Friday, October 22, 2004
The Friday Fuckwit(s)!
I was inspired to begin the ‘fuckwit’ series by a monthly article that used to appear in Loaded magazine a few years ago. The Boiler Room was very much along the same lines as the FF, a no-holds-barred, character assassination of unsuspecting ‘Z’ list celebs in the name of fun. Sadly it didn’t run for very long - but along the way it did manage to encapsulate my feelings by slagging-off a few very deserving ‘VIP’s.
I remember my favourite put-down was directed at leopard-skinned warbler Shania Twain. It went something like this:
“Man, I feel like a woman!” screams Shania.
“So do I love, but preferably one that’s washed”
But my favourite ever Boiler Room article was undoubtedly aimed at Channel 4 tosspots Mel & Sue. I have been intending to write an FF about them for ages, but quite honestly I could never do the Boiler Room version justice. So please don’t look upon the following shameless plagiarism as plagiarism. Why have cotton when you can have silk? Cheers for this one Loaded….
#22 Mel Giedroyc & Sue Perkins
Culinary-Chatting, Sycophantic, Student Telly Fuckwits
And it all started so well. Despite its presenters looking like a tubby teenager and her gawky boyfriend, Light Lunch, an irony-flavoured casserole of student banter and embarrassed celebrity chefs, was – at least by daytime TV standards – quite good.
But look at the bastards now. No, on second thoughts, don’t. Look away, for your own safety, at least for the short while remaining before these revoltingly fawning media tarts are found out and removed from public life forever.
It all went wrong when Light Lunch became Late Lunch. Suddenly, something had expired. Did they get cocky? Or did they just realise that there are only so many ironic jokes you can make about being from Croydon and not having a husband?
Then, a joint ironic column in the Guardian Weekend magazine – the smuggest publication ever to fall out of a champagne socialist’s Quorn-gummed rectum and stain his brush-steel toilet bowl. This put them cheek by wobbly jowl with Julie Birchill, the only woman banned from the Boiler Room for fear she’d distress the other occupants.
It got worse. An ironic quiz-show, whose name we’re not even going to print because, you never know, it may just have been a terrible dream. And now ironic bread adverts.
Britain doesn’t need ironic bread, and it doesn’t need your cheekily self-deprecating ‘fun’. Go away.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
I waited patiently in McDonalds. The one member of staff behind the counter was serving somebody. I was the only other person waiting. I was 'the queue'.
Then a rotund, baseball-capped chav ambled around to the serving area and spotted me waiting. He opened another till, wiped his nose on his sleeve and bellowed:
"WHO'S NEXT PLEASE??!!"
I paused and took a moment to look around me. It did seem a rather stupid question. I realise that you're unlikely to get members of Mensa serving your burgers, but for crying out loud.
And all these retail dimwits come out with the same stupid things. Listen out for this one the next time you are shopping - about 75% of checkout staff inadvertantly add the word 'altogether' on to the end of their sentence.
I was buying a loaf of bread in Sainsburys earlier and was informed "That's 79 pence altogether please"
Altogether? What do you mean altogether? Can I take a few slices out? Will it be cheaper then?
And all this came off the back of a similar experience yesterday. I was out on a business lunch with some suppliers. There were 6 of us in total and we started off standing at the bar having a drink - I was ordering.
"Hi there" I said, "a gin and slimline tonic please".
"Anything else?" came the slightly bizarre reply.
"Errr, yes - can I get 6 straws with that?"
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
I don't look like Bombhead off Hollyoaks
I'm sure I don't.
But a section of my friends (including my girlfriend) have been taking great pleasure in winding me up and insisting that I do. The buggers.
So, who could I turn to who will be totally honest with me? A dependable person, who I can trust and who will tell me straight? Ah-ha! -bestest mate, that's who.
Crumb: "I don't really look like Bombhead off Hollyoaks do I mate?"
Though it could be better, it could be worse. In the past I have been likened to:
1. a fast kraut
2. a wild stallion
3. a new kid on the block
4. and even a tubby, equestrian-obsessed lesbian
Sunday, October 17, 2004
Friday, October 15, 2004
The Friday Fcukwit(s)!
My blood pressure needs a rest so I am pleased to introduce the rantings of another FF guest this week. So without further ado...
