The Apprentice, Series 3, Episode 8

 

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 F Word

 

Ramsay. He’s an interesting fellow, old Ramsay. Where Jamie Oliver isn’t just a narrow eyed, chubby cheeked berk, but actually has talent, drive and passion, Ramsay, it would seem, isn’t just a scrotum-faced sac of testosterone. He may resemble a huge testicle squirting spermy insults into the faces of innocents, but credit where it’s due, the fellow knows what he’s doing. He’s got ten michelin stars for Christ’s sake. In these foodie times that’s akin to having found ten holy chalices.But still, there are problems. I have no problem with swearing, and I have no problem with confrontation, but every once in a while the mask slips a little and we see a well of rage beneath the choreographed bad-mouthing and at any moment we sense he could smack out. Is that choreographed as well? Or is it this dangerous aspect that makes Gordon appealing? For me, it does the opposite. It makes him look like my old P.E. teacher, and he was a cunt.Ramsay teaches people, has a position of authority over them. That gives him the perfect opportunity to humiliate them. Throw in a camera crew and the opportunity multiplies. Watching a recent Kitchen Nightmare, we were subjected to Ramsay mocking a chef far further down the food chain for never having cooked mussels.

‘You’ve never cooked mussels?!’

‘No.’

‘YOU’VE NEVER COOKED MUSSELS?’

‘No.’

‘YOU’VE NEVER COOKED MUSSELS?’

‘NO. I’VE NEVER COOKED MUSSELS’

At this point Gordon proceeded to start doing a ‘joey’ impression at the chef, who reciprocated the gesture, and any semblance of adult behaviour disappeared. It’s only fair to point out that GR was berating the ‘chef’ of what was little more than a greasy spoon during this tirade, so his not having cooked mussels wasn’t exactly a massive shock.

Herein lies the problem. Walking around and calling people ‘big boy’, telling them to ‘stop playing with their doo dah and put the fucking tortellini on’ and continually (and I mean endlessly) asking them ‘where their balls are’ is exactly what a games teacher would do. And what’s the big deal anyway? Tortellini, mussels? Who gives a shit?

Now we’re into the second series of the F Word. This consists of Gordon wandering around a conceptual restaurant, teaching normal people to cook. With bursts of the worst theme music I’ve ever heard in my life buzzing in unneccessarily at any given moment.

GR arrived in the kitchen this week and slammed down the bloody carcass of a deer, shouting ‘THERE’S DINNER’. Echoes of Brando in Streetcar Named Desire. Primal man and his bloody package. Yeah – terrifying. The problem is, the highlights in his schoolboy hair rather shattered the image.

This week it was a group of ex-Etonians who Gordon quite rightly tore to pieces. They were put there for a reason – to make Gordon with his working-class authenticity (where the fuck did he get that accent then, big boy?) look good. And they couldn’t have chosen better targets from his bile – one of the chaps had an opening spiel that ran thus: ‘Yah, Dad set me up on a pretty solid share scheme so I get a pretty healthy income from that’. To top that off, he resembled a rapist.

Gordon also cooked a dessert with Natasha Kaplinsky, a woman so artifiicially constructed that I have genuinely forgotten what happened in her ten minute segment. Did she even speak, or did she stand there with those reptilian eyes, staring the camera out? I can’t for the life of me recall. By the time we got to the section where Gordon caught a facehugger in Lapland and cooked it, I’d only just come round. This section of course featured the obligatory Gordon topless shot. Every Gordon show features Gordon topless. He must have it carved into his contract in the producer’s blood.

An hour is a long time to spend on a cooking show, so obviously some junk is going to get chucked in. In series one, Ramsay had the excellent Giles Coren to fall back on for small pieces to camera about this and that, but he made his mark and has his own (far superior) TV shows to make these days, so Ramsay has called in Janet Street Porter (argh!) to fill his shoes. If anyone can tell me what was going on in her attempted assassination of Prince Charles’ food range last night, please give me a shout at the email address in the top right margin. She seemed to be trying to fit two ‘Supersize Me’ type shows into a ten minute slot and believe me when I tell you, it was a garbled fucking mess. With her narrating it, it was always going to be.

Finally, on top of this (where does he find the time? Oh yes, he’s got a whole bloody hour to fill) Gordon interviewed that very current, very ‘now’ comedic figure, Dawn French. Is that the best they could do? I know she’s still working (if you can call The Vicar of Dibley working, rather than just turning up) and she clearly digs her food, but really – how are three separate interviews with her over an hour possibly going to be any fun? Dawn has kissed Gordon! Ha ha ha! Dawn and Gordon keep saying ‘fanny’! Great! Oh look! They’re kissing! Again! Faaantastic.

The problem is, I’ll probably keep watching. The food is good and the format is hit and miss, with more hits than misses. If only Gordo would stop behaving like a 12 year old who’s taken crack instead of his normal Ritalin dose it might be a bit more bearable.

Fat Man’s Warning

 

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.

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.

Haunted Homes

How I managed to stay perched on my sofa throughout this cavalcade of pure TERROR I will never know. Shock after shock after pant-wetting shock streamed across the cathode ray as me and the missus clawed at cushions, barely hanging on to our sanity as the next world revealed to us the unrelenting horror of the spirit domain.

Not really, gang. It was utter shit.

Mia Dolan is apaprently the bestselling author of a book called ‘The Gift’. Whether that’s related to the overrated film ‘The Gift’, I’m not sure and can’t be halfway-arsed to research, but let’s assume she’s not. She is also the frontwoman for ITV2’s Haunted Homes. This is another of those shows ITV2, LivingTV and all those other nothing-television channels knock out from their no-budget production orifice when desperate to fill their schedules with something other than static, despite the fact that static would actually be far more challenging television.

