The iPhone

Apple’s obsession with world domination continues, but their phone is just a flashy piece of shit for shallow losers. Here’s a link for real people to a page that, in a simplistic American way, makes all the necessary arguments against said piece of Apple crapple.

The iPhone is a piece of shit and so is your face

Sunday Afternoons

Sunday afternoons are intensely boring and usually result in the kind of relentless brain-rotting tedium that drives people to commit violent hate-crimes or start reading the Daily Mail, or both.
Saturdays are OK, Saturday is a “get things done” day in the minds of most people. Saturday is a trip to the shops or a DIY day. Saturday you might go and look at expensive electrical items in an out-of-town retail park or even attend a barbecue at a friend’s house if it wasn’t raining enough to drown birds in flight.
Sunday of course is an unusual beast. In an old storybook the main character “God” decided to partition Sunday’s off as a day of rest. Historically, with the majority of the nation using it as a day to recover from Saturday’s excesses and the emotionless wheels of industry using the day as a statutory rest-period for their worker drones, Sundays tend to be quiet.
Depressingly so. The afternoon is the time most of the country has reserved for pointless activites – like paintballing, mowing the lawn or washing the car. All of the activities that people associate with performing on a Sunday afternoon are those which are at the bottom of the all-time “things to do list”. Hence toenails get clipped, cakes baked, microwave-clocks set and houses cleaned.
Sunday afternoon is merely a gaping expanse of time demanding to be filled; anutterly utterly poor part of the week.

Dinner for one

Many traps are set in the modern age to dishearten even the most steadfast and diligent member of society. Carbon Footprints remind you you’re an overconsuming planet-wrecking luxury-whore, DFS adverts are designed to make you guilty you don’t own more sofas and history reminds you that everyone who’s ever existed before you has had a much, much worse time of it than you ever possibly could.
Another bad thing about history though is that it succesfully places your worries at the bottom of the all-time worry tree. Chief amongst modern worries is the “I’m far too single” worry.
Dinner for one is a debilitating, torrid modern phenomenon. It’s ok to grab a sandwich (rubbish food) on your own of a lunchtime, it’s even ok to decide you’re not that hungry and have just a bowl of cereal for tea. All of that is fine and not THAT rubbish. No, the real emotional suffering comes about from either purchasing or creating a generous, rich single portion dinner for your self again and again, night after night for weeks on end.
The ultimate super-bad is cooking a Marks and Spencer single portion of steamed chicken with a bagged salad, a steak and ale pie or quiche for one from a box. You’ll have been enticed into buying it by the sultry tones of Dervla Kirwan doing her disgusting food-porn adverts. You know the ones, everything in Marks’ range is shown either having gravy/raspberry sauce poured on it very slowly or being dug into with a ridiculously shiny silver fork.
Essentially the whorish description of the food along with the masturbatory images have lulled you into associating it with sexy. In reality it’s twice as good as anyone else’s food because it’s exactly twice as expensive and thus, you get what you pay for. It still doesn’t stop it being soul-destroying to eat good food on your own.
Dinner for one on a regular basis is rubbish, it’s a sign you’re dead inside and out.This is particularly true if it is accompanied by sustained television watching You’re treating yourself to something you don’t deserve because for whatever reason you’ve shunned society or they’ve exiled you to your own home. It can be solved though if people just adopt this simple rule; after seven nights you HAVE to be accompanied. Even if it involves chiding old friends, making new ones or treating some homeless panhandler to a full meal. You have to. Society benefits from being more cohesive and you benefit from not being a certified cave-dweller. Either way, the rubbishness of dinner for one just grows exponentially as your sole-dining streak grows. Let’s end it now.

Jonathan Ross

Jonathan “Wossie” Ross evidently wasn’t sufficiently bullied at school. Moderately effective at his film reviews, it’s his painfully self-indulgent chat show that’s the real reason for his unforgivable rubbishness. On Friday nights on BBC One, Ross invites celebrity guests into the studio and subjects them to a series of excruciating knob jokes whilst tossing his “Richard Madeley-esque” mid-life crisis fringe back and chortling away with the odd question about said person’s latest project.
Ross’ arrogance results in an interview where you’re more likely to find out where he’s just been on holiday or what his son’s hamster is called than why said person has deigned to turn up.
His interview style is almost the complete opposite of fellow rubbish interviewer Michael Parkinson, who trades on his slow-witted Yorkshireness and rarely makes comment.Each female guest will be offered sexual intercourse several times throughout the interview, each male guest will be accused of sexual deviancy or animal husbandry an equal number of times. This is because actual stony-faced factual content can’t hold the attention of Joe Public anymore, his brain indefinitely clogged with waste chemicals from his food.
There’s no getting around the fact that somehow Britain has allowed a fat lispy tosser to become a ridiculously high-paid primetime chat-show host. And millions of people watch it, millions, because idiotic knob-jokes are still king. Jesus wept.

The common cold

A completely pointless illness, the common cold is surely the most rubbish malady of all time. In the top five weak illnesses it’s up there with athlete’s foot, pink-eye, excessive sweating and Delhi belly.
In many humans an instance of the common cold is marked by a production of a great deal of pus and mucus, which is in turn expelled through the nose, mouth or something. They ache more and blow their nose alot. In a recent bout of the common cold, I found myself producing enough phlegm to fill a bathtub and blowing my nose around 500 times. When a cold attempts to take hold of me, my body’s reaction is to become incredibly red and drippy and so unpleasant the cold just loses interest and walks out. After producing and removing from my system around three litres of effluent, I wondered whether or not my body’s reaction i.e. producing this junk, was the most appropriate way of dealing with the cold or whether it could just get on with it quietly in the background without making too much of a fuss – the British way.
Instead of doing that, my body put me through a grand opera of discomfort and awkward, mistimed fluid production. Leaking from every facial orifice I put myself in self-imposed exile Quasimodo-style until the bastard thing had been killed off and shat right out of my system, which it now has.
It was naive of the common cold to think that it could set itself up in my body and live there happily ever after, but…what if my immune system hadn’t been up to the job? Perhaps it would have taken control of me like the Invasion of the Bodysnatchers and used me to spread more cold until the virus had everyone on earth under its control. I doubt it. The most it managed was hurting my feelings when someone said it was only ”man-flu”.
Maybe all it wanted was few days in me so it could spread to someone else again and repeat the process again and again, maybe that’s the tawdry life-cycle of the cold virus. The sorry existence of the most rubbish illness there is.