Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Experts have warned that Britain's idiots could be left with literally nothing to talk about as early as this weekend following the dual demises of TV's Jedward and Jordan. Since the eviction of Dubliner twins John and Edward Grimes and the withdrawal from the jungle of large-breasted void Katie Price, it is feared that drooling, asinine viewers of ITV's "X Factor" and "I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here" will simply run out of fatuous booby-babble regarding their favourite shows.
For weeks now, offices and saloon bars across the land have echoed with the empty-headed tittle-tattle of mean-spirited ninnies of both sexes, eagerly discussing how much they hope "them twins" and "that Jordan" meet with a timely comeuppance.
"With the departure of both of their betes-noir in rapid succession, there is a yawning chasm where previously reality-show enthusiasts would project all of their ill-willed negativity towards people younger, richer and more attractive than themselves" commented pop psychologist Dr Carl Rackemann.
Although many fans of the successful karaoke show will find some relief in discussing the less controversial vocal stylings of remaining X-Factor contestants such as The Lass, The Geordie One and One of The Others, it is thought that many erstwhile Jedward-haters will find themselves unable to re-engage with the show and will be reduced to blowing saliva bubbles out of their gaping bovine maws or simply gawping at the wall in front of them through vacant, unseeing eyes.
Elsewhere, with the dramatic departure of permatanned pneumatic renaissance woman Katie Jordans, millions of celebrity-insect-eating-humiliation enthusiasts will be forced to subsist on a diet of non-entities about whom they have no strong feelings making the best of things and rubbing along together in an air of strained, unconvincing camaraderie.
In an attempt to gauge the mood of the country's morons, we asked the first people we found in the street eating Gregg's pasties for their thoughts. "At first, I wanted nothing more in life than for Jordan to get evicted off of 'Jungle-y'" wheezed one tracksuit-clad bloater. "Now though, since she's left it, I just feel a yawning sense of emptiness inside, as though I'm being crushed under an inexorable landslide of monumental, soul-destroying existential angst, yeah?" continued the tattooed shaven ape of indeterminate gender.
However, it wasn't all doom and gloom on the nation's high streets. Shop assistant Jan Tearson, 22, was still managing to remain optimistic. "Oh my God, I was like sooo glad when Jedward got kicked off of X-Factor, right, but then I was like kind of sad, know what I mean? Like I had nothing left in my empty, pathetic existence. But like I'm now so over that, yeah, and I hope that all their hair falls out or they get scabies or they're like in a car crash or something. Yeah, I hope they die in a mangled mess of twisted metal debris, the cunts. They were rubbish".
Monday, November 16, 2009
The nation's favourite rotund Lancastrian funnyman is set to unleash an avalanche of laughter this winter, with speculation rampant that he has, at long last, been working on some new material. Sources close to the roly-poly comic have refused to confirm the scope or nature of the new material, which is set to be unveiled at next month's Royal Variety Performance, a mere five years after the last confirmed sighting of a piece of fresh comedic gold in the Bolton gag-merchant's live routine. The comic will also announce details of a live stand-up tour on this Friday's "Chris Moyles Tabloid Breasts Appreciation Breakfast Show" on Radio 1.
Comedy fans were understandably delighted at the momentous news, with fans of ultra-short-term northern nostalgia breaking down in the street and weeping tears of slack-jawed mirth at the memory of the comedian's incisive analysis of the quiz show "Bullseye" and his extended riffs on something slightly foolish his mother had said to him when he was eight.
The new material will be eagerly anticipated across the length and breadth of the country, as speculation raged in the nation's workplaces.
"I hope he says some funny things about the programme "3-2-1", with Ted Rogers and Dusty Bin", 47 year old clerical assistant Connie Plank, of Rochdale, told our reporter. "What was that all about, eh?".
However, plasterer Dave David, 24, of Hunslet was hoping for "Mock incredulous pronunciation of some fancy dan foodstuff, possibly as delivered by one of Peter's daft uncles at a family gathering or something. Maybe couscous. Yeah, I'd like to hear Peter Kay repeatedly saying the word "Cous! Cous!" in the style of a bemused older man. He should do that. I would definitely pay as much as 25 quid for a ticket if I thought he would be saying "Cous? Cous?" over and over again. I mean, couscous, what's that all about, eh?"
However, not everyone was as enthusiastic at the prospect of fresh joke funnies from the porridge-skinned end-of-the-pier entertainer. Simon Joyliss, of online comedy site notcomdotcom, feels that the public's tastes may have changed in the time that Kay has been busy re-hashing and reheating his stage act into three separate autobiographies. "With the credit crunch and the worrying rise of extremist political parties, people want edgier comedians who are performing riskier, harder-hitting material than Peter Kay. Comedians like Frankie Boyle, digging up thirty-year old Barbara Streisand jokes in order to insult a 20 year old woman on a topical news quiz, or Jimmy Carr, doing updated Bob Monkhouse gags with a bit of gratuitous swearing thrown in. That's the type of thing today's zeitgeistlisters want."
