Posts Tagged ‘Twat’

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.

Yeah.
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?

The Apprentice, Series 3, Ep. 2

April 5, 2007

Rory 

That was a weird one.  The teams were now unbalanced, with one female among the boys going up against an all girl squad. So Jadine, the feisty lady (or mouthy cow, depending on your point of view) who project managed the boys coffee task stayed with the chaps whilst the ladies soldiered on without Andy’s wobbly leadership. Wobbly in every sense, was poor Andy, wobbling when asked to decide on what to do next, wobbly in the boardroom and wobbling around town trying to give lollipops to little girls to get them to buy coffee in a sinister manner. But as we know, he’s gone now.So who was for the chop this week? Early on, Rory volunteered to lead Eclipse, the boys’ team with the one female appendage. Let’s cut to the chase early on and admit that Rory never stood a chance. He’s been bankrupted twice (how the fuck do you manage THAT? He’s 27 for fuck’s sake!) and he’s also an ex public schoolboy, or ought to be from the sound of his plummy tones. And we all know how Sugary Alan feels about the posh boys, don’t we? In addition, he also looks like Beaker from The Muppets.The girls were also led by a toffee-nosed type, but she at least has the temerity to avoid talking like Prince William. Her name is Katie,  and she is a woman who looks perfectly normal from the upper eyelid down, but above that appears to have nicked Fido Dido‘s elongated brow.

The task was to create a dog accessory, to be manufactured overnight and then sold to buyers from three major retailers the next day. The clients to be sold to were Harrods, some up-their-own-arse boutique and a company wide pet-store with branches throughout the UK. I’ll admit I hadn’t immediately seized on the idea that the nationwide pet store was a clue that the bigger sales would happen with that one presentation, but then I was half pissed, on a couch in some dirty tracksuit bottoms having a smoke. If I’d have been suited up and slick, early in the morning I reckon it might have crossed my mind. Rory, ignoring the fact he had three members of his team who worked in the area of design in some way, opted to include the witless, clearly schizophrenic Tre at the ideas stage, giving him a shot at brainstorming.

Tre is a horrifying quagmire of teenage adolescent resentment. He is presented with any form of authority and his mouth suddenly starts spitting and teeth-clenching. I bet he got expelled from school a good few times. I bet he’s beaten up a lollipop lady at some point. He can’t be asked to do anything without suddenly exclaiming his greatness and cursing the very ground anyone else might walk on. He’s like Syed but with a barbed whale-cock rammed up his arse, making him relentlessly uncomfortable and effortlessly uptight. At least Syed had a gramme of charisma. Tre’s probably considered ‘good TV’ by the BBC executives, but I consider him to be BAD TV. I don’t like watching twitchy twats being horrible on my screen, so I hope he fucks up in a big way, very, very soon and gets booted out on his bottom.

Rory opted to ignore everything that had been thrown up in the brainstorm session as well as everything that had been researched by Jadine and her branch of Eclipse. The blanket idea was a 50/50er – it could have been a brilliant success (the focus group loved it) or it could have been shot down in flames for being too simple. We’ll never know, for Rory opted for his idea, without the support of his team. It slowly starts to sink in where this bankruptcy problem he has originates from. Perhaps its his entire worldview, which boils down to shutting out everything beyond his own mind and thoughts.

The girls’ invention isn’t worth me even wasting typing-energy on. It was, as one buyer commented, a flat-pack, Formica box. With bones on the front. Great work girls. But I suppose at least they sold a few of them.

So it came to the boardroom and two of the three boys went after it was revealed their sales were hopeless. It was between the hapless Rory, Tre the braying mental and poor Ifti, the iffy Company Director of a design firm who didn’t once pitch in with a single idea, despite design being his trade. In the event, he got fired first, on account of his missing his son and presenting that as the reason he couldn’t engage with the tasks. If it was an excuse to get out, then fair enough, it worked and who can blame him for wanting to get away from the other contestants. If it was genuine, then I think only a man with a cancerous bollock for a heart could think he was soft for being a family-man. Of course, Tre found it hilarious and got told off for giggling. What a nasty little shit he is. Ifti left as possibly the only Apprentice contestant ever to depart with the good will of the nation on his side. I wasn’t expecting that.

