Wednesday 3 December 2008

Walking with Tories

Ere, guv. Ow about we save ourselves some time and I just give you my CV now?


Tories are one of this country’s most fascinating indigenous species, their ruddy faces and pinstripe coats have become synonymous with England to the point where it’s hard to think of our sceptred isle without picturing the lovable creatures playfully vomiting outside wine bars or refusing you a bank loan.

Few people however, know much about this uniquely British species, a situation I’ve decided to remedy thus...


Walking with Tories: A ‘no one really likes Jazz’ Guide to your betters


Natural Habitat: Tories are found across the south of England though degrees of concentration are variable. To be sure of seeing Tories its best to go to one of England’s designated Tory reserves like Clapham, where, on a Saturday afternoon, you can expect to see herds of them sweeping majestically along Lendal Terrace.

Breeding: Like Pandas, Tories are very fussy breeders. Female Tories, for instance, cannot become impregnated unless they are situated within a house worth GBP £800,000 or above. The situation is further complicated by the fact that Male Tories tend to be fairly confused about the whole process of procreation with their wives, often believing sex to be something traditionally practiced with salaried employees or Eastern European teenagers.

Mercifully, once the conditions for spawning are perfectly balanced, actual coitus tends to be fairly straightforward... And brief.

Communication: Male Tories communicate via a system of nicknames, attempted puns and homosexual innuendos, known as ‘banter’. Be warned, approaching a Tory in mid banter is not advisable. A ‘banter’ conversation is likely to be highly tedious for a human being to endure since unlike ‘conversations’ they contain literally no information, often consisting of little more than empty bravado. Any human who enters into one is likely to leave with a piercing migraine and drastically revised views on the morality of genocide.

Female Tories, on the other hand, communicate in a highly sophisticated manner. Their interaction with each other consists of an intricate web of false compliments, conditional praise and air kisses. The only direct speech is delivered tacitly through intermediaries in a process known as ‘bitching.’

Although female Tories’ opinions of each other are uniformly negative, they are at pains to appear the best of friends at all times.

Watching a group of female Tories (or a ‘tosspuddle’ to use the correct term) communicate is one of the most baffling sights in nature. To date, no anthropologist has managed to fully comprehend or explain this impenetrable system of communication, though many have gone mad trying.

Tory stages of life


left to right
Top row: Toby, Camilla, Josh
Bottom Row: Flick, Henry, Suzannah


Infancy: In their youth Tories can be identified by expensive, arduously prepared plumage that somehow still ends up looking like backcombed straw. During this phase, male Tories can often be found wearing heavy gauge horizontally striped coats to make them look like big hard rugby playing boys, an effect spectacularly undermined by the designer logo on the left breast. ‘Jack Wills’ isn’t a rugby team, lads.


You know what, I'm not even going to make a joke.
This photo is too damn good.


Youth:
Proper Tories attend either Oxford of Cambridge, though it is acceptable to go to St. Andrews, Durham, the London School of Economics and, if you absolutely must, York. However, attendees of these lesser four are required to remain bitter about the fact for the rest of their lives.

Whilst at university Tories, in spite of any prevailing fashion at the time, dress like they are acting out an Evelyn Waugh novel – see picture.

The purpose of university is to give Tories something to talk to each other about every single day until they die.


How fucking badass is the middle one?
You can just tell she's thinking, "I am going to fuck you bitches up at the bridge table later"

Middle age: Tories get married almost immediately upon leaving university and commence the aforementioned complex process of spawning. On their 35th birthdays, male Tories automatically lose all their hair and gain three stone, females instantly become their mothers and develop drinking habits that would be designated as ‘problems’ were they in a park drinking Special Brew instead of at home drinking 1995 Chateaux Margot.


I bet this is what David Cameron looks like pre make-up!

Old Age: By now most Tories have made the horrible realisation that their entire career in law, finance, politics, the civil service or ‘management consultancy*,’ achieved precisely nothing. They are therefore, fairly bitter. They grow ever more so as they reflect on a life of greed, self interest, xenophobia and passive aggression, whilst writing bilious letters to the Daily Telegraph.



* The modern equivalent of selling 'snake oil.'

Thursday 6 November 2008

Eastenders – The Serious Soap


"Hmm, a subtle pallette, fruity notes, with just a hint of desperation.
"


Eastenders, East-fucking-enders, the very name strikes fear into my heart, the bastard show increases my blood pressure to the sort of level where I could prick my finger and jet wash graffiti off a brick wall*. For over 23 years, this glum little show has delighted us by systematically crushing the hopes dreams, and sometimes legs, of Walford residents in a Technicolor whirl of misery.

It’s awful, truly awful, and not just in terms of subject matter. There’s so much wrong with this show that I could, and may, write ten bile-spurtingly angry blogs on the subject, but for now I’m just going to focus on the main offender, realism.

We’re constantly told by our creepy aunt Beeb that ‘Enders is the serious soap, the one that confronts issues and strives for authenticity - “We don't make life, we reflect it... Above all, we want realism,” Julia Smith, Creator. This is why we’re not allowed even vaguely attractive actors and why no one - except that comedy gay guy - ever smiles, it’s all justified in the name of realism, which is fine, very noble, very worthy, very BBC.

Except, of course, that it’s a complete crock of shit!

Eastenders is not only unrealistic, it’s the least realistic of the soaps: Coronation Street, Emmerdale, Holby City, Hollyoaks, even fucking Skins can all claim to be more representative and true to life than this middle class fantasy and here’s why...