The formula for this one (and I should know, I’ve sat through the tedium of two of them for some reason) is as follows:

An ex childrens’ TV presenter who clearly didn’t make the grade walks around, shedding charisma as he goes, stating the bleeding obvious at the opening, ending and between scenes. He tells us nothing of worth and only serves to annoy every viewer with his attempt at gravitas and stupid leather jacket.

He links to Mia who is sitting in a council house with two members of the idiot public, in the dark, with one of those special cameras they used in the Blair Witch. They need one of those cameras because they are sitting in the dark. They are waiting for a ghost, in the dark. Grown adults, sitting in the dark. Waiting for a ghost. And me, sitting at home, watching some grown adults, sitting in the dark, waiting for a ghost. This is a stupid, vacuous world we live in.

The night vision, I think, is meant to have the effect of making everything eery. It actually just makes Mia look even weirder, if that’s at all possible, like some mutant car crash in which Gillian Taylforth and Vanessa Feltz have merged with Pat Butcher’s arse. It also serves to make Joe Public (who generally sits there either crying or giggling) look uglier than they were in the light.
Ineveitably a member of the crew will knock over a baking tray down in the kitchen or drop a Dime bar in the bog and everyone will freak out.
‘What the [beep] was that?’ the ‘contestant’ will scream.
‘It’s just the spirit world communicating with me’ Mia will sagely inform them, nodding certainly.

You just feel like barging in there, turning the fucking lights on and kicking the shit out of everyone present.

After the event, Mia sits around with her terrified prey in a winnebago. They constantly refer to this ‘winnebago’ as a safe house. ‘We’ll talk through what we saw in the Winnebago’ Mia says. ‘Let’s go over now to the Winnebago’ to study the findings’ says the kids’ TV presenter. IT’S A CARAVAN.

After this it’s downhill all the way (if that’s possible). A molish sceptic wanders in there, also in the dark, and tells them they’re imagining it (unbelievably, he’s getting paid for that) and then Mia goes in to the property with some candles and starts an ‘ancient incantation’ to exorcise the spirit. At least, that’s what she claims. What she actually does is blather on in her husky Jackiey Goodie tones in what is meant to be Latin. I studied Latin, and she is speaking the language, but she appears to just be repeating the word ‘Omnibum’ over and overagain, which wouldn’t get you very far in the forum. I’m not sure if it’d uproot a malevolent spirit or not, but it certainly made me shift over to the other side.

Help! My Dog’s As Fat As Me!

I arrived at the bottom of the BBC3 barrel by chance, only to find executives scrabbling around with a shit-scraper, trying to grind out a title that hadn’t been used before from the stinking dregs of their channel’s previous content. Freaky Eaters had been a new low. I was interested to see how low they could go. When I was browsing the schedules and saw the title ‘Help! My Dog’s As Fat As Me!’ I thought for a second that someone who writes the mini-reviews in the back of the TV Guide had suddenly been gripped by an overwhelming realisation about their own lives and that this was not, in fact, a dire new attempt at television-making and more a cry for help.

I was wrong. The show is one of the not-so-recent-any-more phenomonen of does-what-it-says-on-the-tin TV. Through tear-filled eyes I tried to switch the television off before my mind was blighted by the blindingly predictable events that were doubtless about to unfold. Through the opaque wash of saltwater I saw something about a weigh-in where the combined weight of owner and dog are measured against recent scale-based humiliations. I saw dogs being inspected for contours. I saw women crying and refusing to speak to the cameras. I saw a huge mound of furry blubber being fed a Big Mac. I saw a huge mound of furry blubber’s dog eating the same meal.I saw a morbidly obese labrador squeaking out a hideous fart, clearing the room of cast and crew. I began to smell the odour. Screaming in agony, I reached the television set and booted the off button just before the point where my brain was about to burst.

KFC

 

‘Mum’s night off’, suddenly, before we’ve even fucking begun I’m suddenly looking over the fence into the white underclass of guttershites that pervade this country, the same cunts that buy huge fucking buckets of fast food are the same cunts who moan about blacks taking their jobs and how all Muslims should be deported, jailed or killed.

‘Mum’s night off’ from the usual… dad rolling in from spending all the family support in the bookies and on booze, urchin children picking each others’ noses on a threadbare couch in front of a brand new flatscreen TV bought only last week from a skinhead in a tracksuit for a monkey. Mum herself haggard well beyond her age and as fat as a fucking walrus, dirty sparse roots leading to a dry frizzing blonde, too much eyeliner and a perpetual Superking drooping over her smeared pink lippie.

This night, she doesn’t need to pierce the film on a packet Lasagne from Lidl and fling it in the crusty microwave, open a can of supermarket brand baked beans, or even so much as pick up a plate, for tonight Wayne, 15, two ASBO’s and a court case pending, has returned from the KFC with buckets of fucking pig slop, chips, fizzy piss and vast clods of melted cheap foul chocolate, all for a fucking fiver.

But the best bit, the great part is that while this squadron of pricks loll about in front of The Bill, wiping sticky, greasy fingers on their nylon jogging pants, Shereen, 12, all gold hoop earrings and G-strings only has to stuff all the cardboard and plastic into the giant fucking bucket the fried shit came in and drop the whole lot into the bin.

Recycle? Equality? Health? No – it’s Mum’s fucking night off in an England racing towards it’s own self-serving grave.