Posts Tagged ‘Twat’

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.

Big Brother 8 – 3.6.07

June 4, 2007

Ziggy Turd 

Now Ziggy played git.

“Daddy’s home” announced Ziggy (‘music producer’ and ‘ex model’) to an entirely empty lobby. Self-consciously brushing over this hilarious display of backfired nonchalance, he entered the house. I reckon as soon as he was chosen for BB he spent endless nights thinking of what he was going to say when he first went in, he didn’t say anything when he entered the living room because he’d simply run out of ideas.

Ziggy (‘Ziggy’ for fucks sake, I bet he’s really called Colin) is a self-assured humourless prick. He has one of those prat haircuts, all highlights and product. He’s a toned, tall twat. If he liked himself any more, he’d be a permanent geyser of white-hot spunk. Ziggy has a tattoo – an ‘I’ll have that one’ tattoo from a parlour in Surbiton. We know he has a tattoo because he wears sleeveless t-shirts and points it toward whoever he’s talking at, the big butch tool.

As soon as he walked in, most of the housemates’ clothes fell off. At one point, Chantelle, the self styled Posh Spice look-alike with a brain the size of a marble and tits to match, stood in front of Ziggy in his t-shirt, coquettishly acquired a few minutes earlier and as far as I could glean, nothing else. The other protagonist of operation flap was Emily, David Cameron’s lolly, whose knees have decided to take a break from each other. Charley got her charlies out in the pool but as they’re made of rock hard glue it doesn’t count.

Speaking of Charley she’s shaping up to be the BB berk, one minute she’s abusing the Queen’s English in a diatribe of misdirected invective at whoever is within earshot and the next she’s crying, or at least pretending to do so. Her conversation, when she’s not objecting to the colour of air, is clubbin’ and Premiership footballers. She’s an unashamed namedropper, this was pointed out by Emily who was displaying the padded crutch on her knickers, Charley didn’t understand a word she’d said, so she got cross anyway.

My other bone of contention rests solely at the paws of Lesley. Lesley – the lantern jawed warthog – is a conniving, shit-stirring old battleaxe. The only person that rivals her at all for out-and-out selfishness is cyber-tits. She thinks very highly of herself and looks down on everyone else. Horrid, right down to her vulgar earrings. As soon as she opens her miserable pie-hole, someone is being patronised. She’s trying to control the group and to some degree, due to a combination of stupidity and cowardice, she’s winning. Hitler was just like that.

Tracy is a fucking mental, more volatile than a retard holding an M16; I really can’t stand this one. She’s in a league of her own. Putting aside the sound of her voice, an angle-grinder trying to burp, I’m still trying to work out how she fundamentally communicates. I can hear bits of English among her anachronistic rave twaddlings but her facial gestures have a lexical choice all of their own. She seems to permanently resemble an orangutan shitting out sprockets. Despite what I’ve said about the others, I hope she goes first as I am genuinely, genuinely afraid of seeing her naked. I’d rather examine Carol’s growler with a Maglite through an inserted toilet roll tube.

As for the rest, they seem largely okay, the okayist of that lot being fat Laura who’s not put a foot wrong by my high standards. I must admit, despite being prone to weeping without reason, I’m warming to hairy old Aunt Flo too, the political porcine that she is.

The other housemates seem to be just getting on with it, I’ve not heard a peep out of the dear little twins, bless their cotton lobotomies and I think Shabnam has absconded.

Still, I’m enjoying it thoroughly but as already mentioned, I’ll enjoy it a heck of a lot more when Tracey has gone back to her haystack.

