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Sunday, March 21, 2010

the return


Hi, I'm Crumb. Anyone remember me? It's just over 5 years since my last post, so I guess probably not.

So this is me starting over. I had just turned 25 when I wrote my first post back in November 2003. Now I'm 31 and that seems a lifetime ago. I'm definitely curvier than I was back then, I'm I guess that means I'm an even bigger git than I was before.

Those of you who haven't read my stuff before - have a peep at my archive and find a couple of Friday Fuckwit posts to read, that'll give you a good idea of what you can expect here.

At the moment I'm particularly pissed off with my housemate, who shall be known as The Mope and I'm particularly pissed off with Tesco, because of course I don't need fucking help with my packing, I have arms.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

crumbled


I've moved. I've moved to a different e-house. An interweb abode that is far less yellow and brown.

People who have read TMC for the last 15 months - thank you. I'd be honoured if you would update your links and come and visit me in my new place

It's definitely time for a change. I'm uniting with my dearest friend (though not in the biblical sense) in an effort to produce a level of tat previously unchartered on the www. Yes indeed, Bonobo Love and I are joining forces. At least this way there's an outside chance of more than one post per week.

So that's it - I've packed my bags, redirected the mail and shot the cat.

Come on over, it'll be fun.

C x

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

The most irritating noise in advertising


Can I suggest 3 potential candidates for this claim to infamy?

1. As if “Where in the World? PC World” adverts weren’t shoddy enough, they have to interject them with my first nominee…
Bom-bom bom-bom



2. Or how about producing some inoffensive adverts about yoghurt and then pissing everyone off by adding this at the end…
Mmmm-Danone



3. Finally - the favourite for the award, no matter how good the ITV movie, it has to be ruined by...
Heeello-moto


Friday, February 11, 2005

The Friday Fuckwit!


This weeks Fuckwit has been brought to you by the power of Mr Bonobo Love

#31 Daniel O’ Donnell (and His Blue Rinse Brigade)
Pied Pipery, Crooning, Granny Loving O’Fuckwitt




I used to work in the box office at Colston Hall in Bristol.

Colston Hall is a concert hall which hosts many different events throughout the year. Acts and shows perform there for all musical tastes; you’ve got your rock (Status Quo, the Moody Blues, Hank Marvin), pop (Blazin’ Squad, Gabrielle), jazz (Acker Bilk, Chris Barber), swing (Frank Sinatra Tribute), children’s shows (Noddy, Mr. Men) and a host of other equally unimpressive acts.

I had heard that the Krankies were to perform late last year, but this is the stuff of naff legend.

My role was to sell tickets for these shows over the phone and at the counter. Have you ever spoken to a Hank Marvin fan? Before working there I would have been adamant these people were either dead, lived in a home or lived underground. Or all three. But they exist alright, they exist to the point where the phone lines are flooded with non- stop calls and results in Mr. Marvin selling out in a matter of days. Very impressive.

Anyway, when I first started working there I was reminded that soon the Daniel tickets would be out on sale.

“Daniel?” I asked. (Bedingfield?)

“No.” came my superior’s reply, “Daniel O’Donnell.”

I immediately though to myself as this to be strange.

Daniel O’Donnell. Daniel O’Donnell? That guy? That guy, that crooner who I’ve only seen glimpses of in adverts around Christmas plugging some wet uninspired woolly pile- of- horseshit album. That guy who no-one gives a toss about right?

Dead wrong.

The day the tickets went on sale the queue for tickets wrapped around the theatre itself. Colston Hall is not a small venue, believe me. The combined age of all of the punters waiting to get their hands on a DD ticket would have been around 7 billion years of age. Wrinklies, the blue rinse brigade, the total accountable audience of ‘Last of the Summer Wine’. They were all there, pushing and shoving their zimmer frames to get a ticket. It was a complete riot. No other show on sale during my time there caused such utter mayhem.

Two old ladies came up to the box office and asked for two seats together. I said I could only do single seats (as the show had nearly sold out a few hours after the tickets actually went out on sale). One of the ladies immediately slumped her whole posture and began to look very ill.

