Posts Tagged ‘Homosexual’

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.

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.

McCoys Crisps.

May 22, 2007

Have you seen this crap? A young gentleman and his mates stand at a bar, all of them the types of chap who could make Guy Richie collapse in an onanism-frenzy due to their Fred Perry attire. Two of them sip lagers and munch McCoy’s crisps. They are wearing suits and V necks. Not work suits. They wear suits on what would seem to be an evening away from work – a leisurely drink with their mates. There are no women in the pub from what we can gather, just East End gangster types with shaven heads. The whole thing is stylised like a Lock Stock nightmare. It is the sort of pub you would never want to go into in your right mind.

The protagonist of this little piece of crap goes over to the jukebox to put on some tunes. He is knocked into by a man with a tray. Cripes! His finger slips on the jukebox! He’s put in a song and he doesn’t even know what it is! 

He shrugs. He returns to his mates. As he crosses the room, the tune he has inadvertently selected kicks in. It is Puppy Love by 70’s teen heart-throb, Donny Osmond. Good heavens! What will the lads think?

We gather what the other drinkers think from a couple of split second shots. A cropped bloater looks across with incredulity. What was he thinking? A fellow pauses at the pool table to look across with disgruntlement.

The crisps are removed from his hands and he is removed from the pub via a large suction tube and the words MCCOYS – MAN CRISPS dominate the screen, after one of the party asks where they’re all going to be meeting at some future arrangement.

What are McCoys playing at?

Error Number One 

Is it just me, or is a pub in which there are only well-groomed men seem a bit at odds with the notion of complete masculinity? Isn’t it suggestive of a gay bar, where more likely than not one or two of the clientelle will be a tiny bit feminine?

Error Number Two

Puppy Love is a song about a young man yearning for a woman. ‘They’ll never know…just why I love her so’, go the lyrics. It is, in fact, an apt song for the young man to play. It would assert his masculinity, surely? He’s yearning for female company for Christ’s sake, and it’s no surprise as he’s surrounded by pink, spherical men.

Error Number 3

When he is ejected from the pub, the tool used to do so is a long, spherical item which I wouldn’t hesitate in dubbing phallic. He is literally sucked off in a pub filled with men. The fact that once this act is concluded, when we are at the point of climax, one of the men asks where they’re all meeting at a future time – essentially arranging another time to do exactly the same thing – it seems we’ve just watched a massive gay East End orgy.

It seems that the advertisers, whilst brainstorming in the boardroom, took the branding up the wrong alley. Mrs.