And the next contestant to be evicted from the Big Brother house is...

... the nation's overall intelligence. How the hell have we got to a stage in television viewing that reality TV is the most watched 'genre' of programming? Is it any wonder our youngsters are growing up wanting to be 'famous' rather than a scientist or a cowboy? Is it any wonder that any 'star' of reality TV struts around (during, and even after, the show) like they've discovered the cure for AIDS? And is it any wonder that I have less and less common ground to discuss with females?

Now, in my rant, I will obviously be incredibly hypocritical because there are some 'reality TV' shows that I think are valid. However, I would argue that they aren't really reality TV. Reality TV should be a 'fly on the wall' look at a specific person or group of people as go about their daily lives. I would suggest that Strictly Come Dancing is hardly something people would do in their daily lives (unless you're a drag queen, a red coat at Butlins or are trapped in an endless loop of West Side Story ), so I'd be tempted to make this exempt. But then you could offer the same argument to "I'm A Celebrity..." and I don't want that piece of pointless eye-fuck to escape my tirade.

So, it's fair to say that I'm not a fan of reality TV. I watched the first Big Brother as I thought it was genuinely interesting as an experiment and it was original. Then as the shows went on, it became less of a social experiment and more of a puppet show where the most deluded and borderline mentally ill where confined in a space and made to drink, fight and fuck their way out of it. At times it felt like the Running Man. And at most times, I wished it was. I could count on one hand the number of Big Brother contestants I've seen since the first series that I'd save from being chain sawed to death on live TV. But even then I wouldn't vote.

Now, it seems that if anyone is slightly famous for having a 'leaked' sex tape, then they automatically get a series on MTV which follows them around and shows how vapid and pathetic their lives are. I don't need to watch that to know that's how they live. But obviously some people do. And my issue is exactly that. I don't blame the producers or the advertisers or the tabloid papers or, dare I say it, the contestants themselves. I blame the viewers. All the afore mentioned groups are merely providing the food and it's up to our proud nation whether they tuck in or not. And our proud nation has made itself critically obese (and as a side note, I reckon you could make a decent graph plotting obesity alongside whether they watch reality TV or not).

If we don't watch it, they won't make it. Simple. But people watch reality TV with a hunger that I just don't understand. Intelligent and interesting female friends are quoting phrases from The Only Way Is Essex, people whose opinions I value are commenting on I'm A Celebrity... and normally dismissive and sarcastic cynics (which I see as positive traits) were glued to Come Fuck One Of The Kardashians.

Even by watching 'ironically' which I've heard some people say, we are fuelling the fires and 'demanding' more of the same. So we have an endless treadmill of contestants, famous or not, being winched up to a pedestal and then ceremonially knocked off it for our entertainment. I don't feel sorry for the contestants. Just like crack, there aren't many instances where partaking has been portrayed as a 'positive life experience'. You deserve everything you get for putting yourself in that position.

Am I the only one that feels that money from producing this gash should be spent on something a bit more useful? Frozen Planet or a Life in Cold Blood are amazing examples of proper reality TV. Awe-inspiring, beautiful, scary, inspirational, motivating - all of the things that the current crop of reality TV can't even get close to. I know life is about variety but put alongside each other, Frozen Planet and The Only Way Is Essex resemble the difference between lobster thermidore and lobster flavour 10p space invaders.

I think I may have to stretch this across two blogs as I have loads more to say on this matter but I leave you with this one thought. As TV dumbs down, so does our nation and I think that 'reality' is more terrifying than any amount of putting ants in your jap's eye or sucking on a kangaroo's scrotum.

There's an addiction that's rife in the UK...

... and it involves people of all classes, backgrounds and races. It turns normally sane people into idiots and pushes poor people into even more debt. My boss does it, my friends do it, my family even does it now and again, but I can't think of anything worse. I am of course talking about the National fucking Lottery.

This afternoon I was stood behind someone in the queue at the supermarket whose only purchase was "Five Euro Millions Lucky Dips and 2 of the £3 scratchcards". By my reckoning, that equates to £16 spent on a few bits of paper and the safety blanket of hope that his presumably miserable life would soon be made better by definitely winning £40 million or whatever the prize is. Now I don't mean to piss on his bonfire (because by the looks of him, it is probably his only means of heat) but he wasn't going to win. He'd just spent £16 on something that could have put food on his table for a good week having seen the prices at Lidl. 

