Now if anyone was wondering why there was no blog entry yesterday, it wasn't because I was wanking myself into an early grave - although I was - it's because I was slaving away typing my fingers to the bone creating this, my masterpiece, my magnum opus, and my pitiful attempt to cover the shittest things of the year 2007. Welcome, one and all, to my Dictonary of Shit. A Shitcionary if you will. And if you won’t, you can call it Steve. Twenty six entries, one for each letter of the alphabet, the existence of each of which makes me want to fire large nails into the faces of small children. I won’t waste your time with a long introduction, I’ll just get on with it, so here goes:
A: Arseholes, the appreciation of
By the appreciation of arseholes, I don’t mean people saying “oh, that Richard Branson, he’s a nice chap, you know, despite being an arsehole”, because no sane person in the world has ever said anything nice about Richard “Look at Me and My Great Big Fucking Balloon” Branson. I’m speaking, of course, about the appreciation of the female arsehole, rump, booty, whatever the kids are calling it these days – and what business have the kids got having a special name for an arse anyway – because it’s just so fucking pointless. Not once in my life have I looked at a woman’s arse and gone “hmm, I want me a piece of that.” Why? Because I’ve got an arse. I don’t need to gain an arse to fulfil my sexual requirements in a relationship, because I’ve got one already. I don’t need a spare. You keep it, and don’t jiggle it around like that, you’ll get all sore. I don’t have breasts, so I stand to gain them in terms of pure physicality from a relationship, along with such things as a pretty face, feminity, etc – I’ve got an arse, any arses that come with the more interesting parts of a woman. If you saw my arse, you’d know that adding a ‘booty’ to the relationship would lead to something of an overabundance.
A: Arseholes, the appreciation of
By the appreciation of arseholes, I don’t mean people saying “oh, that Richard Branson, he’s a nice chap, you know, despite being an arsehole”, because no sane person in the world has ever said anything nice about Richard “Look at Me and My Great Big Fucking Balloon” Branson. I’m speaking, of course, about the appreciation of the female arsehole, rump, booty, whatever the kids are calling it these days – and what business have the kids got having a special name for an arse anyway – because it’s just so fucking pointless. Not once in my life have I looked at a woman’s arse and gone “hmm, I want me a piece of that.” Why? Because I’ve got an arse. I don’t need to gain an arse to fulfil my sexual requirements in a relationship, because I’ve got one already. I don’t need a spare. You keep it, and don’t jiggle it around like that, you’ll get all sore. I don’t have breasts, so I stand to gain them in terms of pure physicality from a relationship, along with such things as a pretty face, feminity, etc – I’ve got an arse, any arses that come with the more interesting parts of a woman. If you saw my arse, you’d know that adding a ‘booty’ to the relationship would lead to something of an overabundance.
B: Brand, Russell
Need I really say more? This chokingly self-satisfied smack-dandy seems to have gotten himself an army of female fans by doing nothing more than shooting heroin, ripping off Johnny Depp and not carrying a comb. It's because you know he's felt pain, isn't it? How you can look deep into those soulful brown eyes and see he's been touched by the kind of beautiful, manly torment that only manifests itself in a really stupid haircut. I'm sorry, but to me he just looks like a New Romantic that’s spent every night since the breakup of Spandau Ballet sleeping in a hedge. His jokes aren’t funny, his book isn’t interesting and his near-omnipresent appearances on my television throughout a full six months of this year not only drove me to distraction, but honestly had me half convinced that I’d died and been condemned to some level of Hell previously unforeseen in the writings of Dante’s Inferno – the Circle of Acerbic Bloggers, perhaps, where the poor wretched souls of the internet age are condemned to writhe for eternity in the pain of a smack-laced numpty being perpetually wedged needlessly into the public consciousness, slowly distorting and destroying everything that is good and just with the world.
See also: Davina Fucking McCall.
C: Chelsea F.C.