Sugar sacked Rory. In terms of business, that makes sense. For the sake of humanity, it was the wrong decision, as we now have to bear at least another week of the stuttering, non-stop shit that comes out of Tre’s mechanised bullshit-machine of a mouth.

American Idol

March 30, 2007

After watching a single episode of American Idol on T4 I have discovered a previously unrealised sympathy for Islamic Fundamentalists and those merchants of doom who wish to see the fall of Western society. Seriously, I get it now. If tried to live a life of devotion to God and abide by the laws of a higher power then the gurning, squirming, trivial, capitalistic, moronic fucktards that populate this bastion of distraction culture would be my first target. Forget financial institutions and government buildings as these no longer carry any sway, instead wander into a blindingly lit TV studio that contains the apex of the countries karaoke singers and you could guarantee the further wrath of the illiterate 30million people who vote weekly in this sham of a competition.

Of course this isn’t American Idol like the Americans get to see it – with voting and all the excitement of a live broadcast – no, this is the UK highlight version, chopped of all interactivity and completed by the flickering lo-res quality of an untreated NTSC signal. In place of the legally obliged advert break every two minutes, we get the budget constraints of Cat Deeley doing filler links. Poor Cat Deeley – when we was told she’d be doing the US version of Pop Idol she must have been so excited, only to discover that she was being hidden away in a tiny studio with only a camera and a weight loss issue to keep her company.

“The main studio is just behind me” she gushes enthusiastically “you could not be any closer to the action if you tried.” Well actually Cat, you could. You could be in the main studio and involved in the actual production instead of trying to pretend that they even know you’re here as you try to create the illusion that anything you’re doing is in any way live. You could be co-hosting with US megastar Ryan Seacrest – destined to be the face of Just For Men the moment he hits 40 – instead of being a contractual obligation that Simon Cowell tacked on to ensure his resale rights were protected.

Like Tony Blair before her, Cat Deeley has hit the American shores in search of adulation and employment; primped and preened to within an inch of recognition she has instead found herself to be nothing more than a surgically placed arsehole waiting to be screwed again. That’s why her eyes are so dead while she struggles to enthuse about a culture that has rejected her. It’s sad, really.

The patronisation of the British edition continues with hastily shot UK-centric questions to the Ritalin restricted contestants – “The Beatles / Rolling Stones / Coldplay are the best British band of all time” they chirrup with scary uniformity, reaching out to their fans in the UK. “I looooove Lulu” one identikit teen coos, seemingly unaware that claiming long-term adulation of the mentor you first met last week hardly makes you a big fan.

The contestants are the same shambolic collection of high-school enthusiasts, morally and culturally retarded to the point where an excited “woo hoo” is their only form of communication. They represent each cliche from each section of youth society – look there’s the sweet geek, there’s the handsome surfer, there’s the fat black girl with a voice of gold, there’s the ditzy prom queen, there’s the retarded monkey boy who face-fucks the judges, there’s the juggling nazi sympathiser who just wants to entertain… they are identical in their slavish devotion to the idea of fame, in their willingness to do whatever they are told to do to achieve a fleeting sense of purpose before being casually discarded to the land of the alcholism and the sudden realisation that they are worth nothing in this world.

To give Cowell and his gaggle of opinion-goons their credit, the show is a perfect success. They are vain, money-driven people looking for easy-led, mid-talent lackeys who they can sculpt into carbon copies of a successful format and run into the ground in their endless pursuit of more profits. The format of the show is representative of the shallow contestants, the shallow contestants are pitiful incarnations of the creators and in the end the whole thing will eat itself in one big orgy of pointless self-indulgence.

Unless the terrorists get to it first.

