How To Have Sex After Marriage

 

Last night I got drunk. Not only did this result in me taking my better half’s keys with me to work by mistake, locking her in the flat like some possessive psychopath and ruining her morning, it also meant that I watched this rubbish last night while round at my mate’s hovel. The subsequent review might be tarnished by my wobbly view and the Grolsch windscreen I watched it through.

From what I could gather, a married couple sat about and suffered an interview situation where three ‘experts’ (Christ alone knows what they’re experts in) assessed their problems. The first test of their relationship seemed simplistic to the power of a bajillion. They scored one another on big flip-pads out of ten on three fronts: interestingness, looks and sexual attraction.

Problems, for me, kick in at this point. For a start, Channel 5 are actively grinding years of marriage guidance counselling into a five minute sequence in which a hapless couple of berks, usually working in marketing or PR, make tits of themselves with magic markers on an almost-unwatched terrestial channel. Also – if they get a mark of five or lower for more than two of the three topics, are as yet unmarried and without offspring – surely the best advice is to tell them to split the fuck up? Being with someone you find boring and don’t fancy seems to be a bit of a pointless exercise, and no amount of televised activity is likely to help. You’d need a brainwasher to aid the situation, not a two-bit Channel 5 ‘expert’. It riles me, this rubbish, it really does.

They marked each other and didn’t get above five for any of the criteria, had a little cry then were separated for a week. It was in their week apart that we watched them find themselves with an expert each.

First up, the bloke did some manly things to assert his inner-bear. He swang from trees like a monkey, climbed a ladder and did other physical things, all whilst bizarrely sporting a leather jacket. Clearly image comes before performance in his worldview. The fact that he looked like a flabby Ian Beale is clearly beside the point. Obviously, any manliness he felt he’d built up from all this was kind of absorbed and spoilt by the fact that he admitted, on television, that he is completely squashed like a wingless gnat beneath his lady’s domineering thumb, the ponce.

In order to rid herself of her violent oppressive tendencies, his no-longer-beloved spent a bit of time learning how to be submissive (believe me, it’s not worth saying ‘ooer’ – she didn’t put on a French maid’s outfit or anything). The process entailed making dinner for an actor and being polite to him for a WHOLE afternoon. Bound to reverse an entire personality disorder, eh? She then went and tried on some lingerie with a woman who, if she didn’t have fake jubblies, definitely had a VERY supportive bra. Tits and thumb-woman swished around in the pants department of a rubbish shop and looked like they were as clueless as to what anything in the universe actually meant as the viewer was.

Finally, the couple went on their reconciliatory date after their obligatory established-reality-television-process makeovers. These makeovers were wholly unsuccessful, I ought to add, with the girl ending up looking like a flamenco dancer who’d let herself go and him resembling a randy 80s undertaker. When they kissed, I myself was almost reunited with the premium strength lager I’d poured onto an empty belly, in the form of sick. They snogged like truanting children, tongues flapping about and lips slobbering all over one another’s filtrum.

They said the sex that followed was ‘explosive’ in the final wrap-up, marking each other around the ‘8’ and ‘9’ mark in all criteria, not realising that this could only really be very much a temporary restoration of their relationship’s spark. Seeing as they were separated for a week and talked solidly about sex for those seven days, they were bound to have had a fumble. The pressure was immense – if they’d have bottled it and spent the night sexless they’d seem even more ridiculous than they already did. And on the telly n’all.

Really, judging by the way they dribbled over each other and fumbled and tugged during the snogging scene, they really need to look at their technique, above all else. Doctor Swineshead wouldn’t have bothered with the makeover, manliness training or lingerie shopping. He’d have prescribed hardcore, European SEXPORN to mend their ways. Watch and learn kiddies.

They’d be taking part in group DPs and experimenting with glory holes in no time, the slags.

Coronation Street

 

When I was a useless, substance-dependent student living in the North of England, my day wasn’t complete without six cans of Spar Lager, a pouch of Drum tobacco, a hangover that made me question my very existence and, if conditions would allow, a few wheezes on the bum-sucked spliffs a pal had rolled. On top of this, if it was a weekday around five pm, I would become sucked into the world of Soap Opera after waking up in a filthy bed surrounding by pornography and dried blood. I was the type of lad you could take home to meet your mother.

My soap opera crawl would start on the other side of the globe. An antipodean hour of festering shit beginning at Yabby Creek, waddling along Summer Bay and ending up in Ramsay Street via the international business park that is Paul Robinson’s Lassiters. After confirming that I would be closer each day to Home and Away and being reminded that I might one day find the perfect blend, I’d pop over to Chester.