Ladies and gentleman for one day only, your friend and mine, Lord Norfolk himself, Mr JonnyB
#21 Anybody who has ever worn any form of product from ‘French Connection’
Pseudo-rebel, Humour-free, ‘Look at me! Look at me!’ fuckwits.
Yes, dear reader, ‘Fuckwits’ plural this week. I don’t know. Crumb is kind enough to ask me to guest on a regular feature and immediately I change the rules. It was part of my backstage rider, along with a case of champagne and two teenage Kirstie Allsopp lookalikes.
And where is the minor celeb? (I hear you ask). Well, my thesis to you is that in this age of marketing and branding, French Connection is the world’s first Z-list, there-is-no-reason-for-it-to-exist-should-have-been-put-down-at-birth brand.
So by extension its customers are the fuckwit nonentities that litter the pox-ridden Heat Magazine of its clothing.
You see whenever I see somebody in a FCUK top, I want to walk up to them and shake them vigorously by the shoulders until their head drops off whilst shouting ‘do you not REALISE??? Do you not REALISE???’
We should start from the beginning, for the benefit of international readers (plus I am not sure that French Connection has reached the West Country yet).
You see, a few years ago they realised that if they added a ‘UK’ (for United Kingdom) onto the initials ‘FC’ (for French Connection) they had a made-up word that looked a bit rude but was get away-able with on clothing.
So they put slogans on T-shirts. ‘Cool as Fcuk’ for instance. Do you see what they did there? Ha ha. And ‘Fcuk Machine’ and ‘Fcuk on the Beach’.
Oh my aching sides.
Fcuk-wearers think that the concept is funny. It is not funny. It might have been a bit funny for, like, the first week. Now it is just something that was once funny for the first week, but even then only maybe. It is the fashion equivalent of my dog having no nose. We have heard it before. A lot.
Fcuk-wearers think they’re a bit rebellious and cool. They are not rebellious and cool. They are rebellious and cool like Bryan Adams is a hard-living close-to-the-edge rock and roller. Fcuk clothing is rebellious and cool for people whose original starting point on the rebellious and cool scale is absolute zero out of infinity.
Fcuk-wearers think they’re making a brave fashion statement. A brave fashion statement is not sauntering around with ‘Cool as Fcuk’ on your chest. Try ‘Fcuk Ken Bigley’, ‘Fcuk Nelson Mandela’ or walk down Croydon High Street proclaiming ‘Fcuk me up the Arse’ and you’ll see that you’re not brave, just one more sorry fuckwit who thinks he’s being clever.
No, my friends. These people have no redemption. Non-celebrity citizens they may be, but they deserve their place in the Heat of Z-list hell with the Dimmocks, the Nordens and the Cowans.
I once shared a flat in Edinburgh with a comedian who was producing ‘Cnut’ T-shirts. He’d just got a letter from French Connection’s lawyers. So it delighted and surprised me on researching this piece that he’s still going. Almost as much as it will have delighted and surprised you that I occasionally do some research.
If you want one, get it from here http://www.kingcnut.com/ and make your stand against this whole shameful corporate fuckwit-seducing masquerade.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
The stupidest man in the entire world
This is a post about David Beckham.
Thanks largely to the Azerbaijani clock I was a little drunk yesterday. I’m sure that they shouldn’t be allowed to stage football so early in the evening on a school day. It's bound to hurt.
Anyhow, I kept myself sober enough to return home and watch the tribute to Brian Clough on the BBC. From what I can remember it was a well made programme which struck a decent balance between archive footage and the anecdotal memories of those who knew a man generally regarded as ‘great’.
So what the fuck was Beckham doing on there?
Why undermine the genuine sincerity of a richly-deserved mark of respect by inviting the Madrid moron to say a few words?
“There’s very few managers around nowadays who are as good as Brian Clough and Alex Ferguson”
What a utterly, utterly crap remark.
And this comes off the back of his claim that he was sooooo clever by intentionally getting himself booked to relieve the treat of suspension when he returns from injury.
The clever part would have been to keep your gob shut, you stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid twat.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Where is my mind?
And so there I was, untouched by the futility of my task, doing my utmost to lure competitors and spectators alike to my sideshow on the 19th Century circus field.
