whit?

Sew fanny lol

2011-12-28T02:57:00.003Z

Have you all seen Funny or Die's Drunk History series? Many of you probably have because it’s been around for ages and most of you are, no doubt, friends of mine who I’ve recommended these videos to. But if you haven’t, give them a watch. The premise is this: someone (often, but not always, a comedian) gets really drunk and then chats about a historical event, which is acted out by some famous actors. You get to see the storyteller get progressively more steaming and inevitably embellishing or fucking up the story, intercut with nicely shot scenes in which the actors mime along to the storyteller’s slurred voice. They’re all really funny (this is a personal favourite) and are about 10 minutes long, so there’s not a lot of commitment involved there on your part, you slut.

Which leads me on nicely to vaginoplasty. Except it doesn’t, I’m sorry. I only led with talking about Drunk History because I’m sitting in bed right now, drinking whisky to flood my sore, scratchy throat with numb warmth, and I’m about to chat to you about something I don’t know that much about. Vaginoplasty. A fucking horrible word, befitting of a horrible surgical trend.

Plastic surgery is generally pretty stupid. Not so much reconstructive surgery, but the kind of surgery that arises from a potent mix of vanity and insecurity. It’s easy to judge people for filling their tits with plastic until they look like upturned skin-covered salad bowls, or pumping up their lips until they’re so big that they inadvertently get off with everyone they walk past. But I can’t judge people who do it too harshly, because our shite, celebrity-and-image-obsessed (and more to the point, patriarchal) culture means that many of us alter our appearance in some way to gain even a modicum of social acceptance.

So to an extent, I get it. I really do. It’s that whole peacock thing. Except instead of dazzling people with your impressive spread of feathers, you want to strut around and knock them out with your big ol’ titties or frozen-in-time face or luscious mane of arse-length plastic hair. You want people to look at your fish mouth and see a blowjob factory. You want people to clap eyes on your washboard gastric-banded stomach and think “THAT’S where my future baby is going to hang out, right there motherfucker!”

Which leads me on nicely to vaginoplasty.

Except it doesn’t really, does it? Because unless you’re going commando in clingfilm trousers, nobody’s going to see your fanny until you decide to show it to them. “Oh, but I’m having my labia reshaped for myself, not for anyone else,” a prospective vaginoplasty patient might say. Uh-huh, sure. “Am I fuck doing it for other people,” they scream indignantly. “I’m doing it for ME. ME!” Aye, but even if you are mainly doing it for yourself, you are still probably doing it because of, and therefore indirectly for, others. And really, how often do you get a mirror out to gaze lovingly at your cunt? You total spanner.

So before any of you go and get your fannies remodelled, there are several things you may want to consider. Mull these points over until you’ve decided that actually, that £4k could go towards a deposit on a house, or a few months travelling, or 40,000 mini packets of Haribo Starmix.

1. Every vagina is different. I’ve watched a lot of porn. I’ve never seen one and thought it looks especially picturesque, nor have I found any of them particularly disgusting. They all look a bit weird, but that’s just genitals for you. (Don't believe me? Just Google 'dick' to see how funny they can get!)

2. Any man or woman who loves you could not give a flying fuck about what your fanny looks like, so long as it feels nice and the taste doesn’t make them want to vomit all over your pubic mound.

3. If you ever hear somebody criticising the way someone’s fanny looks, it’s because they’ve hardly seen any in real life and have barely any grounds for comparison. And they are lacking in chat so much that they’ve been reduced to discussing someone’s lopsided labia.

4. You will not be able to seduce someone solely by whispering seductively, “I have a designer vagina”. Actually, to be honest, that’s not true. But you don’t want to be with a person who was lured by that line, do you?

5. IT’S JUST A FANNY.

Jimmy Vagina

2011-09-21T15:31:00.006+01:00

I've gotten into the habit of listening to the Chris Evans breakfast show while driving to work in the morning. My options are fairly limited; Chris Moyles on Radio 1 (no explanation necessary as to why I don't listen); Someone with Shite Patter on Real Radio (usually a man and a woman who communicate in terrible sexual innuendo punctuated by hysterical laughter at offensively unfunny in-jokes, with a smattering of awkward Scottish colloquialisms that would probably be delivered with more conviction on River City); or Someone with Shite Patter on Clyde 1 (please see previous bracket).

