Dermot-itis.

It was prime-time television, it was a Sunday, my flat mate had control of the remote control and I was trapped under the oppressive weight of a belly flopping fat man of a hangover.

The scene was set for subjection to the televisual equivalent of attending a karaoke night in the Rhondda Valley with a vice on the top of my head gripping at my temples, a dog strapped to the vice barking incessantly into one ear, whilst a screaming malnourished baby is strapped mouth first to my other ear.

And so X factor began with the usual strobing effect of a light display designed to completely baffle the audience and fox them into thinking that something of value was going to happen; other than a bunch of self obsessed casualties of the modern celebrity disease further sickening the wafer thin fabric of personality that allegedly still exists amongst our youth that is.


Naturally, there was the usual repetitive formula: The 'judges' arrive and every one cheers as ominous music follows them out onto the stage, the harbingers of doom. This is always followed by the acute awareness that having put oneself in a position where the credibility and personality of Cheryl Cole can make or break you is a bit like bending over in a prison shower with the soap already wedged between your buttocks and an ACME cartoon sign point at it. Well, it isn't observed that way, but it really should be.

Next the carefully compiled collection of desperate, attention seeking, brain dead fucktards are wheeled out before us to showcase how idiotic they are as a unit with some kind of 'team' performance. Once the audience has been stunned into disbelief, convinced that this really is the peak of entertainment and talent otherwise how could anyone have the gall to showcase it, the collective are removed and then hoisted back on individually, to sing, dance and ultimately cry.

The crying has become an implicit part of the performance these days. Sing, dance, cry. Almost as if being marked by a special board of Olympic judges with boxes that need ticking and ranking.

-Sing:  7 (sang someone else’s song not as well as they sang it...again)
-Dance: 1 (dancing that only someone now convinced that conviction is more important than visual effect   would attempt...again)
- Cry: 10 (perfect, instant, convincing, desperately selfish and transparent).

I could go on, but complaining about what should be self evident to a nation of perfectly well educated Brits with an incomprehensible depth of culture and intrigue at their finger tips BUT IS APPARANTLY NOT, is as tedious as the show itself.

HOWEVER, this Sunday, something marvelous occurred. The events of this particular episode of Twat Factor were so overwhelmingly beautiful that we shall claim that the only reason I shan't watch it again is so not to ruin it.

Dermot O’Leary, much maligned by those with an IQ over 17 but much loved but those with a chronological existence of under 17. Describing exactly why he is a terrible presenter that should be shot for having the gall to accept his massive wage for being a useless sack of unrecyclable, non bio-degradable waste, is remarkably difficult to get exactly right. This Sunday, Dermot O’Leary finally gave us the anecdotal example required to dismiss the babblings of the dribblingly idiotic that he has a value.

Dermot O’Leary accidentally blurted out at a clearly confused, unfit aging Whitney Houston who's dress had mimicked her career and come undone, leaving her partly exposed....he blurted out in general on stage filler communication, designed to make Whitney look good and set up album/tour plugging....he blurted out in the midst of what is the summation of what could be termed his 'talent'...."you don't take any punches do you Whitney".

It is only sad that his career has not been torn from his sweating mitt as he clearly realised what he had just said as soon as it popped out of his yapping bleat box. It was all down hill from there as he then proceeded to clap Whitney by pounding a closed fist into an open hand, the type of obscure idiocy that only someone aware of a mistake can make as they scrabble around inside their own tiny minds to find all the things that they absolutely must not do.

As the drivel wound down to it's gurgling conclusion, I sloped off to bed hangover finally absorbing the last throws of consciousness, but my slumber was all contentment, assured that somewhere, Dermot O’Leary was more uncomfortable than I.

Paying the Price of Katie Price.

Today’s ‘hot’ news in the Guardian was yet another terrifying reminder of the damage that humanity has done to the global climate. The article showcases the effects of speeding up climate change and explains that the Greenland Ice sheet is uniquely vulnerable and melting at an unexpected and terrifying rate.

The same of course can be said of the soul of one Katie Price (Aka Jordan) as it squirms, squeals and writhes in the fires of hell before she’s likely to be anywhere near the end of her mortal life, let alone have passed on and suffered the inevitable consequences of eternal damnation. It seems reasonable even to believe that the certainty with which she is going to hell concludes the perennial question of the existence of the after life.

