Thursday, 29 March 2012

Sensationalism: "Blah blah blah!", 73 Minute Makeover, the Voice (in my head)...

Nothing frustrates me more than sensationalists who can, and do, dream up entire stories from the tiniest molescule of bullshit that falls from the celebrity 'ring'. It seems to be a feminine thing to give a toss about remotely famous people's lives, at least judging from magazines such as 'Heat' and 'the Bella' as well as television programmes like 'Loose Women'. I don't care for those things (don't give me that look), but sometimes these stories happen to make their way through my mind forcing it to question its own existance.

So, why should anyone care about Denise Welsh's fling with Mother Nature or that Holly Wiloughby has stubbed her toe on a sparrow? The answer is quite simple, nobody should care. A giraffe can think of far more interesting articles in a mere 15 seconds. These people who are opening up (much of the time, in more ways than one) to the press and the media don't know enough about anything, other than getting their baps out and bitching about the Brit Awards, to be considered interesting. They complain about their dieting, hair and bowels as if it marks the outbreak of a nuclear war... and it does my tits in.

The next time Andrea McLean wants to whine about her Christmas being "hell" due to a row with her partner, send her 'round to a council estate where Christmas is about as real as Santa Clause himself. The more I see and hear about these ferile excuses for stories, the more I'd prefer to never find love and devote more time to gouging my eyes and sawing off my ears.

You know that TV show, '60 Minute Makeover'? No? I didn't think so, it's basically a show where some unsuspecting prick has their house redecorated by a team (well actually it's more like an army) of  experts in an hour as a surprise from friends and family whilst a couple of hysterical and dimwitted designers mill around asking stupid questions and generally getting in the fucking way.

Unfortunately, I managed to witness a recent episode where the team ignored the clock and ploughed on in "extra time". At the rate they seemed to be going I fully expected them to need a penalty shootout in order to finish the job, but they managed to seal the tie 13 minutes into ET. Correct me if I'm wrong, but is this not false advertising? Surely if they balls it up like that they should have to present what they have managed to accomplish within the time limit, otherwise it's just cheating and the programme should be renamed '60 Minute Plus Extra Time If Needed Makeover'.

During the episode, to my horror I heard the most ludicrous question, given the context, that I have heard in my lifetime. Having arrived home to a surprise gathering of friends, family and the 60MM team, Carol was visibly shocked and happy (and hackett). An idiot female presenter then asked 'how shocked are you?' to which 'very' was the reply. Believe it or not, that isn't the question I'm referring to as the next question was 'did you know any of this was going on?'

Now I'm no expert, but a) the programme would be completely and utterly screwed if she had a vague idea about possibly having some new cushions on the sofa as the element of surprise is the entire point, and b) the presenter had just asked her how shocked she was and the answer was 'very' and was written all over her face before she even squeezed out of the car. I suppose that's not much of a clue though...

'The Voice' recently debuted on our screens as singers took to the stage in an attempt to impress 4 judges and make their way through the rounds hoping to reach and win the final. Does that concept sound familiar? I'm going to assume that's a resounding 'yes', because it does... 'X-Factor'! Except it's different. Instead of plucking from a bunch of faceless members of the general public, 'The Voice' is more concerned with nurturing and progressing talent as opposed to finding it. As a result, the majority of the entrants are of a high standard already and in need of their big break. The other difference is that contestants are judged primarily based on their vocal skills, hence the title, and their "image" takes a back seat.

Taking those differences into consideration, it's still like any other reality talent show, ie shit. True, it is much better in terms of talent and holds no intention of humiliating anyone who enters, but generally it's the same old bullshit story where the main characters are, in fact, the judges. Which brings me to the sole reason 'The Voice' fails to beat the talent-shows-are-shit curse... the judges.

At least Tom Jones can say he has been there, done it and bought the entire range of apparel, the other 3 have barely been around for a year. I loathe Jessie J with a passion beyond Christ himself. Everything from the way she looks through the way she talks, walks and sings to what she stands for just does my head in. Watch this...

