Miserable Bastard

Isn’t Sky Digital great? Isn’t it though. It’s such a good idea! In the days of terrestrial only TV, things were pretty clear cut. You paid the license fee and you got BBC1 and 2, both funded by the license, which showed no advertisements whatsoever, and you also had ITV and Channel 4 which showed adverts every 15 minutes or so.

But not with Sky – oh no. First of all, you pay to view it. Then they advertise fuck out of you every 8 bloody minutes. Not only that, but they CRANK the volume of the adverts so you have to leap out of your chair and fumble for the remote to turn it down. What’s more, they have pay-per-view events where you have to pay a premium and they STILL advertise at you! It’s sickening. So, basically, you subscribe to 95 channels of SHITE just so they can show adverts.

Now, is it just me or is there something fundamentally wrong with that? If the television channels are raking it in from advertising (and given that 6 minutes out of every ten is advertising, they must be!) why the fuck do they need to charge me for the privilege of watching it, eh?

And the drivel they show! When Badgers Attack! When kitchen appliances run Amok! World’s most dangerous Aquarium Scenery! Get a fucking grip! And what about all this “Temptation Island” bollocks? Who thought that one up? “Hey, I know! Why don’t we get lots of young couples, seperate them and seduce them so we can show the video footage to their grief stricken partners!” I mean, for fuck’s sake! How sick is that? It’s like Jeremy Bastardface Beadle, isn’t it? Bloke comes home to find his decapitated wife hanging gutted in the kitchen – but it’s OK! Cos it was only a FUCKING JOKE! Bastards!

One thing guaranteed to have me spitting my dummy, at the moment, is the new Soap the BBC are showing. “River City” – it’s a kind of Haggis-eating Eastenders. But with one minor differance. They’ve taken the cast of Prisioner: Cell Block H, kept them in a leper colony until they’ve all become hideously deformed, and then taught them to speak Shortbread-tin Scots. Jesus! What a bunch of gruesome bastards! I very nearly boaked on my mealy pudding supper when it came on last night. I would normally have switched off before it started but I was too fucking depressed to move after watching Eastenders.

Here’s what happened: Ok, so Trevor the mad scots wife beater has been fucking with Sam Mitchell’s mind and chucked her. He’s also be fucking with Little Mo’s mind and got little Mo and Billy Mitchell fighting about it. Sharon has asked Tom to marry her but Tom – the big strapping firefighter – doesn’t want to because he has a FUCKING BRAIN TUMOUR all of a sudden! So, instead of telling Shazzer that he’s terminally ill he decides to make things easier for her by laughing in her face and giving her the elbow. I mean for fuck’s sake! As if life wasn’t grim enough as it is!

“Is there a twenty pound note in this bag?” proclaimed the flash on the front of the crisp bag. Well, was there? I don’t care – what the flash should say is “Are there any fucking crisps in this bag?”, and the answer to that was “barely”. Oh the bag looks big and puffy and stuffed full of crispy goodness, but when you open it and there’s a sudden outrush of pressurised air, all that’s left is a little herd of crisps stuffed in the bottom of the bag beside a dirty great card saying “fuck off loser, no twenty quid for you but here’s a voucher for another bag of pressurised air”.

If they vaccuum packed em instead of going down the puffy bag route, they’d end up the size of a bloody oxo cube! Mined ewe, that wouldn’t be so bad – teensy little snack cubes – multipacks would be a damn sight easier to carry – how many times have I wrestled a dirty great box of fucking AIR into the back of my car? Too bloody many.

The other thing that pisses me off about them (except the recursive “here’s a twenty, oh no it’s another bag of sodding crisps” thing) is the flavour claims. Smokey Bacon my arse. I’ve tasted smokey bacon and it tastes bugger all like bacon crisps. And what about the poncy new pseud flavours aimed at yuppies and new media types? Can you imagine standing in a pub and asking for a packet of “cream cheese and chives” or “rock salt and bavarian sandmonkey”? For fuck’s sake! “oh I say, Farquar! Have you tasted those Quails tongue and Walrus tusk crisps? They’re simply delightful!”

If you came out with that in any of the pubs around here you’d be up to your eyes in chib wielding Neds and Chavs before you could say “pikey-bait”.

FUCK OFF! What the hell’s the matter with Ready Bloody Salted, eh? Basts!

“Would you like help with the packing?”