But Chris Evans has Moira Stuart reading the news, which is reason alone to choose his show. She joins in with the between-news conversation too, and has this wonderful, childlike-but-throaty giggle that fills me with absolute joy. I often hear sappy guys going on about how happy they feel when the girl they like smiles or laughs. Now I understand. I feel it with Moira.

The downside to daytime Radio 2 is the rubbish music. There are maybe a couple of decent songs every hour if you're lucky, but the rest of the time it's bland-as-they-come dad pop. So while Radio 1 will be blasting whatever phlegm Bruno Mars is currently hocking, Radio 2 will match it with James Blunt's latest dirgefest.

And HOLY SHIT, you need to hear his latest song, Dangerous. At first my natural reaction was to assume it was a joke. Then I remembered that James Blunt isn't funny. It's the most ridiculous song I have heard in a long, long time. Blunt has taken two songs - each of which in my experience appeals more to one sex than the other - and then combined them in, I presume, a bid to appeal to as many people as possible.

He has taken the melody of the verse of Chesney Hawkes' The One and Only, and the chorus of Flashdance favourite Maniac. Add his insipid girlish voice and some lyrics that he probably stole from your bin when you were 13, and you have the ingredients for the worst song I have heard all year. Including Rebecca Black's Friday.

JAMES BLUNT MATHS

ONE 'TOTAL CLASSIC' BY A 'TOTAL LEGEND'

+ ONE 'TOTAL CLASSIC' FROM A 'LEGENDARY' FILM

+ MINDLESS, DRIBBLING, UNQUESTIONING, HOPEFULLY PARTIALLY DEAF, LISTENERS

= AN APTLY-TITLED SONG CONSIDERING HOW DETRIMENTAL IT IS TO YOUR MENTAL HEALTH

The Pop Cop

2011-08-10T13:57:00.002+01:00

Just thought some of you might like to know that I now also write for Scottish music blog The Pop Cop (that, paired with full-time employment and a few other writing projects means that this blog isn't updated often enough- I'm sorry!)

Here are the links to my two recent posts:

What I think about music reviews

and

My live review of TITP (this one sparked a lot of debate so I recommend you read this one first!)

A new post will be up here soon. In the meantime, you should amuse yourselves with my new favourite website, Animals Being Dicks. Enjoy!

Love of the loveless

2011-06-26T14:22:00.002+01:00

Years ago, I had a blog on Myspace. Since it's dead, I'm going to tenderly relocate those old posts to this blog. This will be a fun read for you, since they were topical at the time and are now therefore untimely and irrelevant, which goes against everything the internet stands for. I'm already getting raging about people who are still posting variations of the joke "My girlfriend left me because I touch pasta too much. I'm feeling canelloni right now" - FUCK SAKE GUYS, that joke was all over the internet, like, two weeks ago. But if I say they are VINTAGE, then that makes it ok. So here you go: a vintage post about Valentine's Day.

Don't let my acerbic quips fool you into thinking that I am an arsehole. I am no ordinary arsehole. I am a romantic arsehole. If I see a smelly, pished man wearing spunk- and shite-stained trousers walking hand in hand with a toothless, liver-spotted hag, my first thought isn't "clatty bastards" but "aww, they're holding hands!".

I am discerning about most film genres, but I will devour anything which has the remotest hint of a love story. Anything. I have no interest in the real-life stories in women's magazines, unless they have a headline like: "I'm not a pussy, but I do have one – and I wish he'd remember…" followed by a tantalising first paragraph which might read: "Janette looks lovingly at her husband Paul, who is sitting in a vegetative state, drooling, in an armchair in the livingroom of the home in which they have lived together for 30 years. For the past 10 years, Paul has awoken every morning with no recollection of who his wife is. In fact, Paul thinks Janette is a cat, and Janette spends every single day convincing her husband that she is in fact a woman. 'He usually realises I'm not a cat by about 10pm every night, and then it's bed time at 10:30', says Janette, her eyes glazed with tears. Read on for the affirmation that true love exists." I feel sorry for my future husband, who will have to deal with me worrying on a daily basis that he is going to turn mental or drop dead from Sudden Adult Death Syndrome (it happened to Sheila fae Govan's husband! Woman's Weekly told me!).

