Saturday, 31 December 2011

Don't Believe The Hype

So here it is.  2012.

Yep, the 21st century is well under way.  Before you know it the current hundred count is going to be a teenager:- Hopefully a less stroppy one that last year which resulted in the full blown tantrums of World War I (If this is the case, surely World War II was caused by the century's early onset of a middle aged crisis but now the metaphor is being stretched beyond logical comprehension) and the Russian Revolution.

Some people - more than a sane world should contain - believe that the Mayan calender stops at a point comparable to the later end of our own 2012, thus marking the end of civilization due to one or several cataclysmic events occurring, from major flooding to a previously undiscovered planet crashing into our own like Dawn French outside a pie shop that closed early.

The idea that this particular year will be humanity's last is not ridiculous in itself:- After all ANY given year could be our big finish.  However one has to doubt that if we do get drowned/blown up/shipped off to become alien sex slaves, it will be because some chaps in strange nappies and animal hats declared it over five thousand years ago.

Many people who are concerned that the Mayans were spot on the money seem a little uninformed, citing sources such as 'Jen from works' cousin' to another awful Roland Emmerich weather-porn movie.

The Mayans created several calenders denoting what are now academically referred to as the precalassic, classic and postclassic eras.  The ending of these basically meant the people of pre-Colombian America considered a particular period of time the end of a cycle or 'world age' and the onset of another.

The point?  Don't stop paying buying those lottery tickets and stocking up on booze and shotgun shells just yet.

The idea that the world is going to end because a timetable ran out is a bit 'pie-in-the-sky'.  However if you still find yourself a bit concerned then remember that it's quite likely that the Mesoamericans only stopped bothering making calendars because builders of the day kept complaining that there were no tits on them.

Wednesday, 30 November 2011

Old King Cola

Seasons greetings!

That's right; I do like this time of the year.

Folk will of course grumble that it's too early to talk about Christmas until whichever point they feel the festive season should suddenly go from being a dirty secret to a full blown tinsel-fest.  To those people I say 'fair enough but should there then be a referendum on when it should be then allowed to mention Santa and mangers and such.

For some the start of the twelve days is where it's at; for others the onset of December is the kick-off:- Frankly, I'd happily wish anyone a merry 'un if they were to approach me with a 'ho-ho-ho' any time in the weeks building up to the big day.  There is however a contingent of the populace out there with a somewhat disturbing marker of Yuletide's approach.

The first appearance of a winter themed Coca-Cola ad.

One has to question a series of motivations in this instance.  Firstly, why a commercial?  Not only the very thing that tends to be much maligned at any other time but also just that:- A company's showcase to shift more of its product.  Secondly, why Coca-Cola of all things?  Whatever one might think of the slew of advertisements from the supermarkets and dubious hamper merchants, at least they tend to be pushing Christmas specific wares.

What suddenly makes this one beverage, made primarily of carbonated water, sucrose, corn syrup, caffine, phosphoric acid and food colouring representative of the advent of many a religions figurehead is certainly up for debate.

I prefer Pepsi anyways.

Tuesday, 8 November 2011

An Addendum

As my regular follower(s) will know, I recently posted a extended oration detailing the massive disadvantages of the general populaces insistence on introducing yet more screaming, selfabsorbed versions of themselves into an already over-populated, dying world, just to justify their own vapid existence/get an increase in tax-payer funded benefits.

Within days of summarizing ths issue, the media announced the  birth of Earths' seven billionth human.  This was reported in the free, badly-written bus sufferers rag The Metro, accompanied by a picture of a woman holding said sprog and smiling as though she'd done nothing wrong.

Just to put things into perspective, baby seven billion was reputedly born only twelve years ago meaning that before you can say Jack Robinson (although nobody has ever satisfactorily explained to me why you would) baby eight million will be along to take up more of your hard-earned tax money and slightly more necessary oxygen.

Now, bearing in mind that in reading this, it's fair to assume the reader has access to the Internet, might I suggest a step towards an answer to the elephant in the room that is the looming population crisis?

It's call 'the money shot'.

That's right ladies and gents.

You all have access to even the most rudimentary of porn sites and the rare few that aren't familiar with the concept can soon appraise themselves of the wonders of a breast/back/stomach/ bottom/vagina/chin spattered punchline to the joke that is sexual intercourse.

Is it the last word in pregnancy and STI avoidance?  S**t no but it's a heck of a lot better for the environment than a hundred hybrid cars and a thousand brown bins.

