Tag Archives: rant

Rage Against The Monarchy

Long live the Queen?
I’m not fussed.

It seems that I am once again, as a member of the British public, expected to celebrate someone being hideously wealthy and respected for doing not much more than being born into the right family and successfully developing neck muscles strong enough to hold up more gold on her wrinkled head than Fort Knox. We dutifully forget that her reign advocates a class-based system that we’re supposedly trying to phase out, and that her face resembles Emperor Palpatine’s.

The BBC’s coverage of the event would make North Korea proud, with Supreme Leader Elizabeth being shown as unanimously adored by all. I’m not seeing equal attention being paid to the millions of people who don’t give two shits, and that frankly wouldn’t even know that the Queen was still alive if they weren’t getting two extra days off work to remind them.

And yet here we are, with BBC One airing footage of a miserable crowd cheering at gunpoint beside the Thames’ world-famous mixture of sewage, litter and national shame. Forget coverage of the procession, I’m personally more impressed by the fact that the boats that find themselves in this acid-bath don’t literally dissolve. I feel sorry for Huw Edwards being forced to sound as though he cares as he endlessly loops his description of the boats, the bridges, the flags, the rain… the poor man sounds happier reporting on global casualties of war on the news than he does talking about this shambles. This is assuming that the combined viewership of twelve people can actually see anything at all, what with the BBC neglecting to put windscreen-wipers on their cameras.

Sales of bunting, scones and cake have all skyrocketed as the retailers join the Queen in cashing in on this ridiculous parade. There are more Union Jacks flying than in a 1800s colonial invasion fleet, and suddenly everybody doesn’t think Victoria sponge is the most boring dessert in the history of mankind. People battle in the streets over the pronunciation of “scone” before realising that nobody actually gives a shit, and that the only people who actually eat them anymore are elderly Women’s Institute members who don’t have long to live anyway.

There’s a Jubilee street party being held outside the neighbours’ tomorrow. I will, of course, be attending. Not to sabotage it with fire and death – even I can suspend my otherwise uncontrollable hatred for the monarchy if it involves getting some free food before retreating back into my bitter, republican shelter from all this ridiculous and spontaneous patriotism.

The only event that I can see outstripping this in terms of immorality and public demonstrations of anti-monarchy rage is when the Queen finally dies of mysterious circumstances and is conveniently succeeded by Prince Charles. Ignoring all other issues with his very existence, a redesign of British currency would need urgent attention, as they realise that his ears won’t fit on any depiction smaller than a pie dish. Expenses will run into the billions of pounds as ATMs, vending machines, charity boxes, arcade machines, street performers’ hats, and the general public’s wallets and purses will require enlargement to deal with the sudden change (pun totally intended). Metal prices will soar and cable theft will become commonplace; trains will cease to run in the criminal climate and the economy will grind to a halt as the cable-thieves exhaust their resources and move to raiding cars and boats for metal supplies. TV aerials and satellite dishes will disappear off of rooves and we’ll all be forces isolated from the outside world, weeping as we realise how supporting the monarchy stopped us from watching TOWIE. Lack of Essex culture will obviously be the final blow to the morale of the British public, leading to a complete economic and social collapse. Millions lose their lives in the ensuing riots and famine, and the monarchy tears itself apart in a power-struggle over what is left of a new third-world nation. Eventually, Britain is officially removed from all public records and atlases as an act of global shame in our situation, and the rest of the world forgets we ever existed.

Do you really want this to happen? I didn’t think so.

Depose the monarchy.

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Posted by on June 3, 2012 in Opinion, Ranting


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I love Valentine’s Day

Yes, folks… it’s that special time of the year again. No, not Christian Feast Day or the Martyrs Day of the Iraqi Communist Party! It’s Valentine’s Day, with all the cherished memories it brings.