I think my romanticisation of romance stems from the yearning I went through as a 10 / 11 year old for a boyfriend on Valentine's Day. I was not a sexy child. I wasn't the girl in primary 7 whose mother let her wear high heels and short skirts to school. I was a VL when all my classmates were fully-fledged snogging champions of the playground (fucking sick though, eh, 10 year olds having a tongue-fest). I used to fancy lots of boys but they didn't fancy me back, apart from Ian Johnstone, but he fancied everyone including Kirsty Cross who looked like the result of the fornication between a cabbage patch kid and Chris Evans. I can slag her off here all I want without feeling guilty because she will never read this. I went round to her house once and it reeked of pickled onions mixed with greyhounds. Her (fat as fuck) dad used to sit in the living room all day every day, in complete darkness - the lights were never on and the blinds and curtains were always closed, even in summer - slumped in front of the TV, occasionally emitting low grunts. Her mum looked like a pug. I suppose cabbage & pug fornication is more accurate than cabbage patch kid and Chris Evans. Anyway, back to Valentine's Day in p7. Everyone had their own wee trays in the classroom, and when the bell went at playtime some people lingered behind to sneak their homemade Valentine's cards into the trays of the people they fancied. All day man, all day, people were going into their trays and discovering cards but I didn't get a single one! And then people were asking each other out and being official boyfriend and girlfriend and I felt sad.

So I think this is why I can't in all seriousness brush off Valentine's Day as a shite commercial day, devoid of meaning in a consumer-driven society. Going through those sensitive years without getting any cards meant that when I did eventually start getting them half-way through high school, I was happy in an embarrassingly geeky way. No-one seems to be that bothered about celebrating Valentine's Day anymore, and I want to know why. You give someone a birthday card to celebrate the fact that they've made it through another year alive, so why not give someone something to celebrate the fact that you love/fancy them? "But why should I do something on a designated day? I can prove my love for someone at any time" – Oh fuck off you wank and just play the game.

Make someone a cake, draw them a picture, write them a wee story, make their dinner. Even if it's just one of your pals. Tell someone you fancy them; everyone likes being told that. Give someone a cheeky wee snog. Not babies though. Don't try and snog a baby.

Eight signs MSN is making you fat (with cakes of ignorance)

2011-06-17T00:17:00.004+01:00

I’ve got a confession to make: I’m still clinging on to my Hotmail email address. Like my collection of bad tapes and CDs purchased throughout the 90s (Hanson, N-Trance, North and South) and the top I wore when I first kissed someone with tongues at a school disco (bought from chic fashion emporium Quiz Clothing), I’ve got a sentimental attachment to it that I just can’t sever. Of course, I have a gmail address so that future employers don’t add me to the rejected retard CV pile entitled ‘Comic Sans etc.’ And it’s not quite as bad as Armando Ianucci’s recent admission that, perhaps in a bid to win the affections of Meg Ryan in the 90s, he still uses AOL. But it’s maybe about 60% as bad.

Right, so now that you know my reasons for reading the news items and features on the MSN website, I can comfortably bitch about it.

I used to just ignore the articles I saw on MSN. When you’re on a website for one particular reason, you tend to ignore all the other possible reasons to be on that site because you quite simply don’t give a fuck. Like being on Facebook and ignoring anything Farmville-related, or never clicking on “woman sucks off horse” while on Redtube.

However, one day an article caught my eye. It was called ‘Eight signs your boyfriend is making you fat.’ I know this to be exactly true because they have just posted it back up in the hope that nobody will remember that it was there last year. Well guess what, MSN? I remember. Do you want know why I remember? BECAUSE IT WAS AS UNFORGETTABLY STUPID AS THE TIME COCO POPS TRIED TO CHANGE ITS NAME TO CHOCO KRISPIES.

Here is how it begins:

“You've met the man of your dreams, he's whisked you off your feet, your friends love him, your mum wants him as a son-in-law and even your dad's grunted his approval. The only problem is, the happier you get, the tighter your jeans feel.”

Yes, MSN, yes! My dad is a man so he grunts, yes! I eat when I’m happy, yes! Getting fat is a problem, yes! You know me! You really know me! Are you me?! That was the jovial mockery running through my head. So I continued to read:

“It may well be that now you have settled into a relationship you no longer feel the need to diet or exercise as much as you used to, and the very thing you always wanted (a boyfriend) is causing you to pile on the pounds (the very thing you didn't want).”

