So, whilst reading one of the more highbrow examples of UK journalistic excellence (Closer magazine) I came across an interesting phenomenon called 'Objectum Sexual', which is Latin for 'wants to shag objects'. One common condition of this is feeling sexual desire to important landmarks. The Berlin Wall and The Statue of Liberty were widely lusted over and the sufferers faithfully saved up to be able to go and visit these architectural delights and sate their urges. Now, I've never been to the Berlin Wall, but it may be worth it to see if I can find anyone furtively wanking within its vicinity. It also explains the hithertofore mystery of the perennial popularity of those badly crafted minuture statues sold at tourist outlets.
Another sufferer led a very tragic life indeed because her parents simply could not relate, and her only boyfriend dumped her because she fancied a flag more than him. What a crushing blow to the ego. Apparently she found the way they fluttered in the wind very arousing. Luckily (or perhaps not) she lived in America - that great nation of patriotic flagbearers. Every 4th July or similar day of jingoistic foolery was equivalent to being waterboarded for this poor woman.
I've never understood this pecularity, preferring perhaps erroneously, someone with a soul and capability for semi-intelligent conversation. But I've just winked at my hair straighteners and I am going to see what happens.
Saturday, 30 April 2011
Friday, 29 April 2011
Come the Revolution
So, today I had the misfortune to stumble across an episode of one of the BBC's more shameful forays into quiz-making. Lauded as 'the most formidable quiz team in Britain' - 'Can they be beaten?' the voiceover bellows, hamming it up in a manner suggestive of Roman gladiatorial combat. The opening sequence ends and the viewer is treated to a bunch of coffin-dodgers lined up against a powder blue backdrop, facing a motley crew of 'challengers' evidently chosen for their collective struggle to obtain a double digit IQ. I am of course talking about the 'Eggheads'.
I cannot stand each and every one of these smug, self-aggrandizing fuckwits.
Kevin Ashman, the peculiarly unanimated winner of Mastermind has the counternance and mannerisms of someone crying out to be punched hard in the face. He is the 'jewel in the crown' of these bunch of cockwands, having won a multitude of quiz related honours and doesn't he know it. He is constitutionally incapable of just answering the fucking question, instead choosing to display his superior knowledge by offering a 'supplementary fact' after pompously proclaiming his answer, lest viewers be in any doubt that his solution was arrived at through the 33.33% probability that one of the three options is correct. He practically gets a boner trying to shout out the answer before that very nice quizmaster has finished reading out the options. Let Dermot do his job Kevin.
Next up is CJ de Mooi - bellend par excellence. de Mooi is not actually his real surname, it is a name that he gave himself when he was modelling (ha!) and is Dutch for 'the beautiful one'. He considers himself 'outspoken'. I consider him a bitchy vainglorious queen.
I haven't much to say on the subject of Chris Hughes, other than he gives the impression of being one of those men who engages in semi-autistic pursuits in his garden shed. He lives in Crewe.
Moving swiftly on we come to Judith Keppell. She of the cats arse mouth . She won 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire' way before that coughing Major brought the show into disrepute. My friend had a cigarette lighter that looked just like her.
But the worst of the lot has to be Daphne Fowler. Don't be fooled by the ' sweet little old lady' persona - this woman has an inner steel and short stature comparable to Kim Jong-il. She is always, rather misogynistically, billed as the 'only female winner of Brain of Britain' as if this somehow points to superior intellect as opposed to living in Weston Super Mare and not having much of a life. She looks positively orgasmic when she sees one of the hapless challengers cocking up.
I am going to apply to be a contestant of this programme. And I will bring ricin.
I cannot stand each and every one of these smug, self-aggrandizing fuckwits.
Kevin Ashman, the peculiarly unanimated winner of Mastermind has the counternance and mannerisms of someone crying out to be punched hard in the face. He is the 'jewel in the crown' of these bunch of cockwands, having won a multitude of quiz related honours and doesn't he know it. He is constitutionally incapable of just answering the fucking question, instead choosing to display his superior knowledge by offering a 'supplementary fact' after pompously proclaiming his answer, lest viewers be in any doubt that his solution was arrived at through the 33.33% probability that one of the three options is correct. He practically gets a boner trying to shout out the answer before that very nice quizmaster has finished reading out the options. Let Dermot do his job Kevin.
Next up is CJ de Mooi - bellend par excellence. de Mooi is not actually his real surname, it is a name that he gave himself when he was modelling (ha!) and is Dutch for 'the beautiful one'. He considers himself 'outspoken'. I consider him a bitchy vainglorious queen.
I haven't much to say on the subject of Chris Hughes, other than he gives the impression of being one of those men who engages in semi-autistic pursuits in his garden shed. He lives in Crewe.
