Deal? No Thanks.

Let's get one thing straight. I am not averse to mind-numbingly idiotic television. Indeed, I am a major fan of such tripe as ANTM, where girls of varying degrees of attractiveness vie for the chance to grace the cover of some shit tween mag and gain the widespread ridicule of the modelling industry and, indeed, the wider world. Indeed, I daresay my ludicrous love of said programme shall provide fodder for a future blog post. Hold your breath!

However, my tolerance has its bounds. And daily, those bounds are strained. "By what?" I hear you mumble uninterestedly. Since I love you, I'll give you a clue:


Some clue, eh?

Yes, it's Deal or No Deal, arguably the most infuriating piece of formatted luck-quiz ever to dribble its way out of the feverish mind of a former children's entertainer. A rare(ish) blight on Channel 4's otherwise healthy schedule, DoND (roffle) is a loving ode to stupidity, mediocrity and Britain's entitled underpublic. My dissatisfaction with this show (to use a mild term) stems from numerous niggles, which I shall now detail to tediously cathartic effect. Wake up! I'm about to say some harsh words. That's why you're here, innit? Aye. So here we go!

My first and potentially greatest bugbear with this televised shit is that skill and/or intelligence is not rewarded. Quite the opposite, in fact. Indeed, contestants are encouraged to flaunt their various worthless abilities such as cake decoration, blindness, or extreme pikiness. In themselves, these abilities and the countless others presented pathetically on a daily basis are acceptable. Everyone has a party piece, no? I for one can tie my cock in a bow, a quite splendid feat when performed with the necessary aplomb at a suitable occasion (ie a dinner party or family Christening). However, I would not expect the British General Public to be subjected to my tangled genitals as they chowed down on their Crispy Pancakes. Additionally, I would not expect my mildly interesting penile display to encourage the public to will me to success.

Despite this, a cavalcade of gauche students, pub-dart champions and other assorted weirdoes are trotted out in front of us every single day. Call me crazy (don't), but I like my gameshows to involve an element of ability on the part of the participant. Exemplars of successful models are The Crystal Maze, The Krypton Factor and University Challenge. The aforementioned shows require some form of genuine ability to beat, and - interestingly - offer little financial or material reward for success, despite their gargantuan difficulty levels. The implication seems to be that emerging victorious in these contests is reward enough in itself, as it is a genuine marker of intelligence or skill. Conversely, DoND (roffle) rewards...well, nothing. Not only is the jackpot nigh-on unobtainable (at time of writing, only two Britons have won the £250,000 prize), but the achievement of a succesful outcome has its basis in chance. Yes folks, it's entirely random.

Which is my next major source of aggravation. The show's outcome is completely random. Again, not a problem in itself, but Mr Edmonds and his loyal herd of imbecilic box-fanatics maintain that some tactical element is involved. We hear them speak of "good games", "bad moves" and "tactical errors". I cannot emphasise enough that these are all misnomers implemented to distract the viewers and contestants that they are merely watching people open boxes. I mean, what!? Tension is manufactured around randomly selected fools randomly opening boxes which represent random amounts of cash. I mean, this randomness isn't even a new format! My advice? Instead of perpetuating this charade, make the programme stop. Channel 4, I implore you! No more! Gies more BodyShock instead! I needs me some pebbleheads!

In spite of its arbitrary nature, DoND (roffle) takes itself very seriously. In fact, it has it's own jargon. Yes, the lingua franca of the desperate throng is littered with ridiculous terms. The studio is referred to as "The Dream Factory", the audience - in a disturbingly religious analogy - are named "pilgrims", and the unseen antagonist/giver of money is called the "banker" (HOW APPROPRIATE!!!1! LOL!!! BANKER SOUNDS LIKE WANKER!!!!!11!!!1!). How appropriate that the de facto villain is also the contestants' benefactor. Why? Well, because the morons who watch the programme undoubtedly gain the majority of their income from the Government, whilst bitching relentlessly about how their needs aren't satisifed. To them and Noel, I say: "fuck off. Now."

