Posts Tagged ‘Twat’

The Perfect Vagina

August 19, 2008

Okay, I’m a man. So when reviewing a programme called ‘The Perfect Vagina’ it’s hard not to think of a gag every 15 seconds. And ex-Scrapheap Challenge presenter Lisa Rogers certainly gave me enough material.

‘I don’t think my husband Paul realised by making this film, I’d start talking fannies day and night’

He probaby didn’t Lisa, otherwise I’m sure he’d have set up a premium-rate chatline. You can make a fortune with that sort of thing.

Lisa’s mission was to find out why so many young women in Britain these days are opting for vaginal cosmetic surgery or ‘labiaplasties’. There’s been a 300% increase in the demand for this procedure privately in the past few years and even NHS demand has doubled since 2003.

Speaking to a girl who waxes women’s lady-bits, Lisa found out that the problem seemed to start in the late 90’s, around the time Sex and the City first hit our screens and Brazilians started becoming much more popular. With the consequent bareness of this new fanny-fashion, many women started to feel self-conscious about the look of their vaginas.

The main story centered around 21-year-old Rose who was so self-conscious about the shape of her vaginal lips that she was getting them trimmed. She was actually a very nice-looking girl and fully-clothed she looked perfectly normal. But she was so distressed about the appearance of her vagina that I was half-expecting she must have had a fanny that trailed along the ground behind her and had to be disguised as a wedding train and supported by two fanny bridesmaids wherever she went.

Not at all, as it turns out. It looked perfectly normal. The plastic surgeon chopped a few bits off anyway. Seeing as she’d gone to the trouble of bringing along the tv crew and shelling out a small fortune, it would have been rude not to.

We then saw Rose in recovery and were told it would take up to three months for the procedure to heal. Even I crossed my legs at that point and I don’t even own a fanny (although I do occasionally rent one in the Dordogne.)

Lisa also spoke to Brighton artist Jamie, who was casting 160 vulvas in plaster of paris to display as part of a large ‘Vaginal Wall’ art exhibit. Dirty bastard. I wish I’d thought of that one.

There is regulatory requirement on these sort of shows where they have to ask a New Age gimp what their solution to the problem is, and this one was no different. So Lisa consulted fanny-guru Rachael Foops (no tittering at the back) who advised that women’s vaginas have stories and memories locked inside them and that by talking to them, women can heal these emotional scars.

To her credit, Lisa burst out laughing at this point. But, by the end of the show, she was sitting cross-legged in a kaftan eating pomegranites and showing her twinkle to the group like the rest of them – obviously on the basis that it makes good TV.

A more serious problem was highlighted by the rise in ‘Laser Hymenoplasties’ -particularly amongst young, Muslim women. These poor ladies are apparently under an increasing pressure to ‘bleed’ on their wedding night to prove they are still virgins, so they are having their hymens artificially reinstored. Here’s a tip for you girls: if your husband-to-be is such an evil religious bigot that he wants blood on the wedding night, why not just bite off his testicles? Better still, don’t marry the twat in the first place. No bloodshed required on either side. Just a thought.

Of course, we poor unfortunate men have had to contend with this sort of thing for decades. The size of the penises you see in porn movies are not at all representative of the rest of us, and a friend of mine (not me, a friend of mine) can only make it through one of these ghastly films by repeating over and over to himself the mantra ‘he’s just got very small hands, he’s just got very small hands’… As I say – not me, a friend of mine.

It also can’t help that every second email I receive asks me if I would like a bigger cock – and that’s just the ones I get from my mother. So we men feel your pain, ladies, and not just because it increases our chances of a shag, but y’know, for like, proper caring reasons ‘n’ stuff.

We’re all victims of this brainwashing shite. So here’s an idea. Stop buying the glossy magazines, girls, and stick around with us here at Watch With Mothers. I can assure you there are far bigger and uglier twats than yours on this very site, every day of the week.

Cue the comments…

I’m a manager of people

June 16, 2008

Mario

Watching BB on your behalf

Here’s the lowdown on Mario

Mario – Well, back home where we come from, we have a fan club.
Lisa – Mario was watched by 14 milion people on the Ant & Dec.
Mario – I’m 43 years old, i’ve spent years networking and meeting people, I know literally millions of people.
Lisa – Literally millions.
Mario – That is a literal amount of people.
Lisa – And he’s Project Manager of the biggest toilet installation firm in Warrington.
Mario – I think of meself, as I’ve said before, as a Manager of people. Feel me hair – it’s like a pineapple!
Lisa – His hair, eh? Like a pineapple ain’t it?
Mario – See, I’ve got experience of all this, so I wear me hair like a pineapple. Like they do on the Ant ‘n Dec. See Mikey?

