Wednesday, September 29, 2004

Clips Around The Ears

Be very afraid.

Sooner or later there will be no more room on planet earth. The whole place is going to be over-run by paper clips.

An estimated 20 billion paper clips are sold each year.

Canadians spent $8.3 million in 2002 on the bloody things.

I'm getting worried.

Surely we don't need any more. Can't we just reuse the old ones? Where the hell do they all go?

Howard Sufrin, heir to a Pittsburgh paper clip company, discovered that from a batch of 100,000 paperclips, 5,434 were used to pick teeth or scratch ears.

I bet he was Sufrin after that experiment.

I'm bored. Can you tell?

Tuesday, September 28, 2004

Office Politics

Work is getting shiter. I've booked Friday off to talk to a lady at the employment agency specialising in lingerie piracy.

Working in HR as I do, I have the difficult task of spending my days with lots and lots of ladies. In fact I am 1 of 6 blokes in my office out of about 30. Of the 6 blokes I am 1 of only 2 who is not married and is still of an age where getting blind drunk and climbing on top of bus shelters is 'a plan'.

Being part of the male minority has good points and bad points. I do miss lads chat - and when my closest male workmate leaves next Tuesday, I am no longer going to be able to talk about football at work. On the flipside I try and assume the role of office tart, which I enjoy immensely. It allows me to have a bit of a flirt and a bit of a laugh with some very nice girls. Brill.

However, the female-dominated workplace gives rise to one smeg of a lot of bitchiness, which I do my utmost to avoid. My role as office tart lends itself well to this because the ladies tend to bitch amongst themselves about each other. I just get on with my work until they've calmed down and I can have another flirt.

What's making my job shiter than shite is that I have now had the misfortune to have been promoted, along with 3 of the girls, to a role that has no clear objectives.

This is my nightmare. I sense that two of them are desperate to compete with the other and I am being dragged into it. I like them all and I just want to get the job done and get home.

I sense that ever since a meeting we had last Thursday one of the girls has been in what can only be described as 'a mood' with me. (Blantant silent treatment, that sort of thing.) I am sure I don't deserve it. I can't think I anything I've done to incite it but I do know that I could really do without it.

Friday, September 24, 2004

The Friday Fuckwit!

#18 Denis Norden
Silly Old Clipboard Fuckwit

I’m in my mid-twenties. Therefore I would not remember Norden from his days with Frank Muir on ‘Take It From Here’. It may have been hilarious, but somehow I doubt it.

I know Norden as the original and worst perpetrator of the ‘unnecessary link’. The undisputed king of the naff outtake show. 'It’ll Be Alright On The Night' – the programme which spawned a million clones. Each and every one of them a show that would all be just as good, if not better, if they simply did away with the presenter.

I just can’t see the logic behind the format. Okay - we’ve watched the clip, we’ve found it mildly funny, now why the chuff do we need you to explain it to us? And if that wasn’t bad enough we then have to listen to a couple of your lame one-liners at which the ‘audience’ collapse into minutes of relentless canned laughter, it just makes you look foolish.

I’m sure Denis is a very nice bloke but his telly years really ought to be behind him. There aren’t many presenters on television who can get away with holding their script throughout transmission. Why doesn’t the lazy old git spend the time the clips are being shown learning his sodding lines? Perhaps it isn’t his script on the clipboard, just a reminder to take his sanatogen and not to wet himself.

However, the real bugbear I have with Norden is not the contrived gags, the canned laughter or even the crap clipboard. It’s the fact that the show he created gave rise to the likes of Jeremy Beadle, Lisa Riley and Steve Penk.

I don’t know how the man can sleep.

Thursday, September 23, 2004

Speed Demons

It's a dual carriageway. It has a speed camera half way along. It also has little signs all the way along it with '50' clearly emblazoned upon them. Probably safe to say that it's a main road with a 50-mile-an-hour speed limit then?

You'd never have thought so, looking at the bunch of dickheads that drive along it every day. The moment they get within 200 yards of the camera they drop to 35 miles-an-hour, just to be on the safe side.


Tuesday, September 21, 2004

The Restless Crumb

Right gang. I have a new place to live now, that's all sorted. What I need now is a new job. My current job is, quite frankly, shite. In fact, it is shitey shitey shite shite. It's been shite for ages but what with summer and moving house it shifted down a notch or two on my priority list. Suddenly a few months with no annual leave are stretching out ahead of me. Enough is enough.

Trouble is, I haven't a bastard clue what I really want to do. Well, that's not true - I want to present Top Gear, but suspect that may be pushing m'luck a tad.

So, I'd appreciate some guidance from you all. Any ideas? - Midnight toothpaste smeller? Irish mouse balancer? Deckchair reconditioner for Baghdad City Council?

I don't have a great deal of experience but I do have a honours degree in bullshit and my very own pair of shoes...