Hollyoaks passed in a whirl of horrific acting, idiotic trendy boys and dead-eyed blonde girls who looked like they’d been reanimated by a pervert. Emmerdale came next and I literally can’t remember a single thing about it, apart from Seth’s fantastic moustache.

After that, and Christ only knows why, I would subject myself to the mind-hammering that is Coronation Street. Or ‘The Street’, if you are over 60, work in the tabloids or are a complete twat.

It has been ten years since I was in that dark, dark place and last night, more by harsh luck than judgement, I sat through an entire episode of Coronation Street. It was a harsh reminder that television truly does rot the brain.

Very little in Corrie had changed. Roy Cropper was still going out with a transexual who was played by a born-woman, defeating the point of the fact that he’s going out with a transexual. Tyrone is still fat and stupid, but is now hairy and fat and stupid. Ashley still speaks like someone’s treading on his little toe. Kevin still looks even weirder without a moustache than with one.

Betty is still alive. That was a shock. And she’s still rooted to the same spot in the Rovers Return, banging on about her fucking hotpot. Poor cow. She’s surely earned herself a stay at an above average retirement home by now so the producers should do the decent thing and pack her off to one. And throw away the key.

The biggest shock came when I saw Gail’s boy – the one who was about six years old ten years ago and seemed like the most amazing child actor I’d ever seen. ‘He’s got a bright future, that one’ I thought to myself, all those years ago. Last night proved me bang wrong.

He’s turned into one of the worst actors I’ve seen in my life. In last night’s storyline he’d left his niece alone with a doll which had ecstasy pills hidden within its plastic torso (a la Danny in Withnail and I). The little kid (Bethany, I think) obviously ingested a few of these embalmers and we were subjected to the sight of this former child actor hollering and banging the furniture in frustration in the most unrealistic soap set-piece I’ve ever seen.

Aside from this moment of high tension, the thing that got me was just how slow Coronation Street is. I suppose it’s a fair reflection of life in a Northern town that very little seems to happen for long periods of time, but Christ, it ain’t half boring.

Give me the crazy streets of Walford any day. I switched over at 8pm and there was Sean flushing Deano’s head down a lavvy, Ian Beale narrowly avoiding being run over by his dead ex wife and, the icing on the cake, Billy getting in a bit of a huff. God bless the ‘enders. All hail the Beasts of the East.

The Restaurant

 

I’ve seen a few of these; it’s fucking shit and getting worse.

The sort of Apprentice-lite format doesn’t work – Raymond Blanc is far too decent a chap to go down the Alan ‘you’re fire you are’ Sugar route. Besides, he sounds like Pepé the Pew doing an impression of Serge Gainsbourg.

The format of the show is simple: open nine restaurants and then get nine couples to run them from scratch. Each week, two of the shittest couples have a play-off task that sees one of their restaurants getting shut down.

The only interest comes from the jaw-dropping horror and stupidity of the contestants. One caused a restaurant Supervisor, working for Ray of course, to make herself physically sick after eating raw chicken breast. Staggeringly, this particular contestant is still in the show.

But by far and away the most dreadful coupling of humans I’ve seen in recent years on television were the thoroughly abhorrent Sam and Jacqui.

Sam is a ‘jazz drummer’ and Sam an ‘actress’. A pimp and a hooker, then. She’s a loud-mouthed oxygen thief and Sam a little toad of a creature with as much charm as The Marquis de Sade in the Bastille dildoing himself until he bleeds lumps.

In the first episode when they were trying to hire a chef. Sam was in the process of interviewing a fairly elderly chap who’d been working in kitchens most of his adult life. Unfortunately, the nearest he’d got to being a chef was chopping veg in a hospital kitchen, but instead of politely informing the elderly gentleman of his lack of suitability, Toad-boy, with the old guy a couple of feet away, called the recruitment agency and bollocked them at volume and length about sending him ‘useless people’. You could actually see the life draining from the poor old git. It was toe-curling stuff and from that moment I wanted see Sam dressed in life-threatening hives.

His recently-acquired wife took the role as front of house Manager, which meant she attempted to ingratiate herself with unsuspecting members of the public with an upside down smile that resembled a gorilla picking fleas off its winkle and a drawl that could melt glass at 100 yards.

