Posts Tagged ‘Gurning twats’

Big Brother 8 – 18.6.07

June 18, 2007

 Charley Big Brother 8

Thank fuck Shabs has gone. She was actually starting to cause me medical complications; so unremittingly illogical and affected was she that I was finding myself mentally rewinding back through pyschobabble comments in conversations just to assure myself that, yes, this is really a genuine psychopath I am watching. MIND (the charity for mental health) have openly criticised Channel 4 for allowing a Looney Tune onto their show. The psychologists on ‘On the Couch’ have clearly been briefed on damage limitation here, I mean Shabs could have genuinely lost it live on air, we’re not talking about the odd burst of random giggling here, we’re talking about a woman on all fours with someone’s bollock hanging out of her mouth.

If you care to go on Youtube and do a bit of research you’ll already know that a few weeks ago Shabs appeared on ‘Britain’s got Talent’ in a scene so mortifyingly toe-curling, my shoes nearly burst open. If this isn’t bad enough (it really is, watch with restraints) she also appeared on Channel 4’s embarrassing illnesses. Her ‘embarrassing illness’ was a bit of an itchy head, yet she pitched this medical irrelevance as if she had eyes for fucking nipples (or vice versa if you like).

This twat knows no bounds, you’ll see her again, probably on the news but I’m bracing myself for the gutter press to leak the story that she’s starring in an adult version of Happy Feet.

So, the new contestants. Frankly I don’t mind any of them, though how on earth how Billi has the balls to call himself a male model is beyond me. You could open a manhole with that nose. In addition he has the figure of Britney Speares, cameltoe included. Liam seems a nice straightforward sort, Jonathan could become a handful I think but at this stage, fine. Brian too seems okay, despite his Christopher Lee playing Dracula haircut and unashamed intention of doing something so disgusting to those twins I should imagine their father is muttering at a kitchen knife.

The rest of the housemates haven’t really done anything to cause a radical rethink of my recent blog on this topic. Laura, Nicky and Carole are odds on to win, I still don’t mind the Greek bloke despite his musical accent, Tracey is still barking like a rutting stag all the while gurning like Jim Bowen with cataplexy, Seany remains a prize blue-eyed berk and Chanelle is still a worrying combination of both the Barbies, the doll and Klaus Marie.

Fucking Charley is now the most awful housemate of all time. She seems unable to leave those melted plastic armpit implants alone, she fiddles with them perpetually. Sometimes one will poke out of her shirt like a dead otter’s head, always accompanied by an intense frown she’ll half heartedly try to drop it back into the position intended by nature. She always fails of course, hickory is more flexible. She’ll have someone’s eye out you mark my words.

Speaking of words, or to be more accurate, belt-fed mortar bursts of aggression being fired out of the mouth of the Gorgon, who is incandescent with rage because someone failed to respect her bogies, how does she manage to find time to inhale mid-oration? I’m convinced all that hair is some sort of crude third lung; it’s the only possible solution.

(She still has a cracking little botty though.)

The one housemate who has let themselves down most this week has to be Ziggy. He really doesn’t like any male competition at all, which is a fucking weird. He strutted about like Bernard Matthew’s pride cock for the first few days, his gander was goosed when the two new male housemates arrived but was visibly relieved when he found out that they (claimed) to be fairies.

He was just settling back into his alpha male role when four new male housemates arrive. This was too much, he looked physically sick as each one walked in and proverbially smacked the end of his engorged member sharply with the back of a cold spoon. The way he reacted to this threat was fascinating, and, dear reader, you must try and catch him at it, it’s so much fun in a despatching an injured fox way.

Ziggy gave me and I’m sure you, the impression that he was quite, well, poshish. Well spoken suburban type, clearly with an ego that spies on his self-consciousness with military precision but, nonetheless, more coherent than is necessary.

Now watch him talking to the new ‘lads’, he went from Lord and Lady Hamilton’s Lawn Tennis clubhouse in Royal Tunbridge Wells to selling pornographic postcards on the Ol’ Kent Road. This wasn’t a case of downward convergence; this was a 35 stone wide boy plummeting to his death from the top of Bow Church.

