Posts Tagged ‘Help! My Dog’s As Fat As Me!’

Nigella Express

September 11, 2007

ooof 

I was a Nigella virgin before last night, in that I’d never seen any programme featuring the yummy mummy ever before in my pristine life. Like the big fat naughty nanny that she is, last night she snapped my hymen rigorously as I settled down to the outright mess of  upper class twattery that was Nigella Express. And it hurt. Oh boy, did it hurt.

I’ve heard it said that Nigella is considered sexy by quite a few fellows, clearly those who like a bit of meat on a lady (and there’s nowt wrong with that, I hasten to add). She’s also been praised for her curves, for having the gumption to avoid slimming down for the cameras. Good for her, say I, but let’s not dwell on it as I don’t see people lining up to praise me for my love handles, so the fact she’s fairly normal-looking is irrelevant. Especially when one considers that, on last night’s evidence, she’s a mad-eyed, contemptible braggart whose television muck I shall never, ever watch again.

Christ all-bloody-mighty! I’ve never seen a housewife so smug! She waddles about the place like a balloon on clown shoes, showing off about the size of her larder. She parades her indescribably awful little offspring in his nu-rave outfit (who can’t skateboard for toffee, I ought to add). Worse than all this, she grins with a terrifying, gaping grimace whenever she looks at the camera, making grating asides about portion sizes to make us think ‘hey! She’s fat which makes her great – she’s just like us!’.

No, no, no! She’s not ‘just like us!’. She is, in fact, just like any richer-than-average, self-satisfied bastard who doesn’t have to do a proper job for a living. She’s the sort of person who says ”darling’ instead of someone’s first name, for Christ’s sake. She’s a boring, overhyped ne’erdowell who earns too much money, too little of which is taxed, and she should be exterminated.

NB: The food she cooked was shit.

Sex In Court

April 13, 2007

Judges 

I had never seen this pile of dross before. I didn’t particularly want to watch it the other night, but I felt it was my duty to observe and report back to WWM.

Sex in Court – for pity’s sake – it’s bound to be awful isn’t it?

It’s basically Judge Judy, only concentrating on the ancient art of rogering and all that lies with it via an unwelcome peer into the seedy highs and dirty lows of the bedroom capers of ‘ordinary’ members of the public.

Once upon a time in this country talking about our sexual endeavours in public would have been considered perverted, perhaps even deviant behaviour and was simply not done. These days however, people are chomping at the bit to go on national television and discuss aspects of their private life that frankly, I don’t want to hear.

On a personal level, a mature and open attitude to sex is surely the way forward, while giggling and whispering about it as though some old woman on the bus has just laid a corking great egg of a fart seems sadly pathetic.

Maybe it is our unwillingness to confront these issues as a nation that has created an aura of taboo around the act of sex rather than it being a natural fact of life, and maybe this is the reason eight year old kiddies are allegedly rodding each other senseless left right and centre, and maybe that is the reason Britain has the highest rate of teenage pregnancies in Europe. Maybe.

So what is it that is ingrained into the psyche of our country that has made so many Brits at first coy and now overly forthcoming concerning their attitudes to the supremely enjoyable world of carnal activities?

Answers on a lewd postcard from Skegness please.

The first couple under scrutiny in this cul-de-sac of piffle consisted of a berserk looking French chump who couldn’t persuade his fiancé to fellate him for neither love nor money. Actually, I don’t recall him mentioning offering money. Maybe that would have worked. Maybe.

She was of the opinion that it was not favourable from her point of view, and that it didn’t make her feel very sexy. I think she was slightly missing the point regarding who is meant to feel the sexiest in a blowjob scenario. Anyway, call me mad, but I always thought that providing pleasure is in itself a pleasurable experience. Plus she seemed to have no complaints in letting our French chump take the headfirst trip downstairs on her behalf.

In the end the jury found her guilty and she was instructed to attend – wait for it – fellatio classes. (Sounds ridiculous at first, but in my humble tongue-in-cheek opinion, it should be a compulsory part of every ladies’ further education, similar in a sense to national service. The world would certainly be a much nicer place for me to live in).

Anyway, the second nauseating set of polyps included a gloomy faced pork-woman and a tragic delta-male who had the kind of runt-of-the-litter based properties that could only be produced as a result of conception during a cider-fuelled tramp-orgy in a peat bog.

Their problem was that he was quite fond of waking her up at five or six in the morning with his pole at the ready, demanding sex.

He defended his actions in court by saying “I’ve got mother nature on my side”.

The jury however, defied mother nature, finding runt-boy guilty of pestering pork-woman. This is my favourite part – the judge pulled out some bog roll and porn mags (seriously!!) and instructed him to five knuckle shuffle his way to orgasmic glory of an early morning instead.

This programme should never be watched by anyone. It’s not educational and it’s not entertainment. It’s actually the worst kind of nasty-arsed voyeurism going.

This show has its own resident sex expert who would occasionally talk about 69ing or point to diagrams of penises and such like, but it could hardly be called educational stuff.

Further crass moments and uncomfortable watching came in the form of the jury discussing each case between verdicts and talking about ‘avin’ a wank, or doing rim-jobs. Among the jury were a couple of old women and the way they talked about sex was about as elegant as I’d imagine it would be to hear some football hooligan effing and jeffing his way through his less than scant knowledge of the finer points of transcendental meditation.

To coin a phrase; this shit (less than reluctantly) sucks.

Help! My Dog’s As Fat As Me!

March 6, 2007

Fat fucking dog

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.