Rowntree's Randoms

Oh well, that's it in an advert now. Soon it will be entering your mum's vocabulary, and thankfully that usually marks the death of cool patter.

Crimeface

These guys both murdered their babies, and everyone is blaming social services for not intervening sooner. I don't blame social services. I blame society, for not grassing them up for having crimefaces. I suppose the one on the right isn't too crimefacey, but look at the one on the left! Look at him! He should have been jailed the moment his generic squashed baby face developed cheekbones and demon eyes.

MOBOphobe

I was surprised to hear that Glasgow will be playing host to this year’s MOBO Awards ceremony (the most ambiguous awards ceremony in existence?) in September. I used to love the MOBOs when I was young; I went to a primary school where I literally was the only ethnic minority (half-Iranian), something that I was very conscious of and which made my child’s mind decide that I was basically black. Incidentally, this is probably also the only explanation I have for buying Will Smith’s album, and for knowing the words to Richard Blackwood’s first single “Mama Who Da Man?”. I don’t know, son, but it certainly isn’t you.

Anyway, I remember watching it one year and seeing a rapper called Beanie Man on it who I found quite scary. I can’t remember why I found him scary, but that’s by the by. I told all of my friends the next day about Beanie Man and how I was scared of him, and when I think back, I don’t think he was actually that bad. I think I was just saying it for the sake of having something to say, and this brings me to what I actually want to bitch about here- fake phobias.

I understand why some people are scared of spiders. Poisonous spiders exist so there’s the fear factor of being harmed, as well as the fact they have 8 legs and 8 eyes. So arachnophobia makes sense, as do other phobias like agoraphobia or acrophobia. There is logic behind the fear.

What pisses me off is people who claim to, for instance, have a “baked beans phobia”, because 95% of these people merely dislike the taste of beans and have popped the word phobia in there to make them look a wee bit zany. The other 5% probably had a saucepan of baked beans poured over their heads when they were babies, in which case they’re allowed their seemingly irrational fear. Once somebody has decided to have a fake phobia they have to stick with it, which is why a girl I know screams and covers her ears and generally goes mental every time she hears the word “poo”. That’s right, she claims to have a phobia OF THE WORD POO.

I have to say, it’s mainly girls who do the fake phobia thing, probably because we are more likely to have succumbed to “random culture” than guys. Do you think women of the 1950s chatted to each other about their fears of onions, carpets, and dusky skies? I doubt it. And yet it’s easy to imagine Edith Bowman dedicating a whole radio show to weird and wacky phobias, encouraging each caller to outdo the previous one so that it spirals from “I’m scared of the wee bits of crisps left over at the bottom of my crisp packet” to “I’m scared of chins!” to “I’m scared that if I don’t pee six times a day, my fanny will turn into a truncheon!”

Question these fake phobias.



Just question them.

Winch, Poke, Aye Right Then No Chance

Sorry for lack of blogging. I have lots of excuses lined up for you: I've been applying to university; I've been applying for funding; I've been covering tonnes of shifts at work for a girl who I don't particularly like (she thinks that all muslims come from "pakiland", she doesn't know what a stew is, and she only shits once a week).

If I hadn't been so distracted , I would have blogged much sooner about Snog Marry Avoid. I actually saw (what I now realise was) the pilot for this programme at the beginning of last summer, and was disappointed when I didn't see it again. I live on a street which is littered with 3 things: doner kebabs, seagulls, and ideal candidates for Snog Marry Avoid, so it's been fun to watch the people on the programme then look out my window to find one of their doppelgängers in close proximity, who I can then mentally make-under. And I mean mentally in both senses of the word; sometimes I'm in such a bad mood that my mental make-under involves dousing them in bleach and dressing them in underwear from Barnardos and clothes from Bonmarche.

The thing that makes this programme so entertaining is Jenny Frost's embarrassing presenting style. If you haven't seen it, imagine your 9 year old self as a TV presenter, all hand-actions and nervous grins and head-bops. That aside, it's hard to take her advocation of natural beauty seriously since she's visibly fried her hair, slathered on the fake tan, and quite obviously had a boob job. If the producers want to go for irony, they may as well go all out and get Ru Paul as the next presenter.

Gaykon

Listen to the theme tune of this cartoon from my youth, The Family Ness:



Listen to the theme tune of another cartoon favourite, Charlie Chalk:



Now listen to a song which is in the current UK top 10:



Aye, that's right. Popular music has gotten so pish that the theme tunes of early 90s cartoons sound like musical masterpieces in comparison.

