Archive for November, 2007

Wednesday, November 21st, 2007

Liverpool, India Knight, Amy Winehouse, it can only be . . . MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of smoked kippers, herring pieces, low calorie flakes, muffin, Gala melon slices and alcoholic tramp’s vomit sucked through a straw, I set aside my breakfast tray and peruse a selection of periodicals, to catch up on recent events. Therein, I read that Liverpool has been designated European Capital of Culture in 2008 and in January, to kick things off, a one-off event entitled Liverpool – The Musical will take place featuring Sir Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, Dave Stewart and the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Also to appear are Echo & The Bunnymen, Pete Wylie and The Christians.

F*** me sideways, you could take all of the words out of the above paragraph except f***ing “Dave Stewart” and this would c***idious enough but Christ on a f***ing cockstick, Liverpool – The Musical? how f***ing far into this sub-prime farrago of self-congratulatory cheesewank is anybody gonna be able to get before the end off tearing off their f***ing left legs and beating themselves over the heads with the f***ing sticky end? The Christians? If they’re f***ing playing, who the f*** is gonna minicab people home after the concert? Liverpool is no more the f***ing Capital of European Culture than f***ing Marseilles is the f***ing Capital of European Hygiene! If this were a celebration in music and verse of a city’s longstanding tradition in f***ing insurance fraud, then they might have a f***ing point, but it f***ing isn’t, is it? City of Culture? City of f***ing self-congratulatory, self-pitying, phlegm-spraying f***ing losers, more f***ing like! You might as well ferry back and forth across the f***ing Mersey selling each other f***ing hubcaps because the f***ing Transatlantic trade link’s long f***ed, and you extraneous Scouse c***s with it!

It seems that 70s rockers Led Zeppelin have decided to add more dates to their highly successful comeback tour.

Let’s f***ing face it, folks, a world so many of whose f***ing citizens choose to cram themselves in like slaves on a f***ing ship to watch these three ancient, histrionic f***ing prunes creak through the f***ing motions is a world that deserves to f***ing choke to death in its own f***ing waste products! Jimmy Page looks like the f***ing disinterred and bewigged corpse of the f***ing late Tony Banks MP, Robert Plant looks like some sort of f***ing overgrown, geriatric, caterwauling f***ing elf and how hard would two men have to pull at the lead of a f***ing dog to persuade it to come along and watch f***ing John Paul Jones if he was playing f***ing solo, the cockend?

Choppy waters for the government as Alistair Darling was forced to announce that 25 million people’s child benefit details stored on two CDs have been mislaid by a junior official by HM Revenue & Customs.

F*** me, we knew f***ing Gordon Brown was a f***ing miserable, irascible, scrotum-faced old Scottish c*** who can barely put his f***ing tie on the right way round but if this is an example of his f***ing fiscal prudence then f***ing excuse me while I sew my f***ing savings into a f***ing mattress and leave it out in the middle of the f***ing street! You don’t f***ing save money by scrunching two f***ing huge departments into one, you stupid, myopic f***ing skinflint, any more than amputating your f***ing left leg is a sensible way of losing f***ing weight! Still, this is Brown’s chance to get rid of f***ing Chancellor Darling and replace him with Chancellor f***ing Baldrick! Useless c***!

Finally, something of a double treat – India Knight of The Sunday Times has devoted her latest column to Amy Winehouse. Detailing the recent adventures of Britney Spears, Pete Doherty, Kate McCann and Ms Winehouse herself, she deplores a culture in which “we” “gawp” at celebrities in difficulties. She offers the original thought that the public like to see the famous cut down to size but wonders if “our” relatively small and insignificant lives are really so much better than that of the “brilliant” but wayward Winehouse.

Well, f***, yes, that’s me put in my insignificant f***ing place. Yes, we do gawp rather, don’t we? All of us. And that’s not viagra online at all rich coming from a f***ing columnist who spends most of her f***ing personal and professional f***ing life gawping till her jaw’s practically touching her f***ing knees at the f***ing drearily endless vacuous tabloid parade of f***ing dysfunctional celebdom in the f***ing hope of finding 800 f***ing sanctimonious words to submit, at least 100 of which will be the f***ing word “we” every f***ing week! India Knight talking about the public’s unhealthy f***ing relationship with celebrity is like a f***ing vulture complaining about unhealthy relationships with the f***ing recently deceased!


Monday, November 12th, 2007

RICHARD BRANSON YOU ARE AN ARSEHOLE, IT’S . . . MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up from a short coma, following a breakfast some weeks ago consisting of grilled kippers, lightly buttered wholemeal toast, grapefruit segments and kidneys (possibly a pair of my own, recently discarded prior to a double replacement, consumed in error), I emerge from my bedchamber and peruse the latest periodicals. Therein, I read that Al Gore has won the Nobel Peace Prize. Accepting the honour with thanks, Gore confirmed that he and his wife intend to travel to Oslo themselves to accept the award.