Well, let me just check what I’m actually buying here. Hmmm. A bottle of milk. A bag of apples. Let me see – do I need help packing? Do I need help picking up a little bottle of milk and a small bag of apples, and placing them in a carrier bag without doing myself or the produce any serious injury. Do I look fucking stupid? Do I really look like the type of person who needs help putting a bottle of fucking milk and a bag of sodding fun sized(more on that later) apples in a sodding bag? For fuck’s sake! I had my wife with me too! Obviously we look like total window-licking gormless twats who are unable to wrestle a vicious bottle of milk or savage bag of apples into a fucking bag!

What type of goddamn person can look at those two items, then look at the two people buying them, and still believe that “would you like help with the packing” was a legitimate fucking question?

I mean, what am I supposed to say? “Sure, I can manage the milk if you hold the bag open, but my wife might need a hand with the apples?” For fuck’s sake! How does that person manage to get dressed in the morning?

And as for fun sized – what the fuck? Apples taste nice. They’re yummy. They’re not fun though. I daresay kinky lovemaking with the partner of your choice in an interesting environment is fun. Video games are fun. Go-karting is fun, for fuck’s sake. Apples are not fun. Apples are food.

Alright, so I was in a shop the other morning, cruising for a nice chunk of biscuity goodness. I was perusing the shelves in a fairly nonchalant kinda way when my eye alighted on the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Fox’s Sprinkle Crinkle Crunch. Sprinkle Crinkle Fucking Crunch, ladies and gentlemen.

Apparently they’re sprinkled crinkled crunchy goddamn biscuits. Right. So, assuming that the new stylee is to give hyper-sodding-descriptive names to things, why the hell aren’t chocolate-dipped-coconut-rings called “Rectal Avengers”? Why aren’t Ferrero Rocher called “Scrotal Warlords”?

Indulge me, if you will, in a worked example or two. Kit Kat. They don’t come as self assembly. They have no obvious feline connection. 0/10 for creativity there.

Digestive biscuits, on the other hand, are a bit of a no-brainer – you digest em. Mind you, if I’m in a retail establishment which provides quality snack products to the discerning public, I’m looking for something to EAT. I don’t want to be reminded of all the gooey organic processes that go on aftwards. 0/10 for making me yak my guts all over the biscuit section of Tescos.

Hob Nobs. Hob, if you will, Nobs. What the fuck? I think it’s probably best if we pursue that line of inquiry no further.

Jaffa Cakes – well, there’s a bizarre story there – apparently McVities (for it is they) were threatened with “improper advertising” or somesuch a few years ago because Jaffa Cakes weren’t actually cakes (cos they had that yummy crumblyness), which is why they’re now repugnant and spongy. Gak. Now that, to my eyes, is a perfect example of making the product fit the name. Why not call em something else? Chocolatey Orangy Crumbly things, springs imediately to mind.

So, biscuit manufacturers – just fucking STOPPIT! It’s bloody annoying! And don’t get me started on butter. “I can’t believe it’s not sodding butter”, “Utterly Butterly” – it’s not even a bloody word! If they’re allowed to just go making up words to describe their products then they have either no imagination or a dictionary with lots of blank pages in. What next? “Try new fox’s Spofnod Bumscordes! They’re indescribably yummy!” Gimme a break.

NO! I do not want an eight foot long penis. I do not want to look at cavorting cheerleaders. I do not want a herbal alternative to viagra, and I most certainly do not want to see “Hot naked barely legal chicks getting off with giant octopus people from the third void of Quarg”.

What is with these people, huh? I mean, they must get a pretty good idea of their target market from the people who subscribe to their magazines or visit their seedy little bookshops, so why spam the whole fucking planet with it? I’m by no means a prude, but it’s a bit bloody annoying when your five year old points at some grotesque image which has popped up on the screen and says “what’s she doing with that thing’s tentacle, dad?”

It’s the cheek of the bastards that gets me: “Hi, Chewbury! Here’s that information you asked for!” No I fucking didn’t! “Re: our conversation” We haven’t bloody well had one and I have proof! Cos if we had, you see, your lungs would be hanging out of the gaping hole I had punched in your chest you spamming BASTARD! Stupid little tricks to try and fool brainless lemmings into reading the mail.