Long gone are the innocent days where a simple blessing would suffice, or mystery letters were sent from (likely unwanted) secret lovers. Most people see it in one of two distinct ways. If you are on the female end of a relationship it’s probably one of your more pleasurable times of the year, being adorned greedily with flowers, chocolate and whatever the hell else you get paid for consensual sex with. If you are on the opposite, male side or single (like myself) you most likely see it as a heightened celebration of consumerist bullshit second only to Christmas. Those of us unfortunate (or fortunate) enough to be romantically isolated on this day will undoubtable do the following: complain about those in relationships, ponder on the reasons as to why they are single and run dangerously low on self-esteem before remembering gleefully how much money they’ve saved.

There’s no escape from the plague of unbearable soppiness. Every social networking outlet is flooded with tweets from the lonely and statuses from those not; vomit-inducing photos of desperate, last-minute Clinton’s shopping sprees are plastered over the internet for the whole world to feel sorry for. Cameras without wide-angle lenses suffer whilst attempting to cater for cards big enough to shelter the homeless, with all the free space filled vacuously with the same amount of words as a normal card, but in size 72 font. Ecstatic, cheap-chocolate and faux-romance-fuelled girls compete with each other for the hallowed record for most “x”s in a public message, with guys similarly fighting over the most clichéd (“most beautiful girl in the world”, “you mean so much to me”, “luff yhoo for evaarr”).

The TV guide is awash with even more shitty rom-coms than usual, Hugh Grant and Adam Sandler rear their ugly, religiously idolised heads from the dregs of the TV archives and last ditch V-Day advertising attempts are spat out as time runs out in the day for men to show how much they “care”. The only sanctuary from this hideous deluge are the higher-number channels. Not Red Hot Wives – the news channels. But even BBC News isn’t safe, running stories on Valentine’ss to people who, watching the news on Valentine’s Day, more than likely couldn’t give a toss (unfortunate choice of words). It looks like I’ll be watching Al Jazeera tonight.

Suppose you want to head into the outside world? It’s scary, I know, but we single people have to experience natural light every once in a while, between extended weeping sessions. High streets have more flashes of pink than a Cardiff nightclub, and more hearts than a gay man’s Bebo page. Buskers sing a cringe-worthy selection of love songs, like a hideous Tesco Value-branded holiday-special album. One woman performs a shaky rendition of My Love Is Your Love to an acoustic backing, probably unaware of the morbid implications singing a Whitney Houston song could have.

As the day drags on, those tied to another filter off the Facebook and Twitter, perhaps pausing only to fire an inflammatory comment at people who complain about such a undoubtably wonderful day (who would even think of doing that?). The internet, from this point on, is left to fester miserably as the resultant precipitate of lonely hearts are psychologically forced to talk to each other in a thinly veiled attempt to feel a sense of belonging and inclusion with at least one other member of humanity.

Now, those eagle-eyed (or not closed-minded) amongst you will have likely noticed that I’ve referred only to a typical, heterosexual existence. This is simply because I have little to no knowledge of any relationship involving more or less than one penis. Any advice or insight on the matter would be much appreciated, as I am fascinated to know how the dynamics of such a couple (or trio, etc) would work on a day that, more often that not, is discussed and commercialised purely around the concept of one-sided gift-giving, even in this golden age of supposed gender equality.

I’m not even with my beloved on her most cherished of holidays… the night she gets the most attention, more than any other night of the year. Dad wouldn’t let me bring my PS3 home with me. The horror.

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Posted by on February 14, 2012 in Opinion, Ranting


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“Unexpected item in the bagging area”

Every Little Helps

This infamous slogan is just one of the myriad of methods that Tesco have devised in an effort to convince us that they’re doing us a favour. That we should thank them for clawing the last dregs of wealth from our collective pockets.
It simply reminds me, however, that they are an rusty yet irreplaceable cog in the inefficient, malfunctioning machine of society.


Tesco stores have popped up around the UK like genital warts on a prostitute: ugly, unwanted and caused by their frolicking with countless rich men in business suits. The general population, unfortunately, doesn’t get a look-in before the imminent destruction of their tight-knit communities. But never mind, eh? The “economy” (read: politicians) will benefit.