..... are you shitting me? I keep trying to put into words how reading that makes me feel, but I can’t, which is useless, since you’re sitting there waiting for words. But I have no words about that. Other than: the very thing I’ve always wanted is a dog, and I spent half my childhood shovelling pies down my throat in the hope I would get a wee bit fat and be bootylicious like Beyonce and J-Lo.

“Shut up you fat, pathetic, Bridget-Jones-worshipping bitch,” scolded MSN:

“You've found a boyfriend - Mission Accomplished! (YAY! I ACHEEVD MY MISHUN! YAY! I ACHEEVD MY BF MISHUN! I CAN BURN MY COPY OF “HE’S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU” COZ HE OBVS IS! YAY! MISHUN CUMPLISHED! ) Why bother trying to look good anymore? Unfortunately, many women find that, consciously or unconsciously, they slip into a comfort rut when a relationship turns into a long-term thing, even though their health (not to mention the relationship itself) can suffer as a result. “

I’ll tell you something else that many women find, MSN. Many women find that their appearance remains exactly the same while in a relationship, because they like to look good. Not because they want to impress men, but because it feels nice to not be cutting about in shite clothes with shite hair. Many women also find that their boyfriends get fat as fuck as their relationship progresses. Sometimes they experiment with growing a ‘tache and look like textbook paedos for a month. Sometimes they develop a penchant for wearing football tops with suit jackets. Sometimes, it’s them asking us if their arse looks fat.

“When you ask your boyfriend, "does this outfit make me look fat?" or "does my bum look big in this?", how does he respond? His answer can tell you a lot about your relationship and the future prospects for you figure. The majority of men, regardless of how you actually look, will of course reply with a resounding "no", both out of loyalty to you and the fact that they'll do anything for a quiet life. It's sweet that he doesn't want to hurt your feelings, but if you are putting on weight then you need to know about it.”

Oh golly, where would I be without your advice MSN? You’re like a modern-day Bunty annual. You’re like if Dear Deirdre and Danny Dyer had a cyber baby. All of my boyfriends have been lying to me this entire time! For a quiet life, no less! I am going to curl out a massive turd from my even more massive arse, and post segments of it to them in nicely-wrapped gift boxes. That’ll learn ‘em. Pah!

If you want to see more articles similar to ‘Eight signs your boyfriend is making you fat,’ head on over to MSN, pronto. You can find out ‘The secrets men keep from you’ (including: “Sometimes I just don’t want to be with you”, “You remind me of your mother” and “You seem to get PMT more than once a month”). You can also gain some really intelligent insights into the male psyche in a piece titled ‘Why men are as shallow as women,’ like: “talking to attractive women makes men literally lose their minds.” I just realised it sounds like I made those articles up. I didn't.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m away to get my fat arse into shape so that I can get a boyfriend who will hopefully be honest and tell me that my shapely arse is fat.

Le Geek, c'est Cunt

2011-04-18T00:30:00.005+01:00

As I’ve made clear in previous blogposts, I’ve never fancied the stereotypical “hot” guys who reduce many of my peers to quivering, moist-fannied, simper-tons. In early high school I spent two years staring longingly at a quiet boy whose head was shaped like a coconut and who knew more countries’ capital cities than me, while all the girls chased after a guy who wore a gold hoop in his ear, a dirty smirk on his face, and judging by his wankstains was only good at colouring in with his dick. My favourite Backstreet Boy wasn’t Brian - who, like a 90s version of Dermot o’Leary, looked like the kind of guy who goes to bed at 9 every night and smells of Hovis - or Nick, who was two breasts and a slick of lipgloss away from being a girl, but bespectacled weirdo AJ. I’ve harboured a crush on Louis Theroux since the moment I clapped eyes on him, and I would sooner let moth larvae crawl all over my body than go out with somebody who doesn’t know the difference between their, there and they’re.

So what does this mean? Well, it means I like intelligent men who have charisma and personality, for a start. Guys who prowl around with erections and bad chat up lines are about as appealing as a Rustlers burger (and probably take the same amount of time to, eh, ‘ping’). However, some have commented that it means I am ‘into geeks’. In the past I might have agreed, and would have even labelled myself as being one. But now? No chance. The word has lost its meaning.