In the meantime, instead of managing his fledgling and unenthusiastic staff, Sam threw strops and busied himself by staring at the prepared food as if a copraphiliac standing in a festival latrine looking up at defecating arses.

Needless to say they were booted off last week much to Sam’s arrogant objection and howls from his dreadful wife.

The remaining cast of nobodies are so fucking boring and lacking in any sort of creative intelligence or business acumen that I, for one, can’t even be arsed to finish th

Big Brother 8: Live Final

 

I’m going on holiday early on Friday morning, so fortunately I’ll not feel the shit-magnet force that is the Big Brother LIVE Final.

Yes – that’s right – LIVE. You get to catch every last tooth-grinding second AS IT HAPPENS. Gasp as Davina fluffs her lines and gurns at her own jokes. Nod in an amused fashion as Ziggy tells us how he’s actually a ‘preddy reasonable kinda guy’ and fall over as Brian pretends he’s thick.

If you’re foolish enough to waste your money on a vote for the winner, please bear the following in mind:

1.) Brian is a charlatan.

I presume Brian’s been to school for at least one English lesson per school year of his life. As a result, he must have heard of William Shakespeare. The entire syllabus of the English GCSE is distorted and warped so that Shakespeare is taken into account, term after endless term. Schools are always putting on productions of Shakespeare plays. A schoolboy can’t get through life without knowing who Shakespeare is. That means Brian’s a sneaky, lying sod.

2.) Imagine what the twins will spend £100k on.

It will be wasted in New Look on every single tiny item of tat that comes in pink. It’s a wasted vote to vote for the twins, so resist. Besides, what did they contribute besides falling over occasionally? They were basically just dumbells for that twat-lunk Liam to lift.

3.) Liam is an abominable twat.

Don’t give the money to Liam. He’s Sid the Sexist without the gut. He doesn’t deserve anything beyond complete ignorance.

4.) Ziggy is a self parody.

Cliff Richard mutated in a microwave face-off with Christian Bale and the lion-man off Beauty and the Beast, he looks like his face is made of play-doh. Lashing out every five days, he’ll spend the remaining time apologising and trying to prove how swell he is, which he isn’t. More annoyingly, if he sees something that he thinks the public will probably find amusing, he says ‘that’s very funny’ without any hint on his face that he is at least partially amused. Transparently trying to make out he’s in on every gag, popular with everyone and with a weak apology for any harsh words, he became dull very early on.

5.) Carole is irritating.

Imagine living with that monster. She may be a Commie in her politics, but she’s a Nazi in the kitchen. Only your actual Mum has any right to order you about the shop like that. She seemed to think that the minute she stepped foot in there she was halfway into a mortgage on the gaudy bungalow meaning she could tell everyone else what to do. Plus, her food looked shit.

This only leaves Jonty, the bizarre middle aged man with the Alain De Botton hairdo and the collection of national flag t-shirts. At first I thought his walking round with teddies would be tiresome, but he constantly farts which makes up for it. Let’s face it, farting is amusing.

Jonty should win on the strength of the fact that he always has a tommy squeak in the tank should there be a lull in the conversation. He also got his unimpressive member out for no reason, walking around bollock-naked whilst completely oblivious to the fact this might disturb other housemates. And whilst naked and in company, he farted. That alone deserves 100 big ones.

If you’re going to vote, I recommend you vote for the weird, pot-bellied, bespectacled, hairy, mentally-undeveloped, flatulent, naturist.

The Friday Night Project

 

You must have been there; having a quiet Friday night in, only to find that channel four have insulted the core of your very being by leaving you in the crippled hands of The Friday Night Project. Then let me guess what you did next – you put a hurting on your own loved ones with a series of swiftly applied karate chops out of the pure frustration of it all. But it’s ok, it’s not your fault. TV made you do it. Really – you were imagining that you were pounding the life out of Justin Lee ‘Mad as a Lorry’ Collins or shaking the last vapours of ill-deserved breath out of Alan Carr’s deviant little lungs by way of a good neck-wringing. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Besides finding your front room occupied by thousands of wasps, very little is more likely to make you leave the house than finding this on your fucking telly. Sometimes changing the channel just isn’t enough. The fact that we’re expected to lap this kind of crap up is guaranteed to ruin the rest of your evening should you dwell on it for long enough. Mark my words, I would rather have my daily mealtimes restricted to licking the filthy sleep out of a tramps eyes than be the kind of person who laughs at this muck.