When asked to confirm the rumours surrounding his much-vaunted new material, Kay was remaining tight-lipped, pausing briefly to inform our reporter "Hey son, I want twenty grand before I talk to youse cunts. I'm only doing Moyles' show so that they give me a prime slot on Children in Need. "
Sunday, November 01, 2009
Oy oy, saveloy! How's it growing?
By which, the Committee means to say "Happy Halloween/Bonfire Night and that!". Truly, this is the most wondrous time of the year, where students, horror film enthusiasts, goths and other miscellaneous wazzocks get to tit around with costumes, make-up and pumpkins and insert fireworks into cat rectums. Marvellous.
Whatever happened to bobbing for apples, eh? That's what we used to do "back in the day". Shite, it was.
Pigeonholing the tiresome nostalgia for the moment, it's time to deploy the countdown that lets you tell the difference between the pumpkin and the blumpkin, the Catherine wheel and the Catherine Tate and the Michael Myers and the Michael McIntyre.
Ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and ghoulies, Ins and Outs am here!
On spotting anybody drinking an Irish whiskey/cream-based liqueur, bursting into an impromptu chorus of "All that she wants, is another Bailey's, oh-oh-oh!"
Loving Phats, hating Small.
When entertaining the GLW to anniversary cocktails in the Savoy's Palm Room, sidling up to the pianist, sticking a tenner in his top pocket and asking if he could run through DJ Assault's "Ass and Titties" as it was 'Your Song'.
Having two or three classic, 'signature' items in your wardrobe which, if you layer and accessorise, are timeless.
Telling your grandchildren that you used to play Timpani in the Joe Loss Orchestra, despite the fact that a) this impresses them not one jot and b) it's Some Bull Shit.
Engaging in a lengthy SMS-based correspondence with the girl from the 24 hour garage regarding who is hotter: Rush Limbaugh or Newt Gingrich.
The Superior Colliculus. It's mint!
The old boy on the bus with spectacles whose arms cling to his head a good two inches above the ears.
The banjo-pickin' stylings of Marcy Marxer and Cathy Fink.
Explaining to your boss that the reason that ever so important work thing hasn't been done is because you've been "busier than Lagos airport, yeah?"
Writing frightening verse to a buck-toothed girl in Luxembourg, together with a request for a couple of risque Polaroids.
New Jersey. There should be more states named after knitwear purchases.
Killing a marmoset with a teaspoon, boiled egg style. Just to see what it would feel like to kill a tiny, furry man, the size of your hand.
Grimly chronicling on Facebook the time you get up every single morning, as if even one person in this world gave the merest hint of a rat's ass.
Being firmly of the opinion that the preparation and consumption of food by fairly repellent members of the public is not necessarily something that needs to be televised.
Asda Smart Price mushy peas. Yummlicious!
Mercilessly taunting a fellow about still living at home with his parents, only for him to remind you that he's 8 years old.
Getting a fishtank built from bulletproof glass, in case some mope tries to wack your guppies.
Shankill Butchers. Quality cuts of meat at a price that can't be beat!
Harbouring grave concerns that poor Katie Price is about to have her heart broken again. Bear up, our Kate, oh do bear up.
The sudden crop of "Question Time" connoisseurs with their hitherto hidden expertise regarding the format and ethos of the show.
Failing to convince the bloke delivering you a skip that Sartre's theory of existentialism was nothing more than solipsistic pre-reflective consciousness.
Making a big show of repairing pitch marks on the rare occasion you find the green with a full-blooded iron shot.
Committing the textbook novice drinker's error of mixing the grape with the grain with the crystal meth.
Halloween fancy dress fuckology.
Initiating intimacy by cordially inviting your lass to "put yourself on the hot spot".
Jamie T. Jamie S.H.I.T. more like!!!!!!!111!!IEHEISSHIT!!!!!
Blokes taking a "bag for life" to the supermarket. You big jessie.
Low quality shower-head replacements.
Ballroom dancing. No amount of East European prostitutes and actors from Holby City will disguise the fact that it's shit.
DJ Hero. Bloody hell.
Describing the bloke in the local dry cleaners as a "Major League ass hole".
Crafting Hour on QVC. The most banal, godawful tat you will ever see offered for sale.
Becoming embroiled in a vitriolic flame war on Twitter with Noam Chomsky regarding the relative merits of the Pozidrive and the Phillips screwdriver.
Tedious co-workers who insist on delivering a lengthy and voluble review of every single dreadful ITV programme they have watched the previous evening.
That hairy seven foot tall boxer. Looks like a bloody gorilla he does, and that's swearing.
Constructing an eight-foot papier mache model of the head of Nicholas Witchell and fucking it in the ear.
Thinking you are such hot shit just because you buy red onions instead of normal ones.
"Sex on Fire", sixty weeks in the charts. Who the cornholing hell is going out and buying it, sixty weeks later?
Loose Chippings. The gravel whores!