Robyn Foyster is a Life Endangering Twatbag

This is the woman - the editor of the Australian women's magazine 'New Idea' - who broke the international press embargo on reporting about Prince Harry fighting in Afghanistan.

I mean, this was one of the few times the press have actually acted completely honourably and decently as far as I can see.. it would have been a massive scoop, but to report it would not just put Harry's, but the lives of all his regiment in danger. To be honest, it would put all British troops in Afghanistan in greater danger, as if the Taliban even knew he was somewhere in the country they would intesify their attacks. (I would imagine..)
So every media outlet in the land, from the Beeb to the Currant Bun holds up their hands and goes 'yeah, okay, fair play' and decency reigns supreme for a couple of months, until this silly hack from some two bit supermarket trashmag goes and ruins it all.

And though I don't agree with fighting or killing at all, it's actually really refreshing to see a Royal doing a normal(ish) job, heck do something that isn't spending our tax money and falling out of a nightclub with some braying ponygirl on his arm...and now the poor guy is already back on a plane to Boujis.

So yeah, below is the email for the stupid cow. Why not drop her a line suggesting that she ginger up and take Harry's place in Helmand Province? Or just quit journalism and go and live a life of shame somewhere in the Outback...

robyn.foyster@pacificmags.com.au

p.s And is it me, or does she look like something out of Chris Morris' Jam?

Hilarious Holy Moly Rip Off Of The Day..

I am loath to just post things on here that I have read on other sites, as funny although they may be, it isn't exactly 'good form'. That said, this has to be the most brilliantly hilarious headline I have ever seen on a trash mag (barring 'My Son Was Re encarnated as a Fishfinger' from Chat Magazine 2006 sometime) so I felt I could break my self imposed rules.

There was actually another OK! clanger featuring dear old Kerry a few months ago which went along the lines of 'Oh No! I'm Pregnant Again!'; less instantly funny, but came into it's own once you imagine the Katona kids in years to come comparing each of their Ok! headlines:

Molly - Well I have 'My Baby Joy'!
Lily - Not as good as 'We're Overjoyed.. a Sister for Molly'
Heidi - I like my 'We're so Happy, Now Our Family Is Complete'
newsprog - I hate you all.

Yes yes, I know the names of all Kerry's offspring.. so shoot me!

Agent X's Scientology Exclusive

Those of you who have visited this blog before might remember that back in January I posted some of the alleged 'auditing' questions you get asked if you want to become a Scientologist, you damn fool you.

Understandably, as the questions went from the slightly odd ('Have you ever disfigured a beautiful thing?') to the downright bizarre ('Have you ever given robots a bad name?'), I got a lot of people asking if they were real, or if it was the work of an anti Scientology mafia/hilarious individual.

I have to admit, I don't know.. I really wouldn't put much past a 'religion' that believes we are all descended from aliens, but then I am an atheist who doesn't believe a jewish bloke rose from the dead leaving only a skanky shroud behind him either...

Well anyway you can read my past blog entry HERE and make up your own mind.

Yesterday my friend 'X'* was inspired by my witterings and decided to take an online Scientology test to see what questions they really ask ignorant members of the public (or bored cynical charity workers like X) who log onto their site.

The real questions (well, a choice selection of about fourty) X was asked...

Do you browse through railway timetables, directories, or dictionaries just for pleasure?

It depends.. is the alternative a Tony Parsons 'novel'?

Is your voice monotonous, rather than varied in pitch?

Duuuuuuuuurrrrnuuuuuuuuurrrrr

Would the idea of inflicting pain on game, small animals or fish prevent you from hunting or fishing?

I have to admit I would prefer not to kill small animals, but I could smash up a monopoly set with a live fish any day of the week

Do you get occasional twitches of your muscles, when there is no logical reason for it?

Yes, I really can't think of any logical reason why I would punch Tony Parsons m'lord. It must be me involuntary fist spasms

Is your life a constant struggle for survival?
Why yes, I often compare my daily battle against the forces of boredom, air conditioning and invoices to the struggles of the American settlers on the Oregon Trail in the early1800's

Do you often sing or whistle just for the fun of it?
No, and I find such activities adequate grounds for the London Met's Shoot to Kill policy

Do you enjoy telling people the latest scandal about your associates?I was affronted when X said 'the last one particularly applies to you' - I do do things other than gossip. I once watered the office pot plant.

It's dead now.

*I was going to completely cover her in a shroud of annonymity as the Scientologists are not adverse to hunting down their detractors and faking their suicides, but that would make for rather a dull entry. Therefore I have mastefully hidden her identity, and I just hope they don't instead try and go after S, who dispite sitting next to X on the bus, has never dissed Scientology in her life..which could be why X is giving her a stinkeye. Not that you can see...

"and then I ate a pie.." - A Couple of Tedious University Anecdotes

I was slightly peeved when I opened my free copy of Shortlist last week, as they brought to the world's (well, to the males of the UK who go to work around 8am and tolerate having sheets of paper thrust in their faces by surley midgets in branded caps) attention the running joke of my third year of uni.. The Cumberland Pencil Museum!

See! Secret Wartime Pencils!

Experience! A Journey Through a Graphite Mine!

Marvel! At the World's Largest Coloured Pencil!

I picked up this pamphlet at a pub in the Lake District on a Photography Society trip (quiet you!), the main activity which was an all day wander through the gloriously scenic hills. I managed to drop and break my camera approximately ten meters after setting out in the direction of gloriously scenic hills, whilst trying to take a photo of a nice tree. This then meant a long day of people taking photos of aforementioned hills and a bored me trying to get in their photos of hills ('for perspective!'), until it started to rain and it was generally agreed to head for a pub post haste. Unfortunately 'poste haste' translated into a monotonous five hour hike, not particularly helped by the numerous farmers who would cheerfully tell us that their local was 'just around the corner!' when in fact it would be another three hour trudge down massively steep shingle hill.

But anyway, we eventually bum rushed some unsuspecting local joint, usually only used to superhuman speed walking farmers and the occasional rambler, and this leaflet made it all worth it. Well, this leaflet and a massive portion of pie.

We were going to go on a house trip to the Cumberland Pencil Museum, but the joke wore a bit thin and laziness prevailed so we just ended up going to York, I ate another pie, and we snuck into the Minster for free.