The Business

March 27, 2007

The Business 

It clearly set itself up to be the UK ‘Goodfellas’, but instead it stands as a lesson in ‘how not to make a film’.

Frankly, it’s actually hard to know where to begin with this one. How about my decision to watch it knowing that it wasn’t going to be very good by default? Okay.

Right… Well I’d made the decision to watch it earlier in the afternoon, I think as part of my ‘hey, maybe Danny Dyer’s actually alright’ therapy. I think this is because I wouldn’t mind, due to okay reviews, seeing Severance and I read something in The Guardian about his relationship with the director being compared to de Niro and Scorcese, or some such. (Shit).

I can’t stand DD (the Dagenham Dildo) I think he’s a crappy actor always playing the same cockney-lad hard-nut, despite looking like a 14-year-old weed with the charisma of a floating turd who’d jump if you gently burped across the road from him. That being said, I decided to give it a shot – despite the Football Factory I hasten to add – which is unreviewable without resorting to filming a ritual-killing.

The plot is ridiculous to the point of farce, not even worth consideration as it’s so badly conceived it makes James Herbert seem like Dostoyevsky. The sewer pipe scene… I can say no more for fear of heart failure.

In terms of casting I can’t complain, all the cons look suitable connish but the little aspect of acting seems to have been ignored. This is born out by the fact that I’ve not seen a single actor in it, before or since. They couldn’t even cast the films ‘totty’ without bothering to look below her neck.

The acting is truly exceptionally dreadful, more wooden than the cross on which Jebus was nailed, though not as interesting. The direction, the cinematography (or lack thereof) and (my personal pet hate in a lot of British film’s output) the lighting is so dire I truly refuse to believe anyone had any experience of their jobs previously. This is particularly depressing when one considers that the money used to make this muck deprived another British movie of funding. Filming me masturbating for an hour and a half until I finally squeeze watery yoghurt onto a tissue would’ve been a fucking boon.

The 80’s soundtrack isn’t actually too bad; it was nice to hear a few long forgotten tunes despite my ‘punk’ self, but to organise them in such a way they actually sucked out whatever life the film had (exposing a tiny frail skeleton with osteoporosis) seemed to me to be counter productive. An example being Echo Beach by Martha and the Muffins. I actually screamed when they faded it out even though the ‘plot’ was at it’s most critical, theoretically of course.

But perhaps the most dreadful aspect was the script, or rather, the combination of the script and the supposed acting, especially with regard to one word: ‘cunt’. The word is spoken with such acute self-awareness, I’m sure it was only at the last minute they did away with a flash bearing a fist blasting on to the screen every time it was uttered. Everyone said it repeatedly, when the women said it we were treated to a close up of a snarling mouth to emphasise the ‘shock’ value. The ‘fucks’ came thick and fast but ‘cunts’ were delivered with such diligence and care it genuinely felt as if the Director had gathered the whole crew together before shooting and said. ‘Oh, you can all be very proud of yourselves as I can confirm, THIS IS THE FIRST FILM IN THE HISTORY OF FILM TO USE THE WORD ‘CUNT’’ The cast and crew look at each other jaws dropped, ‘really?’ says one, not believing his ears, ‘YES’ replies the director and they all embrace one another, yell with delight, even a few tears are wiped from shining eyes…

What a fucking heap of shite.

Fuck Severance.

Barclays Bank

March 21, 2007

Barclays Previous to this advertisment, Barclays were running a campaign wherein a bright young Executive was seen to be coming up with incredibly simple but effective ideas, much to the annoyance of his far flashier and vacuous contemporaries. Firstly, this makes me think that bright people working at Barclays are few and far between. Secondly I could never remember which bank the ads were for unless the missus reminded me, and she only remembers because she banks with the bastards.