Monday, September 20, 2004

Get ‘Em While They’re Hot!

A bizarre large sign next to the A4 on the way into Bristol:

“SHOPS TO LET – Hurry! Last few remaining!”


“Doreen, while you’re out would you mind picking me up a pint of semi-skimmed, a twix and a shop?”

“Actually, better make it 2 shops, I hear they’re running out.”


Friday, September 17, 2004

The Friday Fuckwit!

This weeks Fuckwit has been brought to you by the ever-diplomatic & politically correct Baron Worzel of Bummage. Hold on to your cats.

#17 Vernon Kaye

Gruff-voiced, High-volumed, Floppy-haired, Brazilian-loving Fuckwit.

Regardless of the fact that I can rarely find time to post on my own
blog, I could never have passed up the invitation from His Crumbness, to vent my spleen on the hallowed pages of the ‘Friday Fuckwit’.

A fairly sizeable incentive was needed to cause me to digress from my
usual lifestyle of sitting on my arse, and that incentive takes the form of my absolute and total loathing of one human being above all others. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, Vernon Kaye.

Kaye made his shifty, dishonest break in television by stealth,
fronting T4, watched only by people too hungover of a Sunday morning to either object or resist. His smug, tooth-heavy grin seemed somehow less painful with a hangover, despite the fact that he was so comprehensively inept at the art of presenting, that he was the only man on telly who could make June Sarpong look halfway competent.

Yet if he’d have stayed on T4 and left it at that, maybe I could’ve
begrudgingly allowed him his fledgling career in TV presenting. The
problem is that Kaye is now fcuking EVERYWHERE!!!

After fronting that shitty Chris Evans-backed quiz show on Channel 4,
plus his own magazine show on T4, the girly-haired gaylord started popping up in the early evenings, presenting the god-awful ‘Headjam’. Every time you turn on the telly, you’re doomed to see this slack-jawed northern moron, peddling his very own unique brand of ‘look-at-the-camera-and-shout-at-it’ presenting.

Volume controls are futile against the Kaye effect. He attempts to
compensate for the absence of anything interesting to say, by saying it at twenty times its normal volume. Add to that his hateful Bolton accent and incessant, never-ending drivellings about his shithole of a hometown, and Kaye makes a decent case for the restoration of public floggings in the realms of civilised acceptability.

Even following the mantra of late 80’s children’s classic ‘Why Don’t
You?, which tells us to, “Switch off the telly and do something less boring instead”, doesn’t provide respite. Switch on Radio One of a Saturday afternoon, and you’ll find that Kaye’s ear-splitting, abrasive shrieking have now made it onto our radio waves as well. There’s no escape.

And now there’s those fcuking Doritos adverts, broadcast five times
every evening on every commercial channel under the sun. This really is a step too far. Not only do we have to endure the fcuker all the way through the schedules, but we’re also subjected to it during the breaks in between. “I love a Brazilian, me.” Oh, just FUCK OFF!!!

Now, some may argue that my hatred of Kaye is borne of the fact that he is far better looking than I, and that he’s also shagging Tess Daly.

Well, my hands are up on point one. Despite his quite ridiculous
haircut, he’s a former model, which, bearing in mind his complete lack of any talent, is surely the only reason why anyone in the television industry would ever even consider putting him on our screens.

And on the Tess Daly thing, as far as I’m concerned, he’s quite welcome to the shit-for-brained, chasm-mouthed bitch, being as she was, Kaye’s closest rival to being the subject of this ‘ere Friday Fuckwit. A more hateful pair you will never meet, and they clearly deserve each other.

But the thing that worries me is this. I hear Daly is now up the spout through her unholy union with Kaye, and with the size of her mouth and Kaye’s fondness for shouting, just how gobby is the kid going to be??!! If the Kaye-Daly progeny ever gets on telly, we’ll all be walking round with bleeding eardrums for the rest of our days.

At this point, I’d usually offer a suggestion as to how to get around
the problem, but short of a celebrity killing, (which I’d never recommend) I’m stumped.

Boycott the programmes, write to your MPs, stage a sit-in protest at
Channel 4 if you must, just get this absolute, grade-A, card-carrying fcuking Dandy off our screens, and pronto. Headjam has just started, and I’m getting another migraine…


Wednesday, September 15, 2004


Firstly, I am not pro-hunting, but as a country boy I can see both sides to this endless argument and I hope I can open some eyes with this post.

All too often I hear people talking about how terrible hunting is, but I wonder how much they really know about it. For example, I don't think many people realise that the a large proportion of the protesters in London today are not there to support the practice of hunting. Many of them take no pleasure in the savage nature or the cruelty of hunting. Many of them will never have actually been on a hunt.

The majority of countryside alliance are campaigning for their livelihoods. This ban will seriously effect, if not destroy, the way of life of thousands of rural communities. From talking to people, even here in Bristol, there are so many who have no idea of the scale of a hunt. I followed a stag hunt over the top of Exmoor once, it is a truly massive affair.