Big Brother’s Big Mouth

June 1, 2007

Fucking goon Russell Brand made his name through Big Brother’s Big Mouth, a show which seemed destined for failure from the off. Unknown presenter, no-budget set, limited material… it all seem somewhat empty. Given the fact that the only issues the audience would be able to discuss would be Big Brother related, it seemed like even the 20 odd minutes of time the show ran for would be light on content. But nobody (aside from Endemol) banked on Brand’s personality clicking with the national mood. His flights of fancy were often ludicrous, but he’s an erudite man with a very large vocabulary and an extraordinary gift for crafting sentences, so we forgave him all the talk of ball-bags and swines. The fact of the matter is, Brand was like an accommodating schoolteacher in his manic John Stapleton role, lurching around the seating areas, sitting on laps, poking his microphone into peoples faces. One second he would declare love for audience members, the next he would squeal at them in a Kenneth Williams voice, berating them for being ‘orrible pigs’. The format worked and in many ways was far more watchable than the main BB show itself.Sadly, whether it’s due to the Shilpa Shetty race war business or the turnaround in his career trajectory, Brand has opted not to take part any longer. A shrewd move, some would say, rather like a rodent hurtling itself from a sinking ship. I heard Brand wouldn’t be working on the show around March, though I don’t remember any press release being issued, just rumour and word of mouth. Clearly Endemol felt that if the news got out, Big Brother would be cursed. Let us not forget that Brand was their success story, where Davina and Dermott have institutionalised themselves by working on their own strands of the BB wig. I can’t see either of them successfully fronting their own shows in the future. Remember Davina’s talk show outing? I’m trying to forget it.

In the interim, a few rumours circulated about how this void would be filled. The strongest of these was that Peaches Geldof, offspring of a sanctimonious old anachronism and herself a vapid waste of molecules would be fronting BBBM. I, and I hope the rest of the show’s audience, was astonished and bemused. But then even worse news arrived. The Peaches rumours were unfounded. Chris Moyles would be fronting Big Mouth.

Chris Moyles.

Chris fucking Moyles.

Oh Christ. Thankfully it would only be for a week, and the role would be rotated among other celebrities – at least this is what we can interpret from the garbled mess of crap emenating from Moyles’ anus-mouth last night.

Moyles, for the uninitiated, is a sexist, occasionally clumsily racist, sweating micro-penis who fronts Radio 1’s breakfast output alongside his mate, ‘Comedy Dave’, the living misnomer. Every morning they bleat on about Leeds United (relegation’s what you need), birds and beers, garnering decent ratings because they appeal to the vast majority of the populace – i.e. other idiots. How Endemol thought it would be a great idea to replace a handsome, witty and manic presenter with a pot-bellied hog with the grace and language skills of a backwards walrus is beyond me.

Last night, his second attempt at fronting the programme, Moyles didn’t exactly impress. He waddled around the arena where Brand used to bounce round it, Tigger-like. He repeatedly called any male guest ‘fella’, probably the most annoying salutation since Maxwell called all and sundry ‘geezer’. He mocked one of the contestant’s weight, when that contestant probably weighs a stone or two less than him. In the past, he has been picked up by Haile Berry for having a ‘racist moment’, yet he decided a member of the audience ‘looked like Beyonce’, despite the fact there was no resemblance whatsoever besides skin colour. In addition to this, he insulted several other members of the audience without any semblance of humour, as bales of tumbleweed flew by.

The man is an arse. I hope this rumour of a week-long tenancy are proved to be true, otherwise Endemol, if it’s possible, have dumbed themselves even further into the dust.

The Apprentice, Series 3, Episode 7

May 10, 2007

Nasty girl 

Some deep-seated antipathy is manifesting itself in the Apprentice. Last night was all out war between Katie (who has gone from resembling Fido Dido to being a mirror image of a rubber chicken), Kristina and Adam. All of whom were on the same team. I’ll give you three guesses as to who lost.

Up against Simon, they really didn’t have a chance – the inevitable back-stabbing would result in one of them getting fired – and it was never going to be Kristina. They should play a burst of Foreigner’s ‘Cold as Ice’ every time she flicks onscreen, for she is this year’s Ice Queen. She will win, unless she really buggers things up or turns into snow and melts before the time is over. Speaking of personal theme tunes for contestants, Katie would have benefitted from a little incidental music this time around – Foreigner’s ‘I Wanna Know What Love Is’, perhaps, given her mood-shift since her beau Paul – or Captain Mainwaring as Sugar would have it – left in disgrace last week.

The task this week was buying. Corporate buying, obviously, not simply finding things and then buying them. They had to seek a decent discount on various items. There were penalties involved if they didn’t buy all the items on the list and penalties if they bought at cost price. For a mathematical imbecile like me, in work-shutdown mode after six o clock, the figures were quite hard to follow last night. It doesn’t take a genius to realise, however, that turning up late and incurring a fine is better than turning up on time and incurring two fines. One glance at the rules and even Frank Spencer would’ve grasped that. Buy every item at a fractionally reduced cost, maybe twist the arm of the softest couple of suckers you meet to get a big discount on the odd item and you should be quids in. Just don’t turn up with less than ten items. Seek and ye shall find.