Walford doesn’t exist! Yeah, yeah, obvious I know, of course it doesn’t dumbass, neither does Wetherfield or Sun Hill. The point I’m trying to make is that at least these fictional towns exist in a world recognisable to people who’ve actually been to the areas they dramatise, ie. Manchester for Corrie, or Bristol for Skins.

This annoys me so much only because I know the East end of London pretty well, I go there at least once a week, I’ve worked there, I even lived there for six months of my life (that I’ll never get back) and let me tell you, Walford REALLY doesn’t exist.

In reality East London is a hotch-potch of migrant workers, well-to-do city types, drug addicts and rich white kids who’ve devoted their lives to pretending to be artists**.

What it certainly is not, is the sixties-style den of gangsters, cockneys and ‘Joanna’ pubs represented in Eastenders – I am yet, for example, to hear anyone unironically using rhyming slang anywhere in East London - for that, you want to head to Essex or Kent. Old Eastenders do exist in London but they’re few - usually they’re about a thousand years old and sat alone nursing a pint in Wetherspoons. Hardly a demographic large or interesting enough to warrant a prime time TV show.

Wake up BBC, your flagship TV show is a lie!

But don’t worry, it’s okay, there’s a way out. Here’s what you have to do to...

Characters: Kill off the Mitchells, the Fowlers and the Slaters, bring in the Patels, the Khawajas and the Zawadzki’s. The drizzle in a few token white Brits, might I suggest Troy and his life partner David: a ‘Freelance’ Web Designing couple, Toby: a Financial Analyst and Suzannah: a Rodean educated performance artist who pretends the monthly cheque from her Dad is an Arts Council Grant.

There might however be a slight problem, in that these characters won’t all have English as a first language (or even as a second), they’ll also never, EVER speak to each other.

The Vic: Proper East End boozers still just about exist (I know of two) but they are squarely in the minority and filled with people enjoying them ironically. To be properly representational the Vic should change its name to something like ‘Junk’ or ‘Spunk’ or ‘Ailment bar.’ It should also have two-year-old-standard stencil-art for sale on the walls and a small television showing a video loop of a fountain, on a white plinth in the corner***. Oh, and if you want to keep Sharon behind the bar, she’s going to need to lose about eight stone and get an unflattering hundred-quid bowl haircut.

Gangsters: I, like 99.999876% of the population, have no direct experience with gangsters, East End or otherwise****. However, I’m pretty sure that their work revolves more around selling drugs to people than it does donning sheepskin coats and plotting to ‘knock off’ banks or armoured cars with sawn-off shotguns. And, while we’re on the subject, I’m also fairly sure that for the most part they’re not white and middle aged – again, I’d point you in the direction of Essex for that.

As far as I can tell, London gangsters actually lead fairly boring lives. They sell their drugs with impunity and only really risk getting arrested at the end of the quarter (if the Met’s stats are down). VERY occasionally someone gets shot, though not nearly as often as in Birmingham. Maybe ‘Midlanders’ would be a better soap for that sort of thing.


In summary, Eastenders is about as authentic as the Cambridge University Hip Hop Society*****. Keep showing it if you insist, BBC, but please don’t try to feed us this authenticity shit. The truth is that for all the resemblance it bears to London, Eastenders might as well be set on a space-station orbiting Klargon 7... Actually, that I might watch!


*Before dying of blood loss and creating a gritty urban tableaux far more upsetting than whatever was written on the wall in the first place.
**and so, enjoy hanging out in the ‘arty’ part of London, apparently not realising that the area is waaay too expensive for any actual artists to live there. Try Camberwell, luvs - actually don’t, I still like it there.
***I’ve actually seen this is in an East End ‘pub.’
****So maybe, just maybe, they’re not the best subject for a populist soap to tackle.
*****I Googled this and it actually exists! Doesn’t seem to be a lot going on though...

Monday 8 September 2008

NORLJ EXCLUSIVE!

Eeeeeeeew!!!
(What makes it worse is there's no real reason for this picture to be here)


Yes, yes, I know it’s been a while, I know you’re angry. However, I also know that, much like a recalcitrant father, you’ll forgive me, even whilst secretly knowing I’ll let you down again.


Consider this week’s blog my attempt to overcompensate with extravagant gifts.


The Private Diary of Richard Madely

To be published posthumously with foreword by Richard Bacon.

The 8th of September 2008, Anno Dominus

This morning I awoke in a cold sweat. I dreamed that my worst fears had been realised, that I, Richard Madely, had died before the world had time to fully appreciate my genius. I thought of my place in history. How will future generations remember me? For my age defying looks? My glittering journalistic career? For giving people an excuse to drink in the afternoon?

It simply isn’t enough, I thought. My time is fleeting and there are still so many problems left unsolved in the world. I mused throughout the night and finally fell into a fitful sleep.

I must redouble my efforts. I will book Ricky Gervais for next week’s Friday show.

Tune in next week for another dramatic instalment.



!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!EXCLUSIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



Oh my giddy incontinent Aunt it’s only the fucking exclusive of the year right here on No One Really Likes Jazz.

I’ve managed to get hold of a list of new programmes to be broadcast this winter on the BBC!

Please remember. This list is entirely genuine! Any attempt to imply otherwise will be taken as a slight against my good name and I will, of course, demand satisfaction. In the ensuing duel you shall surely perish! So think on!


Internal Memo outlining the new Programmes to be broadcast this year on the BBC (published unabridged and unedited)


Holby Pink

An entirely necessary extension to the much loved series of Casualty spin offs. Holby Pink takes us into the fascinating world of Holby City’s Gynaecological ward. Passions run high as yeast infections are diagnosed, smear tests are performed and a generation of up and coming British actresses make the quintessential ‘before they were famous’ faux pas by getting their muff out on tea time television.

