Tuesday, August 21, 2001

Monday night at Shane's.

"If anyone fucks with me I'll fucking fuck them right up"
Meet Shane, Shane is the hardest, roughest, baddest, 5ft2ins, black, dreadlocked gangster in the whole of Stevenage. Oh and he's gay.
He is in short a one-man stereotypical ass-kicking machine and scares the hell out of me every time I see him.
"I couldn't give a fuck, Phat....." he means it as well, after being kicked out of school at 15 for scrapping and a brief spell in borstal Shane has decided not to trust or put his trust in absolutely anything at all in the world ever.
He demonstrates this to fine effect by staying in his flat all the time and smoking industrial strength weed.
"It's the only thing in the world that keeps me from going mad"
"From what?
"This world and every fucker in it......excluding you....and me mates"
Ooooh get her!!!

So we are getting stoned and Shane is getting angry and I am laughing at him getting angry and we are playing Tekken when he leaps up turns off the T.V. and looks me dead in the eye.
"Want to see something?"
He gets on his knees and fiddles about under his falling-to-bits sofa and pulls out a wooden box, looks at me again and winks.
He pulls the box around to him opens it slowly and pushes it towards me and inside the box is what appears to be a gun.
This however isn't a gun that you can imagine anyone being killed by, it's a gun that you can imagine a provincial building society being held up by on a Tuesday, a gun that would be used as a prop in a Media Studies students homage to Tarentino, and gun that is well.....Pathetic.
He holds it up and points it around the room and although it is supposed to scare people, it just seems odd, slightly out of place, not quite right.
As I open my mouth to ask him why he has it, he replies without me having to say anything.
"It's so people don't mess, phat"
"Who, which people?"
"They know who they are"
I have a feeling that they don't.

Later still and Shane is playing me his home spun Drum and Bass and it's incredible, he moves the icons around the screen on his P.C. and I can feel the bass run up and down my legs like a bad dates fingers.
This is Shane's life, this is what Shane does.
Too paranoid to go out, too weird for people to like him he sits at home and waits for people like me to come round and listen in on his world and that’s it, that's what Shane does, nothing more nothing less.
"What do you want to do with your life Shane?"
"Fuck more arse"

The next day at work Shane text's me and I open it.
And before I can even sum up any kind of reaction he phones me.
"Huh..huh..huh, that wasn't meant for you, I think you’re a wanker...huh...huh...huh, nah, listen next time you fancy a smoke give us a shout"
And I don't know what to say or think, again.

Sunday, August 19, 2001

Losing your dignity and four thousand pounds on daytime television.

Debt is an unspeakably awful thing, it eats away at your very being until finally you realise that you have spent the last 10 or so years of your life spending other peoples money on stuff and things that mean very little at the end of the day.
I am broke.
"Oh, but you still have you health Phat"
Sadly not, as I type the sound of the keys is silenced by the ambient sounds of my arteries slowly hardening until one day my heart will just give in and implode in on itself.
With this in mind I decided drastic measures needed to be taken to pay of the money I owe and return to normality, so what to do? What to do?
Fluttering on the nags? Sell things? Even the fresh hell of bar work crossed my mind.
No, by far the most simplest and easiest thing to do would be to appear on Paul Ross's new apres-Neighbours Pre-Quincy daytime chucklefest gameshow "No Win, No Fee".
Oh yes, that ought to do it.

Enter Chris Curly (no, really that was his name) producer and chubby whirlwind of energy that met me at Wandsworths glamorous Centre Studios (Home, no less to the midweek National Lottery with Brenda Emanus!) with a smile and a offer of a Danish Pastry.
"We picked you because you look a bit punky"
"Oh really"
"Yes, and you have amazing eyes"
Mister Curly! You will have to try harder than that to gold dig your way into my gameshow windfall, you minx!

I had plotted this, turn up, kick ass, take the cheque and run all the away home like a dog with a string of sausages in its mouth all I had to do was to put this in to practice and my money problems would be solved, even when I met the other contestants all of whom were camp and northern. I knew my luck was in.

I did not talk to Lance (married, 39, works in finance) or indeed Terry ( single with partner, 32, unemployed) but I did talk briefly to Louise.
Ahhh Louise, young, nieve Louise, from the moment you opened your mouth I knew I would defeat you and send you packing in your Top Shop flip-flops and send you back to your office assistant role.
You were prey to me, and you knew it.
You would be the first.

Candice on the other hand was having none of it.
She had driven round the Route 66 of the daytime quiz all the way from Crosswits, Yorkshire to Turnabout, Tyne-Tees and simply wasn't going to put up with a youngster taking away her crown.
"I was in the local paper with all the shows I have done, have you been in the paper?"
"Yes, twice"
"What for? Gameshows?"
"No, bothering a widow and Graffiti"

After an hour in a greenroom where people had the nerve to try and make small talk with me (I was here to win, not to make small talk) the make up lady did her best on what essentially looked like a sack of dented bells and sent me packing looking like I was ushering in the panto season.

The actual game involves guessing if the other contestants will get a question right or not and thus eliminating them from the game, the "No Fee" bit comes from the finale where you can win T.V.'s Paul Ross's fee for presenting the show. This was going to be a walkover, and by winning, I would still retain my cool and my dignity.
I am a fighter, not a lover.
To the studio!!!!

