Monday, November 27, 2006


If you've been to the cinema recently you can't help but have seen the Chanel advert starring skimmed milk-made-flesh, Nicole Kidman. Directed by Baz Luhrrman, Kidman is some big shot star who hitches a ride in a cab to escape the paparazzi only to find herself copping off with the bloke inside like some tanked-up chicken factory worker on a staff night out.

Truly, this advert is crap. Expensive, "glamourous" – yes, but crap too, really, really crap. 'I was the only person in the world who didn't know who she was,' breathes the male lead, sounding like a befuddled grandad who's been forced to watch T4 by a gang of tufty-haired teenagers. 'But that didn't stop me shagging her on the roof of my preposterous flat with a big Chanel sign on top of it' -– he should have added.

None of this would be worthy of note if it wasn't for the despicable, utterly self-indulgent credits that come after this tosh. Really, do the people who made the advert really think that a load of fatties waiting to watch Casino Royale really give a shit about the "team" behind it? It's an advert, nothing more. The real scandal is how much these pricks get paid for producing rubbish like this. If those figures came out then perhaps more of us would take an interest. And then torture them with pliers.

Monday, November 13, 2006


Yesterday went to watch my home town team, Liverpool at the Islington Enormo Dome, home of Arsenal Gastropub FC.
As you'd expect there are funeral parlours on the North Pole with a better atmosphere, but seeing as though most Arsenal fans are fun boy Pop Idol lookalikes from rural Hertfordshire or middle class Islington media types this is hardly surprising. The Liverpool contingent sadly proved once again why the Reclaim the Kop campaign is need so much: boring songs, fuck all noise and some shocking swedes - especially on our out of town bretheren. And as for the team, sorry but not good enough – especially when you consider how much has been spent on them recently. In 2002, Gerard Houllier laid the foundations for his demise by spunking millions on the likes of Salif Diao, Bruno Cheyrou and El Haj Diouf. Let's hope Rafa hasn't done the same, though by winning the European Cup last year he can (rightly) pretty much do what he wants. For the next couple of seasons at least.

This discussion says it all.


http://forum.raotl.co.uk/viewtopic.php?t=39136

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Narky, posh Scots tennis whopper, Andrew Murray is apparently asking his fans what sort of haircut he should go for. Apparently, Murray hasn't had his swede cut for a year, making him look like a member of the Socialist Workers Party whenever he turns up for a match. I'd suggest he goes for a tufty boy band mullet so we can laugh at him even more, but the tight get has only given his "fans" four choices; short at the back and messy on top, number four skin, long but "thinned" or keeping it as it is. My advice: ask for a Buster Bloodvessel baldy job and couple it with a Fila headband and yellow Y-Fronts.

Tennis: a boss game played by clueless spoilt brats with mad hair, too much money and pushy parents who live their tedious existence through the pursuits of their objectionable offspring.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Last night they showed smug 90s laywer comedy, This Life on the telly. I'd just moved to London at the time and the amount of twats who would come up with the old 'Hey, aren't they like us' spiel down the pub was embarrassing. What they meant was: 'Oh good, there's a programme about the sort of people I'd like to be if I wasn't a brain dead, Home Counties trog with absolutely nothing of any interest to say.' These people are now in high up positions in TV and radio.

I always hated the baby boomers and their bollocks about the 60s and 60s, but my lot are just as bad. If it's not Grange Hill, space hoppers or phoney breakdancing memories then it's fluffy haired lawyers called Miles and uptight mummy's girls who cop off with Sven Goran Erikkson-loolkalikes in the office. Made up when that Egg beaut lost his job, the scruffy bastard.

Next month: Channel 4 start re-runs of the 11 o Clock Show.