They have one of the richest men in the world bankrolling them, the ability to, almost at whim, pluck the world’s greatest players from the world’s greatest clubs and deposit them into a playing staff already overflowing with the greatest talent the world has to offer, and yet they still act like a bunch of complete and utter fucking wankers. You’d think a team with the resources of Chelsea, with the talent of Chelsea’s players, would be able to win things without resorting to screaming at the referee every time a decision goes against them, without attempting every sneaky tackle and stamp that they can and then acting as if a great injustice has been done against them if they are called out for it, and without pinning any possible loss or misfortune that befalls them on the opposition or the referee instead of their own rare lapses of concentration or confidence, but you’d be wrong. They can and will lie, cheat and generally act like a bunch of schoolboy tossers until someone finally stands up and kicks John Terry in the face and keeps doing it until he looks slightly less like a self-satisfied shithead who’s “uncharacteristic mistakes” have us down every time he plays for England, but puts on his A-game when it’s something more important than national pride at stake, you know, something like a few extra thousands of pounds a week. Repeat for however many other players they have in their squad. Wankers.
D: Disco, Panic! At the
Like being punched in the music gland. Over and over and over again. In 4-4. For three minutes. Take the top hat off, it's not 1923.
E: ‘Extreme’ Sports
Are you eleven years old? No? Then get off the fucking board and get a proper job, you grasping tosspot.
F: Fondue, There being rules for eating
The most pretentious of all finger foods for rich people, Wikipedia has a whole section of its article on fondue dedicated to the ancient and complex etiquette surrounding the consumption of what is essentially warm cheese in a pot, into which you dip bits of bread. Apparently, if you are an expert at the rules of cheese-goo engagement, and demonstrate your prowess to your host, you’re allowed to eat the congealed gunk at the bottom of the pot after everyone’s done dipping their toasted soldiers or whatever they are into the cheese. As if the sheer pretentiousness of all this wasn’t enough, in late December, fondue actually started maiming people, cutting a swathe of burns and other injuries through the heart of Southampton, which admittedly would be a good thing were it not for the tying up no less than half a dozen emergency services vehicles in order to sate it’s thirst for human blood. This cannot be allowed to stand. I’d like to say it’s secret murderous intentions are the real reason for fondue’s inclusion on this list, but actually it’s mostly to do with the sheer concept of it, and the fact that probably, as you read this, there’s a bunch of wankers standing around in a posh part of Kensington getting into a heated argument over the rules to eating damp cheese from a pot.
G: ‘Girlfriend’, as a term for someone you’re not having sex with.
Now I’m not sure where this irritating corruption of the English language came about, but I’d hazard a guess that it came from the culture of rap music, as it seems to be the sort of thing that burly lesbian rapper Missy ‘Misdemeanour’ Elliott would say. Wherever it came from, I do wish it would go back. Girls, your female friends are simply your friends, they aren’t your girlfriends. The only girls for whom every girl they know is a girlfriend only exist on the internet. I don’t go around referring to all the men I know as my ‘boyfriends’, and they are thankful for it, and do you refer to all the men you know as ‘boyfriends’? No, no you don’t, because that would imply something completely different, wouldn’t it? Or could it be that they both imply the same things to anyone with half a brain and a working knowledge of how the language worked before we started being dictated to on our diction by people from Detroit who have barely mastered basic grammar and control of their bodily functions. I know if I started referring to all the women I know as my girlfriends, more than a few of them would be a little weirded out. I might as well start licking their faces. Unless you and your nearest and dearest are going to end the evening with a steamy shower-based orgy with copious loofah action, a ‘night with my girlfriends’ it is not, it’s just a night with your friends. Stop disappointing me or let me bring a camera.
H: Home Improvement shows
I know this has been covered a million times before by comedians far more talented than I, but they still get right on my fucking wick. What’s that one where they have an hour to ruin someone’s house before they come home and call the police? The one with the woman with the annoying face? 60 Minute Makeover? Fuck me that’s annoying, and what’s that woman’s obsession with logs? Every time I put the fucking telly on and actually catch a glimpse of it, she’s stacking logs in someone’s fireplace and claiming it’s an original feature. No wonder they only let her have an hour – give her a day and she’d have the whole place looking like a lumber yard. And they never leave the place looking in any way decent, and always like some sort of minimalist post-modern horror that might be nice to look at for five seconds at a time, but would be a nightmare to live with because there’s never any fucking shelves. Reading a book and need to put it down? Fuck off and put it on the shiny new original rescued-from-scrapped-lifeboats polished wooden flooring. Need somewhere to put your cup of tea? Fuck off put it on the book. Don’t put it on the floor or it’ll catch fire. What happened to my antique oak coffee table handed down through generations of my family from the original Earl of Sussex? Sorry darling, it didn’t fit with the new white-lemon-citrus minimalist decor, so we took it outside and hit it with some hammers.