"When your light shines, acknowledge the camera" shouted a ruddy faced Chris Curly to me before giving me a double-thumbs-up Tommy Boyd style.
The others gave smiles and salutes, Candice turned to me and winked after hers. The Bitch was going down.
I stared straight into the camera and clenched my jawbone, as if it had just taken my pint and then poured it over my misse's head whilst having sex with her and got ready to claim my big cash prize.

Paul Ross was every bit of the buffoon you would think he was, even in the flesh you wanted to take him to one side and slap him round the face whilst repeatedly shouting "WHY? WHY?" at his brain.
Then he mentioned he had 6 children and I almost understood why he did all this crap for a living, maybe he just wanted to make sure they all had a bright future, an education, a life.
Then he did an impression of Hughie Green and I snapped out of it, the man is a cunt.

Louise was easy, a question about baseball was too much for her.
"Why do you think, Louise wont get this right"
"She's wearing flip-flops Paul"
Paul laughed and looked to see if I was laughing too, I wasn’t.
Louise left the set and back to her world of Heat Magazine and stolen moments between photocopies where she could indulge in a Muller Lite.

I didn’t get to kick out Candice but I felt her eyes burn into my head as she left the stage, oh she will learn not to play the Phatster, she will learn……

I stormed through the other contestants with my encyclopaedic knowledge of all things shit.
"Vitamin B12"

And before I knew it, I was in the final.
Me versus Andy, a weak looking man from the north who would spend the money on a loft conversion. Wanker.
The lights dimmed and I took my place starring him straight in the face.
"For four thousand pounds, will Andy get the following question right or wrong?"
I didn't hear the question, I saw Andy's fear. I was younger and had longer. He knew his life of Port and Nibbles and pigging Loft Conversions bore no fruit next to my plans of debt-free world domination.
I looked deep into his eyes and tried to see inside his head.
"Right or wrong? I am going to have to hurry you"
I stumbled, "Right, no wrong Paul, Wrong.....Andy will get the question wrong"
As the gold envelope was opened Andy smiled a secret smile and I knew it was over.
My heart sank and for what seems like the umpteenth time this year, I wanted to cry.

After the show, Paul Ross came up to me.
"Bad Luck, never mind” he said before patting me on the back. I smiled a weak smile.
"Never mind, I thought you would win it" said Andy, I smiled again.
"Better luck next time" whispered Candice in my ear before smiling herself.
"Fuck you" I whispered back and left to the studio to the burning sun of the summer city and tossing my name badge in the gutter vowing never to return.

Sunday, August 05, 2001

OPM's hit single "Heaven Is A Halfpipe" is possibly the most miserable thing to have ever happened in my adult life.
I feel bereaved.

Here is what I have been doing mostly this summer.

"Burny sex is learny sex" , Space Impact, Ska, Dub Reggae, Flipping back, The sweet juice of the Cranberry, GAY IRA MAN SPEAKS OUT! , Ulysses 31, Crescendolls, Fucking, "My girlfriend needs weed as she has MS, she's in a lot of pain", Spof control system, babies, smelling flowers, holding watches, unremembering bruises, avacado in a pizza box, rolling, diverting all calls, considering Tiki, Earl Grey, slipping round the back into a taxi, getting sneakers with Lard, lowriding, "Now on Channel 4 - Photocopy Challenge" , your juju, computer blue, Dreamcast, Thundercat ink, giving in, E.T. , monkey dead......

Forsightful internal stuff I think you'll agree?

Good thing or bad thing?
Art is a three letter word that spells what it means in it's intirety in whole and from that we can determine that it possibly sums it up more than us oursleves.
Do you understand?

See you next Wednesday!

Sunday, June 10, 2001

Unspecified ramblings about dogs.....

Each morning I get the train to a miserable concrete new town on the outskirts of Hertfordshire and each morning a blind woman in her mid thirties gets on with her dog.
Every morning without fail a man in a Kagool gets on at the same time and looks incredibly nervous in her company and desperately tries to help her/satisfy his own conscious by loudly declaring at each stop where she is.
She smiles politely and ignores him by shaking her head and hopes that one day he will eventually get the idea that she does not need his help and can get on with getting to work herself, thankyou very much.
The man ignores this and every day shuffles around her like a fart in a lift.
One day he will take a stand, kneel down in front of her and stroke her face (a 'la Lionel Ritchie's magnificent video for "Hello") and declare "LET ME BE YOUR EYES" before picking her up throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her off into the sunset leaving her dog redundant.

Her dog by the way is the most miserable dog I have ever seen, it once looked up at me and placed its paw on my hand as if to say "Fancy a pint?".
Each day it sits waiting to be of service to the blind woman whilst deep in its eyes you can see it would far rather be running through fields lamping rabbits or getting to first base with foxy poodles but instead it sits quietly fulfilling its role in life as a pair of eyes on a leash.

Man has turned dog into it's slave, taking them away from their pack mentality we dress them in sunglasses and feed them trifle (as a treat!) when evolutionarily speaking they are only a few steps up from that of the rape and pillage wolf.

Dogs are fantastic animals due to the fact that they desperately think that you are another dog albeit one without four legs and will sniff your groin and try to have sex with you accordingly.
They like the fact your socks smell like corpses, they encourage you to run about and most importantly of all think you are THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD EVER.
However dogs get older before you, get slower, and die quickly leaving you with the most important metaphor of mortality to ever enter you life.

