I'm so angry. I need to get it off my chest. I can't promise a curse-free blog post so if you don't like swearing please exit now. Go on, click the red cross, I'll wait............... Bye.....
Have they gone? Right!
Who the f*ck (oh ok, I can't bring myself to type swear-words in full), but who the f*ck do some so-called celebrities think they are??? Yes I'm talking about you lot who've signed a petition at the 'injustice' done to Roman Gobshite Polanski!!! How dare they say it doesn't matter what he did! How dare they! Does crime not count if you're famous? Being famous just means that you do a job that is in the public eye; it does not mean the rest of us have to give up the best seats for you; it does not mean that we should address you differently. It absolutely does not mean you are above the law and it NEVER means you are a better person. And it doesn't make you right. So please, Woody Allen, Whoopi Goldberg and all the rest of you a*seh*les, take your petitions and p*ss off. He's committed a heinous crime, let him pay! And anyway, how can we take someone seriously who was named after a farting cushion?
Benetton. I hate Benetton. I have never - and will never - own a piece of Benetton clothing. Why? Because when I buy something I want to know about the product, I want your ads to tell me how good it is, why I can't live without it, how your materials are ethically sourced, it's fantastic quality. I don't want to see a man dying of AIDS. I don't want a f*cking lesson in 'we're all the same on the inside' from you thanks very much. I don't want to see a billboard with bloodied hearts on it, despite the fact that said hearts are all the same even though they came from black, white, yellow and pink people. Actually I'm not sure about the pink, maybe the fourth colour was orange. No matter. And it doesn't mean I don't get your message. You don't have to be an arty farty, sandal-wearing new age hippie to get it you know. It doesn't even mean I don't agree with it. I do. I just don't want a pullover seller to preach to me thanks. So take your life lessons and sod off.
Npower. You can stop knocking on my door. I will never switch to you as my energy supplier even if you gave it to me for free. Your salesmen stand on my doorstep - well, used to. Now they get 'Are you from Npower? No thanks'. So they used to stand on my doorstep doing that infuriating sucking-air-through-teeth thing. 'Have you had your letter?' *suck* 'You mean you don't know that you're going to be charged 8.67p per calorific wattage per therm and we only charge 8.6p?' *suck* Actually, I'm not quite sure it was exactly that but it was stuff I didn't understand. Then they make you feel stupid for not being able to decipher your energy bills. No-one can decipher their energy bills!!!! Anyway, that's not my point. My point is I hate when people try to sell me something on the strength of what their competitors can't do. If there's a sure-fire way of killing the sale with me, tell me how sh*te your competitors are and I'll shut the door in your face! Same with politicians. If your pitch on the party political broadcast is based on your opponents shortcomings I have zero respect for you.
MOBO awards. Well, let me ask you something. How would you feel if I suggested that we should start having MOWO awards? Ok, ok no need to throw stuff! Feels uncomfortable doesn't it? Why, in 2009, are we segregating? All music is a matter of taste. And it wouldn't do if we all agreed what was good, bad, ugly. But the MOBO thing annoys me. It annoys me in the same way that expecting a black person to give up their seat on a bus for a white person would annoy me. And I honestly believe that all the right-on DJ's and people in the music industry are all just a little afraid of saying the same thing. So they do an 'Emperor's New Clothes' instead. Let's scrap MOBO and just celebrate all music, no matter where it came from. Except Coldplay. Ugh!
So, that's me done for now. Thanks for allowing me to share my venom with you.
Thursday, 1 October 2009
Monday, 28 September 2009
Unchain my heart
Liverpool c.1930. 7 year old Annie is in an orphanage with her 3 year old sister, Margaret. Her 2 brothers, Thomas and John are in a boys orphanage somewhere close. Their Mum has died and their Dad would rather be drunk than look after them.
Annie spots an escape route, a gate left open by one of the nuns. She makes a run for it, turning only at the cries of Margaret, hands raised, pleading for young Annie to take her too. But Annie wouldn't be able to run as fast with Margaret in tow.........
She didn't see any of them again.
2009. Annie, now 85, gets a phone call out of the blue. It's Thomas, her brother. He's been searching for her and had almost given up hope. He desperately wants to meet up, to become family again for however many years they have left. He now lives down south. He tells her that John, on leaving the orphanage, fled to New Zealand and stayed there until he died. Margaret stayed in Liverpool until her husband died then moved south to be near Thomas. She died without forgiving Annie for leaving her at the mercy of the orphanage despite Thomas explaining that they were all just babies.....Annie wept.