I: Internet pornography
And the fact it’s getting weirder. My complaints about pornography on the internet used to be centred around the fact that all the clips were about 15 seconds long, meaning that you barely had long enough to get your hand from the mouse to your cock before you had to go back again and select the next one, and lining up a dozen or so clips in a playlist so you had long enough to unzip your trousers before you had to reach for the back button was too much effort by half. Now my complaints are, largely, that unless you’re some sort of sexual deviant, you’re about as likely to find reasonable stuff for sexual release as you are a lost page to the Bible dedicating it to Jesus’ brother, Frank the Rapist. You can’t look anywhere on the internet now without running across shemales, shit porn, gangbangs, gagging, bukkake, bondage or - God help me - butt-licking. What happened to good old fashioned standing about smiling with your tits out? Its like it went out of fashion. Maybe we’ve got it all wrong, and porn directors are the true visionaries of the moving picture, and all that softcore nonsense just got too passé. Maybe now unless you’ve got a radio-controlled cock-monster having simultaneous sex with nine black transsexuals in clown outfits, you don't get invited to all the coolest porn director parties (which, to be fair, must be a pretty good incentive). I never thought I’d say it, but internet porn is shit.
Except, of course, SuicideGirls, which is the best website ever invented by anyone, ever.
J/K: Jay Kay
Not because he’s done anything particularly wrong, but because it allows me to bypass two particularly tricky letters. That and he hasn’t released a new album in a while. Cunt.
L: Lucy Pinder
Now I’m not sure what’s so special about the latest in a long line of celebrity slags, but it’s become pretty much a law that all ‘lads’ must bow at the admittedly not unremarkable chest of a woman who, I’m sorry to say, is not actually that attractive. I've nothing against her personally, and I'm sure she's a lovely person (actually I'm not, and I'm sure she's every bit the slapper I expect her to be), but I’m straight, I’ve touched boobs and everything, and yet I still can’t get past the fact that the woman who every discerning Saxo driver on the face of the planet believes to be the second coming of whatever Greek fertility Goddess is in vogue with the readers of Max Power magazine looks remarkably like Celine Dion with tits. I see better looking women than her buying fruit in Tesco, so either I live in some bizarre sort of babe-haven or the fame of Ms. Pinder is an annoying testament to the truly worrying power of the Nuts magazine groupthink, one which is presumably also to blame for the fame of a certain Mr. Prydz, who's only point of interest in the real world is how many points his name is worth in Scrabble. Incidentally, that's my second Scrabble joke within a week. I think I'll stop before someone mistakes me for an entheusiast.
C: Chelsea F.C.
They have one of the richest men in the world bankrolling them, the ability to, almost at whim, pluck the world’s greatest players from the world’s greatest clubs and deposit them into a playing staff already overflowing with the greatest talent the world has to offer, and yet they still act like a bunch of complete and utter fucking wankers. You’d think a team with the resources of Chelsea, with the talent of Chelsea’s players, would be able to win things without resorting to screaming at the referee every time a decision goes against them, without attempting every sneaky tackle and stamp that they can and then acting as if a great injustice has been done against them if they are called out for it, and without pinning any possible loss or misfortune that befalls them on the opposition or the referee instead of their own rare lapses of concentration or confidence, but you’d be wrong. They can and will lie, cheat and generally act like a bunch of schoolboy tossers until someone finally stands up and kicks John Terry in the face and keeps doing it until he looks slightly less like a self-satisfied shithead who’s “uncharacteristic mistakes” have us down every time he plays for England, but puts on his A-game when it’s something more important than national pride at stake, you know, something like a few extra thousands of pounds a week. Repeat for however many other players they have in their squad. Wankers.
D: Disco, Panic! At the
Like being punched in the music gland. Over and over and over again. In 4-4. For three minutes. Take the top hat off, it's not 1923.
E: ‘Extreme’ Sports
Are you eleven years old? No? Then get off the fucking board and get a proper job, you grasping tosspot.
