Friday, May 28, 2004

The Friday Fuckwit!

#6. Olivia Colman
Bev Kev Bev Kev Bev Kev Bev Kev Bev Kev Bev Kev Bev Kev Fuckwit.

You might recall the when I started TFF I said that there are an awful lot of obscure people out there who I irrationally dislike. Here’s one.

Olivia is the sort of actress who seems to pop up all over the place. I'm not quite sure what did to upset me (but the Bev Kev Bev Kevving is enough surely?) I also remember a particularly bad national lottery advert.

I'm sure you're very nice love, but you'd be a bloody site nicer if you'd just sod off.

Tuesday, May 25, 2004

The Day I Caught The Train

I got on the 18.40 train from Bristol Temple Meads to Paddington on Sunday. What a beautiful evening it was. Tranquil, pure, I'd even venture as far as 'perfect'. I had the best seat in the house to see it in it's full glory - the journey out of Bristol, through Bath to Chippenham is a beautiful bit of countryside. I was there in seat A1, just gazing out over the green, watching the world go by, properly chilled out.

All was good.

Then I got to Swindon.

I reckon I'd probably dozed off for a couple of minutes just as we arrived in the jewel of Wiltshire. I was right at the end of the train, facing away from boarding passengers. Then I heard 'the cackle'. It was the cackle of the person, out of everyone in the entire world, that I least wanted to sit near. The evening was about to take a turn for the worse.

She came and sat opposite me. A middle-aged, mutton-dressed-as-lamb, Swedish tart accompanied by a trendy looking male.

She was drunk. She spent the next half-hour exhaling pungent alcohol fumes over me whilst bellowing into a mobile phone (in Swedish). In between phone calls she would drape herself over the chap (who really didn't seem interested) and cackle uncontrollably whenever he made a sound.

I instantly hated her, and felt sorry for him. And there they sat. All the way to Paddington, trashing the tranquility of a picture book evening.

I doesn't quite end there though. A young lady in her early twenties also boarded at Swindon. She came and sat next to me (where else?). Young lady also proceeded to nark me by fidgeting continuously. Then she began scrabbling around in her handbag for ages. Grrrrrr. She finally pulled out a scrap of paper and a biro. (I was carefully monitoring proceedings from behind my mirrored shades.)

To my amazement she sat opposite Mr Embarrassed and sketched him! He was oblivious to it. Absolutely no idea at all. He was just minding his own business, reading his paper and trying his best to ignore Boozy Ulrika. The girl actually sketched him! Is that rude? She was quite fit so would probably have got away with it if he'd noticed, but even so! My attention flicked between the paper, his face and her face (she was really staring at him - can't believe he didn't twig).

Two things:
1. I want to know whether pretty young girls often sit on trains sketching men? I wonder if a girl has ever sketched me?
2. If you're reading this my dear. Don't give up the day job. The picture was shit. Looked more like Roy Castle.

Sunday, May 23, 2004

Motty Should Be Shotty

From the start of the new football season I will be one of trillions of fans who say good riddance to ITV's 'The Premiership' and welcome back 'Match of the Day' with open arms.

Aside from the in-your-face plugs for other exciting ITV coverage and the everlasting commercial breaks - what made 'The Premiership' so bad in my view was the studio guests. Quite fankly, who gives a flying fuck what Robbie Earle or Clive Allen think? And although I still think Des has plenty to offer even though I find his smarm a little too much.

However, though Match of the Day should succeed in providing far superior studio analysis, it's chief commentator has become a joke.

I used to respect John Motson. His knowledge of football statistics and his memory of games down the years is unprecedented. There used to be a quirkiness which although strange, was somehow comfortable and familiar. Yet thesedays Motson has stagnated. He appears to reside in a common sense-free bubble where his continual irrelevant remarks are so completely out of touch it is painful. His awkward sense of humour does not seem to match any of his co-commentators and any light-hearted comments are often an obscure tenuous link to game he is watching. He has an irritating tendency to excitedly raise his voice in the wrong places. In summary, he has expired.

Just how far I have come from my days of respecting Motson was confirmed yesterday where he destroyed all enjoyment of watching the cup final with his mediocre tattle. And I remember watching a game earlier in the competition (I think Man City vs Spurs) where he kept saying "And it's 1-1 here, just like it was in the 3rd round when these two sides met in 1953" Eh? Who cares? Do you mean 1953, as in - when none of these players were born and both managers were at infant school? The majority of fans who were at the game are probably dead. That 1953?

The BBC has a stack of really good commentators who work on radio 5 live - get them on the telly. You want decent sport coverage BBC? Then do us all a favour and get rid of the old pillock.