This weekend Thomas is coming to Liverpool to meet with Annie, my Grandma. We're going along too.
Annie spots an escape route, a gate left open by one of the nuns. She makes a run for it, turning only at the cries of Margaret, hands raised, pleading for young Annie to take her too. But Annie wouldn't be able to run as fast with Margaret in tow.........
She didn't see any of them again.
2009. Annie, now 85, gets a phone call out of the blue. It's Thomas, her brother. He's been searching for her and had almost given up hope. He desperately wants to meet up, to become family again for however many years they have left. He now lives down south. He tells her that John, on leaving the orphanage, fled to New Zealand and stayed there until he died. Margaret stayed in Liverpool until her husband died then moved south to be near Thomas. She died without forgiving Annie for leaving her at the mercy of the orphanage despite Thomas explaining that they were all just babies.....Annie wept.
This weekend Thomas is coming to Liverpool to meet with Annie, my Grandma. We're going along too.
Tuesday, 3 March 2009
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
This post isn't my own work, I saw it on my Dad's friend's desk and thought it was worth repeating. It wasn't his work either so I've no idea who to credit. Enjoy.
Congratulations to all people who were born in the 30's, 40's, 50's, 60's and 70's!
First, we survived being born to mothers who either smoked and/or drank whilst they carried us and they lived in houses made from asbestos. They took aspirin, ate blue cheese, raw eggs, liver and didn't get tested for diabetes or cervical cancer. Then, after that trauma, our baby cots were covered with brightly coloured lead-based paint.
We had no child-proof lids on medicine bottles and when we rode our bikes we had no helmets or safety gear and often rode with no shoes on our feet.
If we were lucky enough to ride in a car we didn't wear a seat-belt and there were no air-bags.
We drank water from the garden hose.
Take-away food was limited to fish 'n' chips; there were no pizza places, McDonald's, KFC or Subway.
All the shops closed at 6.00pm and didn't open at the weekend and guess what? We didn't starve.
We shared one drink between 4 friends, drank from the same bottle and didn't die! We could collect old drink bottles and cash them in at the corner shop for Toffos, gobstoppers, bubblegum or even a naughty banger with which to blow up frogs.
We ate cakes, white bread, real butter, fizzy drinks loaded with sugar but never gained weight because we were always outside playing. During the summer holidays we would leave home in the morning and play out all day. No-one was able to reach us and as long as we were back when the street lights came on we were ok.
We'd spend hours building go-carts from old bits of pram and then ride down a hill only to discover we didn't have brakes but it didn't matter. We build tree-houses and dens and played in river beds. We didn't have Playstations, Nintento Wii, no video games, DVD's, hundreds of channels on TV, no internet or chat rooms. We had friends and we went outside to find them.
We fell out of trees, got cut, broke teeth, sometimes broke bones and we didn't sue anyone.
Only girls had pierced ears.
We ate worms and mud pies and didn't die. And the worms didn't grow into monsters in our bellies.
Easter eggs and hot cross buns were only available at Easter.
Sports teams at school had trials and not everyone made the team. Those who didn't had to learn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that! Getting into the team was based on MERIT!
Teachers used to hit us with canes and board dusters and bullies always ruled the playground.
The idea of a parent bailing us out if we got into trouble was unheard of - they sided with authority.
Our parents didn't invent stupid names for their kids.
We had freedom, failure, success, disappointment, responsibility and we learned how to deal with it all.
So if you were born in those decades above, congratulations! How brave we were!
Congratulations to all people who were born in the 30's, 40's, 50's, 60's and 70's!
First, we survived being born to mothers who either smoked and/or drank whilst they carried us and they lived in houses made from asbestos. They took aspirin, ate blue cheese, raw eggs, liver and didn't get tested for diabetes or cervical cancer. Then, after that trauma, our baby cots were covered with brightly coloured lead-based paint.
We had no child-proof lids on medicine bottles and when we rode our bikes we had no helmets or safety gear and often rode with no shoes on our feet.
If we were lucky enough to ride in a car we didn't wear a seat-belt and there were no air-bags.
We drank water from the garden hose.
Take-away food was limited to fish 'n' chips; there were no pizza places, McDonald's, KFC or Subway.
