Posts Tagged ‘Urine’

Big Brother 8: Live Final

August 30, 2007

BB House 

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.

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Star Psychic

August 17, 2007

Sally 

ITV have an uncanny knack of churning out shoe-string budget works of low quality. In fact it’s such a reliable occurrence that I’m beginning to think its down to skill rather than error. I mean, it actually takes some ability to be so consistently bad. There’s an art to it. It’s what’s known as ‘bad art’.

In this particular shoe-string budget-work-of-low-quality, a bunch of so-called celebrities meet Sally Morgan who is wider than she is tall. As if this freakery alone were not enough, she claims to be a psychic. In fact she reckons she’s one of the best psychics in the world, though clearly not one of the more modest best psychics in the world.

“It’s an incredible ability to have”, she chirped. “In fact I’m in awe of myself!” Strewth.

The only thing I was in awe of throughout this entire fucking sham was how she manages to even walk: Although she is only about 4 ft something, her vast rump is an epic mess of sweaty overhanging nastiness. In my opinion, her only supernatural skill is the balancing act she puts on. Anyway, the roly-poly Morgan met money-faced rake Victoria Hervey in the first of her ‘challenges’ of this episode. Her challenge on this occasion clearly being to regurgitate memorized facts she’d earlier googled about Hervey’s family. This is the reasonable assumption to make because the nuggets of information she reeled off were not necessarily shrouded in mystery, or even secrets. What a wet start.

Next, she met a group of Free-Runners and proceeded to give them the old cold-reading treatment. Well, whoopee-shit. It was at this point in the proceedings that it became apparent how much of a muppet Sally Morgan is, as she addressed each of them in the kind of condescending tone in which people speak to young children or their pets and, by Christ, her posterior is huge. I genuinely expect it to burst into a grim shower of blood and shit at some time in the near future.

After those less-than-impressive scenes, the chunky little lass was off to meet Phil Tufnell. Before this occurred, she was shown a photograph of Tuffers to see what she could ‘pick up’ and reacted to his picture in a way that suggested she had no idea who he was and as though she had never before laid eyes upon him. Slightly surprising, but fair enough. Again though, the facts she spewed forth were underwhelming and could easily have been acquired through ten minutes worth of research.

The next celebrities featured were Goldie Lookin’ Chain. Well, Eggsy and Maggot anyway (apparently the only members of the band willing to appear on this type of shit). And surprise, surprise – she had no clue who they were or what they looked like before being shown their mugshots. Now I come to think of it, didn’t she claim she had no prior knowledge of Victoria Hervey’s existence too? A pattern is emerging here.

I found it difficult to concentrate during this part though, on account of being distracted by the realisation that Maggot, who resembles an abused dog, is turning into a strange kind of working class luvvie. A bad career move, given the nature of GLC’s music.

The final celebrity meeting was with zonked-out Bez (whom Morgan had no knowledge of) and his girlfriend. By this point, any ‘psychic’ revelations were redundant and it all just sounded like this; blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Then it was mentioned that Bez and his slightly irritating missus are acquainted with that irrelevant dimbo, Lily Allen. “Lily Allen the singer? Oh wow!” exclaimed Morgan. So let’s review this a moment – she’s never heard of Victoria Hervey, Phil Tufnell, Goldie Lookin’ Chain or Bez, but she IS aware of Lily Allen. What’s going on? Was this woman born last week or something? Well, I’m prepared to put my cards on the table now and declare my belief that Sally Morgan is a LIAR. I’ve got a nose for lies y’see, and she stinks like a big piece of rotten meat. She would probably claim she’d never heard of Jesus if it made her look clever later on – “I’m getting a cross, and some kind of prickly headwear. Does that mean anything to you?”

As well as being cheap, tacky, one-dimensional television, this programme couldn’t even muster enough honesty to include any of the obvious inaccuracies which are bound to have occurred in Morgan’s various ‘readings’ during this whole charade. Imagine the horror of being the poor cock whose job it was to sit in a darkened edit-suite somewhere, trawling through hours upon hours of dud footage in the heroic attempt to find five minutes of usable material for each celebrity’s sequence. I’d like to see this shyster do a few rounds in the psychological arena with someone with real brain-skills, such as Derren Brown. She’d get mentally pummelled in, and consequently be exposed for the charlatan and the liar that she patently is. The bulbous-buttocked moron.

Clearblue – Digital

August 9, 2007

When a man loves a lady very much, he gets a strange urge to put his winky in her lady-bits. If you do this at the right time of the month you get the lady ‘with child’ – which means she gets large and eats more. After nine more months a baby pops out, which is the signal that all fun has stopped and you have to start wearing cardigans and talking about mortgages.

With this threat facing people every day, you need to have a test to see if a lady has been brought low, to let you know if trouble is on the way. This is probably so you can change your name and flee the country.

Clearblue are doing the world a service by making one of those sticks that the lady pees on to tell if she is up the duff – and boy are they proud of it.

A computer generated model of the device sweeps across the screen, while vaguely Star Wars-ish music plays in the background and a booming voice says:

“It has arrived, the next generation of pregnancy test”.

He then rambles on about how ace this test is and how it is the besterest test ever, then he says my favourite line.

“It’s without a doubt the best piece of technology you will ever pee on”.

That’s quite a claim you know. I’m a boy, we pee everywhere, especially when we are outside. What makes the line more dangerous, is that it’s delivered like a challenge.

This advert is a slap in the face for every man who has ever dreamed of widdling on an Xbox or a wah wah pedal. They’re saying that even if you get cryogenically frozen for a 1,000 years in the future you won’t get to piss on anything more technologically brilliant than this.

Well fuck you Clearblue, I’m off to pee on a jet, then I’m going to Japan to wee on a robot.