Wednesday 19 December 2007

KIRSTY McCOLL CAN’T SAY FAGGOT ON THE RADIO… BUT EVERYONE ELSE CAN

FACT OF THE WEEK: Nobody loves Raymond

QUOTE OF THE WEEK: “You can’t go wrong if you smell like a celebrity.” – local waste of skin interviewed whilst actually buying Paris Hilton’s perfume


MAIN EVENT:

A Christmas tale from No One Really Likes Jazz….

Fairytale of New York is without question the best Christmas song ever recorded. Admittedly it’s not a field overly crowded with classics, but it’s still a good song purely for focussing on the true spirit of Christmas: Alcahol abuse, relationship break-ups, arrests and bells. It also features Kirsty McColl, who was - before she got run-over by a boat - the closest thing Britain’s ever had to a good country singer. Suffice to say, Choon!

Anyway, earlier this week Radio 1 decided that when playing Fairytale of New York and thereby slightly stemming the flow of Wizard induced Christmas suicides, they would beep out the word Faggot from the song’s second verse. Fair enough I suppose. I doubt Shane McGowan really meant any affront and it’s certainly no more offensive to gays than say The Kaiser Chiefs’ ‘Angry Mob’ is to anyone who happens not to be middle-class, but it could feasibly offend a portion of Radio 1’s 18 billion or so listeners, so no problem.

Conversation over. Or so you’d think. In actual fact this vaguely understandable decision gave the ‘political correctness gone mad’ brigade - who of course can always be relied upon for a sensible, measured response - a reason to go crazy.

One enormous twat interviewed in a shopping centre stated, "The time will come when everything is banned and we'll have to watch whatever we say." Yes, very witty, if the microphone hadn’t been snatched away he’d probably have added something about a ‘nanny state’ to delight us further but alas, he wandered off to buy Jeremy Clarkson’s latest masterwork and stock up on opinions for the new-year. Mr Twat was not alone however and soon the message boards were crammed with demented listeners abusing their work internet connection to demand action.

Instead of issuing a statement simply reading 'Shh!', the BBC - who seem to continually forget that they are a uniquely powerful organisation, to all intents and purposes above conversing with the mortals that tune in - folded, completely reversing their decision. Not only that, they went on about the whole thing endlessly, ensuring the offending word was uttered by pretty much every employee with a microphone, spectacularly undermining their original point - the six o-clock news alone contained more faggot references than a kindling convention.

So the big bad company listened to the common man, all the Hobbits rejoiced and all was well in the Shire. The end.

Except that there are still two wars going on, you can buy a gun for 30 quid on any city street and David Cameron is going to be Prime Minister, but never mind all that.

Merry Christmas you cheap lousy Faggots!

Friday 14 December 2007

THE NO ONE REALLY LIKES JAZZ TWAT AWARDS 2007

GO SEE THIS: If David Cameron did this I’d vote conservative Till the cows come home. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MDUQW8LUMs8


That’s right its time for the inaugural No One Really Likes Jazz, Twat Awards coming at you from my dining room and hosted by yours truly Matt Thomas – for red carpet enthusiasts I’m wearing a towel dressing gown with food-stain piping by Marks and Spencers.

It really has been a great year for twats. From Lohan to Cruise, from The Borrell’s to the Geldof’s our celebrity superiors have not disappointed, delighting us with their self righteous diatribes and cocksure paddies, the best of which are honoured below.

BEST NEWCOMER

The younger Geldofs are coming on nicely in Peaches’ wake and Lilly Allen’s brother, Alfie -an actor you know- is sure to be a solid performer in 2008 but this year it had to be Emily from Big Brother. She’d probably have made it for her “There’s this new music called indie” comment alone, but after failing to recognise that there’s literally no situation in which a skinny blonde from the home counties can say the immortal n-word (though if you’re a Jewish comedian it’s all good) she was a shoe-in. Mad props to Big Brother for kicking her out in he socks, though unfortunately she seems to have returned to her natural habitat – a Hertfordshire cafe most likely – instead of delighting us further. She’s a twat of the highest order, even though we all still would.