Think on, ya filthy animal

Monday, 31 October 2011

Breathe In

So there's this new show that doing 'better than expected' by the studio that made it.  This does beg the question - if they had such little faith in it, why spend an estimated $4 million per episode?

Anyway, I digest:- It's called Terra Nova and it's about some bloke - probably called Jack Stonechin or Zach Cheekbones - and his family who have gotten to bugger off to the past and hang around in a dead nice time when there was loads of space and greenery and you only had to worry about getting eaten by dinosaur such as the Tyrannosaurus Rex (which existed during the cretaceous period, not the Jurassic age FACT fans - f**k you Spielberg, for that and the atrocious A.I. and War Of The Worlds).

The point being that you may wonder why Max Chisledfeatures got to do something so great.  Well, according to the pilot of said show, in about 150 years or so, the world will be a bit on the overpopulated side:- Proof positive that some people - namely the producers and writers - are either unrealistically optimistic or haven't had to interact with the world anytime recently.  This leads to the government finally getting round to imposing some sort of child limit on couples.

The trouble is Jake Hunkyballs evidently did a sex-wee in his wife not once, not twice but thrice, resulting in the three most perfect moppets you ever did see.  So in other words, Steve Cataloguemodel broke the law (making him a hypocrite), but because he has certain 'skills' (not sure how the ability to shoot foreigners on their way to work on a tube train or not be any use when rioting occurs in Manchester is going to help) he gets to take part in this great adventure, despite the fact that it's him and his ilk that created the hell on Earth he now gets to leave behind.

Finally we get to my point.

Why is it, that in these days of everyone having seventeen different coloured bins in their yard and fines being handed out if your dog does lays an egg, is no one stating the obvious.  That is that if people just eased off on the breeding - just for a bit - the whole planet would be incalculably better off!

Other films such as Children Of Men describe a future in which humanity has become infertile.  This results in the populace becoming volatile, violent and largely unpredictable.  I sat in bewilderment thinking 'I can't be the only person in this cinema that knows this scenario would be great'.

Think about it:- No more schoolkids making your work journey unbearable; Those of us not selfish or self absorbed or needy enough to have kids wouldn't have to shell out our taxes on schools and maternity wards; The rides at Alton Towers would be quicker to get on...

That's just the beginning!

If people whatever the whys and wherefores, just stopped dropping sprogs, there would be no need for the inevitable virus/nuclear/environmental/zombie holocaust we are odds-on favourites to be heading towards.  the human race would just kind of...go to sleep.

Better that then teetering on the white cliffs of Dover before being plunged onto the rocks below because a pair of feckless breeders inland decided what the world needed was more of them.

So f**k you Johnny Shiteatinggrin.  F**k you and your whiny, self-important brood.

Thursday, 27 October 2011

Guy Fawkes, Where Are You Now?

There's been a measure of fuss made about the 'Occupy' gatherings.

For those of you not in the know...join the que.

From what I can gather it's something to do with banks - at least that's what the members in New Yorks' encampment are saying - but to be honest, had I not caught this in passing, I wouldn't have known.  The trouble is, my local Occupy effort consists of a handful of tents, not really in the way of anyone, barely in anybodies field of vision with a poster of Bob Marley smoking a blunt (the mass production of these throughout history must surely have contributed in a large way to the decimation of several forests) stapled to a tree and a handful of those ready-made 'crusties' that seem to be constantly available for this sort of thing:- Where do they get them?

Anyway, the point being that their commitment, wilful stubbornness and struggle to make themselves knows means they aren't a patch on the yoofs by the shops.  There they have been for a fortnight already, standing solemnly by a Guy Fawkes effigy*, asking for a penny with a curious mixture of dejection, disdain and mirthless foreboding.

When I saw their guy, slumped against the overflowing drainpipe in the St. Elmo's Fire-esque glow of the shops' Insect-o-cute, I assumed it was another one of their number as anyone of these beggars could fit the bill of a ragged dummy in ill-fitting clothing and like a Guy Fawkes effigy, I would 'ooh' and 'aah' at the sight of them on fire.

Their commitment is without question; their message is clear:- Come rain or flood, they'll be there till well after Bonfire Night, and if you try humorously to give them a penny, they'll follow you home and rape your pets with a snapped-off windscreen wiper.  Oh and it may also be an error to ask these inividuals if any of them know a jot about the gunpoder plot lest you catch them just at the point where the cider/weed/Ketamine kicks in.