But how and why is this addiction and greed now socially acceptable? Most of my friends that 'play' the lottery don't really need the money. Yes, I'm sure they'd enjoy £40 million but not winning it hasn't left them financially crippled. And they aren't the type of people to visit a betting shop twice a week, or spend the night in a casino every Saturday. So why do they feel the need to gamble while they do their weekly grocery shopping? And for such shite odds too! 

Apparently it's a one in 14 million chance of winning the main UK National Lottery. That number is BLOODY HUGE. Now don't get me wrong, if I saw a horse in the grand national with those odds, I'd have a flutter. Would I continue to bet twice a week for 18 years on the same flogged horse? Quite simply, no.

"Oh but I've got a system!" Get lost Rainman. 1) If you had a system you'd have won by now and 2) choosing the same numbers every week isn't 'a system' - it's just lazy. In fact and I quote,  "In a recent survey 21% of people thought that if they put the same numbers on to the lottery for the rest of their lives that they would have a chance of winning. The reality is they would have to put the same numbers on 135,000 years before they would have an evens chance of winning."    

And then there's the embarrassment of actually asking for a lottery ticket in the first place. You hand over a hastily scribbled slip, wait two minutes while the paroled car-jacker behind the till fiddles with the machine, listen to the tutts and sighs as people that just wanted a pack of chewing gum or fags have to watch you feed your addiction... like stumbling in on a smack addict injecting junk between his toes in a service station toilet. And I guarantee that at least one person in that queue will, like me, look upon you with the disdain you truly deserve. And I live in the same village as you. And I will continually see you as someone that voluntarily pays the idiot tax.

But, worst of all, it turns wankers into monsters. How many people that have ever won Euro Millions or the National Lottery have you ever thought to yourself, "Oh they look a nice couple.... good on them". No, they either look like Fred and Rose West or they look like they've lived on a diet of gravy, dripping and Iceland's deep fried assorted starters all their lives. Alarm bells should ring when we even see the faces of the people that have won. They had to actively tick and sign a piece of paper saying "I am happy to go public with this". Why the hell would any sentient human being want to actively go public with it?

Then they always say "no, the money isn't going to change me". Really??? Of all the people on this earth, I'd say that a lottery winner falls into the bracket of 'most in need of change'. Buy yourself a new Kappa tracksuit, treat the kids to a bargain bucket for breakfast, pay off your credit cards that you use to live on rather than earning money. And, if you genuinely don't think it's going to change your life then give the money to someone else. Maybe someone with a disabled child who is struggling to make ends meet? Maybe donate it to a shelter for victims of domestic abuse. Hell, give it to CERN so we can finally find the Higgs Boson. Anything is better than you being allowed to spend it on a life-size Scalextric or a swimming pool filled with Irn Bru.

But we all know that within two minutes of them saying it won't change them, they've already put a deposit down on a gold-plated Nova, a lifetime's subscription to Take a Break and as many Lambert and Butlers as they can fit into their already struggling lungs. 

So, in short, don't play the lottery unless you want me to, unfairly, see you as a scummy, greedy peasant who clearly doesn't understand odds or the concept of investment. However, should you happen to win the lottery, then please disregard all the above and remember what a great friend I've been to you over the years.

 

The Olympics is shit...

... and I'm already bored to death of it. I think this summer may make me so angry that I could actually set a new world record (wind assisted) for screaming "who cares?" at my telly.

So what particularly irks me about the Olympics? Is it the fact that we all have to pretend to be "British" for a few weeks. Just like during Wimbledon. "Chris Hoy's a great example of British achievement." "Just look at what we can achieve if we give our sports proper funding." No - that's what happens when a Scot gets English funding. But, to be fair, until the Scots get washed away by memories of Braveheart and vote for devolution (and quickly go the way of Glasgow Rangers) we will continue to let them live on hand outs so we might as well get some gold and a sports personality out of it.

Is it the 'sports' that are now in the Olympics that annoy me? Greco Roman Wrestling? BMX? Women's Beach Volleyball (sponsored by Television X)? Canooing? Again, no. It would be pretty small-minded of me to attack a global sporting smorgasboard because they "had bloody foreign sports in it". I am not the type to go abroad, find an English pub, eat egg and chips, drink Carling, watch the football and start a fight with the long-suffering locals, and I'm not about to start now. No, I won't be watching Greco Roman Wrestling. No I won't be watching Handball and I most certainly won't be watching the synchronised swimming. I will, as a non-existent god is my witness, be watching the Women's Beach Volleyball.