So, Adam took the reins as the opposing Project Manager and had Katie and Kristina to manage. Foolishly, he sent them out on their own to work as a double act (they had previously demonstrated only disdain for one another) while he worked alongside the vacuous arse-on-legs that is Ghazal. Lovely to look at, but when she opens her mouth it’s akin to a neutron bomb going off. If Adam had paired off with Kristina he would have won the task. They were kindred spirits in the final three last week when they buried Paul – why didn’t Adam see that? Because he’s a salesman, and like most salesmen he has a stupefying belief in his own ability that is not only unrealistic, it’s pathologically dangerous.

Kristina and Katie, demonstrating the cold, determined will to survive that only career-women can muster, worked well together despite their myriad differences. Any shopkeeper, with two blondes approaching begging for two quid off a pot of leg-wax whilst smiling, cooing and promising to never bother you ever again, would probably let it pass, knock a couple of quid off and put it down to experience. It certainly beat Adam’s method of staring out the vendor, hand clasped to chin.

In the meantime, Simon ran around doing an excellent Basil Fawlty impression: ‘GET IN THE CAR, GET OUT THE CAR, GET BACK IN THE CAR – Tre can you move up a bit please? Honestly…’. They got all the items on the list and everything was tickety-boo. Tre provided comic relief when buying from a Brick Lane vendor by mimicking (presumably) his Dad’s accent. Jadine seemed to work well with Lohit. It was smooth-running. They even picked up the elusive Nigella Seeds, the one item that stumped Adam and Ghazal for a good six hours.

In the boardroom, the knives came out in what was probably the most sneaky and hate-filled meeting in the show’s history. Katie ‘had her head down because she’d lost her friend’ Adam claimed. While she had grown even more poisonous when speaking about Adam, she didn’t work less hard, so it wasn’t a fair thing to mention. As it was patently untrue, Alan Sugar actually had a meeting within the meeting and decided that issue should be dropped. Katie then (having slagged Adam off in the preceding vox pop for being Northern) accused Adam of being ‘a little too friendly with Mr Pinot and Mr Grigio’, implying he’s a hardened boozer. Which is bullshit. Christ she’s awful. Sorry – but as I try to relay the events, my mind wanders and I find myself focusing on quite how fucking vile Katie ‘Fido-Dido Rubber-Chicken’ is. She’s vastly hideous. If you’ve never experienced how upper-class witches speak and act, then watch the next Apprentice. But not the one after that, she’ll hopefully have gone by then.

Adam was out of his depth – sadly he had to go. But Katie’ll be next. You mark my words (and prayers).

The F Word

May 9, 2007

 The F Word

Ramsay. He’s an interesting fellow, old Ramsay. Where Jamie Oliver isn’t just a narrow eyed, chubby cheeked berk, but actually has talent, drive and passion, Ramsay, it would seem, isn’t just a scrotum-faced sac of testosterone. He may resemble a huge testicle squirting spermy insults into the faces of innocents, but credit where it’s due, the fellow knows what he’s doing. He’s got ten michelin stars for Christ’s sake. In these foodie times that’s akin to having found ten holy chalices.But still, there are problems. I have no problem with swearing, and I have no problem with confrontation, but every once in a while the mask slips a little and we see a well of rage beneath the choreographed bad-mouthing and at any moment we sense he could smack out. Is that choreographed as well? Or is it this dangerous aspect that makes Gordon appealing? For me, it does the opposite. It makes him look like my old P.E. teacher, and he was a cunt.Ramsay teaches people, has a position of authority over them. That gives him the perfect opportunity to humiliate them. Throw in a camera crew and the opportunity multiplies. Watching a recent Kitchen Nightmare, we were subjected to Ramsay mocking a chef far further down the food chain for never having cooked mussels.

‘You’ve never cooked mussels?!’

‘No.’

‘YOU’VE NEVER COOKED MUSSELS?’

‘No.’

‘YOU’VE NEVER COOKED MUSSELS?’