*It should be noted that like all the 'Guys' I have ever seen in my town, this one too has been assembled with the minimum of materials/care/fundamental historical knowledge:- Consisting mainly of what seems to be a hoodie, some paint flecked shorts and carrier bags, all lovelessly piled up to look like about as little like a seventeenth century Catholic activist as is viable.

Sunday, 2 October 2011

Musical Yoof

Tell me if you've heard this one before but... today is s##t.

Before you roll your eyes I shall admit this is a statement probably disliked by those who do and don't strongly agree.  For those that do it's because they've heard this before and it marks the return of a powerless and futile feeling of being unable to do anything about yet another aspect of life and those that don't agree will dislike the statement because...well...they're idiots.

The first argument of the scoundrel is always 'but there's always been rubbish in the charts'.  Well to this I say;

1 - Do 'the charts' even exist any more?
2 - You're right.  Let's give up at the first hurdle and let that be the main reason to aspire to less.  After all, if someone pissed on your living room carpet once before, by the same logic you may as well let them keep doing it.
3 - This may well be the case but that was in the days when a novelty song might have gone away after a week or two and not - as is often the case now - something to build a career on.

Combine this all with the fact that the offending tunes were generally forgotten whilst the greats shone though in retrospect.  The only trouble now is that for all the dross there don't seem to be any Beatles, Led Zeppelins, Rolling Stones Clashes or Doors.*

It seems there's still plenty to rebel against but any voice that might be remotely challenging is being shelved in favour of your 'singer/songwriters' (in a sane world you wouldn't need to highlight the fact that you go some way to writing your own material) crowing in the most banal terms possible about their navel-gazing procrastinations whilst plucking at guitars with all the energy and verve of a dying, arthritic pensioner medicated up to the eyeballs on Tramadol.

Our parents got rock, blues and punk.

We get Glee.

Friday, 10 June 2011

Hear Ye, Hear Ye

Most people would, if asked, say they 'keep up on the news'.  It's a broad sentiment but whatever your stance is, you do.

For example, you may not read the paper and may instinctively hit the + channel button on your remote at the site of a scrolling report banner as though every second you delay will result directly in the death of a cherished family pet, but you are by and large aware of the issues that immediately pertain to your situation.

Is the economy principally okay?  Has the despot of the week been shot through the eye?  Has my pension been spunked up a tired, jaded, illegally imported prostitute by a soulless, piss-drip of a so-called person that works for one of our great banking institutions?

These are worthy questions but what is the price of knowledge?  It's having to suffer the woeful and empty tales about kicking sport players and orange women who seem to have completely circumnavigated the burning 'why am I here' question in favour of being so pointless that they themselves could not honestly tell you what they are for.

At the time of writing, a man who tries to make a ball go over there is still headline news after a month because he put his willy in a lady and became surprised when this reality television 'star' turned out to be a shameless, fame-hungry oxygen-thief of even less merit than he himself.

We shall not be looking at this with any kind of scrutiny here.  It's just that I DON'T WANT TO KNOW!  A man, albeit a barely evolved one, had sex in a 'lady'.  That's the news that supersedes the daily atrocities, the war, famine, pestilence and continued career of Justin Lee Collins?  Why oh why can't we be allowed to filter news levels so that right-minded people can stay up to date on the grown-up stuff and people who watch pretty any of the detritus that's on on Saturday nights can remain informed about which low-forehead has been goaded by Max Clifford into following Jordan between despicable shindigs like Landon following Taylor in Planet Of The Apes.

As Sherlock Holmes said; I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things, so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it.

Thursday, 9 June 2011

Merry Christmas, wHOres, wHOres, wHOres.


Bear with me on this one.

I know every year every man woman and child bemoans the fact that the advertisers and retail outlets start pushing festivals and celebrations way earlier then any sensible person deems necessary.  Normally I tent to avoid commenting on this as it seems tired and futile but this year I feel the need.  What justifies it this time around?


At my place of work, one will often find various periodicals lying around the canteen (a generous term for a Portakabin with some plastic institution style chairs crammed in) and amongst the grotty gossip mags I found a copy of The Sun newspaper from the start of June.  Quickly skimming through the pages, I happened upon a feature written with a sense of urgency not present in the reports about war and poverty.

'Don't get caught out!  These will be THE toys your child NEEDS this Christmas!'

This was the flavour of the article which went on to prostitute itself with pictures of Transformers figures and furry toys that somehow look worse than when I was a kid - many moons ago - despite what surely should be a vastly improved manufacturing technique.