Parliament had to ban hunting today, the arguments are so stacked against it thesedays that there is no way it can remain. But we are talking about a culture and a way of life that dates back hundreds of years. There are families whose sole income comes from hunting and has done for generations.

So please don't think badly of all of those guys at Westminster today. Most of them are not bloodthirsty idiots. They are ordinary people speaking up for their lives.

As I said, I am not pro-hunting - but please never make the mistake of thinking that hunting is just about some raa-raa toffs twatting around on ponies. It is so much more than that.

Tuesday, September 14, 2004

Test The Nation

This appeared in the 'Big on TV' mag that came inside last Sunday's edition of the News of the World.

Can you find five differences between the pictures?

Well yes I think I can, on account of the fact that I am not blind.

Someone is paid to come up with this stuff for crying out loud.

Monday, September 13, 2004

Or Should I Go…? (part 2)

So after seeing the balloon extravaganza we wondered whether moving out of that house was the right thing to do.

Our concerns were quickly laid to rest.

Had we not bought this flat, rather than moving house we would have spent our two weeks holiday visiting Cornwall for our summer holiday.

Had we not bought this flat we would have travelled down to Cornwall on Sunday 15th August.

Had we not bought this flat we would have been in Boscastle on Monday 16th August.

Something tells me that we might have made the right move…

Friday, September 10, 2004

The Friday Fuckwit!

#16 June Sarpong
Obscurely Trendy, Cilla-Wannabe, Hangover-Telly Fuckwit

We all did it when we were teenagers. We spent untold amounts of time desperately trying to make ourselves look and sound more mature. Whether it was an attempt to attract attention from the opposite sex, to get served in the off-licence or purely because we didn’t want to be seen as youngsters, we all tried our utmost to add a year or two.

Of course, the irony is that as soon as you pass 25, you do everything in your power to look younger. Well, most people do, but apparently not June Sarpong. Somehow she has achieved quite the opposite. Through a clever process of hunching herself over and putting on a croaky voice she has actually managed to increase her age by an awe-inspiring 7 million years.

She has also taken the unusual step of modelling her image on Mother Theresa. But whereas her Holiness was one of the most celebrated clerics in world history June is rather less important. Croaking around like some weird, elderly goblin this pop bitch has forged an unlikely career of sitting next to a moron from Bolton linking a few TV shows together.

And despite being better suited to sitting in the Rovers Return next to Vera Duckworth she does appear to have some fans. Quite how when she looks and sounds like a drunk, shaky old woman wrapped in a blanket is beyond comprehension.

A fuckwit? I think so, simply because I hate people who become ‘cool’ by actually not being very cool at all. I mean listen to her for pities sake.

Sort yourself out woman. You’d actually be quite attractive if talked properly, stood up straight and stopped shuffling around.

Tuesday, September 07, 2004

Should I Stay?

The worst thing about leaving behind the rented house that I have lived in for the last 3 and a half years is that I have lost a tremendous view over the rooftops of Bristol. From my bedroom window I had a panoramic view of the City to the right, the Clifton Suspension Bridge straight ahead and the Ashton Court Estate away to the right. It was beautiful.

At 7am on the morning that we were moving our stuff out of the house I awoke to the unmistakable sound of whales coming to the ocean’s surface for air. I opened one eye. “Unmistakable” I thought.

I opened both eyes. “Hang on, I must be mistaken.” Then it occurred to me what the noise really was. I jumped out of bed, flung back the curtain and was confronted by this…

The International Balloon Fiesta in all it’s glory. They were launching from Ashton Court and flying directly over our house.

Suddenly the beauty of the location became even tougher to leave behind. We decided it must be in our honour, a goodbye gift, a send off. But I’m afraid that losing a view like that is enough to make you wonder whether you are making the right move…

(End of part one!!)

Friday, September 03, 2004

The Friday Fuckwit!

#15 Jeff Brown
Intolerably Loud, Absurdly-Styled, Double Glazed Fuckwit

The only man in the world capable of making Ken ‘Reg Holdsworth’ Morley look like a decent bit of casting. Jeff has plunged the irritating telly commercial to depths only previously explored by Howard the singing Halifax prick.

You buy one, you get one free.
I say you buy one, you get one free.

Good. Now fuck off.

Thursday, September 02, 2004

Shit to be Sure

I don’t know whether it was a result of the comments left on my post on Tuesday.

It may have been.

I hope it was.

If it wasn’t – I may have a problem.

This morning I awoke with a song playing on a continuous loop in my head. A song I am certain I have not heard in 10 years or more. A song which my parents used to play in the car when I was younger.

But this song is not by Richard Marx. I wish it was. At least that would have a level of credibility.

I’m still humming it.

It has poisoned me.

It is ‘Ship to Shore’ by Chris De Burgh.


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