Bawbox

Just thought I'd let you know about a game I made up at work with Dave. The name of the game is "Bawbox". Get yourself a cardboard box, and write BAWBOX on the side. Loads of people can play this game, and each contestant should have 4 balls, roughly tenny baw size. It's best if each contestant has a different colour of balls (haw haw).

Put Bawbox anywhere you like. For beginners I suggest keeping it at ground level maybe 6 metres away, but to make it harder you can put it on top of shelves/units. Each contestant must take it in turn to throw one of their balls into Bawbox. The aim is to get all your baws in the box.

However, we have devised a list of manoeuvre/outcome names for most circumstances that can arise while playing the game, so that it's fun even if you're crap.

SUMMARY OF BAWBOX OUTCOMES & MANOEUVRES

0 BAWS= NAE BAWS
1 BAW= HITLER
2 BAWS= BAWBAG
3 BAWS= FANNYBAWS
4 BAWS= FULL BAW
WHEN BAW ALMOST GOES IN= RIM BAW
WHEN BAW FALLS DOWN BACK= BAW BACK
WHEN BAW GOES MISSING= BAW HIDE
WHEN BAW HITS SOMEONE IN THE FACE= BAWJAWS
WHEN CONTESTANT CAN USE BOTH HANDS= AMBAWDEXTROUS
WHEN ALL CONTESTANTS GET ALL BAWS IN BOX= BAW DEEP

If you can think of anything else to add to this list, leave a comment with your idea. Fyi, I am terrible at Bawbox and normally my end score is a Hitler.

Princess Tiana

Angelina Jolie can finally stop whining about her daughter, Zahara, not having a black Disney princess to idolise, because Disney’s latest film “The Frog Princess” features Princess Tiana (below).



Of course, Disney is a corporation with a racist reputation (that is definitely not a line from my forthcoming rap song Disney Sound Good); Walt apparently hated Jews, and many people have nitpicked their way through Disney cartoons to find anything that could be construed as racist. Some of it I can totally see (the Siamese cats in Lady & the Tramp being shady; the fact that the monkeys in the Jungle Book are the only animals with African-American accents), whilst some is a bit tenuous (the implication that in Snow White, white equates to purity & beauty, whilst black (the Wicked Witch) is evil; this is something so ingrained in society that it goes much further back than Disney films).

Anyway, because of this reputation, it is no surprise that the whole black princess issue has caused some controversy. Do you want to know where the bone of contention lies? It lies in the fact that Princess Tiana falls in love with a white prince. People are raging because they feel that a white prince is a cop-out; it’s Disney’s way of keeping the racism alive by saying that a black prince wouldn’t suffice for the black princess, because white men are better. What are they going to say next? That the “frog” in the film title is actually Disney-speak for “wog”? This does my head in! If the prince was black, people would bitch that Disney was suggesting that black people should stick to their own race. I think their choice of a mixed-race relationship is great- it signifies acceptance.

And by the way, Angelina, while I totally understand your daughter’s need for a cartoon character she identifies with, everyone knows that Belle from Beauty & The Beast is where it’s at.

Twins

Ever seen Jo Brand and John Sergeant in the same room together? I have. They were both on QI last night, and Andrew noticed that they look exactly the same.



Fucking twins, man!

TWINS!

The sweet smell of excess.

Everyone always moans about smelly people with manly, beefy, overbearing B.O, but I'll tell you something- I'd rather smell the armpit of a darts player than be subjected to SWEET B.O!

Know what I mean? Lately I feel like I've come into more contact than usual with fat people who have that disgustingly sweet, cloying B.O. Yuk.

Sorry for making you imagine that smell. To make up for it, I have some good news: Limmy's TV programme starts this Wednesday (the 18th) on BBC 2 Scotland at 10pm. I'm really excited about it; I've been a fan of Limmy since I was 16, which sadly was a whole 6 years ago. So, aye. Watch it, I think it's going to be good. And if you haven't heard of Limmy, go on his website and watch his videos, play with his playthings, and read his blogs.

Wishaw > Glenrothes? Aye right.

Glenrothes has been named the most dismal town in Scotland. I've never been to Glenrothes before, but now I'm desperate to go. Seriously, next time I've got a day off and time to kill, I'm going to Glenrothes. I simply must see the town in Scotland which has beaten Wishaw to the title of Most Dismal.