Friday, May 21, 2004

The Friday Fuckwit!

#5. The British Public (Or Whoever Decides the Results of The Annual Soap Awards)
Just Plain & Simply Incorrect Fuckwits.

So here are the results of the ‘Sexiest lady in a Soap Opera’

Could it be:

The cute one off Corrie?

Or how about:

The fitty off Emmerdale?

Or perhaps even:

Any one of about 70 from Hollyoaks?

Oh dear, no, it’s:

Half a badger wrapped in a napkin.

Our survey says…


Thursday, May 20, 2004

Two possible titles for today's post:
1. Bloody hell, a post?!
2. Where the hell has that wanker Crumb been?

Well peel my tangerines - it's been a while. I'd better have a damn good excuse hadn't I? Fortunately I do.

It has been non-stop in the realm of Crumb over the last week-and-a-bit. Last week I looked at houses, went to see a band, got drunk, got ill, supported my lady doing 'Race For Life', went to Pencil's for a rather large Eurovision bonanza and had my sister to stay. This week I've been on a training course and had to get up at 6 on Monday morning and got the train to London where I have spent 3 enjoyable days in a hotel just off Oxford Street. Not being a laptop man I've had to wait until I got home from gallivanting to post.

Whilst in the big city I was tempted to nip into Selfridges to buy a fridge, or just to get a key cut like Ms Jones (that's so impressive). Didn't though, bought a shirt from H&M instead.

I love London, it has been very exciting to 'live' on Oxford Street for a few days. I always thought I like to live there for a couple of years. But then I think it's such a nice place to visit, that maybe it would loose the magic if I lived there. And, I guess that if you live in the biggest, most impressive place, then many other places seem lifeless. So maybe I'll stick to visiting.

Back in work today to be faced with 144 emails. Still, got to laugh.

The second part of my course is next week. So it's back to Oxford Street on Sunday for another 2 nights. If anyone sees a lonely looking South-westerner hanging around Marble Arch - give me a crisp.

I'm knackered.

C. x

Monday, May 10, 2004

Toilet Traders

How long has this all been going on then? Have I missed something? I mean, I'd never come across it before last summer (apart from in Harrods and that's different - you expect it there.) but suddenly it seems to be everywhere. Maybe you Londoners are used to it but I can't see it ever catching on around here...

*clears throat*


"This ain't the Ritz son" I remarked the other evening to some such gent, who had been generously attempting to shower me in a combination of Cussons and Lagerfeld. I was in the fucking Walkabout for Christ's sake. I was watching the footy with two mates and was wearing jeans and a jumper. I was on the way home from work. It was Wednesday.

A few weeks ago I was out, dressed up this time, on a 'night out'. One of the (pissed)lads I was with came back from the bog and admitted to giving the toilet attendant £3.60!


"What?" said I, "Excuse me? How much?"

"Well" said he, "How would you feel, having to do a job like that?"

Well okay granted, not great, but it would only take 3 like-minded idiots to give him tips as ludicrous as that before he is earning a damn good wage. Not to mention everyone who just spares him the odd coin. I reckon that probably goes far enough to heal his wounded dignity.

It's just ridiculous. Please can someone confirm that the pub does not pay these people a wage? Please tell me the only money they make is from tips? Someone?

Friday, May 07, 2004

The Friday Fuckwit!

#4. Ainsley Harriott
Massive, Overbearing, Falsely-Over-Enthusiastic, Fairy Liquid Fuckwit.

Just shut up. Please, for 2 seconds. Just while I write this post.

Thank you.

I ought to like Harriott. I tend to like people who have energy and like to tart around a bit. But I don’t like Harriott. He’s a cock.

Fans of James Bond films will no doubt remember that at the end of Live and Let Die, Roger Moore and Jayne Seymour disappear into the moonlight aboard a speeding locomotive. Sitting on the back of that train, cackling uncontrollably, sits Baron Samedi - an evil, snake twirling, voodoo svengali.

It rather spoils this sinister image when you realise that Samedi was in fact not chasing Bond at all. He was actually on his way to Television Centre to film an episode of Ready Steady Cook.

Thursday, May 06, 2004

The Name Game

Not much from me this week - I've been wasting my time in other ways!

I saw a letter in work yesterday addressed to a bloke called Derek Poland. It has to rate as the greatest name I have ever heard. (Narrowly stumping my previous fave - Henry Lovegrove.)

Bonobo knows a chap with an even better name - Mike Onions. Fabulous!

So come on you lot – what are the finest names you've ever heard…? (There may be a prize for the winner)

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