Episode one. ‘Wizard’s Sleeve Crisis,’ 58 mins, BBC2: Dishy Dr Haversham scrutinises the wiffle of guest star Angelica Houston, Kelly battles her addiction to bread and comic foil medical student, Dean gets caught in the stirrups.

Celebrity Ombudsman

Ever wondered what happens when c-list celebrities attempt to settle high-level financial disputes? Well, you’re about to find out either way.

Marvel as Peaches Geldof liquidates a corporate pension fund and Richard Blackwood bankrupts Marks and Spencers.

I’d Do Anyone

Glossy pre-recorded Saturday Night Fayre where 10 wannabe escorts and 10 gigolos compete for a contract with a top madam. Week by week they’re set various challenges including sustaining an erection in the presence of Vanessa Feltz and looking their mums in the eye without crying.

In the final week six remaining finalists are unleashed on the Tory party conference (the money they made is financing the next three seasons of Dr Who.

The show is fronted by Jeremy Kyle in a pimp’s outfit. The judging panel is made up of Jamie Theakston, Angus Deayton and Snoop Dogg.

Spooks: HR Squad

A look into the tense, dangerous world of MI5’s Human Resources department. Contract negotiations take place left right and centre, disciplinary letters are sent and efficiency is reviewed quarterly.

Racist Britain?

Are we a Racist country? Are all our institutions irrevocably prejudiced and out of touch? A blacked-up Jeremy Paxman goes to Brixton to find out.

Olympic Celebration

A sixteen hour celebration of our Olympic team’s ridiculously successful games. Team GB are paraded around the M.E.N arena for six hours to commentary from Sue Barker before Boris Johnson and Gordon Brown take part in a Greco-Roman Wrestling match to decide who gets to take credit. Other highlights include a skit were Christine Ohuruogu plays the bagpipes and Gabby Logan personally fellating the men’s cycling team.

Tuesday 29 July 2008

Teenagers Today don’t know they’re Born



See This:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9dzM77PS8H8&feature=related

And This:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=he1rYR_8T4s


Reviewgasm (With Apologies to Laura Barton)

The Chatham County Line: IV

This is the sort of album that quite simply makes you need a cup of tea. You imagine being chased through a post apocalyptic world by a carpet monster with harmonica eyes, you try to scream but all that comes out is an episode of ‘Woman’s Hour,’ from 1995. Your cat will love it!

Thanks to Pete and Robbie for their ‘Reviewgasms’ last time out. Read them on the comments board & leave your own one if you want.




Main Event: Teenagers Today don’t know they’re Born

Do you remember how shit youth TV used to be?

When I was a teenager the choice was stark. You had overly earnest American crap or painfully moral home grown teachings. Obviously you had to watch something while you weren’t outside playing sports, so you were left with a modern day Sophie’s Choice.

The American stuff was awful - unfailingly po-faced and serious with zero sense of humour about itself. Plus, to vent a personal grievance, I had a tiny bit of trouble relating to Dawson: a teenage boy that spent three series refusing to have sex with Katie Holmes. Every time some ‘Lifehouse’ track kicked in and the little prick wandered down to the creek to think ‘Deep thoughts and stuff, y’know,’ I would scream at the TV.

“Sod your parents’ divorce mate! Think about what else you could be doing now. Borrow a pair of balls from Pacey* and go do your duty! Muppet!”

I hope I never meet James Van Der Beak because I might just slap him involuntarily.**

Bad as it was, it was a million times better than the home grown stuff. If you’ve blocked it out let me refresh your memory, there was Grange Hill - a government sponsored alternative universe where kids called each other toerags and one drag on a cigarette or being within a mile of someone taking ‘the drugs’ would instantly render you a wall clawing addict; Byker Grove – more of the same but somehow less tolerable due to the Geordie accents; As if - which appealed exclusively to turn of the century coffee shop ‘Justins’ who owned a ‘DJ Shadow’ CD and therefore viewed themselves as only slightly less important than God; and of course the immortal Hollyoaks, which was, and remains, nothing more than a daily half hour Topshop advert. The former two felt like they were written by your dad, the latter two by a ‘cool drama teacher’ called Nathan, none were any good at all.***

And so it remained until a couple of years ago and the debut of ‘Skins.’

For those of you still hardwired by your childhood into thinking that anything featuring teenagers and misadventures is intrinsically bad, allow me to blow your mind. Skins is fucking fantastic!

Shut up, it is!

If you’re sceptical I understand, when I saw the trailer for the first series (which is basically an advert for drugs) my twat sensors started flaring up too, I may have shouted something like ‘get a job, hippie!’ at the screen.

Then, begrudgingly, I found myself watching it. The first few episodes of series one are pretty fun, entertaining fare, the only difference between it and a normal teen drama being the quality of the jokes, the budget and the sheer amount of (consequence free) drug taking. I was mildly entertained but not instantly hooked. However, like all good series, Skins doesn’t blow its wad early on, it has the confidence in its characters and stories to hold something back, to not properly reveal itself.

Then something funny happens. About three episodes in you start to realise that you actually care about these characters, it suddenly dawns on you that they’re not just variations on the traditional slut, jock, freak, nerd, cheerleader archetypes, they’re proper people. My favourites are Chris and Cassie but an argument could be made for all of them, there’s simply no weak link.