Apparently, "Judges felt Glenrothes had failed to move with the times and said the town's Kingdom Centre shopping mall felt like a 1980s "timewarp". "

Have they never been to the Fourways Shopping Mall in Wishaw? Don't know why they've spelt it mall- it should be spelt maul, considering that's what it does to your senses. It is a hub for sweaty people with weeping sores and mouths like chickens arses. There is a pet shop where people can buy 20 budgies to add to their collection of 6 cats, 8 greyhounds, and 23 ferrets. There is a hairdresser who will only cut your hair into a mullet. There is a cafe in which you can purchase a roll and lard. Someone once got stabbed outside the Fourways.

You only need to drive through Wishaw in order to feel both sad and unwashed. Look out your window and you will see thousands of hollow eyes staring at you from grey faces. Even the ethnic minorities have grey skin. Everyone under the age of 14 is pregnant, even the boys. Life expectancy there is so low that you receive your pension at 18. You're posh in Wishaw if you shop in Lidl; most people graze in bins.

Legend has it that the person who named Wishaw was writing Wishawisnaehere on the sign, but someone kicked his head in before he could finish.

Tony Hart

RIP Tony Hart. My favourite story about Tony Hart (aye, because there's loads of them) is that he used to be in a secret relationship with Andi Peters.

Imagine this foursome:

Sorry I didn't make all the images the same size there, in a bit of a rush as I've got a bricky.

Vege-don'tcare-ian

Have you ever noticed how some vegetarians/vegans try to incorporate their eating habits into their personalities? Often, the fact that they don’t eat meat isn’t a by-the-by, or something that you discover a while into your friendship with them when you have them round for dinner; it is who they are. You click on their Facebook page and their “about me” section includes the line: “I am a vegetarian”. They’ve joined Facebook groups such as “Bitch, please…I’m vegetarian” and “…ACTUALLY I’m a vegetarian”, presumably in a bid to fill the big fat meat-free void in their lives with vast quantities of superiority.

I don’t want to know that you only eat vegetables! It’s like you telling me that you only do a jobby every Sunday- it makes me feel sad. To mention it in passing is acceptable, but to say you’re a vegetarian before launching, unprovoked, into a monologue containing the reasons for your bacon-deprived life is unnecessary. As I’m writing this, I’m beginning to disagree with myself. I’m thinking that, actually, sometimes it is quite interesting to find out why someone has turned to the dark side.

Wait a minute though- why do they get special treatment? It never crosses my mind to tell people that I’m an omnivore. A veggie will wait expectantly for you to ask them why they don’t eat meat, but when was the last time you heard the question: “So, how come you’re an omnivore then?”

Give yourself some special treatment, fellow omnivores. Tell people your reasons for eating whatever you like. Feel no shame in admitting that you’re too shady and selfish to care about animals when they taste so delicious. Then treat yourself to steak and potatoes, and relish the fact that you are eating vegetables in the most enjoyable way possible- with a big slab of meat.

Bummy

When you live in Glasgow, there are certain people who you see all the time roaming the streets. I always see: a wee old Chinese lady who wears a pale blue bucket hat and looks like a tortoise; Psycho Cowboy, who has bulging eyes (one bigger than the other), always wears a big hat & has a gammy leg; Electric Lily Savage, the lovechild of Electric Scarecrow and Paul O Grady; Red Mohawk guy (does my head in, I try not to look at him); and Trampy, the alcoholic homeless guy who used to sit on my step but has since moved on to Sauchiehall Street.

During the past week I have seen an interesting lady on a couple of occasions who I’m eager to add to the canon of Glasgow celebrities. Her name is Bummy* (see fig.1), because her tummy goes all the way down to her knees, and it sort of looks like a backwards arse; like someone is crouching inside her clothes and facing her fanny. I told my mum about Bummy and she was like “Oh that’s a shame, that must be really uncomfortable”, and she’s right- it is a shame. But it is a fascinating body to look at.

*

Orange Unsigned Act 2008

I’ve refrained for several weeks from writing about T4’s Orange Unsigned Act. If you haven’t seen it, it’s basically the X Factor for “people with talent” except, of course, anyone who is truly talented would steer clear of it. The judges of the show are: Lauren Laverne, who has no taste; Simon Gavin, a thinner Johnny Vegas and head of record label A&M; and Alex James, a complete wank.