Remarkably, the show has a massive following. It's among Britain's foremost cults. A group of particularly virginal losers even commentate and discuss the shows. Terrifying. The quasi-religious slant that the show takes is among its most disturbing traits. I swear to Jehovah, if Noel Edmonds, the World's Smuggest Cunt, is indeed the second coming of Christ, I'm converting. To Scientology. Fuck, Scientology's got loads of aliens and shit. I'm converting anyway!

So as we can see, I have several issues with the format, execution and existence of DoND (rof - oh, enough already). Its onus on celebrating and rewarding...well, nothing sticks royally in my craw. What is a craw, anyway? Sounds like a lobster's arse. Hmm. Savoury.

Anyway, it's not all bad, despite my fervent opposition. Occasionally, it allows us to wallow in the sticky, dirty joy that is schadenfreude. Thus, I leave you with this. Happy bad-natured amusement!

Continue?

Dis-Bar-ment

Anyone lucky enough to know me personally will know that a lack of common courtesy in others is liable to make me as mad as crickets. Unfortunately, folks, it's a rude, rude world that we live in populated with stupid, stupid cunts.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in my work in the customer service industry. Gentlemen and their respective wives, I am a barman. There. I said it. Frequently I am faced with an irritating level of abuse and - more frequently still - an infuriating level of stupidity. In the interests of both of us, I have compiled a handy list of what not to do when ordering your tipple of choice. Follow them, and I'll kiss you full on the mouth. Ignore them at your peril.

1. "HO! I'M NEXT, MATE!"
Not any more, you're not. The above sentence is bellowed frequently by what can only be described as reprobates. Usually male. I am, by and large, fully aware of who is awaiting service. I garner this awareness through the use of my eyes. I do not need you to tell my ears of your place in the queue, particularly when you've just arrived at the bar fresh from your latest date-rape. So kindly, Sir, shut the fuck up and wait patiently on your Midori and lemonade, you hard-ticket, you!

2. "NAE ICE!"
Now, I understand some of my readers will suffer from sensitive teeth. As do I, on occasion. My advice to you is this: buy some fucking Sensodyne and stop whinging like the little bitch you are. Thanks. The "no ice" quandary has a deeper significance than mere tooth-pain, however. Yes. Y'see, various idiots seem to believe that having no ice in the drink makes the drink more alcoholic. Dear God. A rudimentary knowledge of physics and the rules of displacement absolutely destroys such claims. By having ice, the drink-to-mixer ratio is improved in your favour. Get it? Got it? Good. Other nonsensical behaviour which relates to this includes asking for one ice-cube (which will melt much faster than several would - yet more physics phun!) and removing the ice from a drink and placing it on the bar. Simple etiquette of the bar dictates that you cannot under any circumstances pull something blithely from a wet place and allow it to drip everywhere! Really! My bar is not your mother's bedroom floor!

3. MALAPROPISMS
Put simply, if you can't accurately name the beverage you wish to imbibe, don't order it. A list of examples can be found below:

• WKD - pronounced "wicked", not "doubleyookaydee"
• Kopparberg - not "Koppanbarg", "Koppenberg", "Koopenbarg" or "Kronenbourg"
• VK - not an "orange WKD"
• Miller - not "Millers"
• Dr Pepper (shot) - not "wan ae em mad hings in eh gless"
  

Unacceptable under any circumstances.

4. "RED BULL & VODKA!"
Alcohol first, mixer second, ie "vodka & Red Bull". Honestly.

5. BUDGETARY DISPUTES
Firstly: don't bitch to me about beverage prices or the unheralded alteration of such. More on that later. On another note, 9.99756 times out of 10, I will have given you the correct change. If I haven't, I will notice. I appreciate you telling me how to do my job. I really do. Just as you'd appreciate me accompanying you on one of your many whoring sessions to gently advise you to employ less teeth in your (frankly, amateurish) fellatio technique. However, there is a reason that you're on one side of the bar and I'm on the other. I'm right, you're wrong. And there's nothing you can do about it.