Moving swiftly on we come to Judith Keppell. She of the cats arse mouth . She won 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire' way before that coughing Major brought the show into disrepute. My friend had a cigarette lighter that looked just like her.
But the worst of the lot has to be Daphne Fowler. Don't be fooled by the ' sweet little old lady' persona - this woman has an inner steel and short stature comparable to Kim Jong-il. She is always, rather misogynistically, billed as the 'only female winner of Brain of Britain' as if this somehow points to superior intellect as opposed to living in Weston Super Mare and not having much of a life. She looks positively orgasmic when she sees one of the hapless challengers cocking up.
I am going to apply to be a contestant of this programme. And I will bring ricin.
Tuesday, 19 April 2011
Teenage Dreams
So, when I was a young girl my gaydar was not the finely tuned, Poirot-esque antennae that it is today. Consequently when the hot topic among my friends was which member of Take That or Boyzone was the hottest, I simply wasn't interested. Actually, now I think about it I did used to have a soft spot for Stephen Gately. Like I said, my gaydar was a little faulty in those days.
No, boybands weren't for me - the object of my youthful affections was Colin Jackson. Yep, the 110m hurdler. I adored everything about this man - his cheerful grin, his charming Welsh sing-song voice, his athletic prowess, his lycra shorts. Ahem. I actually used to be convinced that if I ever met him he would fall instantly in love with me and we would go and live happily ever after in the Welsh hills and do things that Welsh people do together, well, at least those things that didn't involve sheep.
I must have been in my mid 20s before I cottoned on to the fact that this was unlikely to happen. Not that Colin has ever officially come out - but Jim Rosenthal described him as a 'batchelor'. Also he went on Strictly Come Dancing with what appeared to be a genuine interest in the dancing bit, not just as an excuse to chance his arm shagging one of the female professional dancers. He was rather good at the rhumba as I recall.
My mum, bless her, sat me down between heats at the 2004 Olympics and broke the news of her suspicions to me. Poor gaydar is not genetic it appears.
No, boybands weren't for me - the object of my youthful affections was Colin Jackson. Yep, the 110m hurdler. I adored everything about this man - his cheerful grin, his charming Welsh sing-song voice, his athletic prowess, his lycra shorts. Ahem. I actually used to be convinced that if I ever met him he would fall instantly in love with me and we would go and live happily ever after in the Welsh hills and do things that Welsh people do together, well, at least those things that didn't involve sheep.
I must have been in my mid 20s before I cottoned on to the fact that this was unlikely to happen. Not that Colin has ever officially come out - but Jim Rosenthal described him as a 'batchelor'. Also he went on Strictly Come Dancing with what appeared to be a genuine interest in the dancing bit, not just as an excuse to chance his arm shagging one of the female professional dancers. He was rather good at the rhumba as I recall.
My mum, bless her, sat me down between heats at the 2004 Olympics and broke the news of her suspicions to me. Poor gaydar is not genetic it appears.
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Nothing to Declare
So, I've recently fallen victim to a mild obsession with TV programmes about the Australian Border Patrol. I was overjoyed to discover that the Living channel devote many hours to this wonderful example of televisual gold, except now I do even less of a weekend than previously.
I adore everything about this show. Particularly Dave the Document Examiner - the only one in the entire country I believe, as evidenced by the fact that he doesn't appear to have a surname. He's like a minor celebrity, the Australasian Madonna. Everytime a suspicious 'document' appears the entire airport waits with bated breath for Dave's pronouncement on the matter. He is not very overworked though because false passports are very expensive and usually people prefer to smuggle in King Cobras and lizards in socks. And a bewildering variety of dried fruit. This is a BAD THING apparently as one concealed dried apricot could bring down the entire infrastructure of the Australian economy.
I've always wanted to be called aside at an airport and interviewed in a special room. I suspect this is because I would feel validated by the attention.
I adore everything about this show. Particularly Dave the Document Examiner - the only one in the entire country I believe, as evidenced by the fact that he doesn't appear to have a surname. He's like a minor celebrity, the Australasian Madonna. Everytime a suspicious 'document' appears the entire airport waits with bated breath for Dave's pronouncement on the matter. He is not very overworked though because false passports are very expensive and usually people prefer to smuggle in King Cobras and lizards in socks. And a bewildering variety of dried fruit. This is a BAD THING apparently as one concealed dried apricot could bring down the entire infrastructure of the Australian economy.
I've always wanted to be called aside at an airport and interviewed in a special room. I suspect this is because I would feel validated by the attention.