Dogs then, they are ace.

Further dog related info....

Scott Walker "The Girls And The Dogs"

Wednesday, May 02, 2001

Nightmare girl.

I am in a bar in London feeling like this could be anywhere in the world and I would probably be still having the same conversations.

She wears twisted denim carefully ironed and washed to look as if a tramp had been sucking cock on them all night and she had just picked them up off the floor on her way out.
I ask her how you iron twisted denim? Is it with a protractor? She tells me that if you iron them at the wrong angle they can take on mobius loop qualities and you will end up continuously ironing along its optical illusion seams until the end of time.

A t shirt with a picture of a faded dead jazz trumpeter on the front almost provokes the reaction she wants, except she cannot name him even though he probably could have flushed things with more dignity than the vapid media whore wearing it.

She then reels of names of films, bands, artists that she knows I will never have heard of.
In fact, the only person to have heard of them is she as they are so cool they have not been formed yet.
As I mention that no, I haven’t heard their music she begins to burp out line after line of carefully prepared stale prose across her chapped lips to fill me in.
When the words ‘haunting’ and ‘seminal are used I want to vomit on her trainers except they appear to be made out of wool.

I tell her that I am really into Ronan Keating, which makes her laugh. She stops laughing when I sing a full three verses of his smash hit “Love Is A Roller Coaster” whilst looking directly into her eyes to try and see if she has a soul.

“Did you go to the May Day March? It was so faccking oppressive, I had to wait 2 hours before they would even look at my press pass,” she says sipping Stella Artois and barking at a Nokia.
“Last Year my boyfriend put a chair through Burger Kings Window” I try to mention that it would probably have been reglazed a few hours later and that the supply of fat in bun would hardly have been affected goes over her ironic spiky bleached head, out the window before stopping for a Latte.
I ask her what her boyfriend does.
“He works for Unilever, but he really hates it”

She thinks I am maybe not taking her that seriously so she unleashes a torrent of clubs that I will never have heard of to try and fox me.
They all seem to be held in a room above a pub in the middle of nowhere and give the “every day for the last 20 years” locals something to laugh at.
I picture her standing at the bar feigning disappointment at the landlord’s lack of micro beer facilities.
“It’s a bit out of town but you really have to make the effort these days”

“It’s called Night Of A Thousand Ed’s and it features Ed Case, Ed Rush, Ed Trauma Unit, Ed Sturton, Ed Harris, Ed (Stewpot) Francis and Teddy Ruxpin all playing TV themes from your childhood over a 8/6 Drum and bass breakbeat”
“Its rillly facccking wicked”

She asks if I am vegetarian.
I am not, she is.
Apparently you can now eat fish and chicken, wear leather shoes, drink beer full of rennet and still come across as someone with a deep set of strongly held beliefs that make you stand out from everyone else.
It’s all about being an individual.

She bids the price she paid against me to show how ‘down’ she is with the exciting drug culture and scary dealers.
“I pay £15 an eighth”
“I pay a tenner”
“I pay £8 but it’s solids”
“I don’t pay anything as a mate grows it”
“ I just imagine it forming in my palms and it’s there”
Etc, etc, etc.

All back to hers then.
“Look at what I found in a junk shop for 50p”
I know what is coming and my heart sinks.
“Go-Bots the Movie!!!!”
It is put on to a chorus of everyone saying how much they loved it and how much it was the BEST THING IN THE WORLD EVER.
10 minutes later she realises that it is in fact rubbish and badly made rubbish at that, put together in some animation sweatshop in Korea where amphetamine fed colourists have to get through a thousand cells a day or Juan and Jesus don’t eat that week and press’s stop for it never to be watched again.
(You don’t think that anyone actually watches these things on their own do you. What with no-one there to get your oh so clever ironic joke?)

I cut my losses and give it one more shot with two hastily constructed flashcards with “What do you do?” and “Where do you live” on and show them to everyone in the room instead of talking to them, this leaves time to talk about things of more importance and urgency except, Oh Dear! There aren’t any.

Once again life appears to be all about ‘stuff’ rather than ‘things’

Sunday, April 22, 2001


A term to describe men in their twenties who despite being generally fine find things to complain about.
This is bought on by too many long-winded novels, cheap drugs, Nick Drake and a feeling that they should be somewhere else.

This time last year I was organising one of the countries coolest rock bands around the country and as I type this I am devising pension exams in an office full of women whose main topic of conversation is the calorific content of packet soup.
However, I cannot comment on the calorific content of packet soup, as I am too busy chomping my way through a fat cold slice of humble pie.

I don't particularly have much to moan about in the grand scheme of things, I am well paid, I have a house and I look vaguely attractive but being 24 and not in a position that I want to be appears to be justification to moan my arse off.

So where does moaning come from and what compels the stale burp of moan to usher forth from men in their twenties?

Well lets start by going back.
I have a theory that England has an in built misery that dates back from medieval times, whilst peasants in Europe lounged around tending fields and catching fish in the glorious sun, The English were slaving away to grow turnips and thrashing themselves with bracken everytime they thought of tits for fear of the pox.

And so with this misery lodged in our collective conscious the compulsion to piss and moan about everything is too easy to pass up on which is why we do it every opportunity.
At present I believe I could be in the early stages of love, which could of course be fantastic but instead its down to me focusing my energies on something wholly unobtainable due to not much else happening in my life.
This is of course made worse by being told I was "too skinny" by the very same person who obviously has some kind of sight deficiency or shit depth perception as while my face is a pre-raphelite vision of beauty my stomach resembles that of a Jeremy Spake.