Seemingly, it’s not enough that we’re subjected to TFNP of a weekend, it’s then repeated on Wednesday nights. On the episode that drove me to write this, Big Brother animal Charley was playing up her agro image for laughs, or that’s what was supposed to be happening. Actually she was just being herself: A prize twat. That sums this shit up; bottom of the barrel twats, churning out bottom of the barrel sketches and ‘gags’, in a thoroughly bottom of the barrel manner. All broadcast in a prime slot on a Friday night. But why even allow the thoroughly ugly and pointless Charley any further opportunity to pursue her dream of becoming a celebrity? I thought it was a unanimous view that she is worse than cancer and should be cast into the bowels of Hades like a no-good pile of festering, badly soiled tampons.

A regular feature of the show seems to involve the dual cretins dressing up as women to reconstruct some of the TV highlights of the week. This is rendered in a way that is so void of intellect that it makes the Driller Killer’s preferred method of execution look subtle. Men dressed as women. How outrageously forward-thinking. The concept itself as a comedic tool was a genuinely amusing enough sight to behold not so many years ago. That was until those equally witless Little Britain knob-ends Walliams and Lucas got hold of it and ruined it for everyone for ever. So anyway, Toadstool head Collins dresses up as a woman and the idiot audience think it’s hysterical, presumably because he wears a beard. Carr puts on a dress and suddenly you’re witnessing the sickest thing this side of a paedophile’s wet dream. In fact even a necrophilia-dabbling paedophile would wake up blowing chunks had such a sight crept in and corrupted his sexual thoughts.

Really it’s as simple as this; Collins is no better than an old perv, constantly trying to cop a feel of any attractive lady-guests who happen to be invited onto the show, and who also, incidentally, spends more time changing the highlights in his hair in a day than real men spend churning out big fat creamy dumps in a fortnight. And as for that Carr thing, he should just grow the fuck up. He’s about 45 isn’t he? Anyway, where did these two wrong-cocks spring from and what are they doing inside my television? Get them out.

Jamie at Home / Cook Yourself Thin

Channel 4 again, dominating the evening schedules with the TV equivalent of the Guardian’s lifestyle section – i.e.,  self-satisfied dross.

Actually, that’s not really fair on Jamie Oliver’s new vehicle, which thankfully hasn’t got him patronising any Italians or working class mothers this time round. Instead, it’s just him mucking about in the garden of his country pile with some weird ageing hippy, getting all horny about tomatoes. Actually quite a pleasant way to spend half an hour, despite the fact it has to be watched through gritted teeth as you spend 95% of the run-time wondering just how fucking rich the successful bastard is.

At least his presence on the TV has been hard earned. He’s a chef with some flair, which is more than can be said for the priviledged quartet who make up the Cook Yourself Thin team. Christ knows where they found this bunch of public school fuckwits. Actually, scratch that, I know just where they found them. Sipping cocktails in the same hell-on-earth bar as Polly Vernon, n’doubt. Given a job in journalism because they could afford expensive frocks, I imagine they were then wangled a pitch in front of Channel 4 bosses because they’re, y’know, soooo fab and rilly, rilly presentable.

Cook Yourself Thin is a televisual concentration camp, wherein these non-entities cut every corner imaginable to try and cut calories in some poor, neurotic cow’s diet. How many of these members of the public are lining up to stand in a whiteout studio showing off their entirely normal body shape and moan about it? It’s seemingly endless. The lady last night looked to be in pretty good nick for a mother of two approaching middle age. So obviously she needs to be patronised on prime time TV so that the rest of us with a gut can feel ashamed of ourselves.

Instead of eating a crunchie everyday, the four airheads recommended she makes herself a load of champagne truffles and has two of those a day, thus halving the amount of calories from that snack. What utter fucking genius. Of course – a champagne based mini-cake – that will stop me from expanding! Why not have half a chocolate bar? Why not one every other day? But no, if these overpaid twats reckon you should bankrupt yourself buying Veuve Clicquot and making stupid little confections out of it, go for your life. They’re on TV, they clearly know more than us fame-deprived plebs. For fuck’s sake, when they made the cake thing they said it would be unwise to make the chocolate ‘grumpy’ during mixing.

At that point, as my blood boiled, I tried to work out how exactly one would make chocolate ‘grumpy’? Channel 4 lost a viewer for the night at that point, so if anything groundbreaking occurred I apologise for not covering it. I somehow doubt they followed it up with anything other than a few more minutes of schedule-filling bollocks.