Over the last few months, the most deliberate indifference to the banshee like squawking of Katie Price has proved no defence against the accumulation of the knowledge of her every move. At some point in the recent past the two most pointless human beings on the face of the planet broke off a relationship. A relationship that is, with as much depth and emotional value as two Barbie dolls that had been dropped in Ronseal and inadvertently landed with their eternally static faces on top of each other seemingly simulating a kiss.

Why do we know this? We know this because they haven’t shut up yapping about it for 3 months. Why do we know that they haven’t shut up about it? Because it has been the front page story of every, nonsensical, bile spewing, humanity slaying shit rag this side of Gordon Browns to do list. Why do we know that? We know it because just above every piece of media that might nourish or stimulate the thought process of the British public, just at eye level, is a Heat magazine or an OK magazine or the Sun or the Daily Star. Any number of these insults to journalism, fit only for wrapping up a dead cat before you bury it, are currently in circulation, at last count there were actually more tabloid journalists than people in the world…..

Utter rubbish, annotated by people so desperate to be considered a journalist that they will write about the text that someone who broke up with someone sent when they were pretending to be upset……and then felt the need to forward the text to all the journo/PR contacts in their phone….and write about it….for 3 months…..on a daily basis.

Obviously it is no coincidence that in the case of Katie Price and Peter Andre, they have stamped their devil hooves as loud as they could as a pre-amble to both having an incredibly dull reality show about themselves released. Blur vs Oasis eat your heart out.

On the bright side, as a reaction to the airing of the first episodes of these pustules on the cheek of television, a ratings war has erupted. There are even people who are willing to refer to them selves as ‘Team Andre’ and have begun to harangue Katie Price. With any luck this will develop into the spiky, self obsessed infestation being ripped limb from limb by enraged hordes of Andre fans wearing old Richard Nixon masks converted by an ill conceived recycling plan into the face of Peter Andre.

Despite all of this though, it doesn’t seem fair to blame the likes of Price and Andre for any of this. They are just incredibly well animated automatons being lead like starving prisoners into a furnace that they think contains food. It even almost seems naïve to point the finger of blame at the perpetually interested members of the public who insist on dipping their frontal lobes into this literary pot of acid. After all, who knows better the meaninglessness of this all than the publishers and the journalist’s who produce the information and farm it out like Nestle powdered milk to ill educated developing countries.

The Daily Star today:



It is not the fi rst time Kate has lashed out in public since she split from pop singer Peter.


During her wild booze-fest in Ibiza earlier in the summer, Kate threatenedto “cut” Daily Star Goss Girl
Jessica Brown.


And last month, after spending a week’s holiday cavorting for the press cameras with new fella Alex
Reid, 34, she greeted me on her return to Britain at Gatwick Airport by snarling: “Is it true you take it
up the arse?”

First of all it is worth noting that the spelling and typo errors on the above are as published, but more importantly notice that Katie Price has probably the first time in her entire life asked a layered an poignant question.

She asked Gemma Wheatley, the journalist in question, ‘Do you take it up the arse?’

She most certainly does. In a desperate, futile attempt to gain a sense of self worth, to be a member of what can be one of the most valuable, powerful and well respected institutions in contemporary human existence, a Journalist, she takes it up the arse from a giant un-lubricated Devil’s fist from deadline to deadline. It must be agony, and I hope she gives birth to a Goat as penance.

In the long run, Gemma Wheatley can molest Katie Price as much as she wishes through the Daily Stars bleating trumpet, she needs Katie Price, her retarded giant child, blind stupidity, raw venom, pure selfishness and whopping great mammary glands. She needs Katie Price. Imagine that. Just imagine it.

Edgy Veggie

What is it about Vegetarianism that incites such a sweepingly dismissive attitude from the average meat eater?



It is a patient vegetarian whom thinks it wise to raise an eyebrow, or grimace at jocular talk of bludgeoning a beast of burden or sucking marrow from the femur of a ferret.



The peculiar response is usually one of aggressive mocking. Not your run of the garden, lads together, tongue in cheek jousting in and around each others belief systems or principles, but a genuine short tempered blurt.