6. GENERAL IGNORANCE
Safety in this area is guaranteed, providing you modify number 3's credo: if you don't know what's in your drink, how to produce it or what it is, don't order it. Thus, if you visit the smaller bar and ask for a pint of lager or beer, I will glare at you with extreme prejudice. Why? Because the wee bar is host to not one, not two, but zero draft taps. Where am I pulling this cider and blackcurrant from? Ask me again and it'll be my bile duct. This happens, on average, once a week. Everyone, just stop it. Similarly, if you order a long vodka and I inform you that, sadly, we're out of bitters, don't stare at me blankly as though I've just told you the world isn't flat and doesn't end at Langbank. Merely take a moment to reflect on your crushing stupidity and order another ridiculous thirstquencher.

7. HUFFING
In a related issue, if I do tell you that we've run out of a certain substance, service, or level of patience, do not huff. I am not in charge of what we stock. I am not in charge of setting the prices. I am not in charge of your misplaced, disproportionate sense of entitlement. Therefore, just as I don't blame you for the moonlit skies or the dream that died with the Eagle's flight, don't blame me for things I can't do anything about. Please. Oh, by the way, that sleeping satellite is your fault. Anybody? No? Damn.

8. "EHH, JUST EH NORMAL WAN!"
When you order, for instance, sambuca in a contemporary establishment, you may find that more than one variety is on offer. When faced with such variety, hear the options out and make your decision. Do not bark this paragraph's titular sentence. It is very rude and upsetting. I've cried myself to sleep over such brusqueness. It makes me sad. So stop it, hmm? Furthermore, why not sample one of the new products? You may just like it! You liked it when your ex-lover put their finger in your arsehole didn't you? You didn't expect that, did you? You didn't think you'd include it regularly in your masturbation sessions, did you? Eh? No. But you liked it, didn't you? Ha! Queer! So try something new! Don't stick to the stuff you know. If you want to be cool, follow one simple rule: mess with the flow! Don't stick to the status quo! Anybody? No? DAMN!

9. "Shphlmknphshthhhhspck"
The above is a rough translation of what you all sound like when you've had twelve too many. If you are in such a diabolical state, I cannot serve you. By law. The Queen forbids it. It makes her cry. So don't fire up your ire, boys and girls, because it's misplaced and uncalled for. Instead of getting angry at me for refusing to serve you, why not focus your anger on yourself, and the fact that you are an intoxicated waster, an affront to your mother and a nuisance to the world at large. For shaaaame. Go and hurt yourself now, please. Also, don't be sick on the bar. One time, it was as thick as a pizza and the same circumference and texture. Abhorrent. If I came in to your place of employment and vomited on your workstation, would you be amused? Hmm? Well, you probably wouldn't care as you don't work. Let me rephrase that. If I vomited on you in the dole queue, would you be amused? No. You'd stab me to death, then kick my holey corpse. Exactly. So don't.

And, finally...

10. ETIQUETTE
...say please and thank you. Every time. Should go without saying that you shouldn't go without saying it, but there you go. A sad sign of the times. Bring back the fifties and nuclear fear!

And that, for now, is it. More shall undoubtedly follow. Have any of you ever perpertrated such transgressions? If so, leave me a comment and I'll inform you of your penance. There may be scourgings. Huzzah!
Continue?

Two One Thumbs Up!

Here I am! Hello! Hello!

Yes, after literally years of badgering - and even longer trying to customise this shitbrick of a page - I have returned to the blogging fold.

But, ladies and gentlemen, hold your applause. I have only just begun!

And in the spirit of inauguration, what better way to start my gradual dissection of our occasionally wonderful world and its foibles than with a frank and honest discussion regarding the woman who has won the hearts of a few great nations and well and truly given Obama the hump? Yes, lads and lasses, it's her:

SUSAN BOYLE.

Now, you may well think that choosing this feisty and zeitgeisty lady as a topic for a first post is not only bandwagon-jumping of the first water, but also a cynical ploy to entice a large number of dimwitted Southern Statesers to my fledgeling blog. You would be right. But I also think this phenomenon is at once a positive and damning indictment of our times and tastes.

Fuck, I've went all sociological. DEAL WITH IT.

Before I go any further, I feel I should include a video of the performance which started all the fuss. I'm aware you'll all have seen it several times already, but I wanted to test out the video-embedding doowhackey. So suck it.

Here:

Now, here's where I get all cynical on yo'asses. Granted, it was a fine performance from an (ultimately) charming performer. It was musical, her tone is pleasant, and she's clearly enjoying her moment of being able to sing about being fucked over by some Frenchman to a public so dense they've never heard the song before, and thus have no conception of the context of the piece.