As if this Israel-esque land-grab wasn’t enough, Tesco is also attempting (rather successfully) to infiltrate every aspect of our lives. Insurance, price comparison, banking, gold-exchange, cars and holidays – nothing is safe. Have you watched Wall-E, in which the conglomerate BnL becomes so all powerful that its flag sits alongside that of Earth? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Banksy demonstrates this sentiment wonderfully.

As well as these aspects which irritate on a national level, I have a few that irritate on a personal level. We’ll work our way down, from the more easily associable to matters that likely only affect and bother me.

Firstly, Tesco’s workforce.
Yes, I recognise they’re just normal people working for a living, but I’m not here to be nice. When they’re not grimacing blankly as they scan items or attempting to steamroller customers with a cage full of milk, they seem be exempt from reality. I can never find them when I need to find something. They don’t exist, at least until you don’t need them anymore. In the rare occasional that I can bait one over (with the promise of a better life, or something) they mumble indiscriminately in response to my request for help locating a particular foodstuff before slipping once more into their demotivational coma. The item is never where they said it is.

Other customers also irritate me. Surprising, seeing as I detest the vast majority of human race. All I wanted was a cold sausage roll, yesterday, from the deli counter. All of ten seconds of service. Apparently, the woman next to me was vastly more important and had more questions than a first-time watcher of the Matrix trilogy (it hurts). After waiting for quarter of an hour, she’d asked about every make of cheese ever conceived and eventually settled on… nothing. She walked away. I nearly tackled her into the meat counter.

Even Keanu didn't understand.

Location of items can easily claim to be one of my most significant sources of anger in the average shopping trip. Some items will be placed in multiple areas, like a horrific, pointless Venn diagram. The World Foods aisle is the central hub of my rage: tortillas are also in the bread aisle, ginger beer is in the soft drinks aisle and pasta apparently isn’t a World Food, yet rice is.
Bananas, “exotic” fruits (like oranges), tomatos and possibly every other fruit in existence have their own designated, signed areas in the grocery aisles, but not apples. No. Apples sit under the sign that reads “fruit”. This is less a locational issue than a logical one: culinary racism, if you will.
On a sidenote: Tesco doesn’t seem to acknowledge that croutons are commonly eaten with salad. They can only be unearthed hiding in a crevice in the cliffside of canned soup. Even I don’t put croutons in soup (my chef does).

At some point in your Grand Quest, you will need a bag. Perhaps you’ll be a good little eco-warrior like the government wants, and buy a big, fabric “Bag For Life”. Now forgive me for assuming that this means they’re the carrier bag equivalent of Superman, but apparently this doesn’t mean that they necessarily survive a single shopping trip. A flatmate and I had innocently used one of these fraudulent abominations to collect our shopping in place of a basket or trolley. One of the handles tore. I have learned, after being redirected countless times by the headset-wearing mastertrolls that seem to hold authority on the shop-floor, that Tesco will not replace a Bag For Life, but they will replace the plastic carrier bags they sell at a tenth of the price as a rain-forest-killing alternative. Make sense?

u mad, Brazil?

If you do manage to find more than ten items in this blackhole of common-sense, you should go to a staff-operated checkout. Otherwise, use the self-service, and only then. Referring back to the customers with about as much brainpower as roadkill, some will defiantly scan an entire trolley of food whilst I stand directly behind them with said cold sausage roll, which is started to heat up from the blood pumping to my fists.
When it finally your turn to use the infernal device, you have to first negotiate a parley with the scanner. Only after you perform the ritual action of rotating the desired item three times, moving it back and forth, in and out and throwing it at the nearest employee will it detect it, asking you to place it in the bagging area. Not one to disobey a machine (think SkyNet), I oblige.

“Unexpected item in the bagging area”.
Undetected foot through the computer screen.

Don't mock me.

Finally, two things that I won’t elaborate on here:

Jamie Oliver. As much as I would love to tear this man from his pukka to his noice, it’s enough for a standalone post.