Then, when you’re good and hooked, Skins starts to fuck with you a bit; weird little stylistic devices start creeping in, odd things happen that aren’t properly explained by the end of the episode and your opinion of one character - who’s probably been your favourite up till now - is slowly and subtly turned on its head until you fucking hate him. Then the show kicks you in the balls good and proper with a final three episodes that would be more at home in a series of ‘Twin Peaks,’ one of which was easily my TV highlight of 2007.

The second series is even better, it filters out some of the naff aspects of series 1 (there are a fair few) and concentrates on delivering a story that’s dark, strange and emotionally affecting in a way that all the Dawson and Joey bullshit could only dream of. It’s undoubtedly the best teen drama ever made****.

If you haven’t seen it, take your face out of the guardian for five minutes and give it a go. It’ll make you wish you were a teenager again (even more than you already do) whilst simultaneously making you jealous of a generation of kids who actually have something worth watching.

Take note BBC, the bar has been raised. When the laziest development department in TV inevitably pitches ‘Holby High’ you should tread carefully, you’re not going to get away with another ‘Grange Hill’.



*It’s a sad indictment of a town’s gene pool when Joshua Jackson is the Alpha Male.

** The one oasis of occasional quality was Heartbreak High but it couldn’t hold its own against the deluge of shit.

***And give him a poke in the eye for ‘Rules of Attraction.’

****I say teen drama, but if viewing figures are to be believed most of the audience are over 25.

Wednesday 18 June 2008

JUMPING THE SHARK

Is that a surprised face or a yawn? I can't decide...



I don’t know why people complain that politicians are arrogant and out of touch.

I’m not saying they’re not. I’m just saying it’s obvious, like moaning that the grass is too green. These are people that presume, not only that they should be running the country, but also that thousands upon thousands of people will agree with them. In a sane world they would be called delusional and put in an institution but no, we give them nuclear launch codes.

For the same reason, it’s completely futile to point out that Big Brother housemates are dull, attention seeking, twats. Of course they are! They’ve volunteered, actually volunteered, to be locked in a house with no books, no television, no music and only other mentalists to talk to.

We know they aren’t interesting and we know that nothing of any consequence at all is going to happen but every year we (myself included) keep watching. It’s just another one of those staggeringly illogical things that human beings do like washing cars, barbequing and buying bottled water.

This year’s siphoning of human slurry is a new low. It’s not that they’re particularly repulsive, or offensive, or deformed. It’s that they’re hauntingly familiar. During the introductory show I watched housemate after housemate prance into the house thinking ‘don’t I know you?’ each time.

After a while I became paranoid that I actually did know all of them. Was I the twist? Were they filling the house with casual acquaintances of mine, only to install me against my will in week three forcing me to make protracted stultifying awkward small-talk for two and a half gruelling months?

I had to find a place to lay low for a while a place where Davina couldn’t catch me. Just as I was booking my ticket to Afghanistan I stopped, suddenly realising where I knew them all from. Where? Why, previous series’ of Big Brother of course! I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I realised that almost every one of them is simply doing an impression of their favourite housemate past, it’s like watching a really eerie tribute band.

Of course, for several years now the show has happily trundled along like a bilge spewing tanker on an ocean of hackneyed clichés and stock characters* - Even the casual observer will recognise the hilarious annual conversation about the sparkling media career each housemate is planning or the daily discussion about who does or doesn’t have a game plan – but never so obviously as this year. I don’t want to get my hopes up but I think the country is finally waking up to the fact that everything, absolutely everything they are seeing has happened before. In a year or two we may even be free entirely.

That’s right Big brother has finally jumped the shark**.


*The stock characters/strategies employed by BB housemates are listed below...


Shouty Cow: Turning yourself into a pantomime villain can be very effective. Simply bellow at the top of your voice and constantly belittle everyone in your path. Note: no witty put downs, keep it simple - root one unpleasantness. Oh, and remember to single out the nice middle class girl for particular venom.

This only works if you’re a woman because, as we all know, when men shout it’s intimidating and unacceptable. When women shout it’s great telly!

Eg. Charlie, Alexandra...


Gay Man: Only pantomime stereotypes need apply. This ridiculous country’s latent homophobia can only be allayed by viewing the gay community as hyper-real, entertainers. Be warned, as soon as your facade cracks and you turn out to be a real human being just like them you will probably be voted off.

Eg. Brian, Marco, Dennis, that Greek guy from last year...


Disabled Person: This one’s hard to fake but if you happen to be disabled you’re in with a serious shout of winning the thing purely because people will be terrified of nominating you. ‘That Dave is so lazy, always wheeling himself round in his chair, God, talk about a primadona!’ Can’t quite see that sentence happening can you? Seriously, this housemate could take his/her morning piss in the cornflakes every day and still not get voted out.

Eg. Pete (tourettes), Mikey (blind), Nadia (Penis)


Pretty Girl: If you happen to be ridiculously fit you could do worse than going on the show and simply lazing around in the sun, rubbing sun tan lotion on your thighs for a couple of months.

Some bint tries this every year. You won’t win but that’s not the point, when you eventually leave you’ll walk onto the cover of Nuts, Zoo, FHM, etc. Immediately setting the porn for cowards brigade into their traditional dead-eyed masturbatory stance for a couple of weeks.

There’s only one rule, don’t open your mouth. Unless of course it’s to talk about how you’ve always wondered what sex with a woman would be like – the readers of Zoo wonder that too.

Eg. Chanelle, Shell, Michelle (do you see a theme here) and of course Imogen.