R.I.P Lucozade Clock

Ever one with my finger on the pulse, I only realised this weekend that the Lucozade Clock, that wonderful glittering sign that you were entering London, is no more.

It used to stand near where the M4 motorway became the A4 (I think) and for me it indicated not only the time, but the fact that my doubtlessly boring as hell journey was almost over as we had officially entered London (although residents of Brentford may disagree)

It made Lucozade look almost like a glamourous sexy drink to be enjoyed with your friends...in the Odeon Bar*, not the neon orange sticky liquid in the plastic bottle enjoyed by fat people and MEN who like to define themselves by their fizzy pop, that it actually is.

Well yes, as of 2004 it was no more.. I personally think it is a conspiracy, as even though it was 50 odd years old it completely overshadowed all the big posh skyscrapers that surrounded it with it's tinkling bulbs and time/date function. But then I think everything is a conspiracy, from when the London Lite seller doesn't offer me a paper to when I graze my finger opening a tub of houmous with one of those tricky plastic breakable tabs on the lid.

*and if you get THAT little reference then give yourself a kudos

A Rather Long Post About My Rather Long Sunday

I am very spatially unaware. This has proved a minor problem throughout my life, especially in dramatic scenes such as those where I run with arms outflug to greet a long absent friend and fail to notice things such as door frames or bystanders faces. I have also failed my driving test twice due to a complete inability to park or manouver a vehicle around any object smaller than a row of houses.

It was the latter that I was cursing myself about this weekend, as I was forced to take a nine hour round journey to visit my Grandmama on the National Distress (copyright S. Sculthorpe) /Peasant Wagon (copyright some rich cow I was at uni with).
Actually it wasn't too bad on the way up, I had my copy of Private Eye artfully wrapped around my copy of Heat, and managed to negotiate the blocked groaning bowels that is the Underground on a weekend quite speedily, although this did mean having to hang around the drafty 'departure lounge' with the usual collection of old people, students and lost souls. This seemed to go on for what felt like several overpriced-tea-fuelled hours as it would be fair to say that what I lack in spatial awareness I more than make up for in time awareness*.

I had to hop about in the rain for a while after disembarkment as 'Cirencester Taxis' turned out to be a bloke, who was busy,and who wrongly suggested that taxis pass the coach stop 'all the time!'. Londoner that I am, I have an inbuilt fear that anyone who hails a car on a faintly countrified lane ends up strangled with her knickers and dead in a ditch, so was very wary about using the old 'stick out your arm and hail anything that moves' technique. Actually this only seems to work if you are coming back from clubbing at 5am and accidentally wave down a police car to take you home, although this does mean a week as the subject of the neighbours' gossip.

Anyway, eventually I found a cab, found I could have actually walked the distance to the nursing home in the time it took me to find a cab, and went to see Gran. Usually when I come down I have, if not a relative (Spurs were playing so the relative was getting drunk in a pub) , then someone with a car with me, so we can bring a wondrous feast of non nursing home food, or even go out to a restaurant. Unfortunately the best I could manage was a cake that got a bit squashed en route and a pack of biscuits, so we were booked in to eat in the dining hall with the other residents.

Actually it wasn't that bad. Well, the air smelt of sprouts, not death, and it wasn't quite as One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest as I feared. I admit there was a moment of slight panic as I entered the dining room to be faced with about fifty identical grannies (and two drooling grandpas). It was a veritable immobile army of little ladies with cotton wool hair and pastel cardigans, but thankfully my little old lady (why do I feel very creepy writing that?) is as vocal as ever, so I was able to pick my way across the sea of zimmer frames to her table pretty quickly.

It is a well known fact that people over the age of about seventy have no tastebuds and consider things like pasta, rice and flavours other than 'salt' as deeply foreign and wrong. This was reflected in the menu, which was allegedly a roast dinner, but in actuality was more of a boiled mush. To be fair, quite a lot of the residents have the upper body strength of mice, so perhaps that is the reason that everything, even the chicken leg, was so completely overcooked that it basically fell away as soon as you poked it with a fork. I just kept thinking of those Japanese people who live to be 120 by stopping eating before they are full, and was then harrangued by my gran for leaving something that might once have been chicken skin but was now a load of blobby fat.

The pudding actually looked alright, a lemon meringue pie, but it was then suggested that I could have something from the Sweet Trolly if I so wished instead. And rather like a gameshow I had to choose before seeing the much lauded sweet-laden entity, and rather like a gameshow once I had decided I would indeed gamble on a different sweet, a large tiered trolly full of bowls of different coloured...stuff all topped with whipped cream, was trundled over by an over smiley assistant.
I plumped for the brown mush, which I hoped would be chocolate mousse, but turned out to be chocolate Angel Delight; the whole trolly actually turned out to be Angel Delight of different colours, which was a bit of a cheat. Then again, I hadn't had any Angel Delight in about fifteen years, so thought it would be a charming novelty. Which it was for about two mouthfuls until I remembered that much like Turkey Drummers and Spam, Angel Delight is a food of childhood for a reason, the reason being it is highly suspect in both taste and appearance. And in a room which contains at least twenty colostomy bags, the appearance and texture of the chocolate desert mush weighed especially on my mind.

After lunch was spent doing uninteresting (for the purposes of this blog) things like chatting about my recent holidays and family members, then Gran fell asleep for a bit and I read a Radio Times and saw all the tv I was going to miss that evening. Then she woke up, we had squashcake and tea, chatted some more, before I got a better taxi number, called a cab and paid £3 to be carted down the road to the coach stop as it was raining.

The journey home was less straightforward, for one, I was stuck next to a woman who insisted on having the light on when I was trying to nap, secondly the driver thought it would be nice to turn the coach into a veritable sauna, and for three I accidentally trod on the remains of the cake while trying to cross my legs. Then there was lots of traffic and I was distressed to see that the Lucozade Clock had vanished (will blog more extensively about that later). My sneaky plan to cut time by being dropped off at Earls Court then went slightly awry when some bloke and I were left on the edge of a motorway, in the rain, about half a mile away from the Station.

Oh, and then to compound my joys, when we did arrive at Earls Court, some c**tpancake had thrown themselves under a train and so shut off the entire Piccadilly Line on top of half the other lines not running anyway due to repair works *cough* laziness *cough*. I therefore had to endure a crowded long schlep on the District Line, where I was squashed in those seats that inexplicably face each other, trying to avoid looking at the winsome American couple opposite (well, ontop) of me, who smelt of donuts and spent the whole journey stroking each other and talking about toothbrushes.