Mikey walks into a wall

Mario – From a Health and Safety aspect, Mikey – that’s a no-no.

Continues to impress himself with tales of his time on Ant & Dec whilst holding mug of tea in manly fashion.

Fin

The Queen

July 12, 2007

Elizabeth 

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.

Big Brother 8, 10.7.07

July 10, 2007

 Pauline

It’s already getting boring. Too many people in the house for the stage we’re at, too much time invested in a fabricated relationship. And as for the ‘fake’ sub-plot for the week, it’s day one and we’ve already over-milked the bloody thing. The arrival of Pauline (or ‘Pooh’ as the housemates are expected to believe her nickname to be) was a vaguely interesting prospect at first until the BB producers, as ever, fucked the whole thing up.

On Friday the housemates were shown the video (as were viewers) of an Aussie housemate about to go in. She was fanciable too, which upped the ante. But only briefly, when it was revealed that she’s an actress working for Big Brother. But then we learned that she’s an actress from Swindon who can barely manage an Aussie accent, let alone fake a background spent in the antipodes.

By the time her entrance came halfway through last night’s show we laready knew that Carol was on to her, with chinny scarecrow Tracey following her lead. Even earlier than that, the supposed simpleton Charley (who is actually clearly a criminal mastermind) had twigged the possibility that this might all be a sham.

In the past, natural paranoia has ensured that contestants have accused other housemates of being moles. When Makosi was taking direction from Big Brother, the cry of MOLE went up so quickly that the house divided into two camps overnight. The point being, if this was to be successful, it might’ve been prudent to use and ACTUAL FUCKING AUSSIE in the lead role of Australian? Otherwise the game might be up on the first day when the actress was asked where in Australia she was from. Without any knowledge of the continent she replied ‘Wallah Wallah’. If you can call it a reply, it’s more just a moronic, four-syllable outburst thrown in the direction of Australasia. Throw in a real Aussie, I say, in the mole role and let her interfere properly with the housemate’s affairs without her having to muck about with alien intonations.

It reminds me of the time, a few series back, when a housemate in with the inspired idea of pretending to be Italian. Her accent was so shit she lasted 5 minutes in character and everyone else, bar none, thought she was a weirdo and voted her out at the next opportunity.

I feel for the girl, who in reality is one Thaila Zucchi. She’s had previous work on Balls of Steel, the living excretia on the sole of TV comedy and now she’s having to live through the agony of being the centrepiece of another cringeworthy Big Brother non-event. My prediction is that this will all be over by day three. Her accent keeps slipping at the end of a sentence like a kraft cheese slice flopping down a shop window.

I suppose we should thank heavens for small mercies, however, as the first half of yesterday’s show saw the phoney Chiggy and Zanelle romance grind to a halt. After watching their break up, any sympathy for either party has shrivelled to a brittle husk. You get together for pathetic reasons – he: thinking it’d bolster his chances of winning, she: wanting to be a sub level posh and becks on leaving – and then you’re suprised that you’re sick of each other within a fortnight?

From what I’ve heard, the Zacharia character is largely getting the blame for all this (apparently he put his willy in her – I didn’t see that episode so if anyone’s got a youtube link…). If he did bone her – more fool her (what did she expect from an ex-boyband wannabe surfer slimehat?). If he didn’t, then she’s a complete psycho, employing every tactic in the book to syphon sympathy from the ever-ready endless supply the other housemates keep tanked up. Either way, they’re both idiots.

Rather than taking sides, we’d probably be better off not encouraging this shit. But the addiction rolls on and on, and I’m at the point where I’m running out of veins, patience and sanity.

The Wright Stuff

July 6, 2007

 Wright Stuff

If you’re a dole-scrounger, old, mad, or one of those fools who work from home, you need to keep yourself entertained during the day before the real human beings get home from a hard day’s work. May I recommend you start your pointless day with The Wright Stuff – Channel 5’s flagship 9 O’clock current affairs show for morons, drug-addicts, cunts and kiddie-diddlers hosted by jug-eared, Croydon-obsessed, big-nosed, flappy-mouthed, pig-eyed FREAK Matthew ‘CroydonCroydonCroydonCroydonI’mFromCroydon’ Wright?