As this 'Love' is unobtainable and as practical as trying to turn off an electric fan by pissing on it the more I seem to be obsessed by it.
It can only be a matter of time before I am outside their house, in a tree, with a pair of binoculars, wanking visualising their skin hanging in my wardrobe.

My friends all tell me that I am going over the top and that they all love me, which is great but sadly without sex of any kind.
I haven’t had sex for months; I may probably forget what to do.

"You want me to put what?...where?...well okay if that's what the kids are doing"

Moaning is rubbish and I mean to put a stop to it.
Everything is relatively peachy in my world and to carry on in this fashion makes me as bad as the wheatbeer, denimed twats of London gushing forth about the lack of decent conveyer belt bagel outposts in this faccccking city

Anyhoo, my dog "Dre" understands me.
When he throws up over my carpet I clean it up and get him water, when I throw up he attempts to lick it up before losing interest and goes off to find a bee to eat or something.

When I come back it shall be as a dog and warn your children as it will be their legs I will be fucking.

Friday, April 13, 2001

The Cuntryside.

Okay, so it's Easter weekend and what better way to celebrate the rebirth of our lord Jesus than following the words of our new lord Blair and jetting off to the countryside?

Bespoken bespectacled spinsters bicycling on their way to evensong, men with pigs under their arms talking over gates and the glorious heritage of lumps of stone sticking out of the ground.
Oh! The beauty, Oh! The magnificence! Oh! Dear.

I lived in the countryside for the first fifteen years of my life and please believe me when I say that there isn’t a more depressing, worthless place to spend valuable time out of the only life that you will ever have than stuck in the middle of no-where lying on your back in a field wishing that planes would fall from the sky just so that something, anything would happen.

People are apparently staying away from the countryside in case they see any burning pyres of dead animals which could be upsetting for them and force them to turn their children’s heads away from the windows in their Espace's , which isn’t only ridiculous but makes them pansies.

The countryside is full of dead, decaying animals.
My childhood was spent poking rotting sheep in ditches with sticks and trying to pull away dogs from knawing away at dead foxes.
Death is everywhere and the BBQ on mass is not anything special at all.

And farmers losing their livelihoods? So what?
I find it hard to muster up enough sympathy for people who mostly have not only land and nice houses but also Land Rovers and hugely expensive farm machinery whiffing on about compensation when the poverty in most cities and towns is surely in more urgent and desperate need.

The countryside is a truly horrible place full of self important right wing rat faced people who couldn't give a toss about anything that happens outside of their tiny pathetic little worlds.

Need more reasons?
Cake stall cakes made by flaky handed old women dripping spittle and skin into their selling fodder, Space wagons full of shouty cocker spaniels and barbour jackets, disgusting warm ale served in cracked plastic glasses with a dead wasp in, and above all an overlying opinion that 'they' are always, always in the right.

My advice is to stay the hell away and let them get on with their twilight zone style world of keeping everything as it was is and always will be until they inbreed themselves to a slow agonising death.

Wednesday, April 11, 2001

Stupidity and it's affect on everything in a roundabout kind of way.

I am an intensely stupid man.
I have little common sense and small amount that that I do possess appears to get coughed up not unlike rogue phlegm at the most opportune moment it can find.

Love is a particularly stupid thing as not only does it turn you into something you are usually not (happy) but it seems to aid and abet things that you are but strongly dislike (having no money)
Whilst splitting up with my last buttercup they offered the phrase "Well. Just what am I supposed to do now?" to which I offered the reply " Buy a dingy, do it up, sail it round the broads" before slamming the door on the last 3 months as well as what was left of my grace, dignity and above all charm.
As I said, I am a deeply stupid man.

The pinnacle of my own stupidity was achieved a few years ago when someone remarked I had a nice voice and I ended up presenting a training video that would be shown to thousands of bored factory workers to promote an exciting new software opportunity that would revolutionise their work and eventually make 30% of them redundant.
My excited grin and borrowed Next suit was an image of a sport/casual grim reaper casting his axe over their jobs before rounding up with the phrase "Take care now" and winking which my best friend still calls me an 'utter cunt' for agreeing to do in the first place.

My stupidity is whole and all encompassing, from insulting a small Chinese woman in a pub by putting 10ps in my eyes for comic effect but instead making it look like I was making a Prince Philip style chinky gesture, to accidentally watching a video of one of my friends having sex with his girlfriend and then cracking jokes about it as his relationship fell apart around him like a cheap airfix model.

The prime example of my all encompassing stupidity came with me trying to impress someone by sliding down the middle shiny bit of a tube escalator and clearing the bottom by a good ten feet and not only slicing my arm open but flailing around on the floor looking like a beached manatee in skatewear rather than the hip young sexy urbanite that I was supposed to.

I am 25 in November and this scares me a hell of a lot, I have achieved very little and am currently languishing in a kind of fresh hell that would make for comic style anecdotes but instead reads like a stoned version of Tuckers Luck.

Not only do my friends attend exciting media style opportunities with only a smidgen of the amount of social venom that I used to, but they are now all in relationships and the worst kind at that, some of them are booking weekend breaks as I type and Saturdays are now spent choosing vases instead of coming down in front of Pokemon.