After about an hour in the bowels, I emerged at Archway in yet more rain. On the upside my prayers were answered and the driver of the bus was not the same driver whose vehicle I threw up on on Friday night. On the downside, all my amazing acting practise and 'what? me? Oh god no that would be my twin sister. I've just been visiting our gran. Look! I have squashed cake and smell of sprouts and everything!' went in vain.
I eventually staggered home at about 9pm, collapsed, realised I was hungry, decided I didn't want to live to 120 and so made a massive pile of toast, and collapsed again. The Flatmate dived on the remains of the squashcake, I neglected to mention the foot-cake interaction, and instead lay back and wondered how much it takes to bribe a driving instructor.

*Frankly it would be no great surprise if I turned up early to my own funeral and bitched at all the mourners out when they arrived five minutes late as 'I have been DYING of boredom for the last FIFTEEN minutes'.

What the Ill Informed Have Been Muttering About Today

* Was the Camden Market Fire caused by developers desperate to drive out the last few stall holders who were refusing to sell their pitches to them, so they could build a big glass monstrosity like the Ice Warf on the opposite side of the road?


*Have you ever seen two couples more in the throes of love than the Smiths and the Cruises? Look at the way they are touching! Nothing says 'we have lots and lots of straight up heterosexual relations' more than pointed touching and a dead eyed gaze. (okay pic not great, but if you read the London Paper you will know what I mean)

Yeah okay the ill informed have not been muttering much today. But they will be back tomorrow I am sure

Blogging the Brits 2008

20.01 - Oh look it is a gay, a balloon and a big spider. Hello Mika, hello Brits 2008.
A bit of coolness is wrestled back when Beth Ditto pops up for a duet, but to those who are not wearing their glasses (because they dropped them behind the sofa) it looks like a runner bean duetting with one of those Marks and Spencer gummy pig sweets.

Wow Kelly Osborne looks like a goth Lisa Stansfield, Jack looks like one of those bikers who cook things on telly and Ozzy and Sharon just look the same as they have for the last ten years

20.07 - First joke to fall flat, courtesy of Chris Moyles. A nation is unsuprised.
Take That trounce all those poxy instrument playing bands like Muse and Arctic Monkeys to win Best Live Act. It never fails to astound me how TT always sound like a group of old men piddling away their retirement in a northern pub. They now appear to dress like them too.

20.12 Rihanna and the Klaxons - exciting prospect, amazing strobey set but I can't shake the niggling fear that the Klaxons are always rather crap live. Luckily it is Rihanna, resplendent with a teatowel on her head, that appears to be doing most of the work. Yeah, the actual sound is a bit 'meh' but they look like a Mad Max inspired alien princess and her slaves, so all is not lost.

20.16 Oh GOD, like AIDS in the 1980's Fearne Cotton has reared her ugly head to ruin everyone's fun. I mute her. Thus far the last sixteen minutes would have actually been more enjoyable without sound.

20.23 Apparently Adele has already won the Critic's Choice Award and we are meant to know this. M-to-the-eh, although it is nice to see Will Young again and marvel at his new hairplugs.

20.26 I hope Leona Lewis doesn't win Best British Breakthrough Act, as aside from having to sing live on Loose Women, I don't think she has actually done anything to fuel her huge massive fame as she possesses not so much a team of PR people as a small Roman legion. Oh no, the singing runner bean has won.

20.29 Kylie takes to the stage with a troupe of dancing Quality Street and a bad wig. She is clearly miming, but she has beaten cancer, been cheated on and has a nice smile so all is forgiven.

20.33 Cotton mute again, but I can still see Mika looking slightly contemptuous at whatever it was she said. When Mika looks at you in contempt you know it is time to go and throw yourself into a deep pit of boiling tar.

20.40 Why is Bruce Springsteen nominated for Best Male whatever? Didn't he die ages ago? Good old Kanye: "Someone probably deserves this more than me, but I don't know who they are". Maybe so, but no one rocked hilarious venetian blind inspired sunglasses quite like you dear.

20.43 Modern day Narcissus, Mark Ronson, has won Best UK Male. He probably says something hideously pompous and self congratulatory, but I just gaze at his pretty pretty face. "He looks like he would have been a cute toddler" says the Flatmate dubiously. I think she's just hung up on his rather crap puddingbowl hairstyle though.

20.45 Our takeaway arrives so we get a bit distracted and don't watch the Kaiser Chiefs.

20.59 Kylie wins something and pretends to be all thankful and surprised, like she hasn't won a Brit every year since the dawn of time. The Flatmate and I debate the merits of David Tennant. He is wearing a t shirt like one I had from Gap when I was twelve but I still love him. The flatmate thinks he is 'pathetic' as he is over the age of twenty and wears Converse.

21.00 'A European Bridal catalogue from 1992' takes to the stage and it requires a cast of fifty dancers to make her appear even vaguely interesting. Ladies and Gentlemen, Miss Leona Lewis!

21.05 The U2 Award aka Best International Group. They have now won a lifetime award though, so I think they have been put out to pasture, presumably so someone else can win. Indeed it is Foo Fighters who win and will doubtlessly now win for the next ten years.

21.07 Unfortunately PJ Harvey has not yet been able to break the curse of the Best British Female nomination for the fifty-third year in a row as Kate 'modern Pam Aires' Nash wins. She 'fanks' us all.

21.12 The Foo Fighters win something else, but our Cotton Mute went on too long so we missed what the actual award was for. Dave Grohl takes the piss yet still appears like a nice bloke, such is his all encompassing 'Good Guy' aura.

21.14 Puddingbowl Narcissus performs. "So basically all Mark Ronson does is add trumpets to things" the Flatmate observes. The Winehouse comes on! The world (well, the Brit School who are taking up the front six rows) screams for joy. She looks a little bit pale and sweaty and is vaguely reminiscent of Dorien from Birds of a Feather, but she is alive!

21.25 Arctic Monkeys win Best British Group again. They've actually turned up this year and are in costume so have obviously Sold Out.

21.27 Oh, Dorien is performing on her own. Dorien needing the loo to be strictly accurate to Ms Winehouse's dancing skills. I think it must be the nerves and the hooker heels as the lack of slurred words convinces us that she is actually sober...