For those of you who aren’t untermenschen and therefore haven’t seen it the show’s format, it goes a little like this:

(OPENING CREDITS – CUE MATTHEW WRIGHT LOOKING SMUG)

9:00 Hello! Welcome to today’s Wright Stuff with me – Croydon’s own Matthew Wright!

9:05 Here’s the dreadful, wide-mouthed, arrogant fishwife Lowri Turner … and here’s spiteful, boorish, pointless Fame Academy ‘Headmaster’ Richard A-Blahblahblah. And today’s special guest is … big-titted, completely insane, ex-sexy not-that-sexy-then definitely-not-sexy-now McFadden’s-had-his-way-with-her-and-she’s-full-of-Iceland-pasties … Kerry EricCantona!

9:10
Lowri? What’s in the papers?

9:11 Spittle spittle I’m a woman motherhood spit spittle goff spittle motherhood woman no no no spittle

9:14 Richard?

9:15 It’s a disgrace!

9:!! Kerry?

9:%% Brassy breezy northern northern … B-B-B-B-BRRRIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAN! WHHHHHHHHYY?

9:£6 (7)
Did I happen to mention I’m from Croydon? Coming up after the break I talk to ‘Dr’ Gillian Makeeeef about shitting …

(ADVERTISEMENT BREAK)

!0:00 HI! Croydon! So, Gillian, what are we talking about today?

10:0K Well Matthew, today we’re talking about the ‘S’ word …

10:89 Croydon?

10:88 Huh?

10:87 Croydon?

10:86 Shitting vaginas are funny old things Matthew …
BLAST OFF!! They certainly are Gillian, snarf snarf … let’s go to the phones. Corin, who’s there?

10:24 This is Mary from Brighton (calls cost 10p, mobiles may vary, all calls will be charged but most won’t be answered)

10:25: Mary? You’re on

10:”7: Mumble mumble mumble pointless public opinion etc

10.30: Thanks Mary! That’s all we’ve got time … so tomorrow … MP BORIS JOHNSON!

(AUDIENCE APPLAUD WILDLY – CUE CRAPPY CLOSING TITLES)

It’s a great show.

Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps

July 5, 2007

Two Pints of Piss 

Too pointless for laughter and a sackful of shit

In the absence of Tycoon, I realised that I would have to turn my attention elsewhere this week, and as I was drifting aimlessly through the channels late last night, I came upon an easy target. Not just an easy target mind, but an insipid, zombified beast wearily waiting to be put to sleep forever. And while, unfortunately, it is not yet within my power to do so, I was nevertheless struck with the irresistable urge to clobber such a pathetically inept and flailing subject on it’s sickbed. No, I am not referring to Make Your Play or indeed Glitterball, though you would be forgiven for thinking so. No, I’m talking about Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps.

Canned laughter aside, there are no indications whatsoever that this is indeed intended for the purposes of humourous relief. In fact, any claims at all that this is funny are just out and out lies and anyone who even so much as smirks at the situation-based japes therein should be punched in the face for days, mercilessly relieved of their scalp, tossed into a volcano and shot at on their way down. Especially since those who enjoy its witless attributes are clearly chavvy types anyway. This is not intended as a purely throwaway remark either. It’s bland, shallow and utterly void of redemption, as well as being as much a reprehensible enemy of intelligence as anything else, anywhere on this knackered planet. As such, it is not just a programme for chavs, it is a fucking chav.

Taking into consideration that I have yet to encounter another human being who speaks well of this awful show, I am somewhat bamboozled as to the reasoning behind BBC 3’s incessant airing of it. As soon as it strikes midnight, it’s there. Multiple episodes, back to back, five nights a week. Lord above, how many series of this cascade of rancid camel shit have been commissioned? Someone, somewhere, needs a rare old twatting.

Ralf Little has long since bypassed his own sell-by date and must no longer be allowed to surf his own faded projection of success. Granted, he was quite funny in The Royle Family, but time has passed and now he’s just an offensive stain. I don’t even know the names of the rest of the cast but quite frankly I pity the joyless wankbags. I find comfort in assuming they’re all two strokes short of a climax.

I realise that this is not the only British sitcom guilty of bringing comical emptiness to the masses, (My family, My Hero, anything with Nicholas Lyndhurst post Only Fools And Horses) but Two Pints of Lager should voluntarily die for the sins of all the others as far as I’m concerned, minus any kind of resurrection.