And what about the one that starts “You’ve probably seen this mail before, and ignored it.” Yup, and I’m ignoring this one too. And the ones that faithfully promise that if you reply to this message, your name will not be sold as an extremely valuable verified address with a gullible twat hanging off the back of it but will, in fact, be removed from the mailing list. You wouldn’t believe the number of people I know who regularly reply with unsubscribe messages – JESUS – The guy has just SPAMMED you and you’re replying expecting him to keep his word? Wake up and smell the shut the fuck up! If any of you touches me and I catch stupid, I’ll eat your vocal chords.

Actually – on a lighter note – internet spam has made me appreciate the beauty and integrity of old school paper spam. I have one here, framed, on the wall – spam you can touch – spam that simply promises CA$H MUNNY for doing absolutely nothing at all except being a gullible twat. Good simple british spam. Ahhhhh don’tcha just love it?

Finally, for now, electorial spam. Ah, that was something special. The whole fucking world was encouraged to vote for George “thick as pigshit hey I know lets start a war with iraq so my oil company will be able to extort a shitload more money out of people!” Bush. It had me convinced, too! I was going to vote for him but his name wasn’t on the ballot paper. I couldn’t remember if he was Conservative, Labour, Lib Dem, or SNP. Then it suddenley occurred to me – ah, that’s right, I DON’T FUCKING LIVE IN AMERICA.

BASTARDS!

As a postscript to the above, we all know how it turned out. The thick fuck lost the election but still managed to bully his way into the whitehouse anyway. Ahhhhhh Democracy….. no wonder the Iraqis want it so badly…..oh – hang on a minute……

One of my children was stung by a wasp at the weekend.

That sentence, on its own, paints quite a vivid picture, doesn’t it? Sort of. You see, the thing is this: a sting exists in nature as a defense mechanism, allowing small delicate insects to defend themselves against much larger predators.

So, how does this explain the wasp? Because, let’s face it, the wasp could never be accused of being the victim could it? In this particular instance, the stripy yellow fuck actually held on with its legs and with its arse going like a fiddler’s elbow, stinging over and over again.

Why is this? Because wasps, my friends, are mutant scumfuck BASTARDS. They are nature’s way of saying “Ah’m pure mental, me”; they are a natural chib. They serve no other purpose but to zip around like evolutionary neds “malkying” anything or anyone that crosses their paths.

Like all other types of ned, the wasp should be sought out and destroyed on sight. We must not shirk from this unpleasant duty, but strive to make the world a better (if slightly wasp-splattered) place for our children.

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells Jingle all the fucking way. Oh what bastard fun it is to have PIPED FUCKING CHRISTMAS MUSIC PLAYING EVERY BLOODY PLACE YOU BASTARDING GO.

It’s christmas time. According to Woolworth’s shelf-stockers, it’s been christmas time since fucking SEPTEMBER. It was christmas before it was bloody halloween this year.

“But it’s nice,” someone might whine. “But it’s the season of giving.”

It’s the season of fucking GREED, you apologist fuck, I would undoubtedly answer. It’s the season of charging around Tescos stuffing your trolly with all the food in the fucking world just in case there’s a bastarding FAMINE, despite the fact that the larger shops close for TWO DAYS and the corner shops……. don’t bloody well close at all. JUST FUCKING STOP IT!

People are being driven to this crazed panic-buying like the pathetic lemmings they are by a media which constantly screams CONSUME at them. Why do you NEED to buy a month’s worth of shopping on the 23rd of December? Why do you NEED to have four palettes of Tennent’s fucking Lager (undrinkable yak-piss that it is) sticking out the top of your trolley? The answer? You bloody well don’t. There are places in the world where people live on the equivalent of a single christmas shopping trolley for the whole fucking YEAR if they’re lucky.

And what’s all this bollocks about Christmas cards? “Here’s a piece of paper to say that despite the fact that I haven’t spoken to you since the last christmas card, you’re still my bestest friend.” It’s only a matter of bloody time before Hallmark start printing boxing day cards, 17th of January cards and day-with-a-fucking-y-in-the-name cards.

Get this – a shop near my house sells a box of 100 cards for 69p. That’s less than a penny per card. It costs thirty times as much to post the fucker! If you really must send them, why not take the opportunity to actually visit one of these so called friends and drop the bloody thing off yourself. That way you might be able to avoid being a complete hypocritical loser.

On that note, it’s only fair to point out that anyone trying to hand deliver a card to me will be immediately stabbed in the bastard.