Katie & Peter: The Baby Diaries

 

Ok, before I get started I want to make it quite clear that even upon writing this article, I haven’t put myself through a whole episode of this series of self-indulgent hyper-cack, but then why would I? Just noticing that it exists is enough of an excuse to vent my spleen. And let’s face it, who needs to watch it? The content is irrelevant, if not self explanatory; It’s that fat-nosed, pregnant attention-whore Jordan lolling pointlessly about with her gargling elf of a husband poncing excitedly by her side like a neutered and bloated spaniel wagging his little trouser tail.

I confess however, that I watched a whole mind-shafting 15 minutes before coming to my senses and doing myself the favour of tuning out. In that I time I witnessed Katie Andre Jordan Price wobbling about to some music like a slaggish bouncy castle with her unborn child being ragged about inside. To complete this horror sequence, the outlandishly squat creature known as ‘Peter’ was frantically frotting himself against her baby-bearing frame like a randy adolescent at a school disco. No wonder her other fuck-trophy Harvey was born with his optic nerves detached after spending the best part of a year being rattled about like a galstone in a pig’s bladder.

Next, David Gest’s stupid apocalyptic fizzog appeared on screen to add an eerie supernatural effect to an already bizarre programme. I’m not sure quite what service he was offering, as I wasn’t paying the required attention. All I noticed was that his darkly robed body was looking like a priest’s fevered nightmare.

Finally, I saw the dozy tit-beast almost reduced to a pant-shitting due to what she descibed as her ‘needle-phobia’ during a visit to her G.P. Maybe having been breached by the Andre-needle once to often has provoked this reaction, or maybe she was afraid that one false move by the spike-weilding quack would have her tits wilting like a tramp’s cheap, flimsy, dirty, stinking, cum-spattered lilo that’s been snagged on a skanky bit of bone in a butcher’s doorway.

Among these sequences there was plenty of equally meaningless footage which was so damaging to the intellect I was afraid my frontal lobe may begin to bleed at any time. I can honestly say that having a big dump leaves me feeling more entertained than viewing the activities of this pair of village idiots.

Their careers seem to consist of fly-on-the-wall type glimpses into the day-to-day workings of their own careers. Careers which incidentally, would not exist without such public attention upon the supposed ‘careers’ in the first place. So really, the careers don’t even actually exist. If it wasn’t so annoyingly ridiculous it would be genius. I cannot begin to grasp the point of the programme from a viewers perspective and struggle to imagine anyone out there actually caring about these substance-free parasites, or what happens to them. What do folk gain from watching shit such as this? I doubt viewers are tuning in because they can’t wait to hear what Peter Andre says next. And if you’re a sad loner watching in the hope of getting an eyeful of some good ol’ jug action then you’ll be disappointed. It’s not even good for a wank unless you’re keen on shuffling one out over a fully-clothed, sprog-hauling, has-been cock-charmer.

Big Brother 17.6.07

John Noel rears his corrupted head once again. It’s to be expected that Big Brother is a mockery of a sham. The Sun reports that Charley is already signed up by Mr Noel’s PR agency, meaning one of three things:

a.) She was signed up before going in. That would mean producers have a vested interest in keeping Charley in as she’s represented from the outset by the same charlatan as Davina and Dermot. And Russell Brand and Jade Goody.

b.) She was signed up at some point during filming – possibly during her fake evicition.

It’s pretty bloody clear that she was coached before she went on the cameras for the phoney kick-out last Friday. She wasn’t in the slightest bit shocked when told she’d be returning to the house. She also (apparently – according to someone who’s more addicted than me) mentioned that she’d give other contestants hell when she got back in, despite the fact she shouldn’t have known she’d be going back in.

The nomination nonsense has been irritating too. In the week Billi left, BB twisted events so that Charley wouldn’t be up for evicition by taking away Billi and Charley’s nomination. The decision was made post nominations meaning the producers had enough time to figure out that this would leave Charley free for another week. Hindsight, as they say, is a wonderful thing. This week, miraculously she’s not up again and it stinks of fish.

The worst thing about this farrago is we’ve got another week of the Charley parade to stomach. At first it was amusing watching the car crash, but once the dust’s settled and the scene starts going rancid, it starts to make your guts turn. The only thing worth watching last night was Brian’s kamikaze haircut. He should win on the strength of that alone.

The naysayers are right, this series, even for those of us who doggedly pursue this dinosaur of a show, has jumped the proverbial shark and landed in a cloud of irrelevance.

I’ll keep watching though, it’s the television equivalent of biting your nails or chewing yourself a fresh mouth ulcer.