I’m not sure why this programme has tried to present itself as the antithesis to the X Factor; if that were true, then surely the acts would have some freedom of expression. Every week at least one of the bands- who got through by the skin of their teeth the previous week- modifies their music so that it is more to the taste of whatever judge dislikes them the most, in a bid to win them over. So far, I’ve only heard one act who I thought was all right: a rapper named Pirelli, who was booted off because Alex James doesn’t like rap music. So, I’m sorry British public- Alex James can’t look at music objectively and would rather inflict yet another middle-of-the-road indie band on you than someone who has some semblance of originality, because indie music is all he knows and likes. He even had a dig at Toby Sebastian, the programme’s youngest contestant, for singing a song which was “so far removed from anything I’ve ever known that I can’t enjoy it.” Toby Sebastian, by the way, is not a purveyor of other-worldly weird music. He sounds, if anything, like a young Jack Johnson. Alex James has been living on a farm for so long that his music taste starts and stops at 1995.

As with most bad programmes, it is incredulity that keeps me watching. The word “originality” is constantly bandied about, and heaped upon certain acts who are anything but original- people who have ripped off another singer’s style entirely and have the indecency to parade this theft on television (and those who watch Unsigned Act will know exactly who and what I’m talking about.)

Simon Gavin, the guy who will be signing whoever wins, was responsible for signing Duffy last year. You know, she of the whiny, caterwauling, MOST HORRIBLE VOICE I’VE EVER HEARD. So really, the winner of this competition should feel utterly ashamed that the person who thinks that they are good also enjoys Duffy’s music. If that is good music, I don’t know what bad music sounds like. Ironically, there is more pride to be garnered from winning the X Factor, where at least you can take comfort in the knowledge that you’re in the same legion as the wonderful Girls Aloud.

A fun game to play

I always enjoy playing a good word/name game, particularly if they involve puns. My latest favourite game isn’t a pun game, though. It came about when I was thinking about peculiar baby names. Earlier this year, a few newspapers ran some “fun” articles about ridiculous names which some people had actually given their kids- my favourite, by far, was Violence. Anyway, I was wondering if there were any children of obsessive celebrity fans with names like Michael Jackson Jones, or Elton John Henderson. In Scotland, I think the only people who would give their children such names would be those who hold rappers (or DJs I suppose, but that can be another game) in highest reverence.

So this is the game: think of a rapper, then give them a typically Scottish surname. Or Irish, that works too. I keep calling it a game, but I suppose it is more of a mind occupier.

Some examples:

Snoop Dogg Sneddon
Eminem Semple
Kanye West McCafferty
Akon McFadyen
50 Cent Patterson
Coolio McKenzie
Tupac McKenna
Ludacris Mullen

Join in & post your own Scottish surnamed rappers (Scrappers?)

Legends vs "Legends"

King Arthur
A British leader who fought against the Anglo-Saxons in the 6th century. Or did he? His existence is contested by historians, and it is this which makes him a legend.


John Smeaton
An idiot, who really does exist.

Hole pounder

It used to be the case that social networking sites were predominantly littered with angsty, heavily eyelinered emo kids with their tattooed breasts out, and balding middle aged virgins with their cute wee semis tucked inside their yellowing pants. Most of these people were able to spell and construct a coherent sentence, but would sometimes self-consciously dabble in a bit of internet-speak. It would rarely get much worse than "Wot u up 2?"

However, the internet gradually became more affordable, and then Bebo was invented. Bebo was the Duplo to Myspace's Lego, and it thus invited a simpler breed of mind to latch onto the phenomenon of social networking.

Sometimes I will look at neds' Bebo pages just to see what they are chatting about, and to see how much more deplorable internet-speak (and general chat) has become.

Here is one example:

"AM ENGEGED
HiiD TAE TELL YoO
LOL
WiiT YoO BEEN DAiiN WAE YoORSELF...???
DoODLE BK
HiiV SUM LVE "

It's like reading dialogue in an Irvine Welsh novel. This person knows that "had", "to", and "doing", are the real words, but she wants everyone to know that this is how she talks in real life. I also don't doubt that she is aware of how to spell "you". Another thing I noticed is that some people say "lit" instead of "like":

"a no a wis lit tht"

And they write "cuttle" instead of "couple". I don't know if all of this is as interesting to you as it is to me, but I almost piss myself with incomprehension when I think of someone making the concerted effort to type "cuttle" instead of "couple".