To me, there are points in that performance where her voice just decays into sounding like a pig being boiled alive in a cauldron for the Wicked Witch of the West's home-made soup she's been keen to serve up for Satan himself. The hypocrisy is that while Jessie J is cheered and applauded for coming across like a transvestite wizard being molested with a sickle, the contestants are ridiculed for singing ever so slightly out of key. In my opinion, the live shows are waste of time because, as that video proves, being a successful "recording artist" doesn't require a good live performance, it requires mass production, ferocious tastemakers and a solitary number one hit song.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand, the other judges are Will.I.Am, who I believe is gunning for the lead role in the African answer to 'Robocop', and Danny O'Donoghue from soft rock/hard wank group, The Script. Both have as much of a right to judge talent as I have to blow up Glasgow. I'm sorry 'The Voice', it's a no from me.

Rant on.

Tuesday, 27 March 2012

Topcunt, hyperactive kids (aka kids), everyone's an online weather reporter...

Having aimlessly sauntered into what I can only describe as some sort of cartoon-celebrity-hell of tourism, otherwise known as Topman, it didn't take me long to realise that I would no longer be purchasing clothes from there. In fact, I'd sooner skin my dogs alive with a potato peeler and wear the resulting fur before sticking the rest of the carcasses in the oven for tea. I used to like Topman because it sold satisfactory clothing at a reasonable price, now the prices seem to have trebled and the stock looks more like an advert for cuntidge than I ever imagined was possible.

Really though, what is Topman's designers' obsession with putting place names on every solitary item of clothing? New York, Paris, Chicago, San Fransisco, Tokyo, Los Angeles, Ibiza, you name it, they've got it covered. What's next, Ayrshire? It's like a knitted tour around the world with Mickey Mouse's irritating face staring at you the entire time like you've got a television on your head that's stuck on the Red Hot ten minute freeview... and without the fun.

Topman and Topshop's main purpose now is to allow all the dillusioned youth of today to dress up like wannabe pop stars and pretend they live in exotic places even further from their actual reality than fucking Narnia. To be fair, I'm sure they're going through a difficult period in their life where they all think "you know what would be cool, if we all started wearing the exact same thing and looked like, the kid-vermin, One Direction!". Yes, that would be "cool", then what?

'Then what' exactly. They'd simply find something else for the wide-eyed companies to fill the shelves with. Something along the lines of three-quarter-length dungaree-chino's with a hood on the left knee and a patch on the arsehole. Generally, whatever looks the most retarded at the time. I think it's time to accept that watching the follow up to our generation makes the inevitable armaggeddon, apocalypse or whatever in Jesus' pissflap you want to call it, all the more bearable.

Speaking of youth, fast forward another generation, which in the current scheme of things wouldn't take long, to all the toddlers running around like desperate Wiley Cyotes looking for something else to throw at, speedy twat, Roadrunner. I can't stand children from the age of 3/4 onwards until they become, more or less, some form of adult. Babies are ok, it's the way people interact with them that get's on my wick - talking to them in pigeon English and equiring to whether or not they noticed the "wee doggy" on the TV, it makes me cringe just thinking about it. I'd love to find out the proper scientific answer as to why people insist on saying anything to something that doesn't even know it can see yet as if they are speaking with a bloody Cuttlefish.

Toddlers baffle me. They never ever seem to run out of energy, it doesn't matter where they're going or why, they always have to run as fast as they can getting in every other person's feet in the process. I reckon if they were sent to a gas chamber and told they would certainly perish, the first words to spew out of their mouths would be 'race ya!' One time, as I recall, a toddler was scrambling towards me, like Usain Bolt trying to catch his windswept Lottery ticket, and did so until I unintentionally kneed him in the face knocking him to the ground. The little boy cried his, probably blood-shot and deranged-looking, eyes out in the new found comfort of his lice-filled father's arms. I'm not going to lie, it's definately in my top ten best feelings ever!

British social networkers are almost in a genuine frenzy regarding the good weather we've been getting recently. Some are babbling on about it so much that I'd fully expect them to emmigrate to the sun at some point in the future... one can only hope.

As far as I'm aware, there aren't many blind people with an inability to experience the phenomenon that is temperature in the world, thus I don't see why people are consistently broadcasting online weather reports of that which is happening at that precise moment. 'It's sunny outside!' Is it? And there I was covering my eyes incase the black plague made an unwelcome return out of nowhere, turns out it's the sunshine I'm protecting them from. Thank you for that life changing intervention.