This sounds like bollocks moaning rhetoric but I couldn't care less, stupidity is the new cool and I intend to make sure that everyone feels as dumb as I do by the end of the year.
Why bother putting up a front of calm inertia when you can present a carefully constructed image of being slightly unhinged.
My friends constantly ask if everything is like.... Okay? And to be honest everything is, its just that its not as okay as it should be.
Life isn’t meant to be a bag of oral sex and ice cream, its meant to be an hateful ordeal in which you compromise yourself on a daily basis until something gives and when it does its that’s when it starts to become interesting.

So if you feel like joining me and opting out you can, we start in the pub round the corner from Charring Cross and from then on the world is ours for the taking.

Tuesday, March 06, 2001

Crossroad's! Chaos! Cows!

I have invented a brand new phrase and that is 'Chaos Apathy."
Expect to see it bandied about the offices of bored magazine editors or dropped into conversation by pin-headed no brains looking for something, anything to make them feel part of the eye of the storm of the zeitgeist that circles London like a buzzard in twisted denim.

Yes, 'Chaos Apathy" is this nanoseconds phrase-du-jour and expect it to be on the chapped lips of everyone everywhere at all times.
But apart from being an excellent third album title for Marilyn Manson who is looking more and more like a ruffled eighties bedspread featuring 80's favourite teary Pierot what on earth can it mean?
Well, with trains falling from the sky, a general election that no-one can be bothered to talk about so that the word 'election" falls out of peoples mouths like a wet fart and disease ridden cattle now being BBQ'd in some of the most exciting camp fire work since Glastonbury no-one seems to actually give two hoots about mayhem 2001.

Everyday a new slice of madness gets cut from the bonkers cake and stuffed into our lethargic throats so much so that nothing appears to create any kind of effect any more.
Disasters, disease and general chaos is now so random and expected that nothing has the power to affect anything or anyone any more.

This year has already clocked up train crashes, floods, mass disease, deaths, child abuse and many, many more and that's just a weeks worth of Brookside.
So with my 'Chaos Apathy" (Copyright Shoreditch 2001) in mind I urge you to take a moment and just consider that one thing may slip past you without you noticing and if you ignore this evil menace then it could spell the end of your tiny little lives as you know them.

Crossroad's has come back.

Crossroad's was the always a bit of a cheeky joke. 'Oh the flimsy sets and the bad acting" you will say but here in lies a hidden menace.
Lord Waheed Ali used to work for Carlton Television, Mr Ali is also a Labour Peer and so should know better.
Mr Ali used to work for Planet 24 who make the Big Breakfast and are therefore responsible for changing TV into a cheap, hoop-la of shouting people all desperately trying to fill hours and hours of your lives with trivial, Day-Glo rubbish.
Before The Big Breakfast (Johnny Vaughn aside...) TV wasn't about the celebration of dim-wittery.
From the endless shouting to the pointless running about to the cheap and depressing The Big Breakfast slowly managed to convince TV executives that people really were too thick to have things like thoughts and intelligence and eventually from This Morning to Newsnight, booming graphics and split second attention spans are now the order of the day.

And then Waheed went and re-commissioned Crossroad's.
Not out of a fondness for the show, or because he wanted to make a new Drama but in what seems to be some kind of dumb ironic joke.

Starting new soaps isn't easy and having a "name" like Crossroad's gives the viewer something to relate to and thus inheriting a massive collective consciousness as soon as the titles begin.
But and this is one big mother of a "but" people really are not that stupid.
Crossroad's was remembered as being crap and was a daily glimpse into the collective stupidity of the people who make TV, and bringing it back under the same premise is akin to being slapped around the face with Waheed's cock.
Do you watch Television ironically? Do you sit down to a nights worth of irony? Do you scan the Radio Times for anything that's crap so you can sit there with a smug grin on your face before slapping your self on the back for being 'in on the joke"?
Of course not, now I know that not all of the 2 million people who sat through this televisual car crash would have sat there knowing that this was taking the piss out of them but please! a little respect?
Shoving this badly acted, badly written, haemorrhage of a show back on is ITV's way of saying to you that it thinks you are not only a fool but one that doesn't get their joke, and that is unforgivable.

ITV want to make money and as much as they possibly can and by filling their network with drama school debris such in soaps such as this is their way of kicking the homeless on their way to the opera before pissing pound coins on their heads.
And by watching rubbish like this you are effectively saying to them that you are stupid, brainless and want your life to be as ineffectual and filled with nonsense as much as it can possibly be.
But you can make it stop....
By clicking here you can sign my new petition to try and put a stop to this for once and for all.


In the olden days TV used to have the dignity to turn itself off and show the delightfully British version of the Internet Ceefax in the daylight hours thus nudging you to get off your fat arse and do something relevant with your life and Unbearable isn't going to stop until this is reinstated.

Go! Sign! and godspeed the avengement of this tawdry fuckwitted rubbish.

Tuesday, February 27, 2001

Ben Elton.

Sit back for a while if you will and cast your mind back to when Ben Elton was relevent.
The spangly ironic suits, the poo-pooing of the hoi poloi and how he all thought that if one person would never sell out it would be him.
Not until Thatchers bloddy corpse was fed to the sealions at London Zoo would Ben Elton have stopped.
We didn't mind the fact that his cockernee voice was put on, nor that his father was a staunch left-wing lecturerer at a upper class university. And neither did we care that through his novels of staggeringly bland airport fodder did he manage to lose every hope we had of him as an intellegent author.