F: Fondue, There being rules for eating
The most pretentious of all finger foods for rich people, Wikipedia has a whole section of its article on fondue dedicated to the ancient and complex etiquette surrounding the consumption of what is essentially warm cheese in a pot, into which you dip bits of bread. Apparently, if you are an expert at the rules of cheese-goo engagement, and demonstrate your prowess to your host, you’re allowed to eat the congealed gunk at the bottom of the pot after everyone’s done dipping their toasted soldiers or whatever they are into the cheese. As if the sheer pretentiousness of all this wasn’t enough, in late December, fondue actually started maiming people, cutting a swathe of burns and other injuries through the heart of Southampton, which admittedly would be a good thing were it not for the tying up no less than half a dozen emergency services vehicles in order to sate it’s thirst for human blood. This cannot be allowed to stand. I’d like to say it’s secret murderous intentions are the real reason for fondue’s inclusion on this list, but actually it’s mostly to do with the sheer concept of it, and the fact that probably, as you read this, there’s a bunch of wankers standing around in a posh part of Kensington getting into a heated argument over the rules to eating damp cheese from a pot.
G: ‘Girlfriend’, as a term for someone you’re not having sex with.
Now I’m not sure where this irritating corruption of the English language came about, but I’d hazard a guess that it came from the culture of rap music, as it seems to be the sort of thing that burly lesbian rapper Missy ‘Misdemeanour’ Elliott would say. Wherever it came from, I do wish it would go back. Girls, your female friends are simply your friends, they aren’t your girlfriends. The only girls for whom every girl they know is a girlfriend only exist on the internet. I don’t go around referring to all the men I know as my ‘boyfriends’, and they are thankful for it, and do you refer to all the men you know as ‘boyfriends’? No, no you don’t, because that would imply something completely different, wouldn’t it? Or could it be that they both imply the same things to anyone with half a brain and a working knowledge of how the language worked before we started being dictated to on our diction by people from Detroit who have barely mastered basic grammar and control of their bodily functions. I know if I started referring to all the women I know as my girlfriends, more than a few of them would be a little weirded out. I might as well start licking their faces. Unless you and your nearest and dearest are going to end the evening with a steamy shower-based orgy with copious loofah action, a ‘night with my girlfriends’ it is not, it’s just a night with your friends. Stop disappointing me or let me bring a camera.
H: Home Improvement shows
I know this has been covered a million times before by comedians far more talented than I, but they still get right on my fucking wick. What’s that one where they have an hour to ruin someone’s house before they come home and call the police? The one with the woman with the annoying face? 60 Minute Makeover? Fuck me that’s annoying, and what’s that woman’s obsession with logs? Every time I put the fucking telly on and actually catch a glimpse of it, she’s stacking logs in someone’s fireplace and claiming it’s an original feature. No wonder they only let her have an hour – give her a day and she’d have the whole place looking like a lumber yard. And they never leave the place looking in any way decent, and always like some sort of minimalist post-modern horror that might be nice to look at for five seconds at a time, but would be a nightmare to live with because there’s never any fucking shelves. Reading a book and need to put it down? Fuck off and put it on the shiny new original rescued-from-scrapped-lifeboats polished wooden flooring. Need somewhere to put your cup of tea? Fuck off put it on the book. Don’t put it on the floor or it’ll catch fire. What happened to my antique oak coffee table handed down through generations of my family from the original Earl of Sussex? Sorry darling, it didn’t fit with the new white-lemon-citrus minimalist decor, so we took it outside and hit it with some hammers.
I: Internet pornography
And the fact it’s getting weirder. My complaints about pornography on the internet used to be centred around the fact that all the clips were about 15 seconds long, meaning that you barely had long enough to get your hand from the mouse to your cock before you had to go back again and select the next one, and lining up a dozen or so clips in a playlist so you had long enough to unzip your trousers before you had to reach for the back button was too much effort by half. Now my complaints are, largely, that unless you’re some sort of sexual deviant, you’re about as likely to find reasonable stuff for sexual release as you are a lost page to the Bible dedicating it to Jesus’ brother, Frank the Rapist. You can’t look anywhere on the internet now without running across shemales, shit porn, gangbangs, gagging, bukkake, bondage or - God help me - butt-licking. What happened to good old fashioned standing about smiling with your tits out? Its like it went out of fashion. Maybe we’ve got it all wrong, and porn directors are the true visionaries of the moving picture, and all that softcore nonsense just got too passé. Maybe now unless you’ve got a radio-controlled cock-monster having simultaneous sex with nine black transsexuals in clown outfits, you don't get invited to all the coolest porn director parties (which, to be fair, must be a pretty good incentive). I never thought I’d say it, but internet porn is shit.