It's not only their pronounciation spelling which makes for a good read; their patter in general is hilarious. I'm only going to post one of the things I read on a comments page, because it deserves to stand alone.

"awrite gawjuss...a wid pound the hole right aff u"

Surely if you pound a hole it's only going to get bigger?

My xbox means a lot to me..

The new xbox 360 adverts truly baffle me. I thought adverts were supposed to tell me that by purchasing their products, an enviable lifestyle consisting of sex appeal, sunbathing and a nicely furnished home would quickly ensue.



Watching that advert makes me feel like if I ever pick up an xbox 360 controller, I will morph slowly into Stephen Hawking.

Well done, you're a knob. Have a prize!

I was reading up about the winner and runners up of this year’s Turner Prize the other day, and was suitably under whelmed by the concepts being put forward as contemporary art. A guy called Mark Leckey won it, for a film he’s made which features clips from telly he likes (Felix the Cat and Titanic apparently), while he tells the viewer, in rhyming couplets, why he likes those clips. I am now going to directly quote from the Independent:

“Leckey was short listed alongside Runa Islam, whose video shows women smashing crockery; Cathy Wilkes, whose sculpture features a mannequin on a lavatory; and Goshka Macuga’s installations, comprised of “found” objects.”

Naturally, I was bowled over by the originality of these ideas. Something feminist, something which depicts the everyday life of a human, and something which is so textbook pretentious art wank that it makes me want to eat a plate full of bawbags.

Maybe the installations become profound and interesting when you see them in real life, but maybe I just said that to offer a counter-opinion to show that I’m trying to give you a more balanced view of the Turner Prize finalists.

I have come to the conclusion that it is easy to win the Turner Prize. In fact, I came up with my own idea for an entry in the space of 2 minutes while sitting in a busy café next to a bunch of English screen writers who kept shouting their opinions of recently viewed short films at each other (“YEAH? YEAH WHAT WOULD YOU GIVE THAT FILM OUT OF 5? YEAH BUT WHAT DO YOU THINK THE TURNING POINT IS? OH MY GOD IT REMINDED ME OF THAT SHITE DEMI MOORE FILM FROM 1995 WHAT WAS IT CALLED? I’M A PRICK? YEAH!)

My entry has nothing to do with those screen writers, I just wanted to give you an idea of the kind of distractions that were going on around me when I was trying to get into my pretentious brain storming “zone”. So my idea is this: My part of the art gallery would be set up like a kitchen, just one of Ikea’s example kitchens or something. There is a midget in the kitchen, and he hasn’t got a stool or anything, so he cant reach the sink or the hobs. All day, while the gallery is open, the midget just walks about the kitchen trying and failing to do any kitchen related activities. I call it “FutiliTEA? Sorry, I can‘t make it.”

"Your baby is hot"

After the annoying couples countdown list on BBC 3, I thought that it would be a while before a list came along to top it in terms of what I like to call The WHIT? Factor. But barely a month has gone by and I have already found a contender:

http://www.forbes.com/2008/11/10/suri-cruise-hollywood-biz-media-cx_ls_lr_1110celebbabies.html

If you click on the link above, you will be transported to a list which is called “Hollywood’s Hottest Tots”. HOTTEST tots? Sexy children? Tasty toddlers? Baby babes? Kids who are rides?

I’m not even going to go into a “which paedo created this list?” rant -which is obviously the first thing that comes to mind when you read “Hollywood’s Hottest Tots” -because this list was created by two idiotic women who probably subscribe to the Paris Hilton school of patter.

My main concern is this: I bet this is the beginning of another terrible word trend. Years ago there was probably a website featuring a list called “Ten Most Random People Ever”, which sparked serious disbelief and outrage amongst normal people who can speak proper English due to the misuse of the word “random”. Perhaps they thought it’d never catch on, but look at us all now, “randomly” walking down the street bumping into “randoms” who are wearing “random” clothes because they’re going to a “random” gig to see a “random” band.

In a few years time you’ll be meeting up with old school friends and telling them that their babies are really hot whilst patting your swollen pregnant stomach and saying that you hope your baby is going to be as hot as their baby.

Know what annoys me the most? Violet Affleck - Jennifer Garner and Ben Affleck’s kid - wasn’t even on the list and she is, like, WELL totally hotter than Cruz Beckham!