I’ve lost whatever respect I had for him; frankly, he may as well have just scrawled a schematised drawing of Che Guevara on his chest with one of his stools.

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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.

The Apprentice, Series 3, Episode 9

May 24, 2007

 Bunch of Apprentices

Bad timing. In the same week that the Cutty Sark – that symbol of defiant English trading – burned to naught but a shrivelled nub in suspicious circumstances, the BBC transmitted Sugar’s secretary calling the remaining contestants, first thing in the morning on one of Amstrad’s ludicrously massive phones. Guess where she told them to assemble to meet the big man? That’s right – Greenwich, home to the Sark. Immediately this episode felt like a bit of a relic, something knackered and wheeled out from the past.

Sugar appeared on the quayside flanked by his henchman and woman. Canary Wharf loomed in the background actually forming a bishop’s mitre around Alan’s big ears. The concept of international trading would be the basis of the task, we were informed. Tre would lead JadineSimon and Lohit whilst Katie would lead Kristina and Naomi. If Katie’s team lost we had a chance of ousting either the revolting Katie or the smugly professional Kristina. My fingers were already crossed to the point of fracturing my knuckles. But then the fear set in. Look at the state of Jadine! She’s blubbing! The editors are telling us something (and they’re not being very fucking subtle)! SHITE! Obviously Tre found Jadine’s femininity disgusting. ‘You know what women are like’ he said, like the sexist shitbag he is.

So Katie (I spit a huge phlegm-cob into the dust every time I say the name) went off with Naomi (who is hopeless at everything apart from looking good in a frock and will not win). They sold a fair few pieces of tat having decided on going with the Canadian trader. They were selling a weird insole (effectively a fancy odour eater), a solar panel which I think was meant as a tanning soloution or possibly to ward off S.A.D. and a rug/jigsaw thing that they found impossible to flog until Kristina did the business, again marking herself out as the future winner unless something goes very, very wrong for her.

One of the buyers Katie and Naomi sold to was very clearly taken only by one of the sellers’ appearance. And I think we can conclude that we’re talking about Naomi rather than Katie. Slime oozed off him when he said ‘I’ll take a cent’, meaning ‘I’ll buy a hundred off you, cos I fancy the crumpet’. He didn’t exactly do wonders for the reputation of sellers of Chelsea rubbish. Faint echoes of Harry Enfield’s ‘I saw you coming’ character wafted across the eardrums. After the deal Katie bigged herself up on a wave of confidence. ‘I have taste’, she exclaimed, clearly forgetting the racks of sub-regal pink suits she has at home.

On the other hand, Tre and Simon chose Swedish goods. Firstly there was an air filter which Tre said he liked for its ‘ethical qualities’. How wasting electricity on getting rid of a bit of pollen is ethical is beyond me, but Tre has started to make it clear he is intelligent by, instead of swearing, using the words ‘as such’ as a suffix to every sentence, as such. So he admired the filters ‘ethical qualities, as such’. What a thicko. They also chose a weird heatable fluffy toy beanbag monstrosity and something else I can’t remember. It was probably useless.

Jadine’s sensitive outburst was clearly going to be her downfall, despite the fact that she and Lohit made the biggest sale for their losing team while Simon (who did precisely fuck all) and Tre, as such, made few sales and farted about like bickering shoolmates. With about a grand less in profit in comparison to the ladies, they ended up Sugarside and Tre took Jadine and Lohit with him. Tre let off Simon in a show of camaraderie which made me nauseous. How is Simon coasting through so easily? It seems mighty unfair to me considering he’s got so little to offer aside from a nice-but-dim manner spiked by the occasional borderline-racist ethnic impression. But the rules dictate that only two need to go through for the final showdown and Jadine and Lohit were destined to face the rap as they weren’t key members of the Tre/Paul massive.

Lohit really didn’t deserve to be there and he defended Jadine very well. Unfortunately, though Sugar had said how tough the decision was, it seemed he’d already made his decision. He criticised Lohit for ‘talking the talk’ and essentially made him do a 360, turning him on Jadine so that, as the boss, he could fire Jadine with everyone’s backing. At least he gave her a good send-off, praising her to high heaven and sending her on her way with the best sentiment displayed so far.