21.31 ...unlike Alan Carr who is wankered. Take That win Best Single, voted for by the Great British Idiots. I'm not even sure which single it is for; when I was temping over the summer I had to listen to Capital Radio all day every day and they played Take That so much that I now fall down into a foaming mouth fit whenever I hear a snatch of any of their songs. Gnnnnnnrrrrrrrrhhhhhhrrrr.

21.35 Alan Carr leaves the stage to be replaced by an even more sozzled version of himself ten years down the line - It's Vic Reeves! Vic is very very drunk and we could be seeing our moment of controversy. Or not. Arctic Monkeys are equally wankered and take the piss out the Brit School. Perhaps they haven't sold out after all! Lots of random people stagger drunk around the stage, but we are denied this vaguely amusing spectacle and the cameras instead cut to Fearne Cotton trying to obscure a drunk staggering Alan Carr with her tiny frame. Then just as this in turn gets amusing, it cuts to the adverts.

21.41 I think it is only Paul Mc Cartney left to go so the Flatmate puts the washing machine back on and buggers the tv reception.

21.44 They start the Paul Mc Cartney montage with a load of clips of Wings. Clips of Wings! Ha, god I amuse myself sometimes. Anyway, Wings? What are they trying to prove? That Sir Paul was even vaguely cool after 1970? Even clips of his dead first wife won't make that true.
"I really shouldn't watch this, it makes me angry" The Flatmate comments, an hour and forty four minutes too late. I was all set to disagree and argue that she needs to have more irony in her life, but then Paul gets the mandolin out and I have to change the channel. We change back for a second after the Flatmate disputes my claim that it is a mandolin and not a banjo, but I win, and with that we bid farewell for another year to Britain's Third Best Awards Show.

The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow

Hello, sorry, been somewhat at a low ebb today due to inactivity, boredom and a chill caused by being too embarrassed to ask for the air con to be turned down AGAIN. I thought I was a champion for the people until I realised that half the people near me were lounging around in T shirts.

Maybe I'm one of those Lizard People David Ike talks about. I was starting to wonder why David Attenborough was hiding in my filing cabinet, filming me from behind a stack of old ASA ajudications.

Aaaanyway, as I have mentioned before, tomorrow I will be blogging the Brits in all their boring glory, so I will save all my inspiration juice for then.
For now I will leave you with a photo of one band mysteriously left off the nominations for Best International Band, the 'Japanese Beatles' aka Bump of Chicken.
I have never actually heard The Bump, but am already in love with them thanks to their wonderful Wikipedia entry (HERE) which features not only their album and single titles, but each member's blood group and the fact that the lead singer "enjoys doing laundry, cannot eat spicy foods, has poor eyesight and likes to eat chicken"

Totteridge is For Pussies

Obviously Totteridge is full of WIMPS as no one had got either of these fine videos out the library since 1998. One of the perks of the Flatmate's Saturday job is classy films such as these, plus outrageously underrated and ignored works of literature like 'Russian Fabric Designs of the 19th Century' and '101 Women's Institute Soup Recipies'.

And if you can think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than discussing Moscovite Gingham over a nice bowl of ministrone while the telly blares out the sound of fighter jets in the background, then you sir, are a highly dillusioned individual.

Announcement - Blogging the Brits Makes a Glorious Return!

A big 'hello!' to the 2,854 people who have visited this blog since it's birth on Valentine's day last year.. yes, most of you stayed for less than one second, yes, most of you appeared to come after putting 'slimatea' or 'powerplate' into google, but I love you all the same!

As I am currently hideously uninspired and in possession of a new laptop I wish to use for something other than facebook and photoshopping my friends' heads onto animals (don't ask) I have made the momentous decision to *unneccesary drumroll* blog the Brit Awards! Again!

Looking back at last year's post it would appear that Orson won something, Joss Stone had stupid hair and Fearne Cotton was EXCITED. I wonder what joys this year will hold...

You can read my old Brits blog entry HERE, then prepare yourself to come back on Thursday morning and marvel at how one person can become so unfunny over the course of a year.

Someone Has Too Much Time On Their Hands..

...apart from me. Observe in all it's glory, the Wikipedia entry for Edd the Duck (most hilariously tenuious bits in bold):

"Edd the Duck (originally Ed the Duck) is a popular puppet mallard duck with green hair who appeared on the Children's BBC "The Broom Cupboard" in-vision continuity alongside (human) presenters Andy Crane and Andi Peters.
He made his debut in late 1988, originally with a bald head until a viewer sent in a mohican-style hairpiece, which became his trademark. His co-star and enemy was Wilson the Butler, a character who was off screen apart from his arm visible to the viewers.
Edd the Duck starred in a number of pantomimes and short films along side actors including Bill Oddie and Gorden Kaye. One of his best-loved films shows how be became a zookeeper at Twycross Zoo and fed the chimps at their tea party. Another of his films shows how he trained to be a top chef and made afternoon tea for the Queen and in another he learns to fly a plane and serves crusty bread, pond weed and pizza to his duck passengers.

His ambition is to be a Blue Peter pet.
Edd the Duck also starred in two computer games from Zeppelin Games. He was the official mascot of the English competitors at the 1994 Commonwealth Games as well as being adopted as the official mascot of the British Olympic team.
Edd the Duck released his own single, "Awesome Doody!" in 1990 - after receiving singing lessons from Sonia, who advised him to use the rap genre.
CHORUS:
I'm hip, hop, happening and I'm totally gonna die,
I'm Edd the Duck and I'm an awesome doody!
Edd the Duck is also a great fan of Kylie Minogue who popped in to visit him in the Broom Cupboard.
A theatrical duck, Edd parodied Warren Beatty's character, appearing in a yellow raincoat as Duck Tracy with his mute friend as Quackless Baloney.
Edd the Duck was also found responsible for the phenomenon of "Quack Circles" after the growing prevalence of crop circles across the country. These were yellow circles with the word "quack" written on them and it was not until they appeared with increasing frequency and even on the BBC symbol before Neighbours that Andi Peters realised Edd was responsible.
Edd the Duck had his own cartoon strip in a BBC magazine. He was also parodied in a cartoon strip called "The Garbage man", which appeared in short lived British comic Toxic.
Edd's birthday is 1st June, but he is perpetually six years old."

I reckon the main suspects are either Andi Peters or some man with a cold, cold hand who spent the 90's crouched under a desk with his head in Andi's crotch.