BIGGEST INTERNATIONAL (US) TWAT

I don’t really know where to start, there’s a case to be made for every single LA resident but I think I’m going to go with the first lady herself. That’s right, Paris -too fabulous for prison- Hilton. In a way you have to admire the gigantic balls of a woman who can get out of prison by pleading that she’s about to have a nervous breakdown and throw a garden party in the same day or attempt to appear in court via phone because she didn’t feel like driving across town. But in another way you really don’t. Apparently she bought the entire prison McDonalds to avoid becoming someone’s bitch, I wonder if it worked. If it didn’t there’s probably a tape knocking about somewhere.

BIGGEST POLITICAL TWAT

This one’s split between cuddly fascist Boris Johnson and the British public for buying his whole amiable fop shtick. The Brits have a longstanding thing for bumbling toffs and that’s all well and good when they’re in a hilarious wedding film, but should we really give them nuclear launch codes, or worse still control of the tube.

THE BORRELL AWARD FOR MUSICAL TWATTERY

He’s had it sewn up for a few years now and this year was no exception. Pete Docherty. For one count of releasing a terrible album, several counts of being allowed to sleep with Kate Moss but being too fucked to remember and most of all one count of releasing a coffee table book of your demented, miss-spelled, Adrian Mole on crack scribings and then going on the Jonathan Ross show talking about how sad he is that everyone knows his secrets.

THE FRANK LAMPARD CUP: FOR OUTSTANDING TWATTISHNESS IN SPORTS

The FA. Guys, he may be a brilliant manager but Fabio Capello speaks NO English at all. You’ve just employed a guy that wouldn’t be able to get a job in Starbucks.



Have I left someone out? Is one of these guys a misunderstood genius? Let me know and I’ll enter you into a prize draw to receive a poke in the eye.

Peace out Playas.

Thursday 29 November 2007

EROTICA 2007: SEX IS FINALLY SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE… AND THEREFORE RUINED.




FACT OF THE WEEK:
There is no such place as Belgium.

GO SEE THIS: If you like being angry and you have a soul check out this link…

http://www.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=20601039&sid=afAnsXuy.zaE&refer=h


It’s an article by a guy called Michael Lewis who proves once and for all that you don’t have to be intelligent to work in finance, just a twat. It made me so angry I punched a hole in space and time. Enjoy.



EROTICA 2007: SEX IS FINALLY SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE… AND THEREFORE RUINED.


In Peter Shafer’s dark, bleak and therefore acclaimed play, Equus a deranged boy catches his father at a porno cinema. The shame of this occasion causes the young man - in a slight overreaction - to blind a stable full of horses with a hoof-pick. If he’d have bumped into his dad at Erotica 2007 they’d probably just have laughed at the coincidence and gone to the onsite cafĂ© for coffee and a penis shaped biscuit. Shame.

For those unfamiliar with the trade show for the UK erotic industry, it’s a yearly event at Kensington Olympia that showcases the latest innovations in the art of tickling, rubbing, slapping and generally cajoling ourselves and others into a sweaty, satisfied mess. It works a lot like the usual Olympia trade shows except that, instead of boats or home-wares the auditorium is filled with vibrators, tassels, dick pumps, pussy pumps, body paint, lubricant, masturbation sleeves, dildos, feeldoes (you don’t want to know) and, or course more porn than you could shake a double-ended pink orgasmatron at.

I attended this cathedral of filth (the reasons why are unimportant) assuming that the hall would be filled with the weird old men, slavering Essex boys and creepy couples. Those groups were represented, though surprisingly they were squarely in the minority. Aside from the odd extrovert, or to use the correct term tit, walking around in a studded leather cod-piece or the like, the place could have been a Marks and Spencers, just with a less erotic food section.

