Posts Tagged ‘Spud Head’

The Queen

July 12, 2007


I’m reviewing Her. Not the film, Her. The DVD arrived in the post and kept skipping, so I’ve no other choice.

From the day she was born to the present, the Queen has sat about on her crown jewels doing absolutely fucking nothing.

The ‘oh she works very hard’ crap that gets bandied about is unacceptable. She signs a few things if she’s not in bed moaning about her fucking dogs or racehorses, and everything else is done by advisors or servants. She doesn’t lift a finger about the house, she neither cooks nor cleans, she doesn’t know what ‘washing up’ means and I bet she leaves big poos in her solid gold chod bin without flushing.

My grandfather turned 100 last month. Amid all the celebrations someone appeared with a telegram from Her Royal Scrotness. It featured a dour fizzog picture of my shit don’t stink Highness, a printed load of drivel which can be boiled down to ‘yeah, you’re 100 which is okay by me’ and a signature which I doubt was hers anyway and looked more like ‘Easynow’ than ‘Elizabeth’.

I was dead unimpressed, here is a man that has seen two world wars, fought in one, has clawed his way up from abject poverty to hosting glittering soirees for prime ministers and heads of state, is the patriarch of an enormous and for the most part, happy family and all he gets is a half-baked tag from a person who can’t make fucking toast.

Let’s face it; the Queen is a miserable old cow (married to fucking alcoholic racist with genuinely inbred offspring. Come on, those ears don’t come from a rational gene pool) and recently poor Annie Leibowitz copped her ‘one is not amused’ in the face.

She was only trying to take a portrait photo of the gem-encrusted slattern. Oh, fuck me, the work required to sit around on ones Royal freckle and look holier than thou, the German tool. Anyway, because she had to appoint servant #45 for the state opening of a tin of Ceaser for Aloisius the 3rd, her fave Corgi of all time, she got all shirty with Annie due to the unbearable pressure of having to do two things in the same week.

Basically, Leibovitz told the Queen she will look better without her tiara because “the Garter robe is so…” Before she can say “extraordinary”, the Queen replies, pointing to what she is wearing: “Less dressy. What do you think this is?” And then fucked off out it muttering “I’m not changing anything. I’ve had enough dressing like this, thank you very much.” What? Had enough of not wearing your tiara?

If I’d been Annie I’d have said ‘sorry, are you fucking talking to me?’ and kicked her Royal Highness in cunt for being sarky. Uncannily, this is just the sort of behaviour that midget red-faced Princess Elton John would carry out. I mean at least he gave us ‘rocket man’, apart from organising Diana’s execution what has that Royal git ever done for anyone?

What is more is we, the public, pay for her upkeep. It’s a fucking disgrace.

Get Your Act Together With Harvey Goldsmith

April 12, 2007

Heavy Fucking Metal 

I am fan of what may be termed as ‘metal’. The term ‘metal’ is a little bit embarrassing. It has a stigma, more of a smegma, attached to it, whilst Iron Maiden must take some responsibility for this state of affairs, the overall blame lies squarely at the feet of Saxon, an 80’s incarnation of so called ‘metal’ but really, you’ll find more metal in pack of cup-a-soup.

In Tuesday night’s ‘Get Your Act Together With Harvey Goldsmith’, the latter attempted to revive the career of the former. I’m a big fan of HG but I really wished he’d left this lot alone. Whilst the programme was entertaining enough I don’t need to be reminded of them. I would rather listen to Matt Bianco and Five-Star copulating in an echo chamber.

Saxon arrived on the metal scene at about the same time as I became a teenager, to my credit they were spurned quite early on by yours truly, but the stigma (smeg) of their hoarse screeching, heavy fairylight sound and ‘style’ (spandex, long mullets, all-round cuntiness) without doubt lasted right up until grunge hit the UK in the 90’s.

Saxon consist of a bunch of extras cast as tramps, charisma retarded sex offenders led by the dreadful Biff Byford, a sort of Lidl-lite Lemmy crossed with Ecce Thump. The man is an utter prick, stuck in an 80’s time warp with a wholly misguided and inappropriate ‘rock-star’ opinion of himself. Poor Harvey, firm but fair, simply wanted to bring them up to date, he ejaculated ideas like a little fat winkie which were met with derision, insults and misplaced attitude, all from Byford as the rest of the band were too thick to actually speak.