The word ‘geek’ used to have a bit of a negative social stigma attached to it. Not that that’s why I liked it; that’s just the way it was. It meant that you worked hard at school or uni and so were perceived to not have much of a social life (because, of course, these things are mutually exclusive) or had a passion for or deep knowledge of something obscure that fell outside the boundaries of acceptable interests in popular culture. Sometimes it just meant you were a specky virgin. Geeks usually fell into two categories: the self-aware, and the blissfully oblivious. The former would generally try and hide the extent to which they were a geek by pretending to be a bit cool, while the latter would saunter around happily, quite often in a pair of ankle-grazing trousers.

But now, in this post-Seth Cohen world, everyone is clambering to be a geek. In case you didn’t watch The OC, Seth was a socially-awkward Jewish teenager who had a ‘neat’ collection of plastic dinosaurs and comics, loved Star Wars, and was a big fan of Death Cab for Cutie. In short, he was several geek cliches rolled into one skinny, handsome package. But, crucially, he was successful with women and became a bit of an icon (and pin-up) for teenagers who watched the programme. The show was aired between 2003-2007, and I think mainstream media post-OC has been pivotal in elevating geeks from exile to exaltation.

Am I pleased about it? Am I fuck. ‘Geekdom’ has become another mass-marketed subculture being lapped up left, right and centre by wanks who believe it gives them a bit of an edge. It was laying low for a while, but this shit is getting serious; even neds are wearing cardigans now. It goes hand in hand with ‘twee’ culture, which I could spend paragraphs defining but it would be easier to articulate with a series of words and phrases: fake glasses; an obsession with tea (most people drink and enjoy tea, why do you believe it is intrinsic to your personality?); tweed; brogues; sappy syrupy female vocalists covering an ‘unexpected’ song; granny chic; having a blog dedicated to the different cupcakes you make; ironic knitted jumpers adorned with animals faces. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with some of these pursuits when done in earnest or with conviction, but they rarely are, in the same way that 80% of people who wear Ramones t-shirts aren’t Ramones fans.

There is a bar/club/restaurant in Glasgow called Hillhead Bookclub, which has a sign at the door stating “books are cool”, when the venue and the events that occur within it have fuck all to do with books. The club has been cultivated to be kitsch; everything has been carefully thought out with their faux-geek clientele in mind, from the menu beamed on the wall by a projector to the ping pong tables and retro games consoles. The staff there (so I have been told) are informed by management not to ask customers if everything is ok, but to say “Is everything awesome with that?”

No, nothing is ‘awesome’ with that. There are so many things wrong with that, that I can’t even..... I just want to..... I .....FUCK.

The inspiration for this blogpost came from recent (separate) encounters with a few guys mock-abashedly apologising to me for ‘being a geek’ after talking to me about history, or dinosaurs, or space. “Ha, sorry, I’m just such a geek,” they would say, after telling me a good fact or story. You’re sorry, are you? You’re really sorry? Oh, piss off and go masturbate over Professor Brian Cox. I’M sorry. Sorry that you believe having interesting interests is geeky, and sorry that you think that highlighting the fact that you think you’re a geek will get you your hole.

Let's end this with a feasible glimpse into the future of Danny Dyer.

Watch at your Pearl.

2009-08-05T23:18:00.004+01:00

Burd Chat

2009-07-25T21:10:00.003+01:00

Girls tend to fall into 3 categories: girly girls, in-betweenies, and lesbians. I am definitely in the middle; I squeal when I see a puppy and I get excited about going shopping, but I would have no qualms about shooting a seagull with a BB gun.

It's quite good being an in-betweenie, but I find myself occasionally alienated from certain aspects of girl chat. Here are topics that I can't really get excited about:

Wedding dresses
I can't tell what a good wedding dress is. I know what a bad one is- a bad one looks like a meringue and is covered in too many frills and/or sequins. But I've seen women erupt into spasms of joy over a dress which is just a plain satin block of white- not necessarily bad, but not remarkable either. And they're not just saying that the bride looks lovely, which she invariably does, they are saying specifically that the dress is lovely. How do they know? Are they just saying it because it's a standard thing to say?

Diamonds
They aren't my best friend. What's so good about them? When I think of diamonds, I don't think of glamorous old Hollywood stars; I think of 50 cent with a diamond stud in his ear, and Paris Hilton who sprinkles so many things with diamonds that I wouldn't be surprised if her vagina is encrusted with them.