What fucks me off to stages of apoplexy is how bloody seriously the whole thing takes itself. I'm talking specifically about the Orwellian rules surrounding mentioning 'Olympics', using a logo, saying 'London' in the same sentence as 'running' and using the colours of the Olympic rings (ie all primary colours). The company I work for is loosely connected to the Olympics and the rule book that came over about what we can and can't say is absolutely mind-blowing. We aren't able to even hint at an 'event' involving 'sport' in 'London' alongside our logo. We genuinely can't use the Olympic colours of the rings in the same image/design. And from what I've heard, if there are any Little Chefs still going - good luck at trying to sell an Olympic Breakfast in 2012.

For an event that is meant to be 'for amateurs' I find it repulsive that it has turned into a rolling, festering cabaret of exuberance and greed that, like U2, goes from country to country, bleeding it dry, and then moving on. How much has the UK spent on these games? Will we get that money back? Will anyone living within 200 miles of the games be able to get to work? Will we even be able to say the word 'Olympic' without being tasered and hurled in the back of a Brand Van and taken to Brand Awareness Camp? I wouldn't go in the showers if I were you.

So, basically, if you take the Olympics for what it is, you have supreme athletes competing across a range of disciplines against the best in the world to see who is going to be crowned the best of the best. Lovely. Spot on. Chalk me in for some of that. I'd watch that day in day out.

What we'll have is every advert under the sun making reference to Olympics, every front page of every newspaper prattling on about Olympics, every company that has paid upwards of £10 million using their logo alongside the Olympic logo. We'll have flags and t-shirts being confiscated on the way in because they contradict the main sponsors. And we'll have a fair bit of mess to clean up once the world and his wife have pissed off in August.

So, because I understand the power of suggestion, and search engine optimisation, and annoying people, I will now use the logos you aren't allowed to use, with the colours that are banned and make crass links to the Olympics which explicitly connect my blog to their brand. Let's see how long I last before I'm asked to take it down or I'm arrested. Ahhhh the Olympic spirit. (If you are the judge presiding over my case and reading this then I was joking below and I'm really sorry.)

This blog is the official sponsor of the London 2012 Olympic Games. All other sponsors haven't paid as much as I have to be part of something that should be essentially free.

Usain Bolt endorses this Blog and he says it is directly linked to him running faster

 

 
  

Now that makes me LOL.....

... are words I would expect to hear flung from the lips of a complete C. But, dear reader, times have changed. I have mellowed in my old age and I am, in true Glitter style, 'down with the kids'.

Yes, there are many things about text language and web 2.0 parlance that confuse and irritate me. I don't know why it is any easier to write woz instead of was. It is the same amount of key strokes on an old alpha-numeric phone or keyboard, it looks clumsy and, to be fair, it makes you look like an utter retard.

I don't get why people, in high-up positions of power in a corporate setting use KR instead of kind regards. Is it really 'kind regards' if the regards have been shortened to the extent that it is a throw away coupling of random letters. Are these the regards I would cherish and show off to people as 'kind'? Are you really 'that busy' that you can't bash out a few more letters on your Blackberry? I'd rather have nothing than a half-hearted excuse for something.

But here comes the shock. I don't mind text language. I don't mind emoticons. I don't mind chatroom abbreviations. I think, just as other words from multiple backgrounds and sources have infiltrated our language and become common place, so will these new cyber phrases. Wouldn't our language be a boring, horrid place if it just stayed still? Stagnating like a disused pond. Getting more and more concentrated as the joy and life evaporated out of it?

OK, maybe I'm going over the top but since the dawn of language there have been the protectors of 'English' who have fought against anything that seemed to 'tarnish it' or modernise it with outside influence. But then, don't those people sound similar to the scared, pathetic simpletons marching through Leicester city centre right now supporting the English Defence League? England always has been and always will be a mish mash of multiple races, backgrounds, faiths and experiences. None of us are 'pure bred' English because it doesn't exist. So why should our language be any different. Why does it matter if people use LOL in spoken language (even though it makes no sense when spoken)? Who cares if someone wants to emphasise cheekiness or genuine displeasure in a previously unclear text with the use of brackets and colons? It doesn't. It's how people communicate and the bastions of English can fight all they want but if that's what the population uses to communicate then by golly that is the language the country adopts.