The intrinsic flaw in communication is that the meat eater will move from the innocent asker of a question, such as, 'why are you a vegetarian', to a group of people lambasting the moral crusader in question - whether they answer the question or not.

Said lambastication will be full to the abattoir brim with Normative arguments. That is to say statements that propose a value beyond factual observation.
Example:
'You NEED to eat meat' or 'Vegetarian food ISN'T as good as meat'.

Idle, nonsensical, meaningless, aggression. Despite the nature of the statements being structured to draw argumentative responses, the aggressing party will then look at the respondent like a preaching fundamentalist when they finally offer their feelings on the matter.

For example, my official stance is simply this:
'I do not need to eat meat to have a healthy, fulfilling life. Taking the life of an animal without cause or necessity seems to me to be spitting in the face of the human soul that we have been afforded. The very thing that allegedly sets the human aside from the animal is the ability to consider, to think in a considered and self-aware fashion. This is the very process that allows us to pose moral questions and require answers before we continue with an unnecessary indulgence'.

The common response:
'I like the taste of meat too much to give it up' 'Meat is good for you' 'You need meat to survive' 'It's the food chain' 'A lion wouldn't think twice before eating you'.
'I don't agree with Vegetarianism'.
The implication:
Vegetarians are idiots.

At this juncture, roughly 30 minutes of terrible jokes about how eating lettuce is killing a lettuce and telling me I would eat meat if my mothers life depended on it....etc.....

The inflated sense of victory and achievement that comes with this is born of the fact that there are invariably more meat eaters in the room than vegetarians. The lack of interest in pursuit of the debate from the vegetarian once this level of puerile nonsense is introduced to undermine a perfectly reasonable discussion point, in order to maintain the status quo only exacerbates this.

Perhaps what causes the habit laden, blood gargling retards who shout out this feculence freely whilst smashing the bones of their victims into the top of their skulls, is that they are being asked to question the morality of their actions simply by the existence of a vegetarian.

What is preferable - to double check that you are safe from mass ostracism by colluding with those who's actions match your own? Or to carefully consider your own real feelings about a point of moral question.

There is no debate about whether the moral question exists. Vegetarians have asked it.
There is also no debate about whether the next person who tells me that i need meat to survive, blissfully unaware that i am in fact... alive...will be faced with, instead of apathy and disregard, vitriol and persistence.

This is a vow:

Come near me with a normative argument designed to sidestep consideration of the question being asked and i will hound you like hungry wolf tracks sheep, until you wilt and die of exhaustion.
Why do meat eaters aggress vegetarians? Fear, fear that they are Jew killing Nazi's dressed up as parents and friends.

'That and because meat clogs the artery that takes blood to their brain', I might say if i were to adopt the approach of my enemy.

Which i won't.

The Joy Division at the Hub.

Negotiating the politics of the work place can be a difficult affair that will oft drive one to the very brink of despair.

Common sense will clash with functionality on an almost hourly basis. Ease of process is usually harranged and dragged to the floor by middle management for no explicable reason. There is, in fact, nothing quite so fascinating as watching a perfectly reasonable idea preyed upon like a straggler on the wilds of the African plains, brutally subdued and strangled by a prowling hungry Lion. The helpless on lookers plod on perhaps only meters away from the thrashing victims final lifeless twitches, tapping away, heads down, tapping cowardly belligerent emails back and forth in silence never daring to open their challenge to the floor.

Have you ever read a Zebra's outbox content?

'That Lion thinks he's the Billy Bollocks, but he doesn't know what he's fucking talking about. I heard he's shagging a Giraffe behind his wife's back anyway, but she actually knows and doesn't care because she's pregnant with by that Macaque monkey that's always hanging about'.

It isn't all doom, gloom and wild frustration though, just every now and again, business process will falter, trip and celebrate individuality. A dangerous move that normally signals and alarm flashing in HR's offices with a Neon sign screaming 'SUPPRESS SUPPRESS'. An example of this occasional occasion was last Friday:

In an attempt to involve the staff in a new centralised office site shrewdly named, 'The Hub', my office in the midst of a tube strike requested that those of us who had difficulty getting to work, annotate our tales of innovation and ingenuity.