Dear oh fecking dear.

I bought a plastic bottle of “Channel Islands Milk” from Tesco. That’s the creamy, slightly golden, milk from Jersey Cows. I was pouring a glass of it when a small flash of colour caught my eye.

There, on the side of the bottle, was an allergy warning.

ALLERGY WARNING!

it proclaimed.

CONTAINS MILK!

Contains. Fucking. Milk.

I’m too fecking sickened by the stupidity of society and the lawyer-cowed wankers of big business to comment any further. I hate you all.

Plenitude Action Liposomes. Nutrigrain. Ambi-pur Liquifresh. Excuse me? It’s the new black! Somewhere, some advertising nob-end decided “Hey, I know! Let’s advertise all our products by making up new words! We could just chop up bits of existing words and stick em together to make new ones!”

So, I have a quest – I’m sitting here in my little room at work and I’m going to walk around downstairs and see how many stupid things I can find on product packaging.

Oooo I didn’t do badly at all. So, here we have – in no particular order – the results.

Toilet Duck, apparently, uses Neutrafresh Technology. Now then. What the fuck is that, eh? Now, I am an admittedly simple person, but I’d have thought that Toilet Duck was a thick green liquid that you squirted down the bog to make it smell nice. I didn’t really think it was particularly advanced, technology wise, and I most definitely didn’t expect it to be so advanced it’d required making up a sodding word to describe it. I could maybe understand if you squirted it down the bog and it swam off to the sea, retrieved some exotic herbs and spices from a faraway land, and filled the bowl with a deeply scented herbal infusion but – and let’s be realistic here – it really doesn’t do anything that complex, does it? It also, apparently, has a thick formula. That’s kinda like H2NO4, but written as H2NO4 presumably. Or maybe it’s not the representation of the formula that’s thick – maybe it uses special thick atoms or something. Or maybe the people who write the blurb are twats. Next Please!

A brief one now – Haze Professional. Eh? “hi, can I have a can of Haze, please. Oh no, not the domestic one – I only use professional.” Get a grip.

Carex soap. For washing shitex of your handex, presumably.

Shockwaves “Volumising” Spray. Well, really. Volumising? Is that actually a real word? I don’t think so. It’s like they say in america – “Oh no! You’ve been burglarized” – I’ve been what? Oh! Burgled! Mined ewe, Voluming doesn’t sound much better – in fact it sounds vaguely rude, really. Anyway, this delightful product also boasts a “micro diffuse formula” which I can only believe means that, unlike the extra thick atoms used above, these little tykes are teensy little with huge fucking gaps between them. But they do ensure you have manageable hair, and that’s what’s important. God knows what kind of state the world would be in if hair didn’t have anyone to manage it. So, leaving the George Martin of the stylist industry aside, we move on.

Saxa Table Salt. The Prince of the Land of What the Fuck. You know what salt is, right? It’s a white powder that can be dangerous in large amounts. No, not that one,the one they used to pay roman soldiers with (were they thick, or what?). You put it on your chips. With brown sauce, I hasten to add. Anyway, there’s a tube of Saxa salt in our kitchen at the moment and on the back there is, god help me, a serving suggestion. Just in case you didn’t fucking know you were supposed to put it on your fucking chips they draw you a fucking picture. Except they don’t draw you a picture of a plate of chips with salt on. Oh no. They draw you a picture of Spaghetti Bolognese. HELLO? Yes, I daresay that, with the addition of a few minor ingredients such as, er, bolognese and spaghetti, salt could be turned into spaghetti bolognese, but it’s really not the top of the shopping list is it? “Right, what am I having for dinner? Spaghetti Bolognese! I’d better check I have enough salt!” I don’t fucking think so.

So, that’s the stupid things I found after looking for two seconds. I shall leave further investigation as an exercise for someone who gives a shit.

Five men arrested. By 500 policemen. That’s 100 policemen each. They must have really expected a struggle.

Imagine my surprise at finding that the five men were neither Jedi who had fallen to the dark side, nor mutants with terrifying supernatural powers but were, in fact, some young lads who happen to live on a traveller camp. Who were accused of robbing post offices. Slightly over the top response, do you think?

If they were so concerned about these men, perhaps it would have been best to nuke the site from orbit. After all, it’s the only way to be sure(tm).

BBC NEWS | England | Dawn swoop by 500 police officers