In the closing moments, Tre revealed his devastating game-plan. ‘Keep tellin’ people you’re da best, and soon enough they believe it’. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot. He’s paved the way to his own exit with that statement. As such.

The F Word

May 9, 2007

 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.

Strongbow (again)

May 8, 2007

Strongbow 

Someone else has posted on this fucking advert, I thought I’d stick my two pennies worth in as it’s perpetually on.

Last night I noticed something about the main turd in the advert. In comparison to everyone else in the commercial he’s startlingly ugly, yet clearly the protagonist of some sort of ‘good’.

For a start he orders the drinks by thumbing a cocky finger in the direction of the token black man to his left (it’s okay, Strongbow drinkers aren’t all young racist working class cunts on the poverty line) and the au fait fop to his right (nor are they to be found in town centres beating the fucking shit out of anyone with a lisp). Strongbow man is the leader of the pack, the winner, and the go-getter…

Ugly’s two companions are bought ‘lager’. What a generous chap this Strongbow drinker is, despite looking as if he’s been formed for millions of years in a peat bog, he’s a bloody good bloke.

The lager-drinkers sip their pints and are briefly refreshed and get on with watching the football with all the handsome cheery men in the pub. But Ugly, as we know, stands there for most of the fucking night welded to the spot, mouth open exhaling loudly because he’s being that refreshed. What a barrel of laughs he must be on a Saturday night. All of his pals are seen in the background having a killer time as clearly their team score. Yes s s s s s s s…Not for Ugly, he’s in a world of his own.

After he’s snapped out of his trance he once again displays another act of philanthropy by offering his two under refreshed mates ‘crisps’. Crisps? No one has ever, ever looked at me and said ‘crisps?’ In fact, I don’t think in the history of pubs and crisps one man has ever turned to another and said ‘crisps’.

It’s a baffling bit of marketing. Obviously we (men) are supposed to somehow relate to the Ugly cunt because he’s not a groomed male model type, he’s a bloody good ugly bloke offering beer and crisps to all and sundry with a kind, open fizzog. But then he contributes nothing to the social bonding clearly taking place in the background; he doesn’t even notice his mates for an age, and they don’t notice him either. No one fucking cares even when he starts acting like a lunatic, no one comes over and checks to see if he’s alright, they just carry on as if it’s perfectly fucking normal to be stood stock still breathing loudly in one direction for an hour…

So where does this leave us? Somewhere like this: If you look like a bag of dented bells, whilst being prone to long, evening length, bouts of vertical epilepsy and have mates that only hang out with you because you buy the drinks and ‘crisps’, then drink Strongbow.

Secret Life

April 20, 2007

Matthew Macfadyen 

Secret Life on Channel 4 last night took on paedophilia, or rather the story of a recently released paedophile trying to adjust to freedom. Matthew Macfadyen took the lead in this festival of laughs, a ‘brave’ role for a relatively young actor more suited to being Darcy or some bit of fluff in BBC dramas. I say ‘brave’ because anyone who is familiar with the tabloids in the UK will be aware that even saying the word ‘paedophile’ is akin to dropping one’s trousers and waving an engorged member in the face of baby Jesus.

It was a grim affair; like watching Oranges are not the Only Fruit with Ebola. Largely, one was sympathetic to the character, though of course one tried not to be for fear of Daily Mail readers beating the door down to the flat and hacking off my bag with a shard of pottery. Turns out the character (that’s the character, not me, I only like women over the age of 45) had been abused by his father (grew up happily in Surrey, I saw the very top of my dad’s knob once and that was only because he’s forgotten to lock the toilet door when he was having a plop) and had subsequently gone on to do the same to little girls.

The movie gently rambled off with his day-to-day comings and goings, counselling sessions, signing the sex offenders’ register, working in a garden (why is it when they portray oddballs, they always seem to work in fucking gardens?) and occasionally getting chased, Keystone Cops style, by Daily Mail-reading skinheads. I found that part shit by the way, it simply didn’t work but it lead up to the inevitable crowd of chanting Daily Mail readers with placards once they’d discovered that a house on their street was a refuge for paedos and, as it turned out, asylum seekers. The chanting Daily Mail readers weren’t fussed about the asylum seekers largely, I should imagine, as they were unaware they were there. Had they known then the programme would’ve ended right there in a fucking huge fireball with the emergency services attempting to break through a cordon of thousands of Daily Mail readers all tooled up with croquet hammers and garden Boules.