Really Stupid: We love idiots, they make us feel good. That’s why no stand-up comedian will ever go broke as long as he/she has plenty of jokes about Americans. Just being thick isn’t enough though, you need to be thick in comparison to the rest of the house. This requires monumental levels of stupidity but if you can make it work you can win.

Eg. Brian, Jade


Filth: Getting grotty on TV is a pretty shameless way to get attention but it works. Just beware the law of diminishing returns.

Eg. Kinga, Michelle...


Genuinely Nice Person: These guys do exist in the show. One generally turns up about every two years though because they haven’t done anything particularly horrific you generally don’t notice them until the final few weeks.

Eg. Craig, Pete, Shell... Um, I think that might be it.


** By the way, for those who dont know, ‘Jumping the Shark,’ is a reference to the exact moment when Happy Days became shit.

Thursday 12 June 2008

Perfect Family?




BT’s ‘perfect family’ campaign is one of the most sinister things on television...

On the face of it it’s a cosy image - Attractive thirty-odd brunette with two kids meets bumbling, lovely Kris Marshall. One thing leads to another and they all move into a stainless steel/magenta box somewhere non-specific in London. How idyllic. It’s the modern Bisto family. Of course there are problems along the way but it’s okay because they can all be solved by BT products, allowing everyone to continue in high brightness, low contrast bliss*.

Or do they? If you look closely enough you see that these ‘wholesome’ adverts actually show the harrowing tale of the slow steady erosion of a relationship as it descends into a mess of power games, stony silences and, eventually, adultery.

Don't believe me? Well, think back to the couple’s heady early days - Kris sits at the kitchen table stressing out about the fact that he’s now officially trapped in a relationship. With his ready-made family already bonding with him he has no way out except to behave like a complete cunt and flee, adding yet another betrayal to the children’s already long list. Of course he can’t do that he’s Kris Marshall.

Meanwhile, to seal the deal and allay her crippling doubts about his love for her, Thirty-Odd Brunette forces him to get a joint account (online obviously), a symbolic but highly potent representation of their union but it only serves to underline his absolute fuckedness.

From then on something dies in Marshall, he’s forced to get a trendy haircut and wears a constant callow frown. He becomes distant towards Thirty-Odd Brunette and when looking around houses, is reduced to making impotent, snarky remarks to the estate agent, “Costafortunum?” Whenever the kids wander in he appears bemused and avoids interaction by simply plonking them in front of BT Vision digital TV (Available from £30 a month) and when their real Dad turns up Kris’s expression seems to say ‘Teach me your ways, how can I get away from this, how can I be a bastard like you?’

The final straw for the pair is when, confused and alienated by her husband/boyfriend’s** indifference, Thirty-Odd Brunette withholds sex or ‘perks’ (the emasculating term Marshall has taken to using).

So what next for the increasingly bitterly ironic ‘perfect family’ campaign? Well I have a theory, remember that black girl at the party, the one that appeared and reminded Kris of his lost freedom and then did the same thing again in the record shop? She’s what’s known as ‘a crow at a wedding,’ a harbinger of doom that reveals your eventual destiny to you ahead of time.

He may not have sex with the black girl but he will probably stray – he’s already started justifying it to himself ‘It’s good to have a few secrets’ etc. I’d say we’re two years away from the ad where Kris organises his affair cheaply and efficiently with a combination of BT Total Broadband personal email and free weekend calls to land lines, taking advantage of personal settings to forward any calls from his other girlfriend to his BT Fusion Mobile when he’s out.

Of course Thirty-Odd Brunette will find out. She’ll probably see a photo of them on facebook and have no problem downloading it because of BT Broadband’s generous download limits. She may even back it up with ‘Digital Vault’ to torture herself further before drunkenly confronting him in front of the kids.

I’m sorry, I hope I’m wrong but it seems to me that the ‘perfect family’ are on borrowed cut-rate call time.


*What is the deal with the washed out colours?

**Are they married or arent they? Nobody cares - how very modern of you BT

Thursday 22 May 2008

Oh, I See... The truth Behind the IOC


Is it just me, or does the Beijing Olympic stadium look a bit like a... Like a...... Nevermind, forget I said anything.



Quote of The Week


Alan Brazil: I like Cambridge City, not as much as Colchester but they're my second team.
Paul Hawksby: Ever been punting on your trips to Cambridge?
Alan Brazil: What do you mean? Cambridge Dogs?



MAIN EVENT



Do you fancy throwing me a party? You know, a great big shindig in my honour, with my name plastered over everything...

Yeah? Great!

Couple of minor details, the party needs to be two whole weeks long. You’ll also need to buy in a whole load of expensive equipment and build loads of stuff that you’ll never use again - a permanent bouncy castle bunker, underground Mexican takeaway, stuff like that. Naturally this will be entirely at your own expense. There’ll be photographers and journalists everywhere so you’ll need to make sure the place is spotless and that any embarrassing friends and relatives are out of sight. Oh, and another thing, I’ve got loads of mates coming over to sell stuff in your back garden, that’s cool right? I wouldn’t ask, only they’ve already given me a load of money. I’d cut you in but, y’know I don’t want to.

Actually, come to think of it I’ve got a few other people interested in throwing this massive party for me so you’re going to need to kiss my arse and buy me presents for a year or two before I decide to let you hold it.

What’s that? What do you get in return? Well, you get the right to say you’re having my party. Isn’t that enough?

Still interested? If so, great! Don’t read any more of this and give me a call...