Receiving flowers from men
Flowers are nice and everything but there's no point in spending more than a tenner on them, because they will die in a week. Receiving a dozen red roses isn't sweet or cute or romantic, it's boring. I think I'd rather have £30 worth of Space Raiders.

Vin Diesel
Big muscly sweaty meat head. I don't get what's so fanciable about big beefy men with gormless faces, but I suppose this is the female equivalent of men who read Nuts & Zoo and fancy anyone with big boobs, even if she looks like this:

Rowntree's Randoms

2009-07-06T19:11:00.002+01:00

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

2009-06-25T18:27:00.004+01:00

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

2009-05-08T17:20:00.002+01:00

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

2009-05-04T14:38:00.003+01:00

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

2009-04-06T22:59:00.003+01:00

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

2009-03-24T15:14:00.002Z

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

2009-03-18T22:31:00.002Z

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

2009-02-28T18:40:00.002Z

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.

2009-02-16T18:37:00.002Z

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.

2009-01-30T22:32:00.004Z

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

2009-01-20T18:56:00.004Z

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

2009-01-16T15:21:00.000Z

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

2009-01-10T19:49:00.001Z

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.

*

A fun game to play

2008-12-20T17:40:00.001Z

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"

2008-12-15T22:35:00.004Z

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

2008-12-13T18:26:00.003Z

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..

2008-12-11T15:52:00.004Z

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!

2008-12-04T20:44:00.002Z

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"

2008-11-28T21:07:00.001Z

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!

Grandad

2008-11-26T22:34:00.002Z

A couple of weekends ago I visited my grandparents, who live in a tiny village up north called Auchenblae. I always enjoy visiting them, and like nothing better when there than to just sit and listen to my very drunk grandad talk. He was very sharp when he was a younger old man, but I think he’s going a bit mental in his bonafide old age; he fed me and my sister a pizza which contained all of the following toppings: cheese, tomato, pineapple, hotdog sausage, chicken, sardines, and ham. It was baw rank.

My grandad is nothing like the Werther’s Originals grandad. When my auntie was a little girl, my grandad used to tell her that the reason she had blonde hair and her sisters had brown hair was because she was adopted. He used to call my other auntie "miss piggy", and he called my mum Spock. When I was a not-that-long-out-the-womb baby, he fed me a spoonful of curry powder and pissed himself laughing when I cried. My gran once ran over a deer when she was driving, and was very upset about it- even moreso when my grandad put the deer in the back boot of the car to eat later on. When asked to describe him, people will say “he’s a real character” if they’re in a good mood, or “he’s a prick” if they’re grumpy. The verbally unadventurous kids of today would probably label him a “legend”. Aye, you can’t wait to read my future blog about the brain-paining overuse of that word.

I wrote down some of my favourite things my grandad said when I was visiting (well, the ones I deemed politically correct enough to share with you):

To my gran: “Quiet woman, or I’ll put you in a home.”

When talking about an Asian guy from a call centre who tried to sell him something: “He said ‘I have good deal for you’. I said ‘No, you don’t have good deal. You have nothing. Bye bye.’”

After drinking a bottle of wine (this reminded me of Withnail): “This wine is making me sweat”

My personal favourite:
Grandad: “What’s that band called?”
Me (confused, as I wasn‘t listening to music at the time): “What band?”
Grandad: “Eh…Las…. Las Vegas?”
Me: “Glasvegas?”
Grandad: “Glasvegas! Load of rubbish.”

So we can now deduce that he hasn’t gone mental at all. Hurrah!

Observation

2008-11-21T17:16:00.003Z

How many Scottish women look like Rod Stewart? Hunners. Next time you're going about your daily business, you'll notice loads of them. Particularly in the shopping precinct of Sauchiehall Street (Savoy Centre is a top spot), and anywhere in Wishaw.

Tickle My Pickle

2008-11-13T23:05:00.001Z

My friend Christopher once berated me for saying that Frankie Boyle is dead, dead, dead funny, because “he goes for the easy laughs”. I felt a bit ashamed at the time, because buckling at everything Frankie Boyle says is probably the comedic version of listening to and feeling aurally fulfilled by every Oasis album; I’ll be in stitches over every word Frankie utters on Mock The Week, and so will a guy in his mid-30s wearing a bucket hat that he bought at T in the Park in 1996. Frankie’s patter rarely has the ‘possible alienation’ factor of, for instance, Stephen Fry’s. There’s a slim chance that bucket hat man would chuckle at a misplaced semi-colon. So what though? I could easily sit through an entire live set of Frankie Boyle making consecutive paedo jokes, then go home and devour Fry’s autobiography until I fall asleep.