It was desperate viewing; needless to say I assume some basic research on the part of the filmmakers had been carried out to the point that the character’s story is fairly typical of sex offender’s lives following a spell in the nick? Sadly, the filmmakers were unable to prevent themselves from capping the once quite sedate pace and plot with a sensationalist twist, that in my opinion, undermined all the adequate work they’d done up until that point.

After being effectively driven out of his dwellings the character (not me, I was at home watching this with a scotch) happened across a funfair. Previously we’d seen him doing everything he could to avoid any contact with kids at all in order to avoid the temptation to reoffend. Having been let down by society, he was now doing everything he could to re-offend. In a frankly idiotic scene at the fair he attempts to seduce a 12-year-old girl (played by a very short 32 year old) and the whole thing was as convincing as David Hasselhoff playing the Dane. Anyway, he controls his urges and walks her home without so much as a tickle (though she kissed HIM, THE FUCKING SLATTERN)

He then nips back home and hangs himself, the end. Really it was that ludicrous, which was a shame as I thought MacFadyen was jolly good in his role. He managed to balance empathy and threat with conviction and for once the filmmakers had managed to get the fucking light right throughout.

Oh, a bit of advice for Daily Mail reading skinheads: If you really want to catch a nonce, screeching to a halt in a car 10 yards from where he’s standing and screaming, ‘there he is, get him’ isn’t the best course of action.

Hairy Bikers. Ride again.

April 16, 2007

Bikehair

Being both a biker and, I suppose, hairy and enjoying cooking, this programme seemed, initially, to be right up my tin pan alley.

I don’t remember the first series and the alarm bells should’ve gone off when the ‘ride again’ graphic appeared in that fucking awful luminous italic font as if an afterthought on a wankers shopping list.

As the programme started I begun to remember why I didn’t remember the first series. That’s right – it’s all coming back to me now – it’s fucking shit. The hairy bikers are a pair of camp, bearded, Geordie fatties who get a good portion of ones licence fee to travel the world on two very boring and expensive motorcycles. I am positive the only time they get on the machines is when the director asks them to ride from one side of the shot to the other. In actuality they travel in the back of separate limousines being blown off by whatever local sex industry is available. Ladyboys, in this instance.

Most of the programme features them in ‘anecdote’ mode, taking turns to pull funny faces at the camera following one scripted ‘quip’ after the other.

‘Eee by gom, this Chorizo is right good Si’,

‘Ay, and if you have anymore, you’re going to look like a Chorizo, Dave…’

*gurn*

(The genuinely funny comments are totally ignored, last night for example ‘Ooh, my helmet is all sticky, Dave’ and, ‘Si is so hungry, he’s eating my helmet,’ etc, are ignored without so much a fucking blink)

But perhaps the most annoying thing about HB is the fact they hardly cook anything at all. Instead, we are witness to these two cardiac-cases stuffing food into their mouths, hardly able to speak due to half the world’s food programme being masticated in their beard-holes. We also get lots on ‘interesting’ ‘facts’ about whatever godawful third world environment they happen to be escorted to, I mean bike to.

Last night we saw them in a boat looking at a whale in the distance (‘Blimey, isn’t it big, Dave?’ ‘Ay, nearly as big as you, Si.’ *gurn*). We were also treated to them lying down with Elephant bulls in the far distance (‘Blimey, isn’t it big, Si?’ ‘Ay, nearly as big as you, Dave.’ *mug* etc). Christ.

When they do cook, it’s always pre-cuts of meat. They roll meat in meat, fry it and serve it with some salsa, which they never, ever touch. They will do bread or cheese at a push though, especially with meat in it.

Anyway, this tires me. The show finished last night with the pair of them getting their first ever tattoos, matching tattoos I hasten to add, of Che Guevara on their arms. That’s two male TV presenters in their mid 40’s getting the same tats. Of Che.

*double gurn*