I thought. That must be why I never see any fat 54 year old children anywhere.

Here is what I couldn’t understand – one minute he’s drawing crowds as he delivers his grim message of doom, the next he’s wandered off somewhere else and is scoffing chips, kebabs and the whole caboodle with fat locals. There is a scene later on where he goes into Mills store with a load of kids – yep, hanging around kids again (seemingly the only people who’ll listen to him) – and buys a carrier bag full of chocolate bars. I’m guessing he thinks he’s doing research when actually he’s sending out confused messages. He’s telling people not to eat the very stuff he’s stuffing his fat face with. I think it’s an elaborate ploy in which he plans to consume all the junk food in the world for himself.

Another pearl from the Steve Daly book of wisdom? Ok: “Blackpool is a giant toy in the happy meal of
England”.

Shit stuff.

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?