For anyone who isn’t completely daft, congratulations, you’re less gullible than all the governments of the developed world. The above is exactly the deal that the International Olympic Committee gives host nations like Beijing and London. You know the estimated £9.4 billion pounds of tax payer’s money that’s going to be spent on the 2012 games? Well, not one penny of that will be made back by the event itself.

Not that a lot of money isn’t going to be floating around the games. Olympic sponsorship is one of the most expensive endorsements you can buy (despite the fact that many, many more people watch the World Cup*). It’s impossible to quantify exactly, though it’s fair to say Olympic sponsorship costs more than it delivers in terms of increased sales, it’s just an exercise in corporate cock-measuring** a way of saying, we are the biggest company who do whatever we do.

Never ones to miss an opportunity to exploit someone, the IOC then makes the sponsors run the bloody games for them – that’s right they don’t do that either. Tag Heuer will handle the timekeeping, Lenovo will run the computer system and supply all hardware, McDonalds will be expected to flood the olympic village with their ‘restaurants’*** etc. After all that, the companies don’t even get to put their logos anywhere near the only thing that anybody is watching, the events - that would pollute the Olympic brand!

Right, so the host cities don’t see a penny of the sponsorship money however, they do get**** a load of sports facilities. Although if history’s anything to go by they won’t be used an awful lot. I’ve been to the Barcelona Olympic village twice now - it’s a very beautiful ghost town, Athens’s facilities lie unused and largely unfinished. Sydney still use theirs but let’s be fair, we’re talking about a nation so sport obsessed that 11 people randomly picked from in and around Darling Harbour could probably beat England at Cricket. London is not Sydney - somehow I don’t see East London having a tremendous amount of use for a vellodrome, do you?

What about the hundreds of people on the ground who work to make the Olympics happen, the stewards, the drivers etc? Surely they’re IOC employees. Well, no those people are - I shit you, not – volunteers. Yep that’s right, tragic individuals who have drunk IOC coolade.

So, all in all the IOC do nothing except pick a city and cash a cheque. They even have the nerve to call themselves “A catalyst for collaboration” and a “Service to humanity.”

This is a nice idea but it doesn’t really bear scrutiny. I’m sure I’m not alone in thinking that humanity was not especially well served by undermining decades of work to force the Chinese government to be less shitty to its people by giving it a great big international pat on the head. Oh yeah and then there’s the whole thing about letting a Nazi dictatorship host one in 1936 but we’re not supposed to mention that.

In any other situation the Olympics would be called what they are, a scam... Though to be fair it is a brilliant one, probably the greatest ever. IOC, I salute you

*300 million tuned in last December to watch the draw for the 2006 World Cup! That’s 300 million watching a fat man pulling balls out of a pot!

**The Olympic Games is one of those things that would cease to exist if there were a decent number of female CEOs. Just like team-building trips, or high class whores.

***Something the marathon runners are absolutely thrilled by!

****By get I of course mean pay for and build themselves.



Wednesday 7 May 2008

RICHARD DAWKINS CAN FUCK OFF!






When it comes to religion I’m really not sure what I believe and to be honest I don’t give it a tremendous amount of thought. My view is that I’ll find out eventually so why stress about it now. If there is a God then I’m not a massive bastard really, I should be able to talk my way into heaven or at least a non-smoking table in hell. If there isn’t and it turns out we really are just a giant evolutionary mishap then it won’t matter – I’ll be dead.

The truth is that no one can prove anything either way which is why it continually baffles me that people - often very intelligent people - seem to feel the need to discuss the question at length. These conversations are the definition of pointless and are basically just the intellectual equivalent of those debates about meaningless triviality you have when you’re stoned. Y’know the ones where one guy will swear blind that Marilyn Manson was in ‘The Wonder Years’ or that Dogs can’t look up and another guy will strenuously disagree. Neither side has any means of proving their point but both believe themselves to be 100% right and a very boring discussion ensues.

This is the way a conversation about religion between a religious person and an atheist should go...

“I believe that Jesus Christ died for our sins and that God is looking out for us all”

“That’s nice, I don’t though”

“Fair enough, would you like some pie?”

Of course that almost never happens, (especially the bit about the pie) what usually happens is that the atheist starts talking loudly about fossils and evolution whilst everyone else edges away slowly.

Some atheists aren’t satisfied by simply having this argument and feel the need to actually dedicate their lives to it by writing books and appearing on TV. One such twat, sorry academic, is Richard Dawkins*, a scientist and author who has a chair** at Oxford University. He’s done other stuff in the past but at the moment his whole thing seems to be going round the world and explaining to religious people that they’ve wasted their lives.

That’s fine I guess, the question is why? He’s an atheist why does he care? It’s got nothing to do with him. It’s like straight men being interested in lesbian sex. Sorry bad example, er okay, lets say it’s like a man being interested in sanitary towels.

It certainly can’t be to help them – “Gee thanks Richard – I used to believe that there was a plan to the universe, I helped people less fortunate than myself and I had no fear of death. Good job you stopped all that.”

One reason he cites is that wars have been fought over religion, therefore it is bad. Yes Richard, wars have been fought over religion, millions of people have died in its name but do you really think that there would have been no war without it? I think we’d probably just have had wars for different reasons don’t you? Sadly people just fight with each other sometimes, people’s interests are at odds sometimes, sometimes people look across borders and think ‘Y’know what? I’d quite like all that land for myself.’ More often than not religion’s just an excuse.