What's That Coming Over The Hill..

... is it a giant anthropomorphised paedophile hand? Giant anthropomorphised paedophile hand!

Photograph taken from my recent-ish travails in Japan. I mean, I am assuming that is vaguely what it means, but given that I can't so much write my name in the language it could just be a health warning about dirty fingernails or something.

I am quite amused by the idea of loads of little Japanese kids growing up in fear of giant floating evil hands; a completely irrational, imagination fuelled fear much like the one I suffered from when locked my dolls in the bathroom every night for a couple of years after watching Childs Play.

I then saw it again about six years later when I was about thirteen and felt like a right tool as it could actually be the most un scary shit horror film ever.

No Chicken Soup for YOU!

Actually that is a complete lie, it turns out there is more than enough Chicken Soup to go round..too much in fact so you end up with titles like this one to the right----->

The 'Adopted Soul'? That sounds like some sort of Voodoo to me, but I guess it is comforting to know that if you were ever possessed by the spirit of a child (of any colour of the rainbow!) that there would be a book for you.

Other wonderful titles in the series include:

Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul - perfect for that cruise holiday!

Chicken Soup for the American Idol Soul - so you can make it all tasty before selling it to Simon Cowell

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Children with Special Needs (WHAT a chicken out - pardon the pun - surely it should be 'chicken soup for the 'special' soul')

Chicken Soup for the Survivng Soul - yeah your body is dead, but your non physical self is still floating around in need of warm poultry liquid in written form

Chicken Soup for the Dieter's* Soul - It's the only form of Chicken Soup you can stomach now! (apart from maybe that powdered cuppa soup stuff that tastes like shit)

Chicken Soup for the Military Wife's Soul - calming words and anecdotes not including the one about the wife whose husband was thousands of miles away risking his life in a pointless war and when she next saw him he was be a vegetable and she had to live in poverty for the rest of her life as the government wouldn't pay out.

*sigh* Ooh I feel all warm now.


* Like people on a diet, not a book aimed at a small percentage of the male German population

Have You Ever Felt Your Brain Implode?

Try going to a lunchtime meeting, twenty minutes of which is devoted purely to the relative merits of black vs white backgrounds for powerpoint presentations.

On the upside there was the tale about the CEO who called his PA when she was on her lunch to tell her to come back to the office because a button had fallen off his shirt. And she had to sort it out now. With a needle and thread. And why on earth would he need to take his shirt off?

One day all of this will be a fabulous novel/sitcom/film which will be ruined by lazy comparisons to Ricky Gervais's Office.

I can't wait.

Biche's Travails part 1 - The Bus to Finsbury Park

Don't say I didn't warn you..

I arrive at the bus stop in Crouch End at approximately 08.55, an unfortunate ten minutes behind the aspired to (usual being an overstatement) time, as there was no food in the house bar some stale Greek bread, and my hair appeared to have been possessed with the spirit of a 90's boyband and formed into two limp curtains over my forehead.
Friends I have spoken to remark how they always see the same people at their bus stops, some to the point of chatting/sharing coffee/life stories. Due to a vain refusal to wear glasses and a general dislike of anyone and everything before about 10am, I have never had this joy, but given that the friends who expound such morning wittering are also the sort of people who end up being ranted at by mad tramps, I'm not too bothered.

Today I am standing next to a woman in an unflattering white knitted hat and a coat that I enviously notice must be a lot warmer than mine. Due to January Sales bargain blindness my current coat is a woollen jacket that does up rather tighty around the waist, leaving either a pleasing silhouette or a gap of midriff and a cold arse, depending on weather and stance. Hat woman is sucking fervently on a fag and appears completely oblivious to the scrawny ipodded man on the other side of her, who is noticeably and irritatingly moving out of the path of every grey exhale. Looking at him in his long black coat that sufficiently warms his nether regions and poncy black goatee, I can tell he is probably imagining himself as Neo from the Matrix dodging a hale of bullets in slow motion, not a graphic design assistant in a Camden Market coat bobbing about like a chicken. Tool.

Together we stand in a little line along with about ten other Crouch End Work Proles and alternate between blankly staring across the road at Walter Purkiss and Sons dropping ice and fish everywhere as they set up for the day, at the hideous Cargiant advert on the bus shelter that is so sexist it must be a huge ironic joke I don't quite get, and to the right, where the bus is already lumbering towards us

As usual the novelty of the British Queue completely crumbles once the bus actually arrives, and everyone pushes on in a persistent yet silent throng, beeping their oysters before going to their assigned seats.. old people at the front, annoying little kids, parents and lazy women in heels downstairs, and everyone else upstairs. It always surprises me when people don't get these unwritten rules; sit at the front downstairs and some old person will always come and give you the evil eye and mutter grumpily at you until you are shamed into giving your seat up, sit at the back downstairs and you will get fleas and burst eardrums from the kids (word of warning, once they can speak you might as well give up scowling too.. nowt worse than when they stop shrieking to go 'Mummy why is that lady pulling mean faces at me?')

Likewise, tip for champions, if it is a sunny day, don't sit at the front of the bus on the way to Finsbury Park or you will be blinded for the entire length of Stroud Green Road which, what with the traffic lights that appear to be having a nervous breakdown and the local families taking their kids to school who appear to think that once you drop a sprog the rules of the road no longer apply so you can slowly drag your brood across the road at any time like a fucking family of ducks, can be some time.

That said, if you are not late for work or staring into the sun, the journey down Stroud Green can be quite pleasant. Where else would you find shops called L'AN KOMPRESSOR 2000 or else gaze into afro hair salons and wig shops on the way to work? Okay quite a lot of places, but it's good to know that should you ever want a washing up bowl, some goat meat, a cheap lightbulb or a bunch of human hair on your way home from work then you would be able to procure such items speedily thanks to SG's many bargain amenities.

Finally the bus turns the corner by the mysterious art shop where I have never seen a living soul enter or exit, the blinded people at the front heave a just audible sigh which cut short as the bus turns the final corner which thrusts them back into the sun. Then silently we all stand up and begin the next social dilemma, which is whether to allow the dazed people from the front of the bus to go down the stairs before you. I usually don't, reckoning that I will never see any of these people again so don't really care. Unfortunately due to my aforementioned introspection this might actually not be the case, which would explain why I always seem to get barged into as I stride towards the tube*. I imagine somewhere there is a woman sitting bored in another office off Oxford Street, ugly wool hat in her desk drawer writing 'So I was at the bus stop next to Matrix Guy and Rude Cow in the Stupid Jacket...'