If I was making excuses for people not noticing the weather, it would be that you're a complete hermit who has a phobia of daylight. If it was for people putting reports on Facebook, it'd be that you can't really see what nonsense you're typing due to the glare bouncing off your smartphone screen into your rechid eyes.

Rant on.

Friday, 23 March 2012

The XXX-Factor, everyone's drawing...

It seems as though every celebrity has to be "exposed" these days, whether it's a sex tape, a candid photograph or a revealing tabloid headline like 'Katie's gran is an escort!'. There is a school of thought that suggests our beloved celebs are purposly releasing sex tapes and the likes in order to retain/reclaim the spotlight or for some sort of financial gain. I don't know about you, but the only reason I'd expose myself to the world is if it meant the demise of celebrity culture, Facebook adding a 'couldn't give a llama's left bollock' option on status updates, the banning of high-res animated adverts on websites that force you to wait at least a fortnight for the page to load, the hijacking of the Virgin Galactic flight and that I could have anything on this planet, for the rest of my days, free of charge.

The most notable releases include the likes of Tulisa Contostavlos and Hulk Hogan, which goes to show that we can expect to see 'Being N-Dubz: Uncut. Uncensored.' sometime soon and Hulkamania is indeed running wild on at least one person. Of course, I'm joking about the 'Being N-Dubz' show, the Tulisa tape is actually a promotional advertisement for 'The XXX-Factor' in which contestants audition and fuck the judges whilst people vote on who looked like the best shag. In the auditions, contestants sodomise inflatable dolls as they are judged and decided by an esteemed panel of the usual pricks. It is the live shows that will truly showcase their talent as they will have intercourse with the judges themselves with the first week being 'Anal Week'.

Fellow N-Dubz member - and I use the term "member" insultingly - Dappy claims that the man in the Tulisa sex tape is, in fact, his other fellow "member", Fazer. Which brings me to my next point; one thing that strikes me - fortunately for me, not literally - is the size of the man's penis in the video. If it is Fazer, then I can see where he got that nickname as I would be pretty "fazed" if I had that branch throbbing in front of my face. Tulisa doesn't seem to be bothered, however, as she gobbles it up like it's a chocolate swiss roll. Although, there is a moment at the beginning where she clearly expresses some sort of discomfort after having it slapped on her face. I'm having trouble escorting that image from the premises of my mind and can't help wondering how Tulisa is not lying on a hospital bed in a coma.

Here's a special present for anyone who is now a bit curious...

Now, admittedly I can understand if you wish not to continue reading after that image, but I'm going to go ahead with my next topic anyway.

Everyone's obsessed with this 'Draw Something' application for gadgets. To me, it's like hangman for illiterate pictionary fans created by former co-presenters of Mark Speight. Seriously, the day that I consider drawing something onto a phone so one of my equally bored friends can guess what it is using the letters provided I will cut off my own cock and literally fuck myself to death. Draw Something is an app for something you could do with a pen and paper, but people say it's good because you can play with people whilst sitting in your own homes respectively, how lazy and unsociable can one get? Some apps are good, such as Angry Birds, but I couldn't go outside and start grabbing pigeons to throw at the nearest pig sty, thus it is a good idea for an app.

One of the most irritating things is when people post screenshots of a game they are playing on their facebook. Nobody wants to stare at your utterly shit drawings on that rediculous game topped off with a caption saying 'haha try guessing this one' or words to that effect even though you know yourself that you've drew a rubbish clue deliberately to make it more difficult. Either that or you're just absolutely hideous at art.

However, I decided to try the app and I thought it'd be appropriate for you to guess my reaction...

Rant on.

Wednesday, 21 March 2012


I recently reailised something that, perhaps deep within my thought process, I pretty much knew already, but it somehow still hit me like a roundhouse kick from a metal coated Chuck Norris. Stobswell, Dundee, is the grimest, stupidest, most spine chillingly horrid place this planet has to offer. Stobie, as it's known more commonly amoung the humanoid vermin that patrol those streets, it seems is the epicentre for all the junkies, whores, slashers, thieves, NEDs, alcoholics, tramps and any other morbid species of ill natured so-called "humans" you'd care to mention, they're everywhere in that scheme. I'm aware there are many other dives which are home to similar species of prick, however, you'd be forgiven for attempting to launch a full-scale investigation to find one normal person in Stobswell and that alone would be enough material for an entire new series of any detective programme.