Really? Well, you’d better f***ing set off now, because it’s a long f***ing walk! Oh, unless you were thinking of f***ing flying there, ripping out yet another f***ing chunk in your own personal hole in the f***ing ozone layer and racking up yet more air miles in your hilariously f***ing ironic mission to save the f***ing planet? It’s like f***ing Hitler firing up a f***ing hot air balloon from the furnaces at Auschwitz to travel out to accept an award from the f***ing Jewish Defence League! Get your f***ing wife to slap a f***ing “censored!” sticker on that, you jaw aching, self-righteous, self-serving c***! As if you’d have lifted one f***ing finger for the environment if you’d been elected f***ing President!

The saga of Paul McCartney/Heather Mills divorce drags on; in the latest twist, Heather Mills has been dropped by her legal team and will represent herself, following her decision to go on TV and compare herself to Princess Diana, as well as claim to be “responsible for nine countries”.

Y’know, the woman’s obviously as mad as a f***ing balloon on the end of a f***ing stick hanging off the f***ing Pope’s nose but for f***’s sake, some hard f***ing questions need to be asked of f***ing McCartney, surely! Like, for one, when this f***ing scary-eyed bint first came f***ing hopping towards you clutching a f***ing spade, did it not f***ing occur to you to, y’know, put your f***ing guard up? Do you not have people on hand to slap you on the f***ing head when you’re clearly on the verge of doing something incredibly f***ing stupid with your life? Or do you consider yourself the f***ing world’s sharpest, best bloke just because you wrote “Eleanor Rigby” 40 odd years ago, who doesn’t need to take advice from anybody? Because you’re obviously f***ing not, if a f***ing swivel-eyed unidexter like Mills can f***ing take you to the cleaners! Silly c***!

Richard Branson’s foray into the cable/broadband empire continues apace, with NTL about to be renamed “Virgin Media” and all account holders required to revise their email addresses to include the word “Virgin”.

Consumers, I’d thoroughly recommend that each and every one of you to drop everything and switch right now to the fabulous, exciting service offered by Richard Branson and his beard on the new-look Virgin Media. Yes, Branson and his beard have come up trumps again! Granted, the start up packaging is rather sexist, with a sultry, come hither-looking female displayed above the words “You’re In” – but overlook that because when you open that package you enter a world of surprises! The first f***ing surprise is that they offer absolutely no f***ing instructions whatsoever as to what the f*** you’re supposed to do with this random f***ing collection of wires and boxes, or remotely enough f***ing cable to connect to your f***ing television! So, for £25, you have to get out one of their engineers to fit the thing, in a f***ing fortnight’s time! Your next surprise is that, contrary to the f***ing assurances of your sales team, and the contract sitting in front of you, telephone isn’t actually available in your f***ing area after all! So, while you thought you were paying £20 a month for landline, broadband and TV, you’re actually paying £34 a month for just broadband and television – because the f***wits have signed you up to “Virgin XL”, which is the same as f***ing Freeview (which you’ve got anyway, for, you know, f***ing free), but now you get the chance to see Stock Car Racing From Belgium live on the f***ing Setanta Sports channel! So, that’s two thirds of the original f***ing service promised for almost twice the price originally quoted! Still, no matter because the TV service only freezes on you roughly once a day, while the internet broadband service is up and functioning a whopping 75% of the f***ing time! And, if as a result of all of this you should feel the f***ing need to contact the company, help is at hand at the touch of a telephone keypad and a mere 40 minutes wait, to the accompaniment of a teeth-itching loop of muzak, until you’re told you’ve come through to the wrong f***ing department and patched through to a line that dials till roughly infinity or until you die, whichever occurs f***ing first! And, finally, should you experience further minor problems, such as, you know, your new email being able to send out messages but not receive them except via the fabulous Virgin media website, then it’s informative to know that a “technical support” team are on hand to read out to you the f***ing instruction notes for installation you already have in your f***ing hand! Should your query require them to depart from their 100 word script, however, and they’ll put you through to their PC helpline at a reasonable £1 a minute – though sadly, contrary to what they state in their literature, they can offer no technical support to Mac users, either by phone or in the “troubleshooting” section on their f***ing website! So, here you are – you’re in, and you’ve been f***ed, though not, unfortunately, by a sultry, come hither-looking female but by a smarmy bloke with a f***ing beard! Branson, you are the biggest, most howlingly useless arsewart who ever filled a f***ing jumper to no helpful f***ing purpose! You’re a f***ing take-everything, contribute-nothing, parasitic pot of f***ing pigpiss! I wish that f***ing abseiling stunt had resulted in your f***ing testicles being twisted right off and you’d splatted to the ground, slowly bleeding to death, with onlookers as quick and effective to come to your assistance as one of your own helpline teams, with your last f***ing sight that of your own f***ing knackers, lying just yards from you, in a small, torn pathetic f***ing heap! Get my f***ing internet working properly, you c***!