Next week - The Tube to Oxford Circus

*although at least half of the barging is caused by people dawdling as they check out their reflection in the mirrored shop window next to the station and not checking out the cursing figure who is reflected just behind their reflection

Thai Green Envy

The Guardian, who I would usually expect a little better from, have decided it is high time they followed the the progress of a 19 year old middle class twat called Max Gogarty on his gap year as he wastes his parents money piddling around India and Thailand looking to 'have a good time'

I find this incredibly irksome for several reasons:

1) Don't tell me he doesn't have a relative working at the Granuiad. Thousands of idealistic young kids must send in the article proposal 'I will go travelling and blog my experiences', and no doubt a small fraction were actually really good writers looking for a break*, so why him? Oh right, a quick search of the website brings up Paul Gogarty, travel writer for the same publication. Nepotism much?

2) Anyone with a facebook aged between 18 and 30 will be already inundated by hundreds of hysterically boring and samey accounts of Khao Pi Pi, jungles, buckets and full moon parties not to mention thousands of photos of the above things. By people they actually know. And they are still boring as fuck.

3) I have not been, but I get the impression that Thailand is occupied by one ladyboy, an old lady selling alcohol in seaside buckets and half of the Home Counties loudly braying, boozing and taking hundreds of photos of each other in bikinis. Before going over the border to Cambodia to take a jolly photograph of themselves posing with a machine gun on the Killing Fields. What fun!Maybe if he was going somewhere remotely interesting, unexplored or, lets face it, unexploited, it might be more interesting. Like Iran.

4)For those of you who may consider number 1 a bit unfair, you can read Max's first blog HERE.. Yeah he's not even a particularly interesting writer. It's just so...obvious. And absent of similes or any other allusions (if we are going to get technical) that might make it more amusing or imaginative. What humour that is there seems to come from his variations of the word 'shit'. Oh ho de ho.

So in conclusion, I am very disappointed in the Guardian and until they give me my own blog, where I will recount my far more interesting, unexplored and humorous experiences as I travel to Oxford Circus and sit at my desk daily for three months, I will not be appeased**.


*Not the Biche, it has to be added.. I never got around to sending in my proposal

** If anyone knows anyone at the Guardian please forward this post on to them. With an added request to kick Paul Gogarty in the shins.

Hilarious Two-weeeks-too-late Joke of the Day

Jeremy Beadle requested that his ashed be scattered over his vegetable garden at home.

New for ITV's Autumn line up: ' Watch Out Beadle's a Sprout'

Look yeah, I had a whole post planned on the Beadle; full of anecdotes of how I watched it behind my BBC employed parents' backs and that I never noticed his little hand and had to actually go look it up on the internet after singularly failing to get a load of 'on the other hand..' jokes. But it just sounded totally lame so I canned it.

Baftas Exclusive!

My top secret source exclusively reveals:

Daniel Radcliffe - "Totally a man in a child's body. Everything about him is really really small"

Jeff Goldblum - "Really nice. Tall. Not at all letchy, that's just his face"

James Macavoy - "Ab-so-lutely tiny"

Kevin Spacey - "Really believes his own hype. Didn't come across as that Queeny"

Jessica Biel - "Tall and stunning"

Harvey Winstein - "Very fat and creepy looking"

Eddie Izzard - "Looks very normal in the flesh"

Wow, there you have it. Heat magazine eat your heart out.

Photo of the Day - Heroin Chic

No, it is not particularly current, undiscovered or kitsch, but I just re-stumbled these photos that show a girl's descent into homeless druggy hell over a fifteen year period.

And being something of a portrait photo geek, I find them completely fascinating.

Looking on the tinternet it appears she might be called Maria Ramos, but there appear to be quite a lot of people rather unfruitfully trying to find out if this is true.
Presumably because they have the aim of hunting her down to make a hugely inconsequential channel 4 documentary about drug abuse, obviously complete with sober sounding voiceover and grainy B&W stock footage of New York dubbed with police sirens and women's screams to pad out the two minutes footage they have of some police officer shrugging and going "Who?" and some crackhead going "Who? Oh she dead. You gotta dollar?"

Tsk!

p.s Is it me, or is it suprising that Stella Vine hasn't recreated these mugshots in huge daubs of paint yet?

Foodstuff of the Day - Vegan Prawns!

Today I actually went to one of those vegan thai buffet places, that can be found, usually completely empty of customers, dotted around Soho. It was quite a fun experience, not least because none of the people who I went with were aware it was veggie, and that all the dishes were a charming variation upon the theme of 'soy'.

I have to admit I've never really bothered with soya meat replacements being a lazy unhealthy carnivore with a worrying love of Herza Frankfurters (although they barely count as meat). So I was greatly and pleasantly suprised to find what efforts vegetarians go to to make soya and tofu look like delicious edible meat.
At one point a friend and I were actually standing up over the buffet shoving bits of 'beef' in black bean sauce in our mouths going 'It isn't meat!' 'Really? No it is! It is!' 'When has meat tasted like watery mushrooms?' etc etc

But anyway, the most hilarious form of soy protein was far and away the 'tiger prawns' which were not only correctly sized and shaped, but actually had red bits painted on them to represent the shell of the prawn! They also bizarrely had the texture of prawn, and would be perfect, except they tasted like (and I quote)

"Not much."
"Hurrrh there is an aftertaste. Is it fish? No, nope."
"Interesting. Not good interesting"
"A flump that had been out the packet for a bit. But not sweet. A hard marshmallow that is not sweet"

Still, A grade for effort, vegan thai people!

I Like My Celebrities Next to Increasily Irrelevent Stock Photos

So Holymoly is no longer showing photos shot by paparazzi while they actually physically chase celebrities. Good, says I.
Mr Holymoly's point (for those of ye who have not wasted your morning piddling around the guardian website) was that several celebrities - most notably Britney Spears and the Winehouse - have been completely hounded to the point of madness by the paps, and that we should not encourage this.

I agree with him on sentiment, but it has to be said.... Britney is a flipping retarded bi polar taste vaccum who doesn't take her meds and does nothing but drive around LA baiting the paps, and Amy, well, up to a week ago she was a smackhead who staggered around the streets of London covered in nothing but a bra and scabs in the middle of winter. Now I might be unduly cynical, but it wasn't actually the paparazzi who caused either of these (literal) walking disasters so much as their dodgy drug pushing fame hungry boyfriends.