In this new one the budget has obviously been pumped up. A brunette in a yellow bikini is sunbathing on golden sand. Her slightly geeky boyfriend – our simple-but-effective ideas man from the three preceding adverts – is beside her, looking out to see. She asks him to rub protective sun-screen into her back. He begins to do so as she drifts off then seems suddenly to have a Eureka moment. He wanders off towards the sea and starts recommending a financial package to his boss over his mobile. ‘Six point eight percent’ he’s saying. The little shit. He’s on holiday – what’s he doing calling his boss? Anyhow, he returns, smugly smiling to himself, and they continue lapping up the sun.

We cut to the end of the day and they’re packing away their stuff. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ the brunette says as she looks at the sun setting, or something equally as bland, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is this: When she turns around, she is perfectly tanned on her shoulders apart from the fact that she has a massive pink area in the shape of ‘6.8%’! Yes! He was so distracted that he squeezed out the mathematics of his thought process onto her back, leaving her with an unsightly set of mathematical symbols where her skin hadn’t been browned by the sun! Fantastic comedy!

Or is it?

My other half made a salient point here.

‘What if he missed a big mole?’.

It’s true. If the area where he’d scrawled his equation was the only part of her skin that was protected, he’d seriously put his girlfriend at risk here. Perhaps, rather than this being a funny little ad about how dedicated to their work Barclays’ staff are, this is a comment on the human condition. In focusing so hard on his job – even whilst on holiday with his closest human ally don’t forget, this idiot had endangered his lover through his stupid obsession with impressing his boss, which would lead to promotion, which would lead ultimately to more money. The selfish shitbag. What it boils down to is this: staff at Barclays bank are prepared to allow their loved ones to die a slow and painful death, so long as they progress on the career ladder. The central character trait of a psychopath, no less.

There’s no way I’m banking with those selfish bastards now.

Britain’s Fattest Teenager: Hidden Lives

March 19, 2007

Fat Kid 

Although it may seem at times that I’ll watch any old shit, I am in fact quite particular about which kinds of shit I allow to seep through my eyes and penetrate my brain. I enjoy programmes that I can get a laugh out of, albeit for the wrong reasons and ‘Britain’s Fattest Teenager: Hidden Lives’ (Not very hidden if it’s on TV, I thought) last Wednesday was no exception. This slice of health propaganda was a kind of televised fat kid sandwich placed lovingly in between ‘Bodyshock: World’s Biggest Boy’ on Tuesday and ‘Mind the Fat: Does Fast Food = Slow Kids’ (shit title) on the Thursday.

Hidden Lives (Channel 5) concerned itself with big, fat blubber-boy Jonathan Wallace, an eighteen year old chubbawit from
Hartlepool who was truly digging his own grave with his teeth. Until my eyes had grown accustomed to his unholy appearance I was genuinely staggered by the sight of his bulbous head which I half expected to burst at any moment and spray volcanic ash in all directions, the way the swollen lump that was protruding from Mount St Helens had in 1980.

The programme followed Wallace’s journey toward a gastric bypass, a journey in which we see him stuffing his face every five minutes and generally just looking like a hideously distorted interpretation of a human being.

As well as being morbidly obese, he suffers from sleep apnoea as well as being dyslexic and plain thick. For these reasons I was trapped between sympathy and disgust watching this, although any sympathy I had for this grotesque figure eventually gave way to utter displeasure due to Wallace’s attitude.

His philosophy seemed to be ‘fuck it’, which would be fair enough if it wasn’t for all the personal and medical help he was being offered to shed his mammoth load, which was, in my opinion, more than he deserved.

During the part of the programme where my sympathy was still intact, we see Wallace explain how is life is a kind of living hell, in which he had obviously suffered the cruelty of bullying. I was slightly taken aback as he explained “They call me a fat cunt and that”. Then again it was Channel 5. The bullying had also included taunts of ‘Waller, Waller, Waller’ (as in Rik Waller), in a Kebab shop of all places. It regularly cut to shots of Waller, sorry, Wallace as he walked down the street trying to mind his own business, which proved impossible as his epic proportions encroached on the freedoms of others in various ways, consequently becoming other peoples’ business.