All the shops closed at 6.00pm and didn't open at the weekend and guess what? We didn't starve.
We shared one drink between 4 friends, drank from the same bottle and didn't die! We could collect old drink bottles and cash them in at the corner shop for Toffos, gobstoppers, bubblegum or even a naughty banger with which to blow up frogs.
We ate cakes, white bread, real butter, fizzy drinks loaded with sugar but never gained weight because we were always outside playing. During the summer holidays we would leave home in the morning and play out all day. No-one was able to reach us and as long as we were back when the street lights came on we were ok.
We'd spend hours building go-carts from old bits of pram and then ride down a hill only to discover we didn't have brakes but it didn't matter. We build tree-houses and dens and played in river beds. We didn't have Playstations, Nintento Wii, no video games, DVD's, hundreds of channels on TV, no internet or chat rooms. We had friends and we went outside to find them.
We fell out of trees, got cut, broke teeth, sometimes broke bones and we didn't sue anyone.
Only girls had pierced ears.
We ate worms and mud pies and didn't die. And the worms didn't grow into monsters in our bellies.
Easter eggs and hot cross buns were only available at Easter.
Sports teams at school had trials and not everyone made the team. Those who didn't had to learn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that! Getting into the team was based on MERIT!
Teachers used to hit us with canes and board dusters and bullies always ruled the playground.
The idea of a parent bailing us out if we got into trouble was unheard of - they sided with authority.
Our parents didn't invent stupid names for their kids.
We had freedom, failure, success, disappointment, responsibility and we learned how to deal with it all.
So if you were born in those decades above, congratulations! How brave we were!
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
When will I see my picture in the papers
Warning: this blog post is a rant. It's my opinion, I don't expect you to agree. In fact, differences of opinion are what give the world colour and vibrancy. So, please, no screamers!
So what is it that irks me so? I'll tell you what; fame-hungry celebrities who take us for mugs, that's what.
First up for a bit of Peewii treatment: Sharon Osborne. Possibly one of the most insincere people on the planet. I used to be a fan, don't get me wrong, used to think she was a strong, sassy woman. Wrong! Here's a woman who, let's face it, doesn't have much to say. In fact, let me say it for her "I used to be fat so had loads of surgery, my Dad was a thug, Ozzy tried to kill me, I wet myself a lot". The End. There is no more to say but dear old Shaz periodically wheels out the story whenever she needs the publicity. Or writes a book about it. Or appears on some chat show talking about it. Note to Sharon: Heard ya the first time love. Run along now, not interested.
Next on the list: Madonna. Again, I used to be fan, I have..oh, erm...2 of her CD's. The High Priestess of Pop, the Queen of Reinvention.....now though, a little more like Lola the showgirl in Barry Manilow's Copacabana. She's old hat. Did I just hear a sharp intake of collective breaths? Ok, she's a very creative and talented woman but I find her just a little boring, her songs are full of so-called messages about who cares what and she is the queen of double standards. And it's this that I find so irksome. This woman, with emphasis on the 'man', will do anything to keep herself in the public eye and she has more faces than the town hall clock! Here she is preaching about saving the world and being good, upright citizens whilst gyrating about on stage with her legs around her ears and screaming 'motherf*****' at her audiences despite knowing that there are children watching. Oh but it's ok cos it's 'art' and what do we know about that? She seems to have forgotten her tacky past and the fact that she sold her soul to the devil a long time ago in return for fame and fortune. Note to Madge: Close your legs. And your mouth. And try smiling once in a while. Oh and by the way, old Beelzebub will want payback sooner or later.
Which leads me nicely to all pop stars who use their talents to bully the rest of us. Step forward Bono and Sir Bob 'give us your effing money' Geldof. Ok so I know that charities need publicity and of course, they need someone in the public eye to do it for them to raise awareness etc, I know that. But get this, I'LL choose for myself which ones to support and which political group to show allegiance to. Fancy that eh? I can make up my own mind. Really. Good isn't it? I don't want to hear messages in your songs Mr Bono, I just like music that sounds good, makes me want to sing along and tap my feet. When I want politics I'll seek it out myself cos, believe it or not, I know where to look. Note to all in this category: give them your own effing money. Pay off the third world debt whilst you're at it.