Seriously though, if it's not the self-proclaimed YSB (Young Stobie Boys Bastards) mulling around newsagents like gormless, tracksuit-wearing grim reapers who have exchanged their sickles for bottles of Skittles, it's the crack oriented junk mongers from hell shouting the £1million question on everyone's mind, which is 'DAVIE! DID YOU GET YER METH PRESCRIPTION!?', from one end of the scheme to the very opposite. You never quite feel secure walking those streets in fear of being, in some way, molested by a whithered alkie who probably views having a bath like most others would view going on a magical fairytale adventure of epic proportion.

If all that wasn't terrible enough, a new sex shop has opened in Stobswell called 'Playful Secrets'. I don't know precisely how long it has been open, but it can't have been long because I pass that area frequently and haven't noticed it until a few days ago. Stobie already has a kinky store, the aptly named 'Desire', so why open another... there!? I'm assuming, despite a lack of knowledge, that there are maybe 3 or 4 sex shops in the whole of Dundee, half of them are in Stobswell. Jesus wept, this is the last place we need a sex shop in, let alone another. Worst case scenario is increasing their will to breed and reproduce more little beasts who will carry on the mink legacy. I fear that it could lead to a countrywide epidemic if we're not careful.

Rant on.

Sunday, 18 March 2012

Paddy power, online football fans, Fabrice Muamba reaction...

For those who didn't know - possibly due to premature death or mild retardation - yesterday was St. Patrick's Day. If you don't believe me, look at your calander and you'll witness his name on it... well, some of you will. Anyway, as is tradition, almost every Scot (yes, SCOT) took to the streets, bars and clubs last night in celebration of a Saint who is widely known to have very little to do with this country.

So, why is it every year all the citizens of Scotland give it laldy over St. Paddy? Answer: we're all ill minded pricks. Some more than others, of course. People waving Irish flags everywhere like it's Norma Jean's underwear that they found under their pillow, wearing guinness hats whilst ordering bottles of Peroni at the bar and generally Liver Dancing around like acid-injected phlem when somewhere around 15-20% of them are actually Irish. I know you're probably thinking 'come on, Marc, they're just having a good time, let them be'. Where are they on St. Andrew's Day, in the house sipping Irn-Bru Sugar Free? I'm afraid us Scots have it all in reverse, instead of celebrating the Saint of our own country we decide to celebrate that Irish shit.

It frustrates me when folk tell me 'och, it's an excuse to get pished!' As opposed to the other 50 weeks in the year that you were/will be paraletic? Why do you need an excuse all of a sudden and is it necessary for it to be an Irish-themed excuse in Scotland? If you knew about Chinese New Year we'd all be fucking doomed.

Facebook is rife with apparent football fanatics. There are some who rabbit on about teams/players constantly but have hardly felt a stadium seat against their arse cheeks. There are some who go to games consistently, although I'm surprised that they manage to witness any action with their noses firmly pointed to their touch-screen smartphones the entire time giving people, who would only be vaguely interested if they were locked in John Krammer's house and it was on his TV, a near play-by-play commentary over Facebook.

Reaction to good results is equally distressing. Incidentally, it's hard to tell what constitutes as a good result when the team in question is Dundee United. On the subject of D. United, this term that online fans keep using - 'we are United, we'll do what we want' - couldn't be more pathetic if it were voiced by members of the cast from TOWIE. You mean you can do what you want simply because you support Dundee United? If that was the case, maybe Tanndice would actually recieve a near capacity crowd for once, followed by as many crimes as your calculator could count.

I was watching the Tottenham - Bolton match where Bolton player Fabrice Muamba collapsed due to a cardiac arrest. Nobody likes to see or hear about things like this happening to anyone, let alone a gifted footballer on live television. However, as much as I hate to see this happen to such a genuine and talented human being, some of the reaction and statements have tickled my ranty bone.