HOWEVER! Look closer at events leading up to the sing-song. We are, by now, incredibly accustomed to the reality TV behemoth and the manipulative editing that fuels it. As a result, the (un)subtleties of such editing simultaneously irk us and program our thoughts.

For instance, listen to the BGM at the start of the segment. Do it again. Once more. Got it? Right. What the fuck is this, ChuckleVision? This is played over a clip of Ms (Miss? Certainly not Mrs! LOL!) Boyle eating a humble sandwich. Plus, said sandwich appears homemade, not purchased from a nearby Pret Á Manger. So the first impression we're given of her is that she's a chunky buffoon who, therefore, can't sing.

She then tells us her age, which is much younger than her appearance and apparel would suggest. She informs us that she's unemployed, which solidifies the implication that she is inherently stupid and setting herself up for a fall. Next, she provides a scurrilous programme-maker's big jizzy dream when she says:

"...I live on my own with my cat, called Pebbles. But I've never been married. Never been kissed! (grimaces comically) Shame! (laughs pathetically)"

By now the British Public are actively willing her to fail, so they can be delivered the wonderful feeling of schadenfreude that will distract them momentarily from the drudgery of being unemployable, pregnant at seven, anorexic and thick as shit.

The worst moment comes when she gives her age - again - and, when faced with one of Simon Cowell's patented eye-rolls, she starts grinding like a slutty washing machine and declares, in an abortive attempt at coquettishness: "and that's just one side of me!" Eh? What? What does that mean? Her front side's forty-seven, but she's got a two-year old arse? Or that she's forty-seven on the outside, but she has the sexual ability of a girl of sixteen? Given her girth and virginal status I highly doubt it.

Much to the disgust of some snarky emos in the audience, and following some HILARIOUS wolf-whistling, she starts to sing. And she's good. Hurrah! You're through. Case closed. Or so you'd think. Interestingly enough, Susan's voice just so happened to be a new incarnation of The Baby Jesus. Y'see, TBJ is afraid that if he shows his face to the human folk, they'll crucify him a bit more. So, having watched The Little Mermaid, he struck upon the idea to present himself as a tweedy besom's voice. Thus, Amanda Holden wept, Piers Morgan ejaculated and the aforementioned emos took to self-harm.

Of course, I jest. The Baby Jesus is sleeping! Watch this space though. He's gonna come back and get his revenge on them Jews. Oh Hell yes.

Her performance was good, but not in any way exceptional, to my mind. Yet one particular YouTube video of the performance has amassed (at time of writing) 39,042,725 views! More than Obama's big hello, Jade's big send-off and - criminally - more than this:


It's a sad, sad day when a pushy bitch getting punched so hard she sounds like Wimbledon is less popular than a pleasant, lonely spinster fulfilling a lifelong dream. Sad indeed.

Still, my major issue isn't with her success, which I wish her in big singy spades. Nor is it with the public's shocked reaction to her talent because, as one of my nearest and dearest quipped recently, "ugly people can sing too". No, my worry stems from the fact that this woman's life is in the process of being commodified. Already there is debate as to whether she should be given a makeover. Hugh Jackman has expressed an interest in duetting with her. A so-called friend has sold his (albeit harmless) story to the tabloids. Film offers. Oprah. Sex tapes. The list could continue. But it won't.

None of the above news items are at all concerned with Susan herself, but the idea of her. We know nothing about her other than that she is awkward and has a nice voice. So why the unprecedented amount of interest? Surely we're sickened with reality shows telling us what to think? Hmm? No? Nah, me neither.

The bottom line is that it's currently terribly terribly nice to talk about her favourably (or at all) despite the fact we have no idea who she is. Well, dear readers, never fear! I won't stoop to such lows in this here web-based tome of truth!

Oh shit. Just did. Hey ho!

So, does her success signal the death of Reality TV? We can only hope. But while there is still a fraction of the population who conduct themselves like this:



...bring on the dumbfucks!

EDIT: the making-over has already commenced! Results are below:

I already hate her. Smug bitch.

Continue?