Except, of course, SuicideGirls, which is the best website ever invented by anyone, ever.
J/K: Jay Kay
Not because he’s done anything particularly wrong, but because it allows me to bypass two particularly tricky letters. That and he hasn’t released a new album in a while. Cunt.
L: Lucy Pinder
Now I’m not sure what’s so special about the latest in a long line of celebrity slags, but it’s become pretty much a law that all ‘lads’ must bow at the admittedly not unremarkable chest of a woman who, I’m sorry to say, is not actually that attractive. I've nothing against her personally, and I'm sure she's a lovely person (actually I'm not, and I'm sure she's every bit the slapper I expect her to be), but I’m straight, I’ve touched boobs and everything, and yet I still can’t get past the fact that the woman who every discerning Saxo driver on the face of the planet believes to be the second coming of whatever Greek fertility Goddess is in vogue with the readers of Max Power magazine looks remarkably like Celine Dion with tits. I see better looking women than her buying fruit in Tesco, so either I live in some bizarre sort of babe-haven or the fame of Ms. Pinder is an annoying testament to the truly worrying power of the Nuts magazine groupthink, one which is presumably also to blame for the fame of a certain Mr. Prydz, who's only point of interest in the real world is how many points his name is worth in Scrabble. Incidentally, that's my second Scrabble joke within a week. I think I'll stop before someone mistakes me for an entheusiast.
Speaking of Eric Prydz, did you know that 'Call on Me' topped the German pop charts for six consecutive weeks? Those poor bastards.
M: Muse fans
Don't get me wrong, I like Muse. I think their danceable blend of rock and electronics is one of the best acts in the country, and I hear they're great live, but every other Muse fan in the world is a pretentious fucking wanker. Quite how a band that makes such interesting (if not always spectacular) managed to inherit Coldplay's fanbase is beyond me, but if I hear one more wanker in fashionable black-rimmed glasses talking about how he "loves his rock and roll" because he once saw a Muse gig, and now chooses to clothe himself solely in Muse-brand clothes and listen to his Muse iPod, on which is nothing but Muse, pictures of Muse and, just for variety, some fucking Muse, I'm not going to be responsible for my actions. The White Stripes have a similar effect on people, but mostly in America, so they're quite far away and thus slightly less irritating. Maybe it's a cultural thing, and every nation is obsessed with one band they've produced, forever. In which case, the Swedish will be obsessed with Eric fucking Prydz and the Germans with Rammstein. The shocking thing is we let these people in the E.U.
Anyway, come back tomorrow for all the other letters, or this is going to end up filling up the entire internet. Haven't you all got parties to be going to tomorrow? Get to bed.
Goodnight.
M: Muse fans
Don't get me wrong, I like Muse. I think their danceable blend of rock and electronics is one of the best acts in the country, and I hear they're great live, but every other Muse fan in the world is a pretentious fucking wanker. Quite how a band that makes such interesting (if not always spectacular) managed to inherit Coldplay's fanbase is beyond me, but if I hear one more wanker in fashionable black-rimmed glasses talking about how he "loves his rock and roll" because he once saw a Muse gig, and now chooses to clothe himself solely in Muse-brand clothes and listen to his Muse iPod, on which is nothing but Muse, pictures of Muse and, just for variety, some fucking Muse, I'm not going to be responsible for my actions. The White Stripes have a similar effect on people, but mostly in America, so they're quite far away and thus slightly less irritating. Maybe it's a cultural thing, and every nation is obsessed with one band they've produced, forever. In which case, the Swedish will be obsessed with Eric fucking Prydz and the Germans with Rammstein. The shocking thing is we let these people in the E.U.
Anyway, come back tomorrow for all the other letters, or this is going to end up filling up the entire internet. Haven't you all got parties to be going to tomorrow? Get to bed.
Goodnight.
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