Don't get me wrong. There is a time and a place. Scrawling :-( on a funeral condolence card is not really appropriate. Using youthful cyber abbreviations in your CV won't get you too far. But, just like any slang, you just need to use your judgement as to when it's right to use it. Shouting FUCK YOU GARY YOU LITTLE SHIT at your child in a supermarket is a common practice, utterly reprehensible and highlights the 'wrong' use of language. But would you take the words 'Fuck' and 'Shit' out of the English language? We wouldn't have heard the poetic swearing brilliance of Malcolm Tucker and Shaun Ryder would be left a mute.

But I think everyone needs to chill the fuck out when it comes to 'English'. So many people across the globe use our fair tongue but if we stop it from evolving, modernising and staying relevant then, just like the culture of our country, we'll be left behind.

KR
R
xxxx 
 

Is it any wonder our youngsters dress as sluts...

... when the music they listen to is nothing more than a list of how good the singer is at sex, how diiiiiiirty they can be (the more 'i's the dirtier apparently), and how women/men want him/her. Don't get me wrong. I love a bit of Prince's Get Off and Marvin Gaye's Let's Get It On because there's no beating around the bush. The singer, quite frankly wants to fuck you. There. He's said it. You know where he stands, you know where you stand. So just get on with it.

But songs these days contain the most thinly veiled double entendres and euphemisms that there's no point in even being clever about it. So, I've taken the liberty of rewriting Rhianna's classic Shut Up And Drive with my translation below each of the original lyrics. I prefer the honesty of my version.   

Shut Up And Drive by Rhianna (and me)

I've been looking for a driver who is qualified
(I want him to have had sex at least 40 times before and be older than me)
So if you think that you're the one, step into my ride
(If you can prove how many people you have slept with, please undo my clothes)
I'm a finetuned supersonic speed machine
(I'm thin and attractive to men. I almost certainly have no pubes)
With a sunroof top and a gangster lean
(I like to go topless and I'm partially black)

So if you feel me let me know, know, know
(call me when you want sex sex sex)
Come on now what you're waiting for, for, for
(why won't you answer your phone phone phone)
My engine's ready to explode, explode, explode
(I'm incredibly drunk and aroused in huge need of a penis. I can't stress enough that fingers just won't cut it tonight)
So start me up and watch me go, go, go, go
(I'll diddle myself while you do the pants dance trying to get undressed)

[chorus:]
Getcha where you wanna go, if you know what I mean
(yes Rhianna, I think even 2 day old foetuses have got the gyst that you are highly sexual and have a rather high opinion of yourself)
Got a ride that's smoother than a limousine
(it definitely looks like a beetle bonnet down there. Not a hair in sight. You could mistake me for pre-school)
Can you handle the curves, can you run all the lights
(I'm quite boney and might be on my period)
If you can baby boy, then we can go all night
(If you can baby boy, then we can go all night - no need to change that)
'Cause I'm zero to sixty in three point five
(I orgasm with little effort )
Baby you got the keys
(You have money, status, have a dick like a big problem and are more than likely going to beat me afterwards)
Shut up and drive, drive, drive, drive
(have sex with me quietly quietly quietly)
Shut up and drive, drive, drive, drive
(have sex with me quietly quietly quietly)


There's another 300 verses of that. All along the lines of sex being like driving. To be fair it's a catchy song but at some point the white, classically trained musician writing this for Rhianna must have looked in the mirror and whispered "What am I doing?" Shortly after that, while zipping himself up after sleeping with three stunning blondes in his mansion while high on uncut columbian finest he remembered, "Ahhhh this is what I'm doing".

A message for all you kids out there. Fuck who and what you like but just hide it behind a song about building a house. Remember there's plenty of scope for plumbing, leaks, back doors, unkept gardens, curtains/carpets matching, tool boxes, chests, load-bearing walls, accidental damage and stop cocks. Not that Rhianna ever does the latter.

So this is Christmas...

... and in the words of a good friend to his dog, now what have you done? Another year over. A new one just begun. Can I just say right off the bat that Lennon was a dickhead if he thought the new year started on Christmas Day. I'm not sure what the Japanese band-wrecking calendar told him but in the good old U of K (that doesn't work for the UK) we tend to celebrate the new year at the start of the new year. We're such traditionalists. Maybe he got the date wrong on the peace rally and turned up to Guntober Fest? Either way, he probably didn't deserve to die for making such a basic error.

Anyway, my rant, or point, is that Christmas doesn't make me happy any more. And I know most people will say that the magic disappears as you grow up. And to those people I say, "then don't grow up". I have modelled myself on someone that refuses to grow up and the only scientifically accurate thing in this rant is that I was as excited about Christmas three years ago as I ever was as a kid. FACT (I have a friend who hates it when people do that so this is for you George).