Within the striped tent outside which I stood was a boxing ring. In the red corner sat a butch, dark-skinned, muscleman baring his teeth. My aim was to entice brave housewives into the blue corner to spar with him. It was all for charity.
And when my work at the circus was over I returned home to my childhood bedroom in my parents’ house. I was hoping for a lie down but could not get to the bed due to the rugby lessons taking place. There was a scrum in the centre of the room involving at least 10 women dressed in bondage gear. I knelt to kiss one of them just above the thong on the lower back. Startled, she spun around, looked me up and down and then opened her mouth to reveal the fangs of a vampire. Her twin sister did the same as she gently ran her fingers through her hair.
A third vampire lady in a push-up bra then began beckoning me towards the three of them. I resisted and as I did she pulled out a small metal figurine. An unbearable pain suddenly shot down my leg. Snatching the figure from the vampire’s grasp I yanked a large, sharp pin from the figures leg and the pain in my leg immediately subsided. I ran out of the room and on to the landing.
On the landing stood my stepdad, scratching his head. “He’s here”, he said, “I can smell him and I’m sure I left the engine running when I went out.” I turned to face my stepdad and was alarmed to see that he had turned into Ken Barlow from Coronation Street.
He pointed upwards. The loft hatch above our heads was slightly ajar. “There he is!” shouted my stepdad. I stared upwards into the gloom and could make out the outline of a face, with two eyes staring straight at me. The man, whoever he was thrust a rake out of the opening with the prongs aimed right at my eyes.
I woke, sat bolt upright and made a “whooaa” noise. Sometimes dreams are TOO bloody weird.
Monday, October 11, 2004
The Naughty Crumb
HMV, Broadmead Shopping Centre - Bristol, Sunday 10th October, 15.03 hrs.
These days I find it increasingly difficult to get one over on my good lady. She is so used to my mischievous ways that I can’t trick her anymore.
For example if I say “Dear, we really ought to buy the new Abi Titmuss calendar, I hear the pictures were taken in some picturesque countryside” or “You see that girl over there? Yes the one in the miniskirt who looks about 17 - I’m sure I went to school with her” she is certain to smell a rat.
However when I do get one over on her, it’s usually a beauty – like yesterday.
I was flicking through the sale items in HMV when I came across – “The Girls of Liberty X – Toned. The Dance Workout Video.” It was 99p.
“How about this?” I said, “You quite like Liberty X don’t you?”
“Hmmm?” came the reply, without really acknowledging me. I was going to have to do better.
Casually raising the video case to her eye-line I ventured “You’ve been on the lookout for a workout video, haven’t you?”
She looked at me with that – “Oh yeah, we’re going to buy that for ME, are we?” kind of look.
Putting on my most innocent face I tried one last time. “I know what you’re thinking, but these videos are usually overpriced, I know you wanted one and this is a bargain”
“Yes”, she said, “I suppose it’s only 99p and I could always throw it away if it’s rubbish.”
“Or I could sell it to a mate for a tenner” I muttered under my breath as I watched her head to the checkout.
Back of the net.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Friday, October 08, 2004
The Friday Fuckwit!
#20 Natasha Kaplinsky
Rather Attractive, Morning Glory, Ballroom Newsy Fuckwit
Oooo. A controversial one.
I have to be honest, this is the very first FF that I feel a little sad about. I’ve disliked all my previous victims and have targeted them in order to expel some anger over their existence. Natasha however, does not fall into that category. Until recently I thought she was lovely. I’d still like to think she is lovely (and to be honest I still wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating hob-nobs), even though she’s a certifiable fuckwit.
Like many, I first became aware of Tash when she moved to breakfast telly and began gracing my mornings with soothing vocals pouring from her splendid mouth. “Yey!” I remember thinking, “I wouldn’t mind kapping her plinskies”
Yet whilst I admire her appearance, speaking from experience, I find her journalistic skills rather lacking. She reads the news okay, but her interaction with guests is very wooden and her interviewing technique is weaker than an American defence policy. It made me wonder whether Natasha had landed a job based on looks alone.