Naturally, there is very little outside of utilising a different mode of transport and getting up early that can be done about a tube strike. The idea that someone might feel compelled to report to all and sundry that they cleverly took a bus instead of headed underground to stand in a sweltering sardine tin, frankly left me embarrassed for our vision less stumbling HR department.

So i contrived a ridiculous, rushed and childish lie about how I had dealt with this allegedly complex travel situation.

To my delight I arrived this morning to this:

http://thehub.incisivemedia.com/tube-strike-escapade

Which in case the link doesn't work, Reads:

Tube Strike Escapades
It is impressive how far some employees will go to get into work
Thank you to everyone who submitted their stories concerning the obstacles they faced trying to get into the office and the creative ways in which they battled to overcome them. We have awarded Rekha Pindoria from the Finance department with a bottle of champagne for her efforts, arriving at the Haymarket office at 7.00am!!One other employee's imaginative endeavour stood out above the rest, demonstrating 100% commitment and loyalty to Incisive Media.Unfortunately this heroic colleague submitted their story anonymously! Therefore if you wrote it or know who did, please contact Terri-Ann Barry in the HR department, as we have a bottle of champagne waiting for them....

"Travelling to work from Stoke Newington ran a risk of being a difficulty, with already over crowded buses put under desperate pressure from those who would normally dive underground like rats up at Seven Sisters or Tottenham Hale.
To counter act this I devised an ingenious alternative route to work that considered all eventualities in almost prophetic fashion.
What I first needed was to stop off on the way home on Tuesday and accost a teacher from the school at the top of Kingsland road. After attacking him from behind and wrestling him to the ground, I took a brass rubbing of his face and clothing that would allow me to accurately impersonate him the following day.
The morning came and as yet still free of arrest from the previous nights assault, I was able to disguise myself as the teacher in question. Having risen suitably early I was afforded the privilege of perusing the down stairs windows of the surrounding housing until I spied a blue school uniform resting on a drying rack. The uniform of the school on Kingsland road.
Strategically placing myself as 'passing by' it was a cinch to strike up conversation with an unsuspecting parent who was then more than accommodating in providing me with a lift to the school as I plied them over the top insidious complements about their prodigious offspring.
As soon as the car door was shut I had bolted, my disguise left strewn behind me, a triumphant trail of debris.
The second leg of the journey was trickier. Fully aware that London transport would fall over themselves with glee at the site of a tube driver, I acquired a uniform from a local dry cleaner, bribed with stolen oyster cards, and approached the Northern Line. Next all I needed to do was adopt the greedy confused bewilderment suited to an unskilled worker in miserable conditions wielding the power of the underground transport system.
The ruse had worked, I was permitted through the doors with cheers and a pat on the back from the management staff.
I boldly took my position in the tube driving seat. It was a this point that the swift thinking and nimble mind that my role at incisive had honed to perfection kicked in. After all, who but James Bond himself could master the controls of a vehicle he had never before been faced with?
Closing my eyes and with sweat of the kind that only tense scenes from the Wire would normally produce racing from my forehead, i pushed the lever entitled, 'GO'. IT WORKED! and i was off.
Screeching to a halt at Tottenham court road and storming off the train exclaiming that I had changed my mind and stomping up the stair well with calls of 'down with Boris' and 'No tube in my name', I had all but completed my journey and had made it to work right on time....dressed unfortunately, as a tube driver."

A bottle of champagne....for wasting 30 minutes of the working day that they pay me to attend, contriving this pointless fabrication.

I've been waiting nearly 6 years for office process to work out in my favour and it finally has.

What now though?

Perhaps this is what really happened to Ian Curtis whilst he moonlighted as a admin assistant?

We can but speculate.

Kim Jong Bender.

North Korea are launching nuclear warheads left, right centre and back.

This is not the 'WMD' fear mongering that punctuated the peak of the Bush/Blair 'axis of evil' affair. That was the very worst kind of manipulation of public opinion. By the time the tectonic plates and prehistoric depth layers of half truths, slight of hand and down right bare faced ugly lies had even begun to be layed out in a way that could be understood and translated we'd invaded, celebrated and bombed the usual friendly fire quota into the headlines. We were stuck on the much bigger issue of what to do next.