In the middle of all the mouth from Byford, Harvey managed to get Saxon a gig which resulted in a bunch of teenagers enthusiastically moshing out in a modest club in Lincoln, a minor achievement, yes, but it indicated that Harvey’s task wasn’t quite as impossible as I’d supposed. This brief moment of positivity was deliciously negated at half time during a football match in Sheffield when Saxon attempted to break the Guinness (Book of) Record for the most air guitarists in one place. They got booed off. Actually, they got chanted off – accompanied by lots of synchronised pointing.

Harvey got Saxon a gig at some big town-venue in Sheffield. It held 18,000 and work needed to be done to promote the band, as this was supposed to be Saxon’s homecoming tour and ticket sales were predictably slow.

After being called a ‘fucking wanker’ by Byford, Harvey convinced them to record a new single that moved away from their usual fayre of metal brotherhood and ‘oooh, I have sex with a lady’. Byford came up with a socially aware number, some tosh about ‘guns and knives’ on the street because, apparently, Byford had been a ‘bit of a criminal’ back in the day. I bet that shop keeper in Yorkshire had to re-mortgage his shop after Byford nicked a tube of Spangles in the fucking 40’s.

Following a style makeover which Byford really enjoyed but pretended he didn’t, the band’s completed single, new graphics, band photo etc., were presented in front of the rock press. Down to some nifty production the single didn’t go down too badly with the journos (though I’ve heard it and I thought it was cack). It did have the desired effect on the gig in Sheffield though, but it wasn’t quite as packed out as Harvey said it was. The cameras don’t lie and the audience were predominantly male and looked like aged Eastern European refugees.

Harvey also managed to get them to some Rock Awards thing at some posh hotel in London (I was flagging by this point) in which the band were encouraged to mingle with the rock glitterati. Byford and Harvey made the effort to work the room, the tramps scuttled off nowhere to be seen and it is at this stage that I need to mention the Saxon manager.

From the outset of the programme a large man who wasn’t appearing on stage or in band photos always seemed to be just there. He didn’t speak a word – just lurked. He was a bizarre looking thing, like a new super breed of Welsh lesbian with a serious drink problem. Harvey ordered him to mingle but he looked confused. Actually I have to admit I felt a bit sorry for him, he wandered into the middle of the room where he was greeted with a sea of turned backs and posed like a five year old trying to not do a wee wee.

The only time I heard him speak was the follow-up show on E4 when they were reviewing the half-time football incident. I can only presume he’d had a couple of bottles in the green room. Harvey was berating the band for, essentially, being pussies and not giving the crowd some ROCK when Pat Butcher suddenly lost it and stepped in. ‘VEN FOOTBALL CROWDS LOSING ZER IZ NUZZINK ZAT CAN BRING ZEN BACK, NUZZINK!’ He looked livid, his face was redder than a stoplight, I laughed heartily…

…My laughter was cut short. Harvey had done a better job than I could comprehend; the fucking cunts are appearing at the Download festival. They will be on the same bill as Slayer for fucks sake. So thanks Harvey, I will sit back and watch what kudos was clawed back by these masters of metal dribble down the drain as I face another round of social isolation and mockery.

I hate Harvey.

Impossible is nothing: Beckham’s new Adidas ad

April 10, 2007

Impossible is Nothing 

Have you pointed your beady little eyeballs at that new Adidas advertisement?
Thank the lord for the painful struggles and personal anguish of David Beckham; a martyr who has suffered immensely on our behalf so that we may now bask in the warm glow of his infinite wisdom.
Through his own hardships he has shown us how we too can rise above our problems – for ‘impossible is nothing’.
“This is my story” he announces in a voice that sounds like a castrated Nigel Mansell muttering in his sleep, or alternatively, a tormented squirrel feeding a struggling gopher into the whirring blades of a waste disposal unit.
He follows this intriguing introduction with some other wearisome noises that I assume were probably words, though my brain refused to process them as they seemed to blend into other easily-ignored sounds, like the tedium of a ticking clock or the distant drone of cars passing outside.
I drifted back in to it just as Beckham was regaling us with his monotonous outpouring of grief regarding his sending off against Argentina. This was followed by his mundane explanation of his arduous and pioneering battles against adversity and tribulation.