The camera also looked on mockingly as every now and again we would see the behemoth truffle-shuffle his way through a kickabout in a park with a load of what looked like 12 year olds.

“Ironically, he wants to be a chef”, says the narrator’s voice. How the fuck is that ironic? This titan worships food! It seems completely natural to me that he would want to spend his every waking moment around food.

It is around this time that we are informed by our narrator that he’ll probably be dead in five years if he doesn’t alter his lifestyle.

On top of this we are told that his bypass op could finish him off, I listened to this piece of information with cold ambivalence, unsure as to whether I could even give a fuck if it did.

One of my favourite moments was Wallace’s guided tour of his fridge freezer. In particular the part where he waves a box of Cod in Parsley sauce before the camera and proudly declares – “I can eat five of these at once”. I also enjoyed the part where his mate says; “He loves leftovers!” with the misshapen Wallace sitting next to him, grinning uncontrollably in agreement.

The low point of the show was graphic shots of the stomach stapling op and the inside of the lard-arse’s guts, something which neither man nor beast should have to have witnessed. After the op, he is told his appetite will shrink dramatically and that he will only be able to eat very small amounts, a warning Toad-boy disregarded as he frequently continued to over-eat, making himself vomit in the process.

A process which I’m confident will never end until he finally stops soiling the earth with his vile presence.

Britain’s fattest teenager was just one in a series of programmes that explores the media’s current obsession with fat, but quite what-in-shitting-Christ the point is beats me. There are fat people and fat kids everywhere, always has been and always will be. But all of a sudden we human beings want to be perfect. Well we’re not. We’re a bunch of cunts. Deal with it.

Exorcist – The Beginning

March 16, 2007

Exorcist The Beginning 

Now then …

The man from Pirates of the Caribbean is asked by the man from Chariots of Fire to go to post-war Africa to retrieve an artefact from a church that’s just been unearthed by the bloke from The Madness of King George. The man from Pirates of the Caribbean flies off to Africa and hooks up with the man with the horrible teeth from Snatch, some woman I can’t remember the name of and a priest who may, or may not, have been in some teen films I haven’t seen. The man from Pirates of the Caribbean used to be a priest in the war but gave it all up (or lost his faith) after having to choose who was to be shot in the face by a Nazi who had just shot a five year old. The woman (who’s very attractive but does not, I repeat not, get her tits out at any stage in the movie) has a tattoo she got in a concentration camp, the man from Snatch has a face covered in ugly yellow sores and the priest from teen films (probably) has a side-parting and excellent teeth.

Something evil is afoot! The man from Pirates of the Caribbean, the teen vicar and a black man who is supposed to be African (but is clearly from Stroud) descend through the roof of the buried church and discover Jesus on the cross upside down – this signifies Satan’s on the loose again. The man from Pirates of the Caribbean goes to talk to the attractive woman who doesn’t get her tits out about something whilst the priest goes off to do something else. Next, the man from Pirates of the Caribbean goes off to Nairobi to witness a bald French man (who has carved a swastika on his chest) stab himself in the neck and bleed to death.

Meanwhile, back at the camp, two boys argue over a trowel.

One of the boys is eaten by dogs. The other boy is placed in hospital where he is cared for by the attractive woman who may or may not have great boobs if only she’d pull ’em out (which she doesn’t). Whilst all this is going on (or possibly after it’s happened) a tribeswoman outside gives birth to a baby covered in maggots. This is a bad thing.

The man from Snatch (who’s face looks bloody awful by now) is killed whilst trying to grab a bottle of booze. The man from Pirates of the Caribbean spends all night digging up coffins and having flashbacks whilst tribesmen try to free the child with the trowel of evil spirits. The boy (or the Devil perhaps) breaks their legs. The next day the man from The Madness of King George finds the man from Snatch strung up in the church. This angers him for some reason, so he shoots the chief of the tribes-people. Later he shoots himself after a butterfly comes out of his mouth.