‘NO. I’VE NEVER COOKED MUSSELS’

At this point Gordon proceeded to start doing a ‘joey’ impression at the chef, who reciprocated the gesture, and any semblance of adult behaviour disappeared. It’s only fair to point out that GR was berating the ‘chef’ of what was little more than a greasy spoon during this tirade, so his not having cooked mussels wasn’t exactly a massive shock.

Herein lies the problem. Walking around and calling people ‘big boy’, telling them to ‘stop playing with their doo dah and put the fucking tortellini on’ and continually (and I mean endlessly) asking them ‘where their balls are’ is exactly what a games teacher would do. And what’s the big deal anyway? Tortellini, mussels? Who gives a shit?

Now we’re into the second series of the F Word. This consists of Gordon wandering around a conceptual restaurant, teaching normal people to cook. With bursts of the worst theme music I’ve ever heard in my life buzzing in unneccessarily at any given moment.

GR arrived in the kitchen this week and slammed down the bloody carcass of a deer, shouting ‘THERE’S DINNER’. Echoes of Brando in Streetcar Named Desire. Primal man and his bloody package. Yeah – terrifying. The problem is, the highlights in his schoolboy hair rather shattered the image.

This week it was a group of ex-Etonians who Gordon quite rightly tore to pieces. They were put there for a reason – to make Gordon with his working-class authenticity (where the fuck did he get that accent then, big boy?) look good. And they couldn’t have chosen better targets from his bile – one of the chaps had an opening spiel that ran thus: ‘Yah, Dad set me up on a pretty solid share scheme so I get a pretty healthy income from that’. To top that off, he resembled a rapist.

Gordon also cooked a dessert with Natasha Kaplinsky, a woman so artifiicially constructed that I have genuinely forgotten what happened in her ten minute segment. Did she even speak, or did she stand there with those reptilian eyes, staring the camera out? I can’t for the life of me recall. By the time we got to the section where Gordon caught a facehugger in Lapland and cooked it, I’d only just come round. This section of course featured the obligatory Gordon topless shot. Every Gordon show features Gordon topless. He must have it carved into his contract in the producer’s blood.

An hour is a long time to spend on a cooking show, so obviously some junk is going to get chucked in. In series one, Ramsay had the excellent Giles Coren to fall back on for small pieces to camera about this and that, but he made his mark and has his own (far superior) TV shows to make these days, so Ramsay has called in Janet Street Porter (argh!) to fill his shoes. If anyone can tell me what was going on in her attempted assassination of Prince Charles’ food range last night, please give me a shout at the email address in the top right margin. She seemed to be trying to fit two ‘Supersize Me’ type shows into a ten minute slot and believe me when I tell you, it was a garbled fucking mess. With her narrating it, it was always going to be.

Finally, on top of this (where does he find the time? Oh yes, he’s got a whole bloody hour to fill) Gordon interviewed that very current, very ‘now’ comedic figure, Dawn French. Is that the best they could do? I know she’s still working (if you can call The Vicar of Dibley working, rather than just turning up) and she clearly digs her food, but really – how are three separate interviews with her over an hour possibly going to be any fun? Dawn has kissed Gordon! Ha ha ha! Dawn and Gordon keep saying ‘fanny’! Great! Oh look! They’re kissing! Again! Faaantastic.

The problem is, I’ll probably keep watching. The food is good and the format is hit and miss, with more hits than misses. If only Gordo would stop behaving like a 12 year old who’s taken crack instead of his normal Ritalin dose it might be a bit more bearable.

Strongbow (again)

May 8, 2007

Strongbow 

Someone else has posted on this fucking advert, I thought I’d stick my two pennies worth in as it’s perpetually on.

Last night I noticed something about the main turd in the advert. In comparison to everyone else in the commercial he’s startlingly ugly, yet clearly the protagonist of some sort of ‘good’.

For a start he orders the drinks by thumbing a cocky finger in the direction of the token black man to his left (it’s okay, Strongbow drinkers aren’t all young racist working class cunts on the poverty line) and the au fait fop to his right (nor are they to be found in town centres beating the fucking shit out of anyone with a lisp). Strongbow man is the leader of the pack, the winner, and the go-getter…

Ugly’s two companions are bought ‘lager’. What a generous chap this Strongbow drinker is, despite looking as if he’s been formed for millions of years in a peat bog, he’s a bloody good bloke.