Christine Bleakley
AKA 'The Bleak' or Christine 'Acceptable Face of Ulster' Bleakley. I know I should like this woman, but I don't.
According to Frank Lampard she is not your common or garden WAG as she is 'hardworking'. WTF. Since when does putting in 3 hours a day on some godawful TV show constitute hardworking. Perhaps compared to being a footballer this in indeed industriousness personified. Kind of similar to the workload put in by Bill Gates or Ban Ki-Moon no doubt.
She also drives a white car. I know this because I saw a photo of her driving it in The Daily Mail. I have long distrusted people who drive white cars, on no scientific basis whatsoever, but recently I had a brief dalliance with a member of Her Majesty's Armed Forces and he drove a white car, and was also a bit of a twat. This confirmed my bias and I will shortly be submitting an article to PubMed on my findings. My sister is a scientist and will probably peer review it if I keep buying her Lindt chocolate balls.
My main problem with the Bleak though is her claim that she is 31. She is most certainly 35 if she is a day. I'm 31 ffs and she could pass as my mother on a bad day. I've nothing against lying about your age - I do it all the time - but I'm a hypocrite. Also, I'm not nearly as fucking irritating.
According to Frank Lampard she is not your common or garden WAG as she is 'hardworking'. WTF. Since when does putting in 3 hours a day on some godawful TV show constitute hardworking. Perhaps compared to being a footballer this in indeed industriousness personified. Kind of similar to the workload put in by Bill Gates or Ban Ki-Moon no doubt.
She also drives a white car. I know this because I saw a photo of her driving it in The Daily Mail. I have long distrusted people who drive white cars, on no scientific basis whatsoever, but recently I had a brief dalliance with a member of Her Majesty's Armed Forces and he drove a white car, and was also a bit of a twat. This confirmed my bias and I will shortly be submitting an article to PubMed on my findings. My sister is a scientist and will probably peer review it if I keep buying her Lindt chocolate balls.
My main problem with the Bleak though is her claim that she is 31. She is most certainly 35 if she is a day. I'm 31 ffs and she could pass as my mother on a bad day. I've nothing against lying about your age - I do it all the time - but I'm a hypocrite. Also, I'm not nearly as fucking irritating.
Friday, 15 April 2011
Bridget Jones RIP?
So, I read an article recently, I can't remember if it was in Marie Claire or The Stylist (one of those forensically researched tomes) about how Bridget Jones no longer represented your average 30something London girl. Apparently we are all too busy focusing on our careers to worry about finding our Mr Darcy and poor Bridge was described as being rather pathetic and desperate. This saddens me. I've always had a bit of a soft spot for Miss Jones, probably because my 30something London girl life has worrying similarities, although sadly I don't mix in the same social circles as Human Rights lawyers with a penchant for 'comedy' knitted jumpers. I guess this is the chasm between fact and fiction. I'm also not sure whether Human Rights merits such capitalization.
Like Bridget I work in publishing, I know a Daniel Cleaver (not literally someone of that name, but someone who behaves exactly like the Hugh Grant character, although I don't think he has ever employed the services of Divine Brown, I couldn't name the countries surrounding Germany without access to Google, and once, shamefully, I tried to organise an event in a bookshop with a dead author (F.R.Leavis anyone?).
I also happen to be very happy indeed with my job. I'm not one of those people who wants it all - frankly I am glad to be employed - and spend considerable effort and energy trying to conceal by ineptitude from my very lovely boss. Like Bridget it's the love life that remains the problem. The stories I could share! And no doubt will, having nothing better to do of a Friday night.
If I was Carrie Bradshaw (who incidentally I cannot abide) I'd no doubt write some quazi-intellectual shit about the dating scene that through one column a week would enable my shoe fetish to continue unabated. But I'm not. So I'll just say, lay off Bridget. She's alright.
Like Bridget I work in publishing, I know a Daniel Cleaver (not literally someone of that name, but someone who behaves exactly like the Hugh Grant character, although I don't think he has ever employed the services of Divine Brown, I couldn't name the countries surrounding Germany without access to Google, and once, shamefully, I tried to organise an event in a bookshop with a dead author (F.R.Leavis anyone?).
I also happen to be very happy indeed with my job. I'm not one of those people who wants it all - frankly I am glad to be employed - and spend considerable effort and energy trying to conceal by ineptitude from my very lovely boss. Like Bridget it's the love life that remains the problem. The stories I could share! And no doubt will, having nothing better to do of a Friday night.
If I was Carrie Bradshaw (who incidentally I cannot abide) I'd no doubt write some quazi-intellectual shit about the dating scene that through one column a week would enable my shoe fetish to continue unabated. But I'm not. So I'll just say, lay off Bridget. She's alright.
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