No, the reason that Ben Elton managed to turn our collective hatrid away from the easier targets of Jamie Oliver and the cast of Atomic Kitten was that he decided to work with Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Andrew sodding Lloyd Webber.
If one man should have been on his "no" list than Mr Webber and his single handed distruction of London theatre from one of intellegence and thought into one of dull hoop-la and tepid spectacle should have been singled out in a green highlighter from the word go.

"How can we get more working class people into the theatre Ben?"
"Make a musical about football Andrew, they seem to like that."
And so the patronising guff that was coughed up out their collective gob turned out to be his downfall, Ben simply couldn't be bothered to pretend to be anything more than what he was all along, another Cambridge graduate who fell out of college and into the lap of the broadcasting elite.
Poor show Mr Elton.

Eagle eyed readers will note that at the inorgaration of King Thicky in America the other day Ben's lyrics were performed in front of exactually the kind of people he used to rally against.
Shortly after this performance he left the show with the Starbucks mernaid on his arm before checking into a hotel to be sodomised in a huge pile of cash by Tony the Frosties tiger.

Hmmm, so what of his acheivements? What Blackadder? and the now legendary scene in which all the characters died to show like...y'know how like, bad war is and stuff? and poppies fell about?
Well if my time in the Bedford Youth Theatre as Muchkin #6 is anything to go by this was stolen if not heisted from "Oh What A Lovely War" one of the plays in fact he would have studied whilst doing theatre at Cambridge.
Oh and what about The Young Ones in which Rik Mayall used to fall about and say nob and then Alison Moyet would sing for a bit.
Well watch a repeat on UK Gold and you will be left as cold and as stony faced as Andrew Llyod Webber would be if everyone were to find out all his best tunes are nicked from both Bizet, Mozart and Bach.

Oh dear Ben, youve been found out to be as dull and predictable as the people you used to hate, and that makes you the same as them if not worse.
Yes Indeedy, indeed.
And as if the thought of this musical filled you with terror, try contemplating whats gong to be done with the classic "The Secret Garden" when it lifts its petticoat and parks its contempory ass down in a few weeks time.
First the Grinch and now it seems another fond childhood memory is trained to jump through hoops whilst every last penny is squeezed out of it so that eventually nothing will be left except books and imagination become as redundant and dull as television seems to aspire to be.
Prepare for battle royale if they ever get their hands on Fingerbobs, mind.

Thursday, February 15, 2001

The Nations Favourite.

"Our Radio Rocks" shouted Ant and Dec halfway through the 90's and looking back their finely tuned sense of irony was apparent even back then.
Atomic Kitten followed by the 'fax us your arse' quiz and the All Saints is the name of the game and no matter how many times Jo (evil) Whiley pretends that she invented Hip Hop, Grunge and Garage by playing whatever has fallen out of the record companies jiffy bags that morning can convince us otherwise.
It's not that I hate pop music, good pop music can make you feel like dancing through the streets stopping only to french kiss tramps, but now the tidal wave of brain weepingly banal pop is so obvious and so contrived that even the under 10's market that once pumped fivers into its fat face can now spot the good from bad.
This is encouraging but someone has forgotten to tell Radio 1.
Yeah I know Gilles Peterson, John Peel, Grooverider and the magnificent Breezeblock are shining examples of public intrest radio but to put them out at bedtime (like cats) is stupid and pompous (also, like cats)
Dave Pearce is Dave Lee Travis in a basball cap and Sara Cox consistantly sounds like she is calling out the rota for that week at a meat pie factory until eventually you have to get out of bed just to turn the witch off.

Would you ever hang out with anyone who used the phrase "Larging it" no? so why put up with it all day then?

Over the other end of your dial reclining in a Lay-zee-boy drinking tea and offering you a gypsy cream is the sublime Radio 2.
Radio 2 is warm and comforting, like a huge musical puppy and celebrates both the banal and the talented with equal effect.
You want cutting edge? Try Sarah Kennedy.
Chris Morris's Jam was first broadcast on Radio1 at midnight leaving you with a uneasy feeling and possibly unable to sleep.
Sarah Kennedy is broadcast from 6 in the morning and is Jam to the power of ten million.
She is a deeply disturbed woman, from middle class blithering to possible racism to Carpenters album tracks, she is a non stop fully mobile mad train chuff-chuffing her way to the inner depths of her bonkers psyche.
Hers is a confused world of soggy labradors and white elephant stalls and she bewilders from topic to topic desperatly trying to make sense of the real nasty bad world and hence is unintentionally THE FUNNIEST THING OF ALL TIME EVER!.
The whole station celebrates music by not making a point of it, there isnt probably anywhere else in the world where you can hear obscure Nina Simone followed by Queen followed by Screaming Jay Hawkins and Radio 2 wallows in the fact.
Want madcap? Well Steve Wright is still doing the exact same show he did on Radio 1 15 years ago but with a bitter twang in his voice as he knows he is running on borrowed time.
Want jokes about wanking? Johnathon Ross is you man.
Want stereotypical Irish blarney? Mr Wogan will see you now.
Want a 12 part documentary about Northern Soul by Unbearable regular Stuart Marconie? Well its just finished, but they might repeat it one day.