After a couple of minutes in the place, you begin to see that even sex has now been successfully co-opted by the corporate hive-mind into a collection of brands, consumer categories and targeted campaigns - it’s not a dildo, it’s a vibrating lifestyle accessory. Before I go all Mark Thomas on you, let me just say that I am not against capitalism, money or even globalisation, except when it interferes with this particular aspect of life. The fact that sex is naughty, shameful and generally not polite dinner conversation is surely part of the fun. To equate it to just another part of our daily brand-synergised market experience, or life as it’s also known, would be to ruin it.

I wandered round for the rest of the afternoon like Mark from ‘Peep Show,’ watching accountants and quantity surveyors browsing for whips, corsets and cages to give their loved ones for Christmas, silently cursing trendy modernity and pining for more dignified days when you weren’t supposed to know what your penis even did till you were 24.
The ‘highlight’ of the afternoon was a lady called Dita Von-Tease who is, I am reliably informed, the most famous burlesque dancer in the world and absolutely not a stripper! - She’s apparently had Marilyn Manson, which must be a macabre experience to say the least. Whilst she is very attractive in an 1950’s East German Olympian sort of way, for all the hype surrounding her you’d have thought she had three boobs or something. She doesn’t. You heard it here first.

All in all, an underwhelming experience. Though on the plus side, the gimp suit I bought fits really well.

Peace Out Playas.



PS: Since this is the only sex article I ever intend to write I wanted to fit in a mewling Carrie Bradshawism but couldn’t find anywhere. So here goes… As I watched a middle-aged man being flogged by a teenage girl I though about modern life; are we really-

No, sorry can’t do it. Too naff. See you next time.

Wednesday 21 November 2007

HEATHER MILLS IS AN INSPIRATION TO US ALL




FACT OF THE WEEK

God doesn’t allow anyone who has ever described themselves as zainy, cooky or mad into heaven.

HINT OF THE WEEK

If you do go to heaven, and Jesus asks you to lend him a fiver don’t do it. It’s a trick, he hates that kind of thing.


MAIN EVENT

Ms Mills, the mono-legged plant botherer has been in for some stick recently from the evil press, BOO!! And the evil public, HISS!! Well I refuse to join the chorus of naysayers; I’ll hear no jokes about how she doesn’t have a leg to stand on in her divorce case or how she goes lopsided when it rains, and certainly no implications that her alleged claims to have “not heard of the Beatles” before she met Sir Paul were anything less than the whole truth.

Heather Mills is nothing short of a national treasure. She's a personal hero of mine and she should be one of yours. For the following reasons.

Ambition: Paul McCartney may well be the violent, abusive, drug addict she makes out - we obviously have no way of knowing for sure because of the skewed reporting that evil, evil press. Though the fact remains that everyone on the planet is required by law to own at least one Beatles album and the mythology of the band has seeped so far into the collective unconscious that now all newborn children instinctively know the words to Hey Jude. You’d think that’d put somebody off attacking a member of said band in the very, very evil press.

Not Heather. Despite the fact that as well as being a knight of the realm Sir Paul would only have to ask politely to be allowed to fondle the royal breasts, the former Mrs McCartney keeps plugging away in the hope that one day we’ll all decide we like her more than our national favourite Uncle. What a trooper.

Courage:
Despite being hounded day and night by the wild eyed attack dogs of the nefarious, dastardly press Heather carries on regardless. She goes on talk show after talk show begging the monstrous, bastard press to leave her alone, but it only seems to make matters worse!

Ordinary people like you and me might make the point that she could simply keep quiet. But we can’t possibly understand what it’s like, we can leave our front door without swarms of crack addled, machete wielding photographers descending, we can have a discreet meal in a well known celebrity hang out without it making the papers. That simply isn’t an option for Heather, the dog strangling, kitten eviscerating press simply go mad for charity activists, they always have - if she only ever talked about landmines or vegetarianism it would be just as bad. All she can do is struggle on, and at least once a day, inform us all of exactly how much she is struggling on.