The concept of the 'axis of evil' linked all of the worlds key 'bad guys' into one easy to swallow idea. It allowed our governments to behave like a street gambler with some cups and a small ball. They hustled our £20 bid off us and had us pick pocketed whilst we looked on in a bemused awe.

North Korea however, is a terrfyingly real threat. Internal perception, ideologies and convoluted misconceptions within a highly suspicious and genuinely aggressive military government could result in any number entirely unpredicable and suddenly volatile explosions. In this case, literal explosions.

The first real opportunity for the public to be called into action to understand this reality arrived on our news stands today. Newspapers such as the Independent and the Guardian lead the way with the headlines.

A sure sign of a real issue with genuine intrigue that doesn't require manipulation to be understood is when the more liberal and/or more intellectualised forms of press lead with an statement exposure of the event not a judgement of western political participants reaction to it.

A surer sign, a flashing neon light screaming at you 'panic, run, flee like a footballer faced with a quadratic equation', is the the tabloids did NOT make a fuss about it and were more content to comment on Jordans brazenly childish relationship with Peter Andre. This does of course mean that the politicians currently in power are less obsessed with political gain, or that there aren't any oil reserves to be stolen from North Korea, but it also means that they might deal with the situation properly.

There is though a real opportunity being missed. Perhaps, if we were all very shrewd, and we all left very quietly, the woman I saw skimming past the Guardian and resting on a copy of Glamour (or some such) and was more motivated by the headline 'Angelina fights back but Brad's still texting Jen' than she was by 'North Korea launches two more missiles'; she could be left wading through the article when the missles hit Britain and we are all sailing away to a new utopia where Brad Pitt's texts are his own business.

In fact, does any body have Kim Jong Il's email address? I know roughly were she lives, and i heard her say that Kim Jong Il was Gay. Thought he might like to know.

Hash Brown Re-Hash.

The art of inspired story telling, unique method that stands out independent in nature, style, rhyme and reason has for a long time been tenuously identified.

Ever since the Ancients passed on their poetic forms and Beowulf was penned, the majority of fantastical exaggeration and formulae of tale can be made comparable to these early works. Once the unstoppable creative greed of a Rousseau, Orwell, Dickens or Shakespear is added to the fray, little is left for the modern literary mind as it spills out re-hash after re-hashed re-hash. They are likely to be young bohemians stuffing hash browns in a hash smoker fuelled frenzy whilst they make a hash of it at that.

The only way is up as they say and that seems to be the modern solution to this problem. Escalate existing tales. Re-make films, film books, modernise old TV shows, make them faster, brighter, bigger. Big, Bigger, BIGGEST the proles scream from their tortured, writhing, daily primordial soup.

To my mind, there are at least another 10 years of flagrant plagerism to be endured before we can begin the process of plagerising the plagerism in the name of a new modernity. A few nooks and crannies though may well slip through the net in the misguided name of PC. That's Political Correctness not Phil Colins by the way. Nothing escapes the net of Phil Colins. Once he has you in his sights you are done for, he's like the hunter apes from the planet of the apes, faster and stronger than you...and he knows the lay of land....fear him.

Two glaring re-hash, re-dux, revolutionary opportunities that I predict will be saved until the last drop has been squeezed from multi media, but that I would dearly love to see and hope to inspire are as follows:



'The Superfluous Six'









A take on the famed Enid Blyton tales. This new tale of adventure will re-invigorate the genre whilst simultaneously redressing the blatant class divide and latent racism of her more famous penmanship.



Six white children all from middle class backgrounds are superfluous to the point of invisibility within their social and family settings. As such they are blessed with the freedom of reign that will take their adventure searching far and wide, further than ever before as they can be away for an Odyssey, but no one will notice.

On their travels they will encounter many a danger, many an adventure. These will likely be being dealt with by the local law enforcement services ultimately progressing into protracted court battles or petering out due to loop holes in the law or the bigger picture being considered, yet our heroes will flap about in a superfluous fashion, having little to no impact on the progress or outcome of each situation. The reader will immediately identify with their impotency and irrelevance in the fight against crime, and those looking for racial connotation will see only 6 bleating white people screaming for attention that will never come.

............

Pob Nights: (Paedo Pob)









The ever haunting image of 'Pob'.