‘Religion gets in the way of scientific progress!’ is another justification for this campaign of one-upmanship. Yeah you’re right it probably does, but actually scientists don’t get to determine the course of humanity on their own. I know you want to play with all the exciting new science right away but everyone’s got to live together on this planet and it’s quite reasonable that the ethics of, and popular support for things like human cloning are interrogated properly, by everyone. Me you and a billion other people may think that stem-cell research is brilliant but some people don’t and they get to be heard too before we go ahead and start messing around, so be patient***. Splitting the atom seemed like a great idea too remember? Because of that we almost blew the planet up in the 60’s. Let’s just behave like mature adults rather than kids the week before Christmas okay?

But what about intolerance? Religions promote intolerance right? Okay, a very small minority use religion as an excuse to be homophobic, racist etc. But again, there are just small minded people in the world who are going to see somebody doing something different and get all angry. People hear what they want to - if someone’s chosen to fixate on the obscure parts of the bible or the qur’an that deride homosexuality then, let’s be honest, they’re most probably quite the homophobe anyway. It’s not as if there aren’t racist/sexist/homophobic academics now is it?

What he of course downplays on his TV show and in his book is the positives that come from religion, the charitable giving and actions, the great works of art and architecture (not so much music). Michelangelo had such a hard-on for God that he created arguably the greatest work of art in history. I’m pretty sure people will still be going to see the Sistine Chapel when every copy of ‘The God Delusion’ has been rightly pulped - are we really more of an advanced society without God?

Even if we assume that what he says is all true (quite the assumption) he is still basically just being a mean spirited little gob-shite - like the guys who delight in ruining the twists in films by telling you right at the start: “By the way, there’s no heaven and Bruce Willis is a ghost.”

So, in conclusion; are those guys at the Christian rock concert waving their hands in the air a little weird? Yes. Deluded? Maybe, but you definitely can’t call them miserable. They’ve figured out a way to exist in this bizarre world that works for them and they’re not hurting anyone, so leave them alone you sanctimonious prick!

*If for nothing else he’s a cock for this tag-line on his website, ‘Richard Dawkins.Net: A Clear Thinking Oasis.’ What-a-bell-end!

**Most people send their children but whatever works mate

***I have become my Mother



Thursday 1 May 2008

Local Elections Live: Part 2/2

12.30 - 13.30

I'm making serious headway with the first bottle of wine so expect some splling mastikes soon....

12.30: For the first time ever Labour have lost control of Bedworth. It's gone blue! The BNP gained two seats as well... So obviously an educated ward!

Tessa Jowell is completely freaking out! By the end of the night I expect her to be cowering in the corner of the set, babbling incoherantly and wearing a tin-foil hat.

Seriously though, that's pretty bad. This is going to be a long night for Labour.

12.45: Jeremy Vine is dressed up as a cowboy and doing a southern accent while he talks about projected Lib Dem percentages. Am I awake?

12.45: Tories take control of Southampton according to Tony King it's "Sensational!"

12.50: Tories about to take Colchester after promising everyone a free convertible white Ford Escort (Probably).

Pretty much all anyone is saying tonight is Conservative gain, Conservative gain, Conservative gain! Tessa Jowell looks as if she's about to cry, every cloud eh?

13.05: Tories have more councils under their control now than Labour did at their peak in the 90s... Bottle of wine 2 now I think.

13.10: Boris Johnson's Dad is on TV now. He reminds me of uncle Monty from 'Withnail and I'. 'I mean to have you boy!'

13.25: Jeremy Vine is the King of the laboured analogy, this time something about Gordon Brown and Mr. Bean.

Right it's 1.30 and I'm tired and drunk. I'm going to knock this on the head and just declare the Labour Party totally fucked.

Boris Johnson is seeming a lot less humourous now...

Local Elections Live: Part 1/2

11.30 – 12.30

Hello and welcome to the NORLJ coverage of the local elections. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t particularly up for this half an hour ago but I just heard Richard Littlejohn Refer to ‘So called climate change’ on Newsnight and it worked like Popeye with Spinach! I’m angry enough to write now.

I've got one bottle of alright wine and one bottle of awful wine and I'm powered by righteous indignation.

Suffice to say... It’s on!

11.45: Tessa Jowell (tonight looking like Skeletor's Mum) is trying not to sound worried and getting beaten up by David Dimbleby.

Charles Kennedy tonight is played tonight by Bert from Sesame street.

This is the segment of the evening where nobody knows anything and nothing's happened so everything anyone's saying is essentially meaningless. They might as well talk about The Apprentice.

11.50: Off to Bury to talk about Black Puddings and how nobody gives a shit about the war anymore. Which war? Then to Wales, where things are progressing slowly... Big fucking surprise!

Emily Maitliss in City Hall in London (where is that?) is talking to some bloggers in the same way you might talk to an eight year old before a nativity play. They've got a great big shiny set with a bar in it!

12.00: Lab -1 LD -3 Con +4 Oth 0

12.00 - 12.15: Massive technical failure with my fucking Dell! (always save, kids).

The Lib Dems have taken control of Hull City Council, Labour retain Knowlesley (wherever that is). Bunch of other results that I can't be arsed to type.

12.25: 52% of people think Gordon Brown is a liability.

Wednesday 30 April 2008

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE ELECTORAL COMMISSION


Fuckhead Revisited:

The future Prime Minister, the future London Mayor and the rest of the Bullingdon Boys photographed shortly before going off to get smashed and destroy some poor sod's restaurant. Hoorah!

(Boris Johnson: bottom right, David Cameron: top row, second from left)



AN OPEN LETTER TO THE ELECTORAL COMMISSION


Dear Electoral Commission,

How are you? I’m fine. My name is Matthew Thomas and I’d like to suggest some changes to the voting system ahead of the London mayoral elections tomorrow. I know it’s late notice but if you hear me out I think you’ll see the logic.