And Christmas marketing. Already wrote it before it was cool.
Hipster link:

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Posted by on December 4, 2011 in Opinion, Ranting


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A Behavioural Analysis of Chavs

Or known to scientists more commonly by their latin name:

They seem to be an unfortunate by-product of society. Like the Yin to Britain’s already horrifically disfigured Yang. The only purpose their existence seems to fulfil is to make the other ninety percent of the population seem intelligent, civilised, honest and moral.

This doesn’t excuse them, however, for being who they are.

“Always be yourself”, our primary school teachers would always tell us, as though we were considering identity theft as a career choice.
Unfortunately, being “yourself” isn’t a very wise option for the majority of the Chav community. In fact, it may even be illegal.

They enter life, like most humans, at birth, although other popular theories include Stella gaining sentient form after being left in the sun, or individual specimens spawning into existence every time a kitten is drowned.

After breast-feeding, in which the mothers are rumoured to consume only cider in order to satisfy their urchin’s insatiable appetite for alcohol, they swiftly reach the age required for independent consumption of booze. This is, coincidentally, at exactly the same time that breast-feeding begins with Human children, and is the start of the first stage of Chav Devolution.

It is a commonly known fact that most Chavlets will be raised in a home with more father figures than a Catholic scout-camp. Through this pilgrimage of adultery, the offspring will be introduced to many an own-brand lager, and the merits of beating a mother in a variety of places. The parasitic aspects of each “man” will be eventually amalgamated into one, abhorrent being, allowing them to develop the early stages of Chavhood fully just in time to start their brief, intermittent life in education.

Ah, school. Like a prison, it represents the two things they despise most: authority and intellect. They will constantly complain of the impossibility and pointlessness of simple division and shape-sorting long into their primary years. Teachers will often resort to teaching mathematics in terms of alcohol units in order to engage their drink-addled class, but to no avail.

School is a brief but important phase in a Chavlet’s life, showing them the trappings of a controlled society; showing them what not to become. Luckily, leaving education is an option for their special cases, which is like dressing a dog in an “I love capitalism!” t-shirt and sending it to North Korea.

The second stage lasts through their teenage years, and often right up to the late thirties. Using funds pawned from a grandmother’s jewellery, the average Chav will spend this period in a cocoon of Tesco Value lager, weed and hepatitis, with no fixed abode but their favourite street corner. STI-swapping is a cherished past-time within these tight-knit communities, with each individual branding their personal repertoire as a form of identification in situations where it can be difficult to specify particular Chavs through the identical Nike and Adidas clothing.

Their language will have nearly developed fully at this point in their life. Most of what we would call the English language has been purged from their minds either through peer-pressure or drug-induced amnesia, replaced almost entirely with a back-catalogue of slang and expletives. The Oxford Dictionary is of no relevance at this level, and one must utilise one of the last two cultural phenomena that still bridge these two, very different worlds.
Urban Dictionary.

The wonders of the Peugeot 206 are commonly stumbled upon soon after, with benefit slips quickly collated and photocopied to fund the endeavour. These vehicles will have often suffered more previous owners and write-offs than the new buyers can count on their thirteen fingers. Years of idolising the village-speeding abilities of older peers will finally pay off with the thrill of the first drive. It is worth noting that the erratic driving style of a Chav is purely instinctual, and impossible to eradicate through any means. Turning, unfortunately, isn’t a skill that they are able to comprehend, with drifting acting as the sole means of multi-directional travel. Although the speeds reached seldom reach over 30mph, the cumulative affect of adrenaline, Stella and ketamine will often heighten the experience, inducing a blurred stupor that maintains a feeling of intense speed, even after being pulled over by the “pigs” (translation: members of the local constabulary).

Eventually, the “female” members of the species will fall pregnant. This will, on some rare and wondrous occasions, occur when their age enters the double figures, but this is often frowned upon by the more traditional members of the group. This event won’t often affect the mother after the first year or so; after the novelty of childbirth subsides, normal existence is resumed, often indistinguishable from that of the males. The remarkable independence of Chavlets is often credited to this innovative parenting strategy.