Now bear in mind the date:- It was the first of June people!  THE FIRST OF COCKING JUNE!  This means that 'they' have officially started pushing the next Christmas whilst we are still closer to the last one.

People let it slide when the festive season seemingly took over December.  They let it slide when it was at the back of people's minds during Guy Fawkes Night and Halloween.  Surely now given that we're still nearer the 25th of December 2010 than the 2011 version it is time to take Christmas back and say, 'shut your fat pie-hole Big Business!  You've stretched it now and it has been all ripped apart by your gluttony like a fat man's stomach lining and that probably is not a good thing.'

Tuesday, 17 May 2011

We Ought To Expectorate Better

Today I saw a male person spit openly on the pavementof a busy high street.

It wasn't long before I saw a repeat of this incident by an almost identical shaven-headed pug.

Later I saw a young lady stroll towards me up the hill I was on and moments before reaching me, she also 'hocked one up'.

So my question is 'WHAT'S WITH ALL THE SPITTING?'

Vomiting in the street is generally frowned upon.  Urinating and defacation are out and out illegal but typically speaking people tend not want to make a show of this and unless a mental illness is involved, masturbating whilst leaning against a lamppost tends to be a rare sight yet not only do some folk not consider it irksome to befoul the street with their drool, they outright make a show of it.

Is it not time this maligning public spaces be upgraded to littering at the very least.  One can't be sure what makes these oafs imagine others might want to bear witness to their projectile drooling:-  It may be that so desperate are yonder 'spitters' to spread their spore that they eagerly fling their cells this way and that in any possible manner.

Perhaps the aforementioned goons think that if they collectively dribble enough spittle into the world, everyone with an IQ beyond the teens will drown in filthy idiot slaver

But a note to sputum launching curs;  I for one don't even want your trace DNA on the soles of my shoes so the next time you feel like dredging up your diseased discharge, remind yourself...oh who am I kidding?  You're not reading this.  You're probably watching The Only Way Is Essex, one hand permanently down the front of those filthy 'tracky bottoms' and drowning your one and only brain cell in the cheapest cider and resin your kid's benefit money can afford.

Thursday, 21 April 2011

The Father, The Son And The Confectionery Dispensing Lagomorph

Hey everybody!

Yes indeedy, it sure is Easter!

We all know what that means...right..?  Well, maybe not.

Some study or other that doesn't even warrant an indolent Google search may well have you believe that X percentage of schoolkids/U.K. Citizens/Doggers aren't remotely aware that the 'holiday' is a marker of great importance in Christian dogma.

The account goes that the son of God - omnipotent creator of all things Heavenly and Earthly - was persecuted, tortured and ultimately murdered in a horrendous manner in front of a baying crowd by the very people he wanted to help.  Alternately and for the more skeptical, a genuinely pious or mentally troubled man was persecuted, tortured and ultimately murdered in a horrendous manner in front of a baying crowd by the very people he wanted to help.

Whichever way you look at it, the question remains; How in the World do these events equate gorging on chocolate in the shape of eggs that were handed out by a sentient rabbit?

'Happy' Easter.

Monday, 18 April 2011

My Name Is Darren

I'm a Spam-a-holic.

It's true.

You're probably a lot like I was once:- The only time you really saw or heard Spam mentioned was in sketchy publications or whispered in dark corners at shady get-togethers.  I looked down on Spam users, like anyone naturally would.  'Surely' thought I, 'the sight of Spam alone is enough to set off some primal instinct in people and send them screaming in the opposite direction'.

Then one day a friend offered me some and in one terrible moment I'd said yes and was biting into a sliver of Hormel Food's hot magenta coloured precooked produce.

That morning seems like yesterday's tomorrow, today, only yesterday and now I'm sat in a freezing cold kitchen, head half in the oven trying desperately to get an ancient grill warm enough to do a bit of the puce shaded chopped pork shoulder injected with salt, water, modified potato starch as a binder, and sodium nitrate as a preservative with toast.

I urge anyone out there not to do what I did.  it starts out innocently enough but do you really want to risk loosing your family, friends, job and home in favour of another hit of aspic glazed, light thulian pink coloured mystery meat?  Lest we forget that Spam is a gateway product and may lead to 'experimenting' with even more disgusting substances such as liver, tripe and soy meat substitutes.

I'm off now to wander the streets looking for a greasy spoon that might serve the 'with black pepper' variation of the lavender pink tinged article.  You I hope, will take something from this tale of woe and steer very, very clear of Something Posing As Meat.