I’m reluctant to be elitist about comedy, because a person’s sense of humour is multi-dimensional. I love crude jokes, puns (good and bad), intelligent observations, astute social commentary, camp humour, and the noise Chewbacca makes. The funniest person I’ve ever seen doing stand up was a pre-eyeliner Russell Brand at the Edinburgh Festival 5 years ago, but he’s a far-cry from the comedian whose blog I read every day - Brian Limond, aka Limmy. The funniest books I’ve read are by Karl Pilkington. The TV programme which makes me laugh the most is Curb Your Enthusiasm. If one of my pals professes a love for comedians I don’t like (such as Simon Amstell or Jimmy Carr), I won’t slag them for it, because I can usually see what they see in that person.

I cannot, however, see what anyone over the age of 10 sees in Lee Evans. He isn’t funny. I’ve watched his stand-up a few times to see why he is a famous comedian, and the bastard didn’t even make me smile. So, with the current economic climate in mind, I have a wee tip for any Lee Evans fans who plan on buying tickets to see him live: don’t. Instead, go home to see your parents and ask your mum to lay out a baby mat. Lie on the baby mat and get her to dangle Tickle Me Elmo in front of your face. After half an hour of pissing yourself laughing at that, arrange some obstacles on your living room floor and ask your dad to run about blindfolded. This will ensure he trips over a lot, LOL.

And there you have it - the same level of humour that Lee Evans provides for the price of a few bruises on your dad’s knees. You’ll probably get some decent scran too.

Organic Babies & Racist Yoga

2008-11-08T17:13:00.001Z

I recently watched a programme on BBC3 called “Most Annoying Couples”, mainly because it’s always on when I turn on the TV. And partly because I normally love these programmes; the familiarity of their format, the z-list commentary, the fact that no matter what kind of list they’re counting down they always manage to squeeze in a “mind that theme tune?” section where it shows 3 celebrities in succession humming a theme tune (this time round, it was the Chucklevision theme.)

This programme succeeded in making me feel annoyed, though my annoyance didn’t derive from the so-called annoying couples (I hope that sentence annoyed you. Annoy annoy annoy). For a start, can you think of 100 particularly annoying famous couples? Naw. Neither could they. So the list consisted of every celebrity couple they could think of, as well as duos like the Chuckle brothers and Ant & Dec, with shite reasons as to why that couple is annoying. Brad and Angelina? Too attractive. Peter Crouch & Abigail Clancy? He is too tall and ugly.

As with all of these programmes, there were a few entries which simultaneously made me go “Aw aye, they should definitely be on the list” and “Here, if they’re number 56, I wonder who’s going to be number 1..” like Neil & Christine Hamilton, Kerry Katona & her man who has a spade-face, Peter Andre & Jordan; all genuinely irritating people. But which couple made it to number 1? Fucking Gwyneth Paltrow & Chris Martin. Because they don’t let the paparazzi take pictures of them, and they like organic food and yoga. Lots of journalists on the programme were spitting venom about Gwyneth & Chris. To incite that kind of hatred you’d expect them to be a couple who eat organic babies and practise racist yoga (whereby every manoeuvre has a derogatory racist insult as its name). It was just like high school: journalists = popular people, Paltrow & Martin = boring geeks who the popular people poke fun at, Kerry Katona = school slag who gets faintly mocked but who is still “a good laugh”, mainly because sometimes she shows the popular people her fanny.

There weren‘t really any funny comedians offering their opinions on each couple, either. Instead, I was subjected to the musings of Jodie Marsh and The Hamiltons. Jodie Marsh was asked what she thought of Charlotte Church & Gavin Henson. I don’t know about you, but I rarely think of that couple, and when I do I don’t feel particularly annoyed. I don’t feel anything. They’re boring. Jodie, though, described them as having “no decorum”. NO DECORUM? From the woman who went out in public wearing two belts “strategically” strapped across her tits, as a top! From the woman who shagged a member of Blazin’ Squad and told everyone about it! Then, just as my incredulity had reached what I thought was its peak, she described Gavin as being “really orange”. Funny, because every time I drink Irn Bru I get the fear that I’m drinking liquidised Jodie Marsh.