Yeah, Radio 1 is still good, but your day will seem so much nicer if you turn off fat tosser Moyles and listen instead to cocaine addled Jonnie Walker flirt with a married mother of two before dropping Jethro Tull and then Run DMC on yo ass.

Street tough homie Tim Westwood (42 years old, son of a vicar) recently said that his show will "Bang in my face all day baby" and that alone sums up not only him but his show and the attitude of Radio 1 better than I or indeed you ever will.

Wednesday, February 07, 2001

The death of television.
Mistress television is a dizzy hen, clucking at this and that before deciding to run pecking at yet another programme about making things out of stuff.
Programmes that involve making things out of stuff are like watching something profoundly hypnotic they trap you in, filling your head with useless handy hints and tips ("You can distress a hardwood floor with sandpaper and....varnish!) that you know you will never, ever be bothered to use to any great affect.
Once, spurred on by an 'Lets Make It!' programme I tried to put up a shelf, and nearly killed myself by drilling into an electrical wire.
Thankfully the step ladder I 'mended' collapsed before I managed to mainline household wattage into my limbs.
These shows are dangerous, and do not take into account the average thickness of the viewer.
Most of us cannot just knock up an Italian looking kitchen, just the same as we cannot fling a pony at the moon, however the happy jolly world of knocking crap together is one that is constantly visited by programme makers as it is cheap and looks good in an educational/send for our factsheet kind of way, even though we would all rather be watching a repeat of The Good Life. (The one where Margot falls over) or indeed pornography (the one with the accomodating lady)
How does these programmes continue to get made? and who is making them?
Well, somewhere in Surrey there is a warehouse full of bob-cutted researchers in ironic Iron Maiden T shirts all spookily named Tamsin who flick endlessly away at magazines desperatley trying to fill hour after hour of cheap TV.
In the olden days Television had the dignity to stop at midday and not broadcast anything, leaving people to get on with their lives and talk to each other, no this time is filled with piss poor lifestyle fodder and shows about nothing at all.
Take exciting cult favorite "Watercolour Challenge" this combines the mumsy charms of Hannah Gorden as well as some lovely painting to its horrible conclusion and so is like being cuddled by an old lady whilst having stewed tea poured into your face.
It is not cult, usefull, educational or intresting. It is dull and insepid and not inspiring at all.
It is lazy boring television and addresses the audience as if it had just shat itself in cling film trousers.
And so I urge all broadcasters just simply not to bother, to switch off and be proud in the daytime hours.
There is no joy to be had in a 1973 episode of Quincy just as the sense of low self worth that falls over you after witnessing Mark Curry repaint a tall boy is unwelcome.
The money saved could be spent on better things such as a cull of aforementioned media Tamsin's and give the nation valuble time to discover things alien to them, like the outside world or even gainful employment.
But will this happen? of course not.
Not while there is the advertisers, the angry money throwing man in the Direct Line adverts was a personal favorite, you know the one, the one where he shouts a lot whilst a rubbish cart carries off thousands of pounds.
Well he has a brand new bag, with exciting CGI special effects and is the most exciting thing to happen in your afternoon world of makey-do casts.
He is the most intresting thing to happen between 2 and 6 and should rightly be given his own show, in which he just shouts at the viewer demanding to know why they havent got anything better to be getting on with.
He could also have Mark Curry in a fight as well as lamp posh bint Laurie Turner.
This would be the most amazing TV show ever, but sadly whilst there are is still unchartered worlds in the universe of DIY he will be left out in the cold shouting at the wall in front of him.
This is unjust and unfair and I demand at least a detective show with him in...Shout Patrol?... Shouty P.I.? ..or simply SHOUTER!...
Never mind Shouty man! you have a place to shout as much as you want.
And its in the nations hearts.
God Bless you Shouty!

Saturday, January 27, 2001

Fred Durst.

