If I were the wife of a BBC executive, upon learning that my husband would not be getting his inflated, undeserved bonus I would write a very strongly worded letter to the BBC Trust demanding it be reinstated, and this is how that letter would go:
Dear Cunts,
How dare you. How very dare you. My husband, a man held in the highest regard within the corporation, deserves every last penny of his bonus and to take it away from him is tantamount to injustuce of the highest degree. Nobody in the history of television programming works harder than BBC executives, working around the clock to fill the schedules with the best shows known to audiences around the globe. Let me list a few of the great shows my husband has been a part of with the BBC and then you tell me he doesn't deserve that bonus!
My Family
Life of Riley
The Green Green Grass
My Hero
According To Bex
Mad About Alice
Orrible
Coming Of Age
Outnumbered
Jam & Jerusalem
Comrade Dad
Chef!
Kiss Me Kate
Keeping Up Appearances
Swiss Toni
Trexx and Flipside
Hyperdrive
Now tell me... that... he doesn't deserve...
Shit.
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
Saturday, 28 March 2009
Friday, 9 January 2009
Yet Another Reason To Vote Labour...
If I were Matthew Lewis I'd make sure my next fancy dress costume is even better than the last. Maybe the hacked-out foetus of the poor Afghan rape victim or the 6 six million Jews slaughtered in the Holocaust?
Now, Prince Harry as a Nazi I can tolerate, after all it's a pretty snazzy outfit and probably part of his family heritage if we're honest with each other (which I feel like we can be, dear friends). But dressing up as Madeleine McCann, complete with fake blood, when you're a political activist is just plain stupid. How did he think he was going to escape that without national humiliation and deserved degradation?
Just goes to show you, Gordon Brown might not be perfect but the Tories really are fucking useless.
Now, Prince Harry as a Nazi I can tolerate, after all it's a pretty snazzy outfit and probably part of his family heritage if we're honest with each other (which I feel like we can be, dear friends). But dressing up as Madeleine McCann, complete with fake blood, when you're a political activist is just plain stupid. How did he think he was going to escape that without national humiliation and deserved degradation?
Just goes to show you, Gordon Brown might not be perfect but the Tories really are fucking useless.
Sunday, 4 January 2009
Professor Of Prankology
If I were Pantene Pro-V I'd be a little more subtle in the way I deceived consumers. In this day and age, 6 out of every 10 people know that 93.6% of all statistical information can be manipulated into supporting roughly two thirds of all propaganda materials, from war reports to the effectiveness of probiotic drinks. Of course, the above statement is a crock of shit, much like the majority of advertisement-based science that you can see on any television channel in between any television programmes (apart from on the BBC, God bless 'em, who don't stand for those kind of shenanigans, instead plugging their own wares much like a dogged old prostitute lurching about the streets of London with a withered sandwich board, made from her shattered dreams, displaying the dismally low prices for a go on any of her ravaged holes).
With this not-so-secret shame is allowed to continue on national television (due to the tiniest slither of truth secreted within the aforementioned 'crock of shit' making them legally alright to air) it was to my surprise that I found an obvious admittance to the dastardly deed of lying outright to the general public printed on the back of a bottle of Pantene Pro-V shampoo. Yes, in big bold letters the bottle claimed that its content was wholeheartedly supported by the Institute of Trichologists. The cheek! Trickery, in whichever form of spelling, is despicable, especially when so many rely on the proposed effects to make them feel slightly less hideous to the opposite sex. I suppose the members of the Institute all have PhDs in Conology do they? Degrees earned from the University of Fabrication?
Now, I'll be honest, I haven't actually looked up the phrase "Trichologists" to find out that it's actually something to do with the study of hair follicles or something less incendiary. But that's what's so great about the internet; one needn't bother with research or accuracy in order to write what they want to! A sentence that I imagine is hanging somewhere on the wall of the Daily Mail in order for all of its "journalists" to gaze at in between their hate-fuelled scribblings, mouths agape and saliva pouring from their bile-encrusted lips as their Fuhrer pumps through the speaker system the noise of thousands of children being horribly murdered whilst a voiceover whispers "it was probably the immigrants... or the emo kids..."
What really annoys me is the possibility for inciting acts of exclusion or bullying based upon the adverts' outrageous claims. Things like "9 out of 10 women prefer the smell of Head and Shoulders to that of a dying cow foetus." Just think of the trouble caused by this one sentence. Marjorie, a regular user of Head and Shoulders and one of those 9 out of 10 gals, pops round to Gwen's house for their afternoon tea and a spot of gossip when she excuses herself to nip to the loo. Sitting there, pissing freely, she spots not a bottle of Head and Shoulders sitting on the shower shelf but a bottle of Herbal Essences. Gwen, that bitch. Here Marjorie is, a God-fearing Daily Mail reader, sipping the tea and pissing all over the bowl of a person who enjoys the smell of dying cow foetus'. Outraged and disgusted, Marjorie jumps up without wiping and drips a trail of self-righteous urine through the house and out of the door. Who's going to clean it up? Head and Shoulders? Not likely. Pantene Pro-V? Pull the other one! Poor old Gwen, that's who.
With this not-so-secret shame is allowed to continue on national television (due to the tiniest slither of truth secreted within the aforementioned 'crock of shit' making them legally alright to air) it was to my surprise that I found an obvious admittance to the dastardly deed of lying outright to the general public printed on the back of a bottle of Pantene Pro-V shampoo. Yes, in big bold letters the bottle claimed that its content was wholeheartedly supported by the Institute of Trichologists. The cheek! Trickery, in whichever form of spelling, is despicable, especially when so many rely on the proposed effects to make them feel slightly less hideous to the opposite sex. I suppose the members of the Institute all have PhDs in Conology do they? Degrees earned from the University of Fabrication?
Now, I'll be honest, I haven't actually looked up the phrase "Trichologists" to find out that it's actually something to do with the study of hair follicles or something less incendiary. But that's what's so great about the internet; one needn't bother with research or accuracy in order to write what they want to! A sentence that I imagine is hanging somewhere on the wall of the Daily Mail in order for all of its "journalists" to gaze at in between their hate-fuelled scribblings, mouths agape and saliva pouring from their bile-encrusted lips as their Fuhrer pumps through the speaker system the noise of thousands of children being horribly murdered whilst a voiceover whispers "it was probably the immigrants... or the emo kids..."
What really annoys me is the possibility for inciting acts of exclusion or bullying based upon the adverts' outrageous claims. Things like "9 out of 10 women prefer the smell of Head and Shoulders to that of a dying cow foetus." Just think of the trouble caused by this one sentence. Marjorie, a regular user of Head and Shoulders and one of those 9 out of 10 gals, pops round to Gwen's house for their afternoon tea and a spot of gossip when she excuses herself to nip to the loo. Sitting there, pissing freely, she spots not a bottle of Head and Shoulders sitting on the shower shelf but a bottle of Herbal Essences. Gwen, that bitch. Here Marjorie is, a God-fearing Daily Mail reader, sipping the tea and pissing all over the bowl of a person who enjoys the smell of dying cow foetus'. Outraged and disgusted, Marjorie jumps up without wiping and drips a trail of self-righteous urine through the house and out of the door. Who's going to clean it up? Head and Shoulders? Not likely. Pantene Pro-V? Pull the other one! Poor old Gwen, that's who.
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