A sandstorm descends and everyone kills everyone else. Meanwhile, the two priests discover that Satan is possessing not the boy (as you’d been led to believe for the last two hours), but the attractive yet sadly fettered woman who used to be in a concentration camp. The priest with the side-parting goes off to the church and is killed by the attractive woman. The man from Pirates of the Caribbean then turns up at the church and, through a series of holy adventures, casts the Devil from the woman’s body.

She dies anyway.

Finally, the man from Pirates of the Caribbean has a second meeting with the man from Chariots of Fire where he gives him a burnt piece of something. He then goes to the Vatican. This is the end of the movie.

You get all that?

I fucking didn’t. 

Haunted Homes

March 14, 2007

Mia Dolan

How I managed to stay perched on my sofa throughout this cavalcade of pure TERROR I will never know. Shock after shock after pant-wetting shock streamed across the cathode ray as me and the missus clawed at cushions, barely hanging on to our sanity as the next world revealed to us the unrelenting horror of the spirit domain.

Not really, gang. It was utter shit.

Mia Dolan is apaprently the bestselling author of a book called ‘The Gift’. Whether that’s related to the overrated film ‘The Gift’, I’m not sure and can’t be halfway-arsed to research, but let’s assume she’s not. She is also the frontwoman for ITV2’s Haunted Homes. This is another of those shows ITV2, LivingTV and all those other nothing-television channels knock out from their no-budget production orifice when desperate to fill their schedules with something other than static, despite the fact that static would actually be far more challenging television.

The formula for this one (and I should know, I’ve sat through the tedium of two of them for some reason) is as follows:

An ex childrens’ TV presenter who clearly didn’t make the grade walks around, shedding charisma as he goes, stating the bleeding obvious at the opening, ending and between scenes. He tells us nothing of worth and only serves to annoy every viewer with his attempt at gravitas and stupid leather jacket.

He links to Mia who is sitting in a council house with two members of the idiot public, in the dark, with one of those special cameras they used in the Blair Witch. They need one of those cameras because they are sitting in the dark. They are waiting for a ghost, in the dark. Grown adults, sitting in the dark. Waiting for a ghost. And me, sitting at home, watching some grown adults, sitting in the dark, waiting for a ghost. This is a stupid, vacuous world we live in.

The night vision, I think, is meant to have the effect of making everything eery. It actually just makes Mia look even weirder, if that’s at all possible, like some mutant car crash in which Gillian Taylforth and Vanessa Feltz have merged with Pat Butcher’s arse. It also serves to make Joe Public (who generally sits there either crying or giggling) look uglier than they were in the light.
Ineveitably a member of the crew will knock over a baking tray down in the kitchen or drop a Dime bar in the bog and everyone will freak out.
‘What the [beep] was that?’ the ‘contestant’ will scream.
‘It’s just the spirit world communicating with me’ Mia will sagely inform them, nodding certainly.

You just feel like barging in there, turning the fucking lights on and kicking the shit out of everyone present.

After the event, Mia sits around with her terrified prey in a winnebago. They constantly refer to this ‘winnebago’ as a safe house. ‘We’ll talk through what we saw in the Winnebago’ Mia says. ‘Let’s go over now to the Winnebago’ to study the findings’ says the kids’ TV presenter. IT’S A CARAVAN.

After this it’s downhill all the way (if that’s possible). A molish sceptic wanders in there, also in the dark, and tells them they’re imagining it (unbelievably, he’s getting paid for that) and then Mia goes in to the property with some candles and starts an ‘ancient incantation’ to exorcise the spirit. At least, that’s what she claims. What she actually does is blather on in her husky Jackiey Goodie tones in what is meant to be Latin. I studied Latin, and she is speaking the language, but she appears to just be repeating the word ‘Omnibum’ over and overagain, which wouldn’t get you very far in the forum. I’m not sure if it’d uproot a malevolent spirit or not, but it certainly made me shift over to the other side.