Posts Tagged ‘Rape’

NewsGush: Pardon, Pardew?

March 17, 2009

I must’ve missed this.

The BBC, skilful self-flaggellators of the moment, have issued an apology. On Match of the Day 2 – presumably in the company of new man, Adrian Chiles – old-school football manager Alan Pardew made a bit of a boo boo. When discussing the Chelsea match, ‘Pards’ used an ill-advised verb to describe a Michael Essien challenge:

The 47-year-old said “He’s timed it perfectly. He’s a strong boy. He knocks him off – he absolutely rapes him.”

According to the BBC, there would have been an instant apology, except everyone in the studio thought Pardew had said ‘raked’. Which, to be honest, would have made a lot more sense.

Of course, all this is small-fry compared to some howlers from the ages. Let’s have a look back over past bloopers from the mouths of pundits.

‘Robbie Savage has cut inside, tugged his shirt, bent him over and come forcefully into his eye-socket there – it’s as if he’s skull-fucked Craig Bellamy off the park’.
Lee Dixon on Football Focus, 2004

‘Mark Overmars is a slutty lad who is basically begging to be molested. The way he dribbles the ball – it’s as if he’s wearing a miniskirt and tarty war-paint. Roy Keane slides in and thieves the ball like a hand into a brassiere, passing to Andy Cole who takes an opportunistic upskirt shot with the loose ball. I think we can honestly say that they’ve actively sexually assaulted the nimble Dutchman with that one-two’.
Mark Lawrenson on Match of the Day, 1998

‘You’ll never win anything with kids’
Alan Hansen on Match of the Day, 1995

The Friday Question: Where are they now?

August 22, 2008

Some regular television faces fall from grace spectacularly – such as psychosexual risk-taking John Leslie. We all know why he’s no longer on the box. Frank Bough (lovable breakfast sex-slave that he was) also found the TV work was slipping away all those years ago when his gimp mask was uncovered, whilst the likes of Theakston and Deayton somehow survived getting caught with their cocks out.

But what about those we drew into our hearts only to have them disappear, never to return? Napoleon tells me he misses John Stapleton and his hideous wife, Lynne Folds-Wood. Personally I miss Maggie Philbin who, depressed at the loss of the brilliant Keith Chegwin to alcoholic shamanism, vanished in a puff of obscurity all those years ago.

Who do you miss then? Who do you find yourself asking of the heavens:

Where are they now?

Tesco Direct

October 12, 2007

For an industry that is supposedly meant to be ahead of the zeitgeist, advertisers have a distinctly outdated viewpoint of human beings. Women are tawdry bags of imperfections that are in need of medical and cosmetic improvements, while men are serial sleazebags in search of the next commitment free lay. From the battling hoardes of early-morning shoppers who will willingly tear the jugular out of another female in order to get the new Chanel No.9, to the AIDS carrying ‘Mickey’ from the universally detested Head and Shoulders advert, they seem hell-bent on convincing us to be impressed by our most outdated stereotypes.

Take this latest advert from Tesco Direct. It’s clearly meant to be classy and sophisticated, but it comes across as a detestable 30 second remake of Alfie. A charmless date rapist, played by a man who is apparently a famous TV actor, tries to seduce an ex-Eastender by having his house fitted with budget furnishing… and she’s impressed by him.

Not only does it present men as egocentric wannabe lotharios, but it also offers up a viewpoint of women as obtainable when presented with the right combination of material possessions. Big fridge-freezer? Check. Nice new oven? Check. Remotely controlled faux-fireplace – surely the epitome of pseudo middle-class chintz? Check. The only thing they’re missing is the Tesco own brand Rohypnol he slips into her drink when his carefully balanced check list fails to get his dick sucked.

I’m confused as to what Tesco thought they were saying by commissioning this piece of instructional sleaze. Is our main character so desperate to nail this cock-tease of a cliche that he’s prepared to give it a shot while the delivery men are still in the house? “Don’t mind the workmen, love, now about getting your tits out…?” Is she so classy that she finds his ignoring of the proletariat boiler suits around them sexy? “Ooooh, I just love the way you pretend that those dirty little men don’t exist, now crank up the fake fireplace.”

Come to think of it, what woman in this world would be impressed by a guy who’s fitted his entire house with furnishings from Tesco? Ikea may have made mass-produced designer house furniture fashionable, but at least they suggest you mix and match to create your own style… Our deluded Don Juan character has simply let the biggest supermarket chain in the country decide what his furnishings should be. Character, style, a personal touch – all have been jetisoned in favour of an atypical image of middle-class success. They can worry about what looks good in his home while he gets on with the important business of getting his leg over with some dodgy, out-of-work, easily impressed skank.

While this advert is filled with horribly sex-pesty behaviour, my favourite moment is at 21 seconds in when our consumerismly impressed couple have to do a deliberate slow walk in order to let the Tesco men roll out the rug in time. It’s a moot point, for sure, but one that I find terribly funny…

Hills Have Eyes 2 / 28 Weeks Later

July 17, 2007

Begbie and loads of infected freaks 

If you’re going to make a genre movie, or a sequel to a remake of a genre movie whilst going out of your way to avoid cliches, you’ve got an uphill struggle ahead of you. If you’re Wes Craven, you don’t need to avoid cliches, as you invented the cliches in the first place. If you’re a little-heard-of Director tasked with following up a zombie movie which itself avoided a few of the usual trappings then what do you do to make your new movie relevant? That’s it, you try and comment (with bloody heavy hands) on today’s political climate.

All the critics seem to disagree with me when it comes to horror films, so balls to them in their Islington and nouveau-Hackney homes, pumping out a word an hour of drivel. With these movies a viewer needs to automatically lower their expectations to the level of their stinking feet, otherwise disappointment will generally smack them headlong in the face.