The original format was thus:

In a typical episode, the celebrity visitor to the show finds a label attached to a piece of string on the gates of Pob's garden;

If in my programme you would be,

Wind the wool and follow me.

The celebrity guest then follows the woollen string, winding it as they go, and encountering a second label;

Wind it slowly, wind it fast,

A secret you will find at last.

Ultimately the wool is found to be Pob's unravelled jumper, and he is awoken to trace his name on the screen. Over the course of the programme, the celebrity guest reads a story, and solves a word puzzle with Pob.

Before the end of the programme, the celebrity guest gives Pob a gift, usually related to their story, which they attach to the woollen thread of Pob's jumper. Pob retrieves the gift, and plays with it, stopping periodically to wipe the programme's end credits from the camera lens. The episode always ends with Pob blowing out a candle held by a ragdoll. The next celebrity visitor is seen arriving at Pob's garden, realises they are a week too early, and leaves.

Pob is often accompanied in his mischief by a silent teddy bear called Teddy.

In it's all new, hyper entertainment re-hash incarnation, 'Pob Nights', Pob shows his true colours.

Marauding around a local red brick housing estate in Taunton, Pob and Teddy are local Paedophiles using vibrantly coloured woollen string to lure unsuspecting youngsters into a disused and well concealed building where a 'celebrity' as he calls them, client to you and I, lies in wait.



The silent 'Teddy' is now simply a name for Pobs first victim, whom suffering from Stockholm syndrome has taken it upon himself to assist Pob in his 'mischief'. Teddy hasn't spoken since the 'incident' in which he first met Pob.



Each episode begins with Pob breathing on the window of his next victim and writing his name in the condensation.....



The show content will involve Pob evading the local law enforcement and generally progressing toward trapping his prey who will always look as if they may just escape.





Before the end of the show, the 'celebrity' give Pob a 'gift', or in this case collection of pictures of children in comprimising situations. Pob 'plays' with them...and himself, stopping periodically to wipe clean the show's end credits.



The episode will always end the same way, with Pob blowing out a candle held by the captured child.



A bleak tale, but be assured, the victim will always have done something that renders them deserving of a biblical punshiment during the episode, such as being a glutton and eating all of the family pudding before anyone else can get to it, or generally being a lazy child who won't help with the housework upsetting a despairing mother.

...................



So there we have it, 2 fast 2 furious eat your heart out and there is no need to re-make the Hulk the 40th time.



For all copyright enquiries please contact me on.....

Origins.

It’s a sunny day. Al is out on the pavement awaiting his parents, dressed in typically scruffy early 20’s attire. Jeans, trainers etc. They pull up next to him in a new Mercedes, he jumps in the back of the car.


Mother: ‘Hi Al’ cheerfully

Al: ‘Hello, how are we all?’ (Upbeat)

Father: (Cutting in)‘Where are we going then?’

Al: ‘The Warm As Toast café, it’s not far, I go there all the time, the lunch menu is excellent’

Father: ‘Your graduation celebratory meal and you want to go to a Café that you always go to?’

Al: ‘Well, i…’

Mother: (Cutting in) ‘Why we couldn’t have just gone to the graduation ceremony….!?’ (The rhetorically posed question whimsically tails off.)

Al: ‘Like I said….’

Father: (Cutting In)‘Which way is it then? I can’t sit here with the engine running all day, this thing guzzles petrol you know. The SLK does 37 miles per gallon, your crappy old Ford does more like 50’.

Al: ‘It’s not THAT old. A friend of mine just managed to take his on a road trip to the Alps and back, so it must be good for something?’

(Met with Silence.)

Al: ‘It’s left here’.

(The car pulls off.)

Parking in a road full of nothing but battered old hatchbacks and inner city bin bags scattering the pavement, the brand new Merc looks distinctly vunerable. As they all climb out of the car, the smartly dressed parents seem acutely aware that they do not fit in to the surroundings.

Mother: ‘Are you sure we won’t get a ticket? Why are all these bins in the road? It’s not very nice is it!?’(catching herself being impolite and putting her arm round her son with a commiserating hug.)

Al: ‘It’ll be fine’.

(They step round the corner)

Al: ‘Here we are’.

The Warm As Toast Café is ahead of them. A large sign above the door spells out the intials in big letters:
T.W.A.T
……………….