The lager-drinkers sip their pints and are briefly refreshed and get on with watching the football with all the handsome cheery men in the pub. But Ugly, as we know, stands there for most of the fucking night welded to the spot, mouth open exhaling loudly because he’s being that refreshed. What a barrel of laughs he must be on a Saturday night. All of his pals are seen in the background having a killer time as clearly their team score. Yes s s s s s s s…Not for Ugly, he’s in a world of his own.

After he’s snapped out of his trance he once again displays another act of philanthropy by offering his two under refreshed mates ‘crisps’. Crisps? No one has ever, ever looked at me and said ‘crisps?’ In fact, I don’t think in the history of pubs and crisps one man has ever turned to another and said ‘crisps’.

It’s a baffling bit of marketing. Obviously we (men) are supposed to somehow relate to the Ugly cunt because he’s not a groomed male model type, he’s a bloody good ugly bloke offering beer and crisps to all and sundry with a kind, open fizzog. But then he contributes nothing to the social bonding clearly taking place in the background; he doesn’t even notice his mates for an age, and they don’t notice him either. No one fucking cares even when he starts acting like a lunatic, no one comes over and checks to see if he’s alright, they just carry on as if it’s perfectly fucking normal to be stood stock still breathing loudly in one direction for an hour…

So where does this leave us? Somewhere like this: If you look like a bag of dented bells, whilst being prone to long, evening length, bouts of vertical epilepsy and have mates that only hang out with you because you buy the drinks and ‘crisps’, then drink Strongbow.

The Apprentice, Series 3, Episode 6

May 3, 2007

 Scary Panel

Are you interesting?

Finally Lohit actually featured in an episode – he was Project Manager on a task that saw the idiots packed off to France to sell English food to the French. Still, somehow Lohit managed to slide pretty squarely into the background. For some unfathomable reason the programme was edited as though Simon was the team leader, focusing on all his strengths (good French language skills) and weaknesses (two-faced silver-tongued berk). Up against Lohit – it was the moment I’d personally been waiting for since day one – Paul was to lead a team for the first time. And what a cloyingly posh, sneering simpleton he proved himself to be.

Dazed by his love for the nauseatingly fawning Fido Dido, Paul seemed to make every wrong decision count. Usually on this show, we’re shown a selection of mistakes by both team leaders. This time round, Paul clearly made so many boobs whilst staring at Fido’s that the errors actually submerged any mistakes Lohit made. It was an hour long Paul Disaster Movie, and all the more enjoyable for it.

The only errors I can remember being made by Lohit (and I’m sure you’ll pull me up on this) were his poor French ‘I have some products for you – are you interesting?’ and sharing a twin bedroom with Simon. As they turned out the light, Simon said ‘If you can’t be good, be careful’. I’m not sure he had control of his mind there – I’ll leave the insinuation for you to work out.

So, Paul had complete control and he screwed things up with all the might his puny frame could summon. Think of some English foodstuffs that might appeal to the fussy French palette. Stilton perhaps. Wensleydale. Hot English pies and crumbles. Strawberries and clotted cream. Yum. Now think of the kind of processed cheese you get from the off-licence when you’ve spent all day drinking and require cheese-on toast before your stomach eats itself and you puke up your kidneys. Imagine lumps the size of breeze-blocks of that kind of cheese in a nasty plastic wrapping. Imagine trying to sell that to a Frenchman, in France. Imagine going home with with it again. Imagine binning it, as you realise you are a complete fucking tool. You’d feel shame, wouldn’t you? You’d hold your hands up and say ‘bad idea’? Not so Paul.

Another mistake was to draw on his army days when cutting corners in finding a suitable stove to cook sausage samples on. Christ knows what he was doing with a flammable jelly, and that same good Lord only knows why Adam persisted in trying to get the bloody thing to work for several hours. Adam, while we’re at it, also blew a pocketful of cash on a nasty advertising hoarding that read ‘Traditionals Foods of English Mans’. It was a garbled, technicolour vomit-mess. But he was only following orders, it transpired.