And it would appear that my testosterone-loaded attitude toward Tash meant I was not in a minority amongst males. I have recently read that she has accused BBC bosses of being sexist. Apparently she is fed up with being judged on her looks and lipgloss, rather than her journalistic ability.
If that’s how she feels, she might want to think a little more carefully before signing up to another reality TV charade. Prancing around on Strictly Come Dancing in skimpy frocks is hardly likely to make you the next Sir Robin Day is it? Equally shagging your dance partner (whose fiancé also worked on the show) and having your name splashed all over the tabloids isn’t going to win you too many professional accolades.
I am a firm believer that there is a massive chasm between news and entertainment and anyone mixing the two must be very careful. I saw Natasha’s predecessor, Sophie Raworth, on ‘What Not to Wear.’ Virtually the first thing Sophie stated (and she emphasized the point several times during the programme) was that she is in a position of responsibility and had a duty to uphold certain standards when selecting her outfit.
Ms Kaplinsky would be well advised to adopt a similar attitude before embarking on her next foray into the media limelight.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
A 72-year-old Malaysian man has married this week for the 53rd time and insists he is no playboy despite some marriages lasting just days.
"I am not a playboy. I just love seeing beautiful women," he said.
Me too pal, but I find it’s much less hassle to just buy Loaded.
Have a quick read of this and look at his picture. You can see why they fall for him can’t you?!! Fair play to the dirty old sod.
But wouldn’t it be brilliant if you could just go around briefly marrying people? PPQ could get hold of Nigel Harman for a weekend, Unlucky Man could ‘attend’ to Norah Jones. I’d have a crack at Girl’s Aloud (apart from the ugly one).
But there’d be no love would there? There’d be no true fulfilment.
Still, it’d be a giggle.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Precious Time Is Slipping Away
Hey y’all. I’ve taken some time out to have a quick birthday. ‘Twas Sunday 3rd October and if you’re interested I turned 26. Managed to drag it out for a few days, took a couple of days off work and generally got exceptionally drunk. Fab.
In fact a very fine time was had. I even managed to get some random lady with whom I was previously unacquainted to buy me a birthday pint despite sitting with my girlfriend at the time! Yeah baby.
I’m interviewing today. Never done an interview before. It’s for somebody to come and sit next to me and make my job less shit. I have a 22 year old lady coming to see me at half past 1. Shame I need her to accept the job so badly – because I really fancy acting like David Brent. I might lie across the desk when she arrives and pretend to be composing a song. Wouldn’t put her off would it?
Saturday, October 02, 2004
The (very very late) Friday Fuckwit!
Sorry it's late. My dad came to visit and I haven't seen him for a couple of months so I got pissed with him instead. Bit of a bummer that I couldn't post this on time, especially as Mr Billericay has been sending his readers my way (only to be confronted by a bunch of guff about paper clips.) Ho hum, here we go...
#19 Charlie Dimmock
Flame Haired, Green Fingered, Garden Army Fuckwit
Charlie's whammers have swiftly become the most famous jugs since the ming vase was invented. Only with Miss Gardener's World, ming is the operative word. It is amazing what the lack of a brassier can do for a girl's career. If Charlie didn't posses this aversion to under garments, surely even the lonely, middle-age men who drool over her of a Friday evening would notice that she is otherwise revolting and surely aged at least 2749.
However, Miss Dimmock is free to parade around vegetable patches on primetime telly knowing that, providing that her nipples are suitably erect, she will maintain her pseudo-babe status. It remains a mystery how she secures the 'acorns dipped in concrete' to the inside of her top. Whatever the method, one can only assume that she successfully detracts attention away from her face.
Rather ironically, Charlie is an expert in 'water features'. Presumably this derives from her schooldays when her own plain features could well have earned her a similar nickname.
So, it looks as if having a prominent chest is enough to become termed as a garden expert thesedays. Bad news for those of us who enjoy Ground Force and must continue to endure the ginger tart. Good news for robins, who can begin planting those daffodils.
Never mind ground force, there surely must be a more appropriate force that could be used on Charles Dimmock. Preferably one that banishes her from our screens. If not, roll on the inevitable gravitational force, which should ensure that old Watery Features will need the appropriate kit in the not-too-distant future. Please, somebody slap-her. Pun wholeheartedly intended.