Sense of Humour:
Am I the only one who fails to see the comedy genius of turning up to a photo shoot against global warming (which is caused by the press) in a 4x4. The woman is a modern day Andy Kaufman.

Peace Out.

Monday 12 November 2007

WHY, NO MATTER WHAT PAPER YOU READ, YOU’RE STILL A TOTAL TIT!!

Welcome to No One Really Likes Jazz. So named because after the first five or so million things I wanted to call it weren’t available, I went a bit angry and decided to indulge my petty prejudices.

Anyway here’s the first instalment of what promises to be a bilious, gutter minded and profoundly pointless endeavour. I hope you enjoy it…


FACT OF THE WEEK:

Once you’ve realised that Sugar Puffs look exactly like tiny vaginas, they're ruined forever.

MAIN EVENT:

Gleaning your information about exactly why we’re all completely screwed from one news source as opposed to another doesn’t make you less of a cock than anyone else, it simply makes you a different kind of cock.

Before you switch back to Facebook in a huff, bear the following two provisos in mind. Firstly, I include myself in this. Secondly, shut up. Here’s why....

The Guardian: I could just about handle this one, if not for the fact that a paragraph into any article a powerful urge to go mneh, mneh, mneh at the by-line photograph takes hold of me, which tends to me get me thrown off the train.

The Sun: Sun readers, or Rupert Murdoch’s goblin army as they are also known, are simply put, morons. Not necessarily bad people, but morons nonetheless.

Is it actually true that Owen Hargreaves went from being the worst player ever to put on an England shirt to the best, in under a year? Or do these twats just not know that much about football? Someone should inform them that there are publications you can buy which have nothing but topless women in them.

The Times: In the grand scheme of things, newspapers don’t actually make that much money. The point of owning one is simply to push your personal politics on whichever unfortunate country it’s printed in. Rupert Murdoch owns the Times ergo; the Times is essentially the Sun with longer words.

Any Times reader who’s ever sneered at the tabloid press should burn their hand on their own Aga as penance.

The Independent: For semi-literate lefties who like instructions on what to think spelled out for them with bright colours and charts. This week its climate change, next week electoral reform, woo. I want to buy it everyday just so I can not recycle it on purpose.

Oh, and put that free language CD down, you’re never going to learn Japanese!

The Telegraph: Once the population understand three basic facts this paper should be obsolete. 1. There isn’t an empire anymore and it’s a good thing. 2. Cricket is rubbish. 3. Top hats will never, ever come back into fashion.

On Line: I actually heard one utter copper-bottomed tit say this the other week, ‘I only read the blogs these days, it’s the only way to get to the true story’ (Twat, 2007). Yes, because a lone weirdo (I’m aware of the irony) with a laptop probably is better informed than international news organisations with correspondents across the face of the globe. Twat.

The Big Issue: Did you really want to read that KD Lang interview?

The Daily Express: Guys, she's dead, and to be honest, she was a bit of a pain in the arse when she wasn't. The only thing there should be an inquest into is why you’re such tossers.

The Daily Mail: Jesus, I don’t know where to start. Even I don’t hate humanity this much...

Readers of this strange little publication seem to want to turn Britain into some kind of theme park called ‘Traditional Values World.’ Based presumably on how it was in the ‘old days’, when everything was measured in furlongs and guineas, littering was a hanging offence and one had even heard of Poland. Sounds brilliant, book your tickets now! Unless you’re of anything other than English extraction, live in a city or have ever enjoyed a TV programme made later than 1974.

For the record. During this golden age a thoroughly bad egg named Adolf was leading a certain far right party called the Nazis on a rather bloodthirsty European tour, which incidentally, the Daily Mail wholeheartedly supported. That’s nice isn’t it, how very English.

Suffice to say, these people are nob-ends of the absolute highest order who deserve to be pelted with Euros by a gang of paedophiles, whilst asylum seekers take bets on who’s going to get knocked unconscious first.