But then if the boyfriends-cum-managers-cum-scum are the tapeworm felling the camels, the paps are still the vultures that hover around the moribund beasts looking for opportunity, and that can obviously never be condoned. For every 'meh' photo of some famous brat getting into a car or walking down a street that you look at for 0.0000032 seconds before scrolling down/turning the page, there is some loser who stood around in the cold for hours waiting to take it. Not to mention when in the case of Amy it is more like: 'ooh look she's covered in blood, this pic will be worth hundreds. Maybe thousands if I trip her up!'
How utterly shitty, scummy, boring and pathetic.

Heeh I say this, and I will blatantly have a child who grows up to be a pap. Mind you (if we think along such karmic lines) I am either going to have a child who is a pap, a Scientologist or a singing Turkey puppet from Ireland, and frankly I think I might as well buy a copy of L Ron's autobiography now, as at least that way I won't be jailed for infanticide*.

So yeah, I have decided: The Speeches of Biches is also going to be completely pap free from now on. *cough*notthatitwasn'tbefore*cough*

I do have to point out this is not just because of the above moral wibbles, the amount of boring photos of Britney in shite clothes buying a Starbucks has diluted the usually ace outputs of gossip sites like Dlisted and Perezhilton. A fat retard with cold sores buying a coffee is not so much news as something I can see outside Oxford Circus tube at any time of the day, and if I went to Camden I could get both that and a smackhead rockabilly staggering around in bloodied ballet pumps for my tube fare.

Likewise and less specifically, photos of pissed off people getting into cars are incredibly boring unless you happen to be a fan of the rear interiors of posh vehicles, or perhaps like looking at slightly crossed eyed drunk people on their way home, in which case there is always Carcraft and The N134 bus respectively.

So in conclusion: Pap shots are like porn bought out of someone's car boot round the back of the pub - utterly dull, bad quality, explotative, lining the pockets of scumheads AND makes you feel slightly grubby. Best to stay in the warm, spend your pennies on beer then go home to watch Hollyoaks in the City**


*The Biche would like to attest she is not some mad harpy desperate for a chile***, but she did see AM's scan of her baby boy this morning so got a bit gooey.
** The Biche has never watched a full episode of Hollyoaks in the City. Or bought porn from a pub carpark incidentally...

*** thats 'chile' pronounced 'chyel' oh ye who would dare accuse me of spelling mistakes or for longing after a south american country

Photo of the Day - Come on Doreen!

Found in 'The Fairy Grotto' gift shop in Weston Super Mare. It's almost so perfect I don't want to sully it with lame comments like 'ooh guess what the coaster designer's mother is called' or 'not pictured: Ethel, from the Greek meaning grumpy old boot'

But I am bored and can't help myself.

Ode to Chicken Spot

I suppose there is a sort of logic that an ode to a chicken shop and it's £1.50 'junior spesh' should be a grime song.. while a song about a sweetshop could only be a bubblegum pop song sung by women dressed as children, chicken shops can only be GRIME and sung about by overexcitable young men who like to hang around in gangs and apparently ask for extra mayo

That said, there aint nothing wrong with a lickle bit of chicken every so often I don't think... I mean, it gives you bad skin for a week and you keep remembering that urban legend about the guy who bit into his drummer and this yellow stuff came out and it wasn't mayo but pus from a boil on the chicken's leg, but it is kinda tasty.

Never have the onion rings though. They will end up half digested in your bathroom sink. TRUST.

Person of the Day - This Guy

God I wish I had taken this photo. In fact it is from the rather ace waymessedup.com,

The best I have ever got is a guy meditating on the tube. Loser.

Slow Afternoon - An Essay on Miami Ink

Aah Lovefilm. After three glorious months, I am now shelling out £12.99 a month for lots of dvds, which is something of a double edged sword. On one hand this is alright, I hate owning loads of dvds as I don't have storage room for them and I am renowned for never watching films more than once, if that.
On the other hand, I am renowned for never watching films more than once, if that.

Something about sitting down for a hour and a half watching a drawn out formulaic story is not only crashingly boring once the ending is evident, but makes me remember in an epiphany style *gasp* that I am wasting my life. And I resent being reminded of that on a bi weekly basis, particularly by a big movie star doing their Oscar turn in that bit of the film just after the middle where everything seems to be going wrong, only for it to be resolved at the end.

So I have basically become the Queen of the boxsets.

This was initially ace as I was able to witness the greatness of the Wire without shelling out for whatever obscure cable channel it is on, and watch every singe episode of Fraiser you can currently rent.
Unfortunately now I am up to the series of Fraiser where it has begin to jump the shark*, so I have been forced to look further afield for new brain sweeties.

Enter Miami Ink.

The premise is simple to the point of 'duh' - five guys who are renowned tattoo artists set up a parlour in Miami and tattoo people. We see how one tattoos and hear the stories behind each tattoo they do.

The initial laughs come from the hilarious stories of the tattoo shop patrons. Basically it appears you can't just get a tattoo for the hell of it, it always has to mean something and this itself means one of two things.
Either you get people who get full out epitaphs and portraits of dead loved ones on their legs or chests (snore) or you get the hilariously tenuous excuses for significance, which always go along the lines of : 'Well I want to get a pirate ship on my stomach as it symbolises that I am a free spirit, and because I swear I was a pirate in a past life, and I can really relate to their ethos, y'know?' or 'I want to get a flaming skull on my back? Because it's like mortality yeah? Tico is a skull now, and by putting it on my back it is the past, and it shows I am moving on, and putting things behind me'**

So that's great, but if that were not enough, the programme is obviously edited for multiple adverts, which means in each show you get the (usually bereaved) patron earnestly telling the same story ("Chico was only twelve when he choked on KFC") at least three times, each time in tears but with a slight variation of word order, followed by the tattoo artist musing on their customer ("to lose a kid like that, to chicken y'know man...Das hard")

The greatest lure of Miami Ink however is undoubtedly the tattoo artists themselves, particularly the 'owner' Ami James, who is (apologies for the lazy simile, but hardly anyone watched The Armstrongs) like David Brent, but if he were American and in charge of running South Beach's most famous tattoo shop.
Ami does the voice-over for the series, which mean we get gems like 'Ever since I was young, I have had problems with my anger' spoken over footage of him completely flipping out, kicking things and shouting at the other guys like a testosteroned lunatic and 'I guess Andrea's idea is a little unusual' as we see him look utterly disgusted and confused at someone's tattoo request.