Try telling it to one of life’s real victims. How about conveying your trauma to a double amputee lying in a hospital bed with cancer of the face, having just lost their job, friends, partner, car, house, dog and money?
“Well, basically, at the end of the day, yeah, I got sent off against Argentina and I wasn’t very popular for a bit, yeah? But it’s all alright now coz I moved out the country”.
Yep, thanks Dave, you’ve been a great help. Now fuck off you clueless turd, before I batter your thoughtless face in with a bedpan.

I genuinely consider this kind of advertising to be an insult to 99% of the population of the entire planet. So what, his ego took a slight bruising. I’m pretty sure his extreme wealth went some way towards healing the blow.
In actual fact, the pansy-arsed wufter wouldn’t know real strife if it taught him how to speak proper like.
Oh, but it’s so hard being David Beckham – “ooh the press hate me, blah, blah, blah”.
Well here’s an idea for you; how about not turning yourself into a fucking celebrity?
See how that works for a bit.
You cock.

Anyway, what’s with all this ‘impossible is nothing’ shit all of a sudden? Is this Beckham’s new motto or something? Sounds like a rejected subheading from an inane Tom Cruise saga to me. I could almost believe that Beckham’s despicable friend has thrown the dog a bone there. But I don’t.
But is this new-fangled phrase supposed to mean nothing is impossible?
If not then I’m guessing the message is – “Impossible? That’s nothing!”
Maybe he’s right. After all, he can kick a ball so it lands 60 yards away.
Strange how he seemed to find memorising his lines for this ad a bit impossible though. Ask yourself this; if his ‘heartfelt’ words are genuine, then why the fuck is he reading them off a board?

Paul McKenna – I Can Change Your Life

March 28, 2007


Once upon a time I sat like a festering turnip in front of the box and wound up on ITV3 watching ‘Paul McKenna – I Can Change Your Life’. ‘Change my life?’ I thought. Change your own fucking life, you sleazy lizard.

I was already aware of the psychological nature of his teachings – ‘Listen to the healing sounds of my wonderful voice. Surrender to my will and I will cure you of all your ills. I am Jesus. All hail me for I am the best’, that kind of thing. Anyway, in this show, old McKenna tries to cure a bunch of thickos, obsessive compulsives, and hopeless mentals.

I’m not going to lie, this really was utter shit that even disappointed my less-than-optimistic hopes of being vaguely entertained. Out of the three specimens analysed, only one stimulated my imagination enough to keep watching.

The organism in question was a middle aged woman who was fanatical about cleaning up. To be precise that’s all she did. She would wake up, rigorously clean the house for SIXTEEN HOURS, then go to sleep. What a life.

Needless to say, she had extreme obsessive compulsive disorder. Although it’s a psychological affliction, I couldn’t help thinking that this troubled vessel was just incomprehensibly stupid. I would even go as far as to say criminally insane. She was also an absolute twat in need of a good shake.

Eventually McKenna breezes onto the scene like some kind of hero, spouting some psycho-babble about imagining you’re standing next to waterfall and the like. Although in time his methods will probably succeed, I couldn’t help thinking that it would be quicker, easier and far more entertaining if Geoff Capes thundered in there and gripped her by the neck, yelling “Look, you worthless tit, stop being retarded, or I’ll rip your spine out, make you eat it, and then knock your fuckin’ head off this planet.

Soon, she confesses to McKenna that to her, “Being unclean is the end of the world”.

I absorbed the absurdity of this statement, but was soon swept away by another thought that came stampeding to the forefront of my consciousness: Your house may be outlandishly clean, and well done for that, but you still look like something Walt Disney forgot to draw, you droopy bitch.

What does it matter how clean you try to keep yourself when your head closely resembles a spud? A question she’s obviously never bothered asking herself.

As well as looking as though she’d just escaped from cell block H after having head-butted every warden in the place to death, spud-head also turns out to be a stuck up, narrow minded bint as well. In one scene, she goes into a charity shop and moans that everyone in there looks dodgy and dirty. She then complained that the clothes were dirty because they were second hand. Her main concern seemed to be that someone else may have sweated in them at some point. She stands grimacing, whingeing that she doesn’t even want to touch them. Then she does touch one and immediately leaves the shop and practically scrapes half the skin off her hand with a wet-wipe.

In the end, McKenna’s relentless ear-bending seemed to pay off, and spud-head finally got it through her thick skull that she needed to stop being a cunt now.

I came away from this having learned two things. The first thing being that I would very much like to do the gene pool a service and vaporise the spud-headed lunatic, and also that never again will I fritter away an hour of my precious life watching Paul McKenna.