Already, I have devoted a near-regrettable amount of my own precious life-span to this unworthy subject, and if I dedicate any more then I’m in danger of becoming a fool to myself.

Big Brother 8, 21.6.07

June 21, 2007

Money guzzlers 

Shameful though it is, I’m really enjoying BB this year. So many little, niggling interpersonal relationships have been born out of the staggered entrances, which was something of a masterstroke by the cynical producers. Thanks to the late entries we have Ziggy engulfed in total paranoia and Billi reverting to infantilism over Z’s relationship with Chanelle. We also have the charmless Jonathan lusting over control-freak Nicky, Tracey stuck entirely on the sidelines (similar to the way Pete was on the periphery at this stage last year), Liam, Brian and  the twins being amiably dull and Carol going slowly more insane. Charley is going from strength to strength in terms of her self-destruction. I’m thoroughly enjoying watching her. Car crashes have never been so glamorous.

If I’ve left anyone out, it’s because they’re either dull or likeable.

So last night we were given one of BB’s little twists. Usually a complete disappointment – think of Stuart’s surprise eviction or Eugene winning half the money – this time round BB, I think, may have got it right.

In the event, the plot twist was as follows. A hundred grand, the supposed prize money, was to be given away. The three nominated contestants would choose among themselves who to give the cash to, and then BB would not tell them what was actually happening at the end of the series. In actual fact, there’s still £100,000 to be handed to the victor, but the contestants won’t know that.

Ideally, and I’m really hoping this is the case, the housemates will believe the only remaining benefit of staying inside will be the ‘journey’. Some will fake their way to the end believing in this pseudo-spiritual voyage, ulitmately losing the plot and revealing themselves to be fame-hungry maniacs, while others will show their true colours very early on and just fuck off.

Others, ie the twins, won’t understand what’s going on and stand stock-still and dribble for a fortnight. As for Seany, he’ll hopefully implode in on himself in a cloud of dusty irrelevance.

They gave the cash to Liam, by the way – the tree surgeon with the personality of a tree. Presumably they felt sorry for him.

The Ziggy / Chanelle ‘love’ thing that’s going on is actually quite fascinating. Last night we had a classic moment of male / female interaction. Ziggy, hoping to reveal a little vulnerability and have his paranoia washed away with some kind words, was speaking to Chanelle as they lay in their bed.

‘What if things don’t work out for us? They might not’ he said. The response any man might require from this little insecure outburst would be as follows:

‘Of course they’ll work out. I really like you’.

Not too difficult to grit your teeth and say that, eh ladies?

Obviously, being female, Chanelle had to seize the upper hand, thus prolonging the argument whilst victoriously spinning her beau’s world into utter confusion.

‘I don’t know why the hell you’d even ask me that?’ she exclaimed, before exiting the bed in labia clutching panties to go and muck about with the other housemates, leaving Ziggy in horrible limbo as she flirted with professional empty-head, Billi.

Chicks eh?

*prepares for claims of sexism*

Nick Ferrari at Breakfast – LBC

June 19, 2007

 

For some reason, possibly the same reason that I put myself through the televisual shredder that is The F Word, I tune into Nick Ferrari most mornings while ironing my shirt and doing everything I can to banish the day’s hangover. If you haven’t seen him trying to snatch a little bit of limelight on current affairs shows before or if you happen to live outside of London, he’s the fat twonk above.

Nick basically pushes his point of view so far to the right that he’s skirting on the edge of Daily Mail nazism every single fucking morning.

I play a game with myself every morning (not that kind of game, pervert) wherein I think about the events of the previous day and then, before tuning in to blubbery Ferrari, try to guess what he’ll be covering and what angle he’ll take on it. This morning I emerged victorious from my front door, having correctly guessed that, without condoning racist language, Nick would go some way to defending the late Bernard Manning based on the era he came from. It’s the easiest game in the world, now I think about it.

Ferrari’s regular guests include Mark Dolan of Balls of Steel fame. Jane Moore the Sun columnist also turns up to talk shit occasionally, as well as a handful of other  Telegraph-type journos who are completely out of touch with reality and who seem content with the fact that your average phone-in listener is a racist, homophobic shyster in a white van. And me. With those kinds of pals on board, you can imagine it’s a laugh-a-minute.

Worth a listen if you fancy being sick on your bacon.