Then there is the way he treats his 'apprentice' Yoji, a fully grown man, who we see getting married and becoming a father during the course of the series. Ami ritually abuses Yoji in a way which could be shown in schools as a textbook example of bullying, complete from demasculising him by making him do inane tasks like clean Ami's car, to just constantly and cruelly ripping the piss out of him while the others look on and laugh.
And yet Yoji has apparently been subjected to this low paid abuse for the last five years, on the vague promise (vague, but repeated about ten times an episode) that he will one day be 'a real tattooist', said in a voice which makes you wonder if they edited out the words'...the blue fairy will come and make you.....' ,
So perhaps he deserves it somewhat, as surely no one is THAT stupid.

The next great thing about Miami Ink, is the way it is filmed. I love American 'documentaries' such as M.I and The Hills etc, as they are in fact so scripted and completely contrived it becomes fun to actually try and see the truth lurking deep underneath. For example, there is the internet rumour going around that Ami is gay, which makes for great analysis - not because I care whether he is gay or not - but to see the looks he gives the beefcakes who stride in to get their chests tattooed, and to listen out as to whether he ever refers to his 'partner' in the masculine form.
Another example of my inferences of truth is that I think that Chris Garver doesn't like Ami at all. Chris is far and away the most talented tatooist, and is also far and away the least 'tv' of the tattooists. In the segeway group shots of them striding down South Beach to funky music and bizarre camera angles, he generally keeps his shirt on, and he appears less prone to overblown statements a la Ami 'I knew den. I had made. A friend fur life' James.
He also appears hugely uncomfortable whenever Ami is around, and can often be seen lurking in the back of shots looking like a man embarrassed or occasionally exasperated.
Then again, maybe Ami is gay and he is a raving homophobe. I am just inclined to believe the former because I am shallow and I think he is fit.
Whatever the case, he does draw great tattoos, and I suppose, grudgingly, that after all the David Brentisms, propaganda style editing, contrived situations and repeated sob stories, the process and resulting tattoos are quite interesting in themselves.


*on an incidental note, did you see the episode of Two Pints of Lager where Johnny died by attempting to jump over a shark? HO BLOODY HO YOU BUNCH OF SELF REFERENTIAL CUNTS, an episode where the entire cast was obliterated by the ebola virus (played by guest star Daniel Day Lewis) couldn't make TPLAAPC anything other than the worst fucking thing my eyeballs have ever seen.
** the former is true, believe it or not.

Photo of the Day - "Hello Kitty, Make My Day"

Those of you who read this blog often might remember my post about Hello Kitty Airlines, where I wondered if there was anything you couldn't buy with Kitty on it. Well it now turns out that if you were fed up of eating your Hello Kitty shaped chicken pasta while the Hello Kitty air hostess ignores your request for a Hello Kitty sickbag, you could hold the muthafucker up with this delightful AR-15 rifle.

What next? Hello Kitty machetes? Hello Kitty euthanasia kits? HELLO KITTY GAS CHAMBERS??*

*if anyone has a link for these..

Bigotry, Politics and Butt Ugly Puppets

It has to be said it is not unknown for the Biche to make generalising slurs against the Irish, using only her Irish surname and an encounter with an Irish boys school in a hotel in Rome as justification. And this is obviously bad and wrong; emigrating to Australia, dropping an O' before coming back over to England a hundred years later is not exactly what one would call an authority on such matters, and probably any school of seventeen year old boys would try and rape several members of a London sixth form as 'English girls are slags'.

But I digress.

Regardless of my ill conceived prejudiced ideas about the Irish, this is a nation which has allowed a puppet of a Turkey to not only have FOURTEEN hit singles and SIX albums (including a greatest hits) but also possibly represent them in Eurovision 2008.

And who is this Turkey Puppet? Why Dustin the Turkey! A sidekick from the Zig and Zag show, a hideous cultural low of the nineties in it's own rights, but thankfully, for those of us who live outside the Emerald Isle and value our eardrums, one that ended in 1993.

But wait! I hear you cry (in my head) surely you love trash culture in all it's forms! No. Zig and Zag, two ugly shouty puppets that looked like the kind of crappy scummy toys you find hanging off the front of a dustbin van with ping pong balls for eyes, are one of the exceptions to the rule. It's like people who like musicals not liking Rent (fools!). I also bear this grudge as we had two goldfish at school back in those dark days that I wanted to call Salt and Pepa, but thanks to stupid democracy and a show of hands, ended up being called after the two scummy bits of old flannel.

A further note about Dustin, which again, Biche would never dream of using to strengthen her tenuous dislike of the Irish, is the fact that in the 1997 General Election, several THOUSAND Irish people nulled their ballots by voting for 'Dustin'.

Mind you, in a clime where several thousand Londoners are going to effectively sully their ballots by voting for a racist ignorant Tory on the account that he is a 'jolly funny fellow' and 'a bit PG Wodehouse' I can't really criticize. I'd vote for a hideously ugly assemblage of braying flannel over Boris any day.

Braindead Biche

Sorry, slightly knackered and uninspired after a rather hectic weekend, but in recognition of Australia Day, which was errrrm, a while ago, here is a chickenburger shaped like the land downunder where women hurl and men chunder.

And here, is a photo from the weekend that I plan to blow up, frame and then us as Christmas cards next year. Behold! A bit of Toblerone on the floor of the tube. What composition! Observe how the nougart speckles are complimented by the pattern on the floor and the thatching of R's shoe. See how the shape of the chocolate is reflected in the triange of the upper right hand side! Note the perspective of the lines of the floor broken up by the triangle of chocolate, which points directly at the foot of the shoe!

How did it get there? It was the Victoria Line so perhaps someone travelling home from Heathrow got a bit hungry. Who will pick it up? What will become of it? Does anyone care? Who noticed it apart from me? Would they still remember it now? Could we apply these questions to our own lives, as we travel endlessly and annonymously on the tube?

There you have it folks, your life, summed up by a bit of discarded chocolate.*

*yeah yeah, shut up at the back..better entry tomorrow I promise