The final stage of Chav development is a mysterious, almost mythical occurrence, few examples of which have ever been recorded by Humans. Most test subjects waste away from a combination of disease and shame before the age of thirty-five, leaving the last remaining steps in the Devolution unattainable to science. Only one has ever survived the earlier stages, sustained on vast fortunes acquired during his departure from the traditional lifestyle of his people. Some experts argue that this wealth excludes Jimmy Saville from Chav classification, but others still defend the theory that he represents the single most astonishing breakthrough into the scientific study of the late stages of Chavhood.

Luckily, there is one resource available to help “fix” the issues of the less fortunate. The other of the two last remaining cultural bridges between our peoples, The Jeremy Kyle Show offers solutions, fame and enough money for the next pack of Richmond Superkings to any contestant brave enough to share their highs and lows with a live audience. Hosted by the (thankfully) inimitable Jeremy Kyle, it also acts as an invaluable resource for behavioural research conducted into the Chav community.

It’s also worth watching for a guilty laugh, even if it retains the ability to spontaneously enrage the viewer.

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Posted by on November 10, 2011 in Opinion, Ranting


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Jeremy Kyle deserves death

There’s nothing like a bit of channel surfing to fill the culture void in my otherwise empty existence. When I was living at home, I was blessed with the wonders of Sky’s documentary package, with all the Deadliest Catch I could ever dream of watching.

Unfortunately, living in student accommodation doesn’t have such perks, and I’m forced to turn to Freeview for sustenance. There’s only so many re-runs of Top Gear a man can watch before going insane.

Due to this supreme lack of choice (and after I realise that BBC News just loops the same 15 minutes all day) I will eventually settle on ITV.

“But why would you watch that? Why rant about something if you can just watch something else?”
It beats Homes Under The Hammer. If I ever meet Martin Roberts, I’ll punch him in the ovaries.

Now, giving the name ITV to the network isn’t right, as it suggests that it runs a variety of programming. From what I’ve seen, ITV acts as a rolling news channel, except that the news is hosted by Jeremy Kyle and features teenage pregnancy in nearly every story. It never stops. An endless coverage on the deterioration of society, punctuated with jeers from a studio audience that will more than likely end up on the stage themselves one day.

It’s the way this man has somehow convinced his doting viewers that he’s in someway helping these people, instead of parading them in a freakish, incestuous circus of low morals and lower standards. He is seen as the Messiah of Values, the Speaker of Truths, outwitting his simple prey whilst making sure to flash his pearly whites and wink at the unseen, middle-class audience.

Now, outwitting these contestants is not, I imagine, required as an initiation into Mensa. Their IQ likely sits slightly below zero, shocking the scientific community as to how their bodies still function. This is probably why Jeremy chooses them. I imagine him as unable to converse with the average human, only managing to partake in conversations where he is the only participant conversing. You’ll be lucky to even catch a contestant introduce themselves before he launches into a tsunami of class-dividing bullshit. The only reason he shouts is because they can’t hear the majority of the sound; most gets absorbed by the wall of bouncermuscle and hair-gel he cowers behind.

And let’s not forget: once the lie-detector’s results are treated like the Word of God, and the DNA test determined with a modified Twister spinner, Graham is released from the basement. Sorry; Dr Graham. Forget the fact that his diagnoses are probably lifted from age-old agony aunt columns; I could formulate more intelligent solutions whilst deaf, dumb and in a coma. It doesn’t take much thought to suggest “Don’t knee your mother’s face”, “Try government-funded rehabilitation services” or “Don’t have sex with someone who spawned from the same womb”.

Yes, watching his show can be, at times, entertaining. If you ignore the bits where this Jeremy Kyle guy speaks, then you can gain some perverse thrill questioning how “survival of the fittest” ever resulted with the wretches being paraded on the screen.

But it would be so much better if presented by a Predator.
With Aliens dispersed throughout the studio audience.

Lock the doors.


Posted by on October 26, 2011 in Opinion, Ranting


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