For example, 'this puts football and everything else into perspective'. What perspective is that, football is more dangerous than rocket propelled drag racing? This is a classic 'come on, milk the piss out of it' statement. Send your condolances, wish him well, but don't come out with amateur philosophical lines like that perticular gem, it doesn't help Muamba... only your likes, comments or subscribers count. I have to laugh at all the religious comments too, I'm sorry. 'God is in control now.' No he is not, Muamba's body is in control you freak.

Rant on.

Friday, 16 March 2012

Stand by your murderer, spot kick illusions...

A woman has decided to "stand by her man" despite him committing the murder of his book-keeper ex. Admittedly, at first I thought this was an article regarding a belated prequel to the film 'I Married An Axe Murderer', but, needless to say, that idea turned out to be false. According to reports, the man had been a junkie and an alkie before becoming a murderer. Talk about climbing the proverbial ladder, the next step would probably be serial killing, ala Jack the Ripper, and eventually culminating in turning Scotland into a dictatorship, recruiting citizens and encouraging them to hit up drugs until their arms resemble swiss cheese, drink until alcohol substitutes for blood, all before ordering them to invade England whilst swinging axes like they are tennis rackets and their opponent is Rafael Nadal.

An article in The Sun suggests that "experts" say 'footballers may miss penalties because they suffer from a mental illusion that makes the goal seem smaller' - quite possibly the first time someone has used the term 'mental illusion' to describe a goalkeeper (the obvious reason for the target seeming smaller). Apparently, the target will seem smaller when they have a poor game and bigger on better days (when the keeper is cought between the eyes by a sniper). 'Successful players may be able to trick their mind into thinking the target is bigger than it really is'. Using my own logic, if I thought the target was bigger than it really was I think I'd miss more often due to the fact that I'm aiming for a point on the goal that doesn't even exist. No?

A short entry which tells me it's a decent day today.

Rant on.

Wednesday, 14 March 2012

An ice cream Kony at the London Olympics 2012...

Kony 2012. A near 30-minute YouTube advertisement created by charity, Invisible Children, to raise the awareness of African war lord Joseph Kony. A sound plan? If you enjoy retro rebellion, sort of.

I may come across as a complete sociopath at times, but I actually oppose abducting children and starting your own army of death. Cops and robbers, ok. Cowboys and Indians, fine. Joseph Kony went slightly beyond a pale of rice however with his game, Innocent Families and Soldier Kids. To cut a 28-minute story short, Kony pretty much abducted Ugandan children and trained them as soldiers to systematically torture and kill their own families for his own psychotic amusement. You thought Frankie Boyle had an evil sense of humour?

The thing is, nothing has happened in Uganda involving Joseph Kony in about 6 years. I'm not suggesting he shouldn't be captured, but why not bring this shit up when it was actually going on? That's like me going to the police and telling them someone stole my bike in 2006. Ok, on a far grander scale I'll give you that, but you see my point. Also, the majority of donations sent to Invisible Children don't even go towards helping countries suffering from poverty, war, disease and the likes, it goes towards horse shit like this...

If you ask me, that's just providing Joseph Kony with another torturous weapon. It's like 'High School Musical' if it were written and directed by Bob Geldof.

The 2012 Olympics are becoming a bit of a throbbing waste of a pain in the cunt. Billions of pounds worth of public money for the sake of an amateur sports day that lasts a fortnight, Jesus fucking wept. What bothers me the most is the organisers' obsession with the impossible dream of actually topping the opening ceremony held in Beijing, I'll tell you why that bothers me...

1. Yeah, right.
2. I don't understand why the opening ceremony gets more time and money put into it than the entire reason the Olympics even exist... the sports. Who could give a gypsey's left nipple about the opening ceremony? I couldn't, even if it didn't require surgical knowledge and extreme caution. I'd sooner book a room at Quintin Tarantino's 'Hostel' than see the Spice Girls and Girls Aloud performing the same show... or at all to be fair. The only way the opening ceremony would have anything remotely to do with the actual Olympics is if a black man came onto the stage, stuck a needle in his arm and injected liquidised money into his system before shouting "THIS WORLD IS OURS!" and sprinting back down a tunnel painted onto the wall like the Road Runner from Looney Tunes.

Rant on.