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.

Wimbledon

Firstly, Sue Barker. A Marks and Spencer cardholder looking somewhat like Jack Nicholson in full Joker makeup, Barker is one of many of the BBC’s specialist white middle-class presenting team. She knows her tennis from having been a pro before, but it’s strange that in the age of ASBOs, terrorism and knife-crime, Sue Barker still has a job.
Always looking like the bank manager’s wife at a village fete, Sue Barker’s presenting style whether it be live sport or A Question of Sport (Note to BBC: END IT!) is that of a woman who has led a life without worry and just sort of mumbles on about tennis because it keeps her happy.
Increasingly out of touch with a robbing, stabbing debt-addled nation of alcoholics it seems that Sue is just the figurehead for a sporting event so preposterously rubbish it makes you wonder why anyone turns up. Cliff Richard, Strawberries and cream, Tim Henman, orange barley water and a scoring system based on multiples of 15, until the end where it goes up in 10s – it’s a catalogue of rubbish. If they scored it 1,2,3,4 then people would soon realise that all the ‘love’ and ‘deuce’ crap is just another way of saying ‘nil’ or ‘draw’.
Essentially there’s two people, each trying to knock a ball somewhere the other person can’t get to it. So that means once you ‘ve seen it go to one side of a player, or behind them or once they’ve reached for it but couldn’t get it you’ve seen all the permutations of tennis there ever will be. Doubles is similar but with twice the ponces on court, thus half as exciting.
The reason wimbledon is still on television at all is because in Britain it’s quaint to see an outdated sport like tennis given some national coverage. It’s a window on the 1950s almost, except “eagle-eye”, (it should be called “Judgement laser”) and the Sue Barkers of this nation need their hands held and to be told it’s alright to watch tennis in England, it REALLY is the greatest contest in the world. Cliff Richard is still a big star, there’s no immigrants in rural Buckinghamshire and John McEnroe’s pathetic tantrum made him the “bad boy” of tennis, feared by all.

Public Transport

It’s official, Britain has the world’s worst public transport ever. And British people are the most ill-equipped to cope with it.
Anyone who’s used the London Underground system will tell you that it smells, bad. The humid bacteria-rich air that wafts at you as you walk along it’s psycho-friendly platforms is a sickening reminder that no matter how practical something is, Britain can make it rubbish. Lots of stops, efficient service and plenty of room, right?
Wrong. There IS plenty of room on the Underground, but at peak times it’s crammed with wage-zombies clawing their way through wave after wave of each other to keep their overlords happy. Possibly. Yes it’s practical, but it’s also 900 years old and prone to silly screechy blackout breakages.
Want to take a bus? Brilliant. But it’s difficult to recommend. As they do on any other mode of transport, British people adopt one of three states on public transport. Ninety-five percent of the population are content with the middle-distance ‘thinking to self stare’, which is generally targetted out of the window and may involve headphone use.
Three per cent are engaged in an activity or conversation, such as reading a newspaper or talking to a baby.
One percent are early-teens roling up bits of paper and throwing them, or calling each other gay and/or whores.
The final percent is the distressing “wot u looking at” crackhead kind usually wearing a hoody and just tweaking on the back seat, looking for stray eyes to make contact with and threaten and thinking of their next fix of sweet, sweet crack.
The dangerous psychotic can insult or murder whomever he likes on the public transport, because British people are not naturally inclined to interfere with people going about their business. He is unlikely to be challenged by the middle-distance masses, who will keep staring out of the window or at the A4 posters dotted around them.
ALL of Britain’s public transport networks are overpriced. Compared to other European nations or the USA, we could rightly expect our ticket premium to pay for killer robot police patrolling the networks, but it doesn’t. It pays shareholder dividends.
You have to suppose that nationally, until we stop pretending everyone else isn’t there, we’re all going to be obsessed with one day being rich and becoming that shareholder, literally anally raping each other to climb the career ladder until we become millionnaires. Of course it’s preposterous to think we can all be millionnaires, there simply isn’t enough money in the world, but until we realise that and start spreading the love a little, public transport is rubbish.

Threatening TV-licence / Road Tax adverts

Your government hates you. Since watching the Matrix in 1999 a select team of Whitehall policymakers latched on to the idea of humans as giant batteries for their evil planet-straddling automatons. Although being reminded about your TV licence or road tax by mail may seem some distance away from breathing nutrient-rich liquid as one of 10-million souls in a mile-high stack of human battery pods, it’s a step in the right direction.
It starts with the letters, a database of every household in the country without a television licence so says the advert. The implication being that they’re constantly visiting these addresses to see if the residents appear to be watching telly so they can fine them. After a while this is going to prove effective. They’re catching the perps but still need to get budget down. So off they go, rationalising the staff. Those weaselly detector-van men are fired en-masse and replaced by robots. The robots get stolen, so they give them knives, then guns…then they go all Terminator on your ass.
It’s ok if you’ve got nothing to hide, but that doesn’t mean you enjoy the fear they’re trying to imbue in you.
Road tax database adverts are similar. They say they’ve got a database of all the cars in the UK and they’ll mail you a reminder when it’s due. Which is fine, I like that. It makes life easier. Eventually there won’t be a single decision it’s possible to make without the government reminding you beforehand.
This is the sort of message that MIGHT be displayed on your personal bluetooth PDApod that’s sewn into your eyebrow at birth.

“A delicious wheat-bisk based breakfast would set you up with complex carbohydrates for the day, allowing you to toil on grimly through the rest of your life until your joints wear out or you have a nervous breakdown. Whichever’s first. Have some Omega 3 and you can extend your toil-span by another 15 years if taken regularly.”