So clearly me "growing up" isn't the problem. What's happened is that everyone else has. And I'm stuck wearing a Christmas jumper, wrapping presents and watching Scrooged on my own. And something crossed my mind. Maybe it's time I grew up? Maybe it's time I finally stopped finding miniscule flaws in every single girl I date? Maybe I should stop dating girls that aren't single? Maybe I should stop drinking? Maybe I should stop smoking in bed? Maybe I should stop smoking? Maybe I should have a kid?

And there we have the solution. If I have a kid then I can be excited about Christmas. So, all I need is a girl that will be happy to go through 9 months of hearing "you are glowing" and be willing to not only sleep with me (not difficult) and fall in love with me (proving more and more difficult) but also sire a healthy baby boy. I'm not being too specific but it has to be male. How the hell do I get excited about My Little Pony or My First Tampon or whatever the latest female craze is? I want a son that I can buy loads of awesome toys for Christmas and play with them as a father while secretly playing with them as the child I am. Plus I get to be the dad that falls asleep in front of Octopussy on Christmas day. It's all I've ever wanted.

So, I can't think of any better reason to have a child with someone you loved for a couple of minutes than to rediscover the love of Christmas. And now starts the appeal. To all women of child-baring age, I am young at heart, I have a GSOH, plenty of LOLs and a fair few WTFs and I am begging that one of you will see the father in waiting stood in front of you. I love it that loads of people say I'd make a great dad. Haven't once heard that I'd make a great husband. And I think they are spot on. So, women of the East Midlands (I'm not willing to travel), if your biological clock is ticking and your only purpose on this earth is to procreate then I'm your man. Give me a male child and I will love you forever (forever = until splitting up won't wreck him mentally).

Merry Christmas everyone. I'm hoping that, wrapped up in glittering paper and a neat bow is an awesome baby boy. But, I fear that, as I've asked for a food blender, it will actually be a food blender. Read between the lines mum.

I'm not having a fit...

... I'm just trying to dance to drum & bass. That's the sad state of affairs I find myself in when it comes to 'moving my dancing feet'. Looking like I have epilepsy. That was almost the complete opposite of what I was going for.

But it does interest me immensely why women like men that can dance. I heard of the obvious, untrue cliche of rhythm on the dance floor means rhythm in the bedroom. Firstly, I don't have rhythm on the dance floor. I have had sex quite a few times (more than 10, less than a trillion) and not once have I had to use a metronome, or, dare I say it, had a fit half way through.

I also understand that dancing like Justin Timberlake suggests you have a certain cocky arrogance that can only lead to being good in bed. However, that cocky arrogance would also suggest that the same person is nailing anything that is attempting to 'bring sexy back'. In looking for a confident, rhythmic dancing queen, the lady will have in fact just become another cum-receptacle in the lotharo's already full calendar of easily fooled women.

I know the media hasn't helped by saying that people like Usher (I can't say or write his name without wondering why no one has run him over yet) are cool because they can move their feet. Personally, I think it's cooler to not wear a hat indoors and to write your own songs but hey, call me old fashioned.

All this means is that men are immediately judged on a barrel of female requirements just by the way they dance. If they can do the cha cha, does this mean he'll be able to provide for your offspring? If they embrace you in pasodoble would this suggest he isn't a carrier of sickle cell anaemia? None of it makes sense. For women it's easy. Wear next to nothing, don't be fat and dance like a whore. Job done. Men who want to sleep with whores will be attracted to you.

Personally, I prefer to look around a dance floor and see the girls that aren't taking it all so seriously, aren't rubbing themselves against speakers (unless ironically) and, are more often than not, taking the piss out of each other. This is the form of dance I much prefer. It isn't about peacocking, merely enjoying the music and having a laugh with friends. Perhaps having a dance off, or maybe moshing around a handbag. These are the type of girls I have time for. And I'd hope that they'd take someone doing the sprinkler, dressed as Jimmy Saville, over someone looking like, dancing like, or even just being, Usher.

So, thank you plastic, vacant and altogether too judgemental girl on the dance floor last week. I wasn't having a fit. I was dancing to drum & bass. This is how I do it. And the next time you are in Primark, face contorted as you try to work out the total cost of one £1 pair of shoes and one £1 bra and knickers set, I will be sure to point out that you look like seven shades of flowery twat.