Finally: Twidiots. So, these are people on Twitter who have gazillions of followers but can't find a little corner of themselves to follow back. These people are saying 'listen to me Twitterati, but I ain't in the least interested in anything you have to say'. Now there are one or two that I can forgive but most I can't. There is one in particular who really got up my nose. Shall I name and shame? OK then. @IJustine. This woman is an ego ball. She claims 'I am the internet'. She has thousands of followers and for a time I was one of them. I waited patiently for her to return the compliment but she never did. Then one day came the mother of all tweets from @IJustine the internet. It said 'sitting in a chair'. Now I know the question is 'what are you doing?' but seriously!! Does she really think that she is so interesting? That we are all hanging off her every tweet? That we give a sh*t? Unfollow. Note to @IJustine: You ain't no internet love. And you can get up out of your chair now. Why don't you tweet it?
So, if you're a singer please just sing; an actor, please just act; a politician, please just, erm, politish; a tweeter, follow and be followed back (unless you're a spammer or just plain filth).
And I'll get my own opinion from the opinion shop next time I'm passing.
So what is it that irks me so? I'll tell you what; fame-hungry celebrities who take us for mugs, that's what.
First up for a bit of Peewii treatment: Sharon Osborne. Possibly one of the most insincere people on the planet. I used to be a fan, don't get me wrong, used to think she was a strong, sassy woman. Wrong! Here's a woman who, let's face it, doesn't have much to say. In fact, let me say it for her "I used to be fat so had loads of surgery, my Dad was a thug, Ozzy tried to kill me, I wet myself a lot". The End. There is no more to say but dear old Shaz periodically wheels out the story whenever she needs the publicity. Or writes a book about it. Or appears on some chat show talking about it. Note to Sharon: Heard ya the first time love. Run along now, not interested.
Next on the list: Madonna. Again, I used to be fan, I have..oh, erm...2 of her CD's. The High Priestess of Pop, the Queen of Reinvention.....now though, a little more like Lola the showgirl in Barry Manilow's Copacabana. She's old hat. Did I just hear a sharp intake of collective breaths? Ok, she's a very creative and talented woman but I find her just a little boring, her songs are full of so-called messages about who cares what and she is the queen of double standards. And it's this that I find so irksome. This woman, with emphasis on the 'man', will do anything to keep herself in the public eye and she has more faces than the town hall clock! Here she is preaching about saving the world and being good, upright citizens whilst gyrating about on stage with her legs around her ears and screaming 'motherf*****' at her audiences despite knowing that there are children watching. Oh but it's ok cos it's 'art' and what do we know about that? She seems to have forgotten her tacky past and the fact that she sold her soul to the devil a long time ago in return for fame and fortune. Note to Madge: Close your legs. And your mouth. And try smiling once in a while. Oh and by the way, old Beelzebub will want payback sooner or later.
Which leads me nicely to all pop stars who use their talents to bully the rest of us. Step forward Bono and Sir Bob 'give us your effing money' Geldof. Ok so I know that charities need publicity and of course, they need someone in the public eye to do it for them to raise awareness etc, I know that. But get this, I'LL choose for myself which ones to support and which political group to show allegiance to. Fancy that eh? I can make up my own mind. Really. Good isn't it? I don't want to hear messages in your songs Mr Bono, I just like music that sounds good, makes me want to sing along and tap my feet. When I want politics I'll seek it out myself cos, believe it or not, I know where to look. Note to all in this category: give them your own effing money. Pay off the third world debt whilst you're at it.
Finally: Twidiots. So, these are people on Twitter who have gazillions of followers but can't find a little corner of themselves to follow back. These people are saying 'listen to me Twitterati, but I ain't in the least interested in anything you have to say'. Now there are one or two that I can forgive but most I can't. There is one in particular who really got up my nose. Shall I name and shame? OK then. @IJustine. This woman is an ego ball. She claims 'I am the internet'. She has thousands of followers and for a time I was one of them. I waited patiently for her to return the compliment but she never did. Then one day came the mother of all tweets from @IJustine the internet. It said 'sitting in a chair'. Now I know the question is 'what are you doing?' but seriously!! Does she really think that she is so interesting? That we are all hanging off her every tweet? That we give a sh*t? Unfollow. Note to @IJustine: You ain't no internet love. And you can get up out of your chair now. Why don't you tweet it?
So, if you're a singer please just sing; an actor, please just act; a politician, please just, erm, politish; a tweeter, follow and be followed back (unless you're a spammer or just plain filth).
And I'll get my own opinion from the opinion shop next time I'm passing.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