I never wanted to be a civil servant, but the people at the jobcentre laughed if you said you wanted to be a cowboy. So battery-pods it is then.

Society’s lack of a modern Jim Henson

People who’ve got no love for bearded uber-mensch Jim Henson and his many creations are going to hell. No doubt about it, an eternity being poked up the arse with a trident by a muscly red-man with hooves. Yes people with no Henson-love are going to burn in a very strict, inquistion-era catholic idea of hell and I’m going to pay their damn train fare to make sure they get there.
Nobody’s replaced Henson, not even Brian, his son, who had a bloody good go for a while. It seems some of the things Brian puts out get ignored by a harsh general public, but they shouldn’t cos they’re at least ok. Thing is when Jim did it, back in the day, it was much more pure. Muppets were new and kids brains weren’t so rigorously controlled to reduce possible future anarchic thoughts. Disney bought Henson out after his death, so I guess it’s all gonna be shit for ever more.
What are the alternatives these days? There’s nothing comparable to the original puppet-variety show. Lazytown? Get real, it’s Scandinavian salad-fascism. What’s wrong with burgers Sportacus? Hmmm? What’s next, the fucking Sportacus youth? The Swedish chef would never agree.
There was a day when bearded guys pulling faces with children weren’t paedos, but it looks like they died with Henson. Jah bless Jimbo.

Mobile phone adverts featuring some perma-grinning twot and no phones

ALL phone companies are guitly of this, Virgin Mobile are a case in point though. All, ALL of their billboard adverts feature a series of slogans about phones accompanied by a big glossy grinning twat in extreme facial close up. “Look”, it says, “look at what I can do for you! All those friends that will ring you for hours of pointless social contact thanks to ME Virgin phones.” No, that’s not how it works. Their TV ads (Melanie out of All Saints photocopying her arse? Christina Aguilera fucking a builder??!?!) are just as rubbish, but the company have persisted with the ‘smiling faces will flog our average shit to those pathetic skin-tubes’  attitude.

Everyone’s got a phone, pretty soon most dogs will have phones in this country. Even those people with Virgin mobiles, and I was once one, rarely look like the beaming generation-x ballbags you see being zany on the ads. Truth is, the face is a headfuck. It shows you grins and happiness you’ll never know, least not as long as you’re enslaved by the preening pin-stripe joyboys in the city who’ve dreamt up these ads, or who take your money for facilitating millions of automated wireless electronic connections at a huge profit.

The ads that plague bus-stops and high-streets around the nation bear little resemblance to the drooling automatons that walk around them, all varicose veins, acne and verrucas rather than the glossy pinheads on the boards. These ads and all those responsible for them should be pulled into the middle of a busy street and burned for the greater good.

Know your enemy…For pure hateful twattishness, please visit here

Modern visits to the cinema

All cinemas these days apparently employ professional ass-hats to interrupt the film for other people. Whilst other cinema-goers are busily trying to concentrate on the flashy reflective screen in front of them the ass-hats are just trying to get their popcorn to move gracefully through the air on to other people’s heads or giggle as though they’d somehow used a secret handshake to get the usher to sprinkle crack over their bucket instead of the usual salt or sugar.
If the ass-hats aren’t enough then the people who genuinely want to see the film they’ve paid to see are then threatened by the film companies that they will be sued or imprisoned or something if they were to set up a tripod and a video camera at the back of the theatre to sell a dismal copy of the overblown crap they’ve just witnessed on a car boot somewhere. Not really an option, as most people will wait for the Americans to do it at some random preview and Bittorrent the shit out of things that aren’t quite worth paying nigh-on £7 to go and see.
The increasingly humourless Orange film funding adverts are far more entertaining than the traditional ‘turn your phone off’ graphics, and thus people increasingly forget to do so as the message is lost. Text messages and even calls are being taken in screens like never before…by wankers of course.
The films themselves are now so overblown and self-important that few major releases last under two hours, testing your bladder and ass-cheek numbness resilience to the max. Food is so prohibitively expensive that it’s cheaper to drink outrageous cocktails from a hollowed-out monkey skull at a beachfront casino in Monaco than it is watery sprite in a cardboard tube at your UGC, Odeon or Vue.
The fact is that the cost of visiting the cinema for the pleasure of all this bullshit that in ten years time everybody will have just saved all their money and bought a huge high-definition TV. Initially they will invite friends round to share their films on the massive screen with them, but the ultimate end for most will be a pasty bleary-eyed shell of a human, watching films in his pants alone surrounded by crusty tissues and pizza boxes waiting for the next online DVD rental to arrive. A brave new world.

Gordon Brown, mard-arse laureate

This supposedly ferric Scotch character-vacuum is our next prime minister. A pudding-faced dullard so profoundly expressionless as to make upper-class twit of the year David Cameron look like a viable alternative as prime minister.
Gordon is a boring name, Brown is a boring name. Gordon Brown is a boring, boring man and perhaps the least inspiring prime-minister ever ever ever. Always dark suits, red ties, always that tongue-clicking thing he does at the end of sentences. His dull, flabby face. His whole pointless existence.
For those who used to be interested in politics at all, he has instantaneously alienated you.
Even despite his dodgy decisions as chancellor, and there’ve been a few, I’m only claiming Brown to be rubbish based on the man’s absolute unutterable soullessness. He claimed to like the Arctic Monkeys, yet looks like the fat kid from P.E. that always played as goalkeeper because he couldn’t run like the other boys. Now he’s out for nameless revenge on his school tormentors and somebody made the bastard PM.