Look everybody! Its "the kids!", here they come full of spunk and vigour, ready to put the boot in to the 'man' at a moments notice.
Yah boo sucks to you Grandad because here come "the kids", full of cider and bile and ready to drag you into their Generation X.
Have you seen them? on street corners and outside off licenses with well waxed hair, baggy hooded tops and key chains that hang down on the floor scraping through town like a heard of depressed banshees?
No, well daddio you aint were its at!
Cos the ultra badness of Fred Durst is where the kids are, and he knows whats about to hit the fan.
Except of course, they are not, he isnt and the fan has been packed away for the Winter.
Limp Bizkit (hey! Craaazeee spelling, Fred!) sound like something McVities dread on a focus group but are in fact the future of Rawwwk according to everyone who writes for anyone ever.
What no-one has managed to realise in fact is that they suck, big style.
They suck in a hugely corporate way and are as dangerous and as Rawwwk as dining at Little Chef whilst glancing at the Femail section of the Daily Mail.
"You better not mess" says Fred on his latest album marketing release (single).
Fred is 5ft 2ins.
Why Fred? what are you going to do stamp on my addidas?
Climb in my ear and attack me from the inside, like a silly germ?
Appear in Panto as one of the seven dwarfs and diss me?
Fred is also 32, this makes him as relevent to speak on the Kids generation as Jane McDonald turning up at Fabric and singing Cathy Dennis.
I know true Raaaaawk isnt meant to mean anything, but where as Slipknot have the decency to act scarily Fred and his band look like they have just covered themselves with glue and rolled around in a surf shop in Kettering.
The music is insepid, bland watered down pap and like the white middle class kids who hang around in shopping centres pretending to be different and misunderstood in an effort to piss off 'Father' should be avoided or culled.
This is NU METAL!, this is BADCORE!, this is DAFT! this is OVERWROUGHT!.
This is the start, there will be many more and I urge you to exercise caution when accidently flinking to MTV on your way to safer climates.
This will be the year not of garage, not of pop, but of knuckle-headed dunderbolts from thickytown USA to take it in turns to pooh and then smear their faces with it, giggling whilst they dance on punks grave.
We can do better and we have in the form of ace band Raging Speedhorn who make the noise of a thousand tipsy Rhino's and could whip Fred's ass in the time it takes him to say something so devoid you could be forgiven for thinking he was hocking sheds on QVC.
But will you hear of the mighty Speedhorn? no of course you wont, because while Limp Bizkit are taking it in turns to light each other farts and then check their stock options, Raging Speedhorn will have got your sister drunk and dancing for THEIR amusement.
They are young, bad and look like your mates on a Friday being sick in bins and ringing your doorbell with their nicotine stained fingers before running off.
In short, they are not photogenic or that marketable but can thrash better than anyone and thus will fulfill true UK style Rawwwk by not gettiing absoultly anywhere at all.
So while Fred Durst and the rest of the cast of Last Of The Summer Wine put down their Daily Telegraphs togo through the motions at the local Enormodrome expect to see Raging Speedhorn in some tiny venue but with more conviction and energy than the former could muster in a lifetime.
That isnt fair, but that is English Rawwwk and it is how it is.
So take heart dear Speedhorn for while the kids worship these false idols, John Bull, Princess Diana and Roy Castle in heaven are indeed spanking the air guitar along with you to your paens of true British cider and piss scented Rawwk
Keep the Rawwwk alive, Speedhorn we are depending on you.

Wednesday, January 24, 2001

Peter's Tether.

Peter Sissons is a man confused.
Like a bewildered old bear who has fallen into a suit and wondered into the Newsroom looking for honey, Peter is a desperate man.
His arch nemesis Sir Trevor McDonald is loved and respected, he not only gets the viewers in but is in sole charge of the nations Big Mac distribution through his global catering empire.
Every day in their lunch hour Trev pulls Peters jacket over his head and then chucks his bag over the wall before scuffiling off guffawing to his weathergirl groupies.
Peter hates Trevor, he hates the fact more people watch him, he hates the fact people call him "Trev!" in the same way they use "Des!", "Chris!", and "Paxman!".
Peter to this day is nicknameless, he once suggested "Sister" as a joke but was derided and eventually beaten.
But the one thing Peter hates from the very bottom of his core is the one thing "Trev!" has that he hasnt.
His Sirsmanship.
Peter wants the Queen to recognise his ever constant licking of her empire, shrieking and cooing whenever she or one of her few has opened a hospital but she is unlikely to ever know the true effort it takes to wrinkle your face like a sad puppy when one of them has a new liver fitted.
Peter is indeed a man confused, last night he finally fell from reality.
Hoping to please the director in the gallery he was firing on all the energy he had, he ran the emotions with all his might, huffing and puffing trying to get to the end, desperate for recognition, desperate for you to watch.
"That's a first!". CUT! to a winking Sissons. FROWN! Hatfield tradegy.GRIN! local news.Boom! and finish with a song
Iam sure if you emailed him a birthday request he would have read it out on air.
This fever pitch swan song, was possibly the end of news as we know it, Chris Morris's profecy had come true.
This is possibly the maddest state that the earth has ever been in, and the news now reflects that in all its hidious beauty by looking like a 1987 edition of "Get Stuffed".
All we want is to see what has been going on in the world, not high kicking graphics that confuse the subject and give you a migraine.

Somewhere in a empty office, Peter walks slowly around. His crumpled jacket over one arm his faded BBC pass in the other.
He looks around for someone, anyone but no-one is here.
He catches in his eye a bright light and looks upward full of hope only to see a 60ft poster with Sir Trevor beaming down over London.
Then consumed by the emptiness deep inside he falls to his knees, holding himself and weeping softly.

Sunday, January 21, 2001

Last nights "I Love the 1980's"

As regular visitors to this site will know I am a huge fan of these shows, as they justify the addage that "Staying in is the new going out" or in our case the hypnotising effect of soft drugs and beer.
Me and my collegue Lard also enjoy watching Stuart Marconie become gently more mad on each one as he slowly begins to run out of annecdotes.
Like an old man in a chair at a nursing home with no family or friends he will remember nothing except some old episodes of Lovejoy and have nothing to show for his life except some Klick Klacks which he slowly rolls around his old man fingers.

Last night the innevitable happened and Stuart Marconie's head became free from his body and gently span off into space rotating....ever rotating and gently reminiscing.
Past a Rubiks Cube.
Whats this? It's a giant pair of winking deedee boppers!
Look Stewart! Its Morph!
Carefull there or you'll bump into the kids from Fame.
As he mumbles something about Spangles and the Woddentops a haunting figure approaches.
It is the Shake And Vac lady who beckons him towards her, he slowly spins over and is embraced by her warm comforting bosum.
Around her were some Gonks and the cast of Bergerac all of which welcomed him with cheers and a song from Jim Nettles himself.
This was it.
He was safe.
He was home.