In the end, the completely terrifying but refreshingly sensible Kristina tried to wrestle back some degree of sanity by sweet-talking her way into a local cafe and using their frying facilities. Things began to sell. Where was Paul while this happened? He was selling sausages for the price he paid for them and trying to flog pork to a fasting Muslim. Genius.

The boardroom was 12 minutes of very predictable banter. It was crystal clear Paul was going to go. He had to. He also fell into the trap of choosing people to go back with him into the boardroom simply because he didn’t like them, or thought he could blame them. This isn’t Big Brother – this is survival of the fittest. How could Paul have thought for one second that Kristina might have got fired? She’s got ‘Apprentice Winner 2007’ written all over her thin-lipped face. Maybe he was trying to save Fido Dido. Which means we have to put up with her for another bloody week. Blast.

It’s interesting to consider how Adam is the only contestant from the North of England who is left in the house and reflect on how this influences his treatment from all the other bastards. Looking closely last night, it’s clear that he’s simply being bullied. Perhaps his nervousness when project managing the tiger-lolly task was fed a little by the fear that he’s being ousted as a Northern commoner by the more privileged of the pack – and here I’m looking at Fido ‘should-have-gone-three-weeks-ago’ Dido and Simon. It’s simple bullying. I just hope he toughens up and gives as good as he gets.

I think more of Jadine‘s malapropisms and gobbledegook is what’s required to keep things funny rather than nasty over forthcoming weeks – the business world ain’t all sandwiches and biscuits after all, right?

World’s Worst Sex Change Surgeon

April 11, 2007

 

I’d browsed an article in some shoddy broadsheet about this chap somewhere down the line and been slightly disturbed by what I’d read. That doesn’t compare to how disturbed I was by what was shown on TV last night. Christ. Any man that watched it without clutching his family jewels at least five times has clearly never received a kick to the knackers, snapped their banjo or caught their old chap in their fly. This was ‘ooyah TV’, the kind of thing that makes grown men weep and women shudder with nausea. My missus, in fact, spent almost the entire show behind a cushion, which was weird because she was the one who changed the channel to this parade of nastiness in the first place.

Clearly, you can guess from the title of the show what was going on here. John Ronald ‘Butcher’ Brown is quite a narcissistic chap, seemingly bent on operating on hapless cheapskates despite never having earned a license to do so. Add to this the fact that his specialism was gender realignment and you’re guaranteed some of the nastiest real-life TV you’re ever going to see. Brown operated from his garage on transsexuals unable to find a willing doctor to operate on them, and unable to stump up the cash for the op. Brown offered a cheap service that apparently worked very well for some. His technique, according to those who’d successfully undergone his blade, was to lop off the little fellow, remove the chads and then ‘minimise’ the winky – thus making it a clitoris. Now, I’ve never seen a clitoris that looks like a bell-end in terms of size, shape and colour before (and I’ve read a bajillion jazz pamphlets in my time, believe you me), but apparently his method was successful from time-to-time. Blimey.

When it went wrong, it really, really went wrong. After moving surgery to Mexico to escape the police, at one point Brown operated on a couple of gay chaps who fetishised amputees. One of them actually wanted their left leg removed as they felt it would improve their sex life. As no normal surgeon would do this, they gave our mate, Butcher Brown a tinkle and he did the honours. Chap turned up, leg came off, chap died of blood loss, thankyou very much. Nice work, Butcher Boy. After this slight mishap, a truly depressing (and thoroughly minging) turn of events. Brown performed a sex change operation on the butchest bloke you’ve ever met and made a right bloody mess of it. In turning the winky inside out he punctured the rectum. This resulted in the transsexual involved being given a fanny that pooed. I’ll repeat that. A fanny that leaked poo.

Think about that.

A fanny that leaks poo.

Now. With that in mind (a fanny that leaks poo), imagine a million shots of grainy actual footage from Brown’s surgery of him cutting off members willy nilly, in some cases with a not-fully-anaesthetized patient moaning in pain. Imagine those shots interspliced with the narrative of the documentary, seemingly randomly, and have a think about whether you could’ve handled watching it. Bet you couldn’t. I could, because I’m tough.

At the end, Butcher Brown was interviewed in prison.

– ‘Do you feel any guilt for what you’ve done?’
– ‘No. Not really’.

At least he’s honest.