Celebrity arsehole Gordon Ramsay has not, it transpires, been burning his meatballs. The greens have not been overcooked in his meat and two veg. He remains a novice in the preparation of Grilled Cod Surprise.
Pity.
Archive
Of all the acres of newsprint marking the death of Pavarotti I can’t find a single one that mentions the great man’s passion for elephants.
Let me be the first to rectify that situation.
A top UK judge made this astonishing pronouncement today, as pictured here by the BBC. He claims Q-Tips are a valuable source of protein and should be “force-fed to every man, woman and child in Britain”, along with beef brains and lead paint from China which apparently are “good for the backbone”.
See, this is how it goes with judges. One day they’re telling you you can’t do 90 in a built-up area, then it’s no murdering on week days, and before you know it’s all gone to their heads and they’re meddling in areas they know nothing about. These things should be left to experts such as Jamie Oliver and Ainsley Harriott.
The country’s gone to the dogs. I no more want an overpaid drag queen in a bad wig to tell me what to eat than I would seek legal advice from Gillian McKeith.
This morning I have been mostly flinging the sloppy leather yam. You know, “burying the ol’ Nantucket flying pencil”. Roasting the lucky chicken.
etc.
I’ve decided not to go to the Diana thing today. The official line is that it “could divert attention from the purpose of the occasion”. The truth is that I couldn’t stand the woman and her kids keep staring at me every time I go for their dad’s crotch. It’s so humiliating.
I know one day the world will accept me, but until then I feel I’m best off stopping home, drinking gin and watching Cash In The Attic.
“If I come to power, then we can really fuck things up over there,” warns Cameron.
I didn’t actually read the whole article, but I’m sure that’s the gist of it.
The cricket crisis continues to roll on.
The Orange team continue to deny that they purposefully littered the crease with England cricketers. Captain Michael Orange said, “Yeah, y’know, the lads like England players, so I suppose they might have had one or two in their pockets which could have fallen out near the wicket, but deliberately? Come off it!” This despite the footage above which clearly shows fielder Kevin Orange about to drop a Michael Vaughn, a knowing wink on his face.
Yellow captain Zaheer Yellow has now taken his complaint to the sport’s international governing body. A spokesman today told blogrot: “The rules of cricket make it quite clear that distraction of the batting team by means of shouting, waving or laughing are not allowed. Unfortunately the rules are less clear regarding the dropping of England players on the crease.”
I just think it’s bloody childish. The umpire appears to agree.
Watched a bit of CBeebies with the kids this morning and realised just how infiltrated it has become by Scottish. Honestly, you can’t leave your children in front of the telly for more than a few hours these days without a Scottish rearing its insidious head and whispering poison in their ear: Balamory, Me Too, Bits and Bobs, Brum… the list goes on, all populated by the inanely grinning descendants of William Wallace.
Forget the Midlothian Question. This isn’t about the ballot box any more - they’re getting their hands on them far younger now. We must join together and stem this evil tide before it is too late. They can mesmerise our toddlers with their brightly coloured houses and funny voices, but they’ll never take away… our freedom!
“Granny Murray” - harmless cross-dressing presenter of Me Too! or undercover freedom fighter for the SNP?
I’m only kidding, of course: many of my best friends are Scottish. (But not for much longer if they don’t pay me that five quid they owe me.)
Farewell then,
Ingmar Bergman.
Suppose that’s
Checkmate to Death
Then.
A scene from Bergman’s iconic The Seventh Seal. I say iconic, but I could never get into it myself. Even with all those seals it was never a patch on Happy Feet.
Farewell then,
Frank Butcher.
So now you really have
“Gone to Manchester”
(To use the old
EastEnders euphemism).
We’ll all say nice things
About you now
And pretend you never
Set fire to that tramp.
At this difficult time, please take a moment to listen to Eminem vs. Frank Butcher.
“Everyone is allowed to dance, with hikings shoes or sneakers”, told us Jürgen Stoll, renter of the Wank Hut.
Dance on the Wank website.
What can I add to that? This one sort of writes its own punchline.
The BBC has today decided to make a clean fist of things by issuing a list of apologies for all the other stuff it’s made up in the name of state-funded fact. The list includes:
- The “vast Inca city” discovered beneath Huddersfield by Alan Titchmarsh on Time Team was in fact a landfill site in Dewsbury, strewn with turkey bones and cheap jewellery.
Recent reports on the Litvinenko case, purporting to show photographs of prime suspect Andrei Lugovoi, actually used library shots of Christopher Timothy from All Creatures Great and Small.- The adventures of “time lord” Doctor Who, including a trip to the end of the universe some several trillion years in the future, were all clever fakes.
- The “Bruce Forsyth” seen presenting recent episodes of Strictly Come Dancing is a hologram. (Watch the footage carefully and you’ll see his hand doesn’t quite line up properly every time he slaps Tess Daly’s arse.) The real Bruce’s knees gave out in 1986.
- Recent footage on the Barrymore case was “sexed up” by BBC executives and contained a number of untruths. For example, Barrymore is frequently referred to as an “entertainer”.
- Despite recent statements from the BBC, the Queen is indeed a mardy old trout.
UPDATE: Christ, BBC, I was joking.
Youths ‘bored in school holidays’ reveals the BBC in yet another bit of piercing investigative journalism. However do they do it? They’re so down with the kids they must be scraping their faces on the pavement. The mind boggles at the ability of those 30-something men in ties to to connect with the adolescent zeitgeist.
It hasn’t always been this way, of course. In my day we had loads of stuff to occupy those long six weeks of the soul from July to August, including:
- Brushing up on our Spanish on Sesame Street (e.g. “¿Sabes porqué me llaman la cuenta? ¡Porque amo contar!” - I know, doesn’t work. That’s Spanish for you I’m afraid.)
- Waiting for Daley Thompson’s Decathlon to load on our ZX Spectrum
- Sticking all the stickers back on our Rubik’s Cube in the right order
- Applying tiny amounts of superglue to our friend’s sister’s doll so she had to sleep with her eyes open
- Spending a whole day talking like the Belfast Why Don’t You? gang (”Frr thos wun yu’ll need som glyee”)
- Filling our mouths with biscuit and water and then pretending to vomit on the pavement
Bored? The word hadn’t been invented.
A small boy, yesterday, shortly before he became bored and turned to terrorism.
Just as I thought: evidence emerges that this homosexuality thing all has something to do with sausages.
After Debbie’s departure to Hungary in 2005, Brian helped re-launch Tom Archer’s failed sausage business, making Adam even more convinced that Brian had problems with Adam’s sexuality.
My investigations continue. You’ll hear more when I finally get to the bottom of it.