The fun of a horror film is that it’s the opposite of high art. Very few horror movies can be said to be masterpieces. Maybe The Shining. Maybe Night of the Living Dead. American Werewolf In London, but in that instance we’re veering towards horror/comedy, which is a different kettle of fish. Beyond that, it’s pretty much semi-wooden acting, jumps and  gore, and thank crikey for that, says I.

So the critics savaged Hills Have Eyes 2. Hackneyed scripts they said. Expected shocks. And these things, they reckoned, combined to render it worthless. Only one or two stars. 11% on

Well, bollocks. It’s a no-nonsense stomp through a script that’s only even present to transfer us to the next set piece. And those set pieces include a pair of mutant testicles getting flattened by a sledgehammer, a brain being finger-tweaked and an eyeball being thumbed out – which is all fantastic stuff. This is the point of the genre.  Admittedly the rape element is a bit much, but we forgave the EvilDead for that, so we can forgive this.

If an auteur (like Romero used to be) manages to squeeze in a clever analogy to a horror film, then so much the better – I take my hat off. But when the central premise is the analogy, a la Land of the Dead, the whole things fall apart and we’re left discussing how there were too few zombie maimings.

Speaking of a dearth of zombie maimings, the only memorable zombie death in 28 Weeks Later was the helicopter scene, ruined by the use of rapid editing and CGI.

Add to that the fact that the film was a complete mess, featuring an American army as aggressive as the zombies (apart from the good guys who end up the saviours of the Brits, obviously) and the presence of a ‘lead’ zombie, and you have yourself a disappointing wreck.

If I rent a horror film or spend my hard earned down the local multiplex, I expect rubbish. Please deliver.


June 25, 2007


Thank fuck for that – Rome‘s back. This episode kicked off straight after the events of the final episode of the first series and, for the uninitiated, here’s the lowdown on the runners ‘n’ riders:

Lucius Vorenus – Local politician. Tried hard to be the family man, found out his wife had been carrying on with her sister’s brother, tried killing her with a big knife, she jumped out of the window and died.
Titus Pullo – Big violent bastard. Killed loads of people last time around, ended up as a gladiator, killed more people, fucked loads of women, killed more people, fell in love with a slave-girl, found out she was carrying on with someone else, killed him.
Julius Caesar – General/Dictator. Subjugated the Gauls, had Vercingetorix strangled in the Forum, got up to political shenanigans, had epilepsy and worried about baldness, fucked shrivelled-up hag Servilla, pissed her off, got murdered by her son and his mates.
Mark Anthony – Caesar’s mate. Fucked (well … raped) anything that moved, killed people, machinated, fucked Caesar’s neice Atia, smirked a lot, shagged random peasant girl against tree in front of whole waiting Roman army.
Atia – Tits-out MILF sex bitch. Plotted to gain favour for her son Octavian, offered up her daughter to become sex play-thing of Pompey, became sex play-thing herself of Mark Anthony, was given gift of black man with enormous penis, enjoyed penises in general, a sex version of Nadia Sawahla.
Servilla – Lesboid shitbag uber-bag hag. Fucked Caesar, fucked Atia’s daughter, got shunned by Caesar, plotted against Caesar, convinced her son Brutus to kill Caesar, dabbled in Roman equivalent of voodoo, not even a GILF.
Octavian – Caesar’s nephew and Man Who Would Be King. Struck up unlikely friendship with Titus Pullo, helped Titus murder Vorenus’s wife’s sister’s ‘usband, shagged his first woman in a brothel on the insistance of his mother (MILF extraordinaire Atia), witnessed Caesar having a fit.
Octavia – Atia’s crappy daughter. Told to become plaything of Pompey, became lesboid plaything of hag un-GILF Servilla, not at all ‘sporty’ considering what her mother gets up to between the sheets.

So there you go. This episode showed the aftermath of Caesar’s and Vorenus’s wife’s deaths. All manner of stuff happened. In one scene Anthony, randy as a bull, woke to find Atia changing into her funeral garb for Caesar’s funeral and demanded a fuck out of her. Atia told him to behave himself, so:

“I’m not getting out of this bed until I’ve had a fuck,” replies Anthony, grabbing his balls.
“Oh for …” says Atia. She turns to one of her servants and says, “Go and fetch that German slut from the kitchens.”

Later we see said German slut, starkers and breathing heavily, as Anthony dresses for the funeral with a big smirk on his face. I don’t think the German girl had a choice in the matter. But then, on Anthony’s previous form, most women don’t seem to get a choice in the matter (and women think they ‘ave it hard nowadays).

Meanwhile Vorenus, who has cursed his kids for not telling him about his wife carrying on with her sister’s brother, discovers they’ve been taken prisoner by a local money-lender. With Titus (who’s now married to the aforementioned slave-girl whose t’other half he beat to death in series one) in tow, he tracks the money-lender down, kills every man, woman, and child in the money-lender’s tavern, then corners the money-lender.

“Where’s my fucking kids?” he roars (or words to that effect), covered from head-to-toe in blood.
“I took them in payment for your many slights against me,” replies the money-lender, “I fucked ’em, killed ’em, and threw their bodies in the river.”

At which point Vorenus, failing to see the funny side, cuts off the money-lender’s head.

Loads of other stuff happened during the course of the show involving politics, funerals, the validity of Caesar’s will, Roman stuff and what-have-you. I imagine the gratuitous tit-shot/brutal violence ratio will be ramped-up as the weeks roll on (it did last time, so fingers crossed). I fucking love this programme. Rome … seig heil!