“Well.. I am very old now..” she said, trying to make me feel guilty. I mean! The underhanded methods these gals go to! I feel sickened to the core of my bones.

…So who is the fuckwit in this scenario? Well in this case it’s Mr. O’ Donnell. He’s the whole reason for this rant. I know I know.. he’s making old people happy, but really.. to do it with such shit saccharine laden tripe, acting like he’s a little boy and wanting all of those old girls to try and mother him. Its just rubbish.

I’m sorry but old women can get their kicks elsewhere, Daniel O’Donnell is warping the aged minds of the populace of the UK. Its wrong, he’s wrong and their wrong for liking him. They deserve more than a guy who is STILL sporting a mullet from the first time around.

Get bent sir!

Thursday, February 10, 2005

The shit awards


So last night was the biggest night of the year for the British music industry? Don’t worry Brit fans, I’m not going to poo-poo it too much. I’m sure it was a great show and it has without question been a fine 12 months for British music.

But has anybody been listening to Radio 1 this week? However impressive the Brits may or may not be, it does strike me that they mean more to Radio 1 DJ’s then absolutely everybody else. The hype is so OTT for a national award ceremony. Radio 1 has made such a big deal out of it this week you’d think they’d found a cure for AIDS.

All the DJ’s have been playing classic British music from the last 25 years. I can usually tolerate Radio 1 for about 10 minutes, then they play some god-awful shite and I have to switch channels. In contrast this week has been excellent. Tune after tune, classic after classic.

The ridiculous thing is that all the DJ’s have been commenting about how enjoyable it has been to play such good music!!! Errr Hello?! Then play it all the time you twats!

Yesterday lunchtime I listened to bat-faced Jo Whiley excitedly asking a listener –

“What’s your most memorable Brit moment?”

The embarrassed listener sounded decidedly less enthusiastic. Well let’s face it, when it comes to an answer there are surely only 3 predictable possibilities? Either Jarvis Cocker getting arrested for getting on stage with Jackson, or that DJ going up for an award he hadn’t won, or the geezer from Chumbawamba pissing over Prescott.

Roll on the BAFTAS, let’s all have a party.

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

Telford: Show Yourself!


I hereby propose Telford does not actually exist.

I am backing this up with the fact that I have never met anyone from Telford, I have never known anyone who knows anyone from Telford and I have never heard Telford mentioned in conversation.

Admittedly, there may be at least 7 other places that I’ve never been to. Workington for example, also Petersfield & Cleethorpes. However, I reasonably confident that all these examples are real.

The only time I have ever heard ‘Telford’ mentioned, it has been on a Saturday afternoon when the football results are being read out. This proves nothing.

And thinking about it, I’ve never even seen Telford. Sure - there are a bunch of buildings next to the M54, but they might just be a cunningly-disguised forest.

Step forward anyone who thinks they can prove me wrong…

Monday, February 07, 2005

the mighty clown


I'd love to be able to say I've been somewhere nice. But I haven't, I've been on a work 'team-building event'.

In Swindon.

Actually it wasn't too bad. Nice hotel, decent grub, minimal effort required. All I had to do was ensure that I avoided the evening entertainment of 'circus skills' and everything would have been fine.

That's where I fell down. Quite literally.

Because whilst the more sensible of my colleagues spent the evening practising juggling and spinning plastic plates, I couldn't do it. So to stop myself feeling untalented and inadequate I went in search of something more impressive.

The one trick that noone would go near was a large plastic cylinder with a wooden plank leant against it. The idea being that you stand on the plank and balance on the cylinder. Except you don't, because it's absolutely fecking impossible.

The ceiling provided an interesting background to my feet and legs as the back of my neck hit the ground first. One of my team said he heard the crack of my head hitting the ground from the next room.

I stood up. I was a little dazed and - in hindsight - pretty bloody lucky. I did the typical bloke thing of trying to act cool and unflustered. So I sipped my Guinness and pretended to be okay. The two clowns who were supposed to be teaching us the skills (but who had provided no safety gear, advice or prior instructions) looked genuinely concerned.

Though possibly not as concerned as they'll look once the nice gentleman at Claims Direct has dropped them a line...

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