They say your politics become more moderate as you get older. It’s true, when I was 16 I believed socialism was the only ethical way to run a society and that everybody on the right of the political spectrum was a selfish, myopic twat. Now that I have had time to mature and learn about the world, I believe socialism is the only ethical way to run a society and that everybody on the right of the political spectrum is a selfish, myopic twat, with excellent taste in wine, some interesting things to say about cricket and the ability to get Wimbledon tickets without queuing.

You could say that maturity has given me a more rounded opinion of conservatives as people and softened my, admittedly extreme, views about what to do with them in the event of a revolution*. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I like many of them – and not just because they’re my bosses. Whilst I still find them cold-hearted and illogical, I’ve even come to understand their views a little better, particularly in the run-up to Thursday’s mayoral election.

Let me explain. It’s fair to assume that this is now a two horse race between Ken Livingstone and a real-life P.G Wodehouse character called Boris Johnson. They enjoy pretty much equal support with Boris ahead in the richer suburbs and Ken Livingstone ahead amongst the working classes in the inner-cities.

For a while I was completely baffled by how Boris, a man who has made a career out of being an incompetent boob; who edited a magazine that nobody reads and still managed to cause a national scandal; who once described black people as ‘flag-waving piccaninnies’ with ‘watermelon smiles’; whose whole persona is based on being, y’know NOT VERY GOOD AT THINGS, could actually be in with a shout of running Europe’s biggest city. Then it hit me, I realised why. The wealthy people voting for Boris simply aren’t qualified to make a decision of this magnitude.

I know, I know, that’s pretty insulting but hear me out. The residents of Richmond, Belgravia, Putney are very confused. It’s our fault really, when you’re struggling to pay £500+ per week in rent on a pitifully low salary and spending half your life wedged against Perspex panel 100 metres below ground it’s easy to forget that when you mention job-seekers allowance to these people they think of gardening leave and a 6-figure golden handshake.

We really should have explained better, after all they have little or no experience of the NHS, state education, unemployment, council housing or benefits. They’re not in debt, they haven’t paid rent in a long time, the air quality where they live is fine, they won’t need a state pension, crime for them is someone taking their seat in All Bar One and if they use the tube it tends to be beautifully run lines like the jubilee and they certainly don’t take the bus.**

So you see, they’re not qualified to speak on pretty much all of the issues.

Oh, sorry I forgot there is tax and nonsense like the congestion and emissions charges. These they’re intimately acquainted with, seeing as they’re the ones with the money*** and the ones who can afford to drive in London. This obviously isn’t enough to chat about for an entire dinner party so new and exciting issues have to be invented also – cue immigration panic, family values panic, gay marriage panic etc****.

Conservatives rail against the notion that they’re self interested and out of touch, but when your entire rationale for making a decision is based what’s best financially for you and your already privileged family, your right to drive a ridiculous car + some invented fluff, I really don’t see what else to call it.

That’s why I’m proposing that we reclassify Chelsea, Richmond, Kingston, Wimbledon, Belgravia, Balham and Clapham as rotten boroughs. Maybe then we’ll get to have a proper debate.

Thoughts?

Your’s Faithfully,

Matt.

*Let’s just say it involved a game reserve on the Isle of Wight and genetically modified giant Foxes riding wolves – you can guess the rest.

**Admittedly not all of these issues fall within the remit of the London Mayor but national issues have always been factors in people’s choices in local elections. In other news, cats dislike dogs and there’s no such thing as the Loch Ness Monster.

***Which of course they hauled themselves up by their bootstraps to get with absolutely no help from their, upbringing, accidents of birth or the rest of society.

****Strangely global warming panic hasn’t quite taken hold yet.

Wednesday 23 April 2008

Schadenfreude: German Word, British Institution



Have you ever noticed how when a couple starts having an argument in public everyone else gets much quieter? It’s as if there’s only so much noise in the world and these two are hogging it. What it really is of course is people keeping their own conversations to a minimal volume so that they can hear the particulars of the argument, without appearing overly interested. If society allowed us to get away with it we’d pull up a chair and gawp like our lives depended on it - unpalatable as it may be to admit, there’s nothing British people like more than someone else’s domestic.*

Most people generally try to keep public fallings out to a minimum, preferring to wait until they’re in the privacy of their own home where they know which doors make the most satisfying slam and they won’t be called upon to make the shrugged shoulders “I dunno mate” gesture to a complete stranger when their girl/boyfriend flounces off on some trumped up pretext. However, every now and then somebody looks at somebody they shouldn’t, or leaves somebody somewhere to go and talk bollocks with their idiot friends, or doesn’t take someone’s side even though their clearly wrong and it all kicks off. That’s the cue for the rest of us to subtly turn off our MP3 players and switch from reading magazines to pretending to read magazines.

If you can overhear the conversation but can’t be heard yourself that’s perfect – it gives you occasion to trot out all kinds of hackneyed bon mots. In fact, it’s actually the law in England that if a group of more than three people witness one of these arguments, at least one person has to say “trouble in paradise” whilst looking smug. If a woman’s present she - under penalty of prosecution - is required to say “He won’t be getting any tonight**,” whilst nodding suggestively.

It’s marginally less fun if you know the people - the argument’s still entertaining but you’re expected to participate in the clean-up operation. If you’re a woman this involves listening to your friend cry and blather on about how in love they are and how much of a ‘passionate relationship’ it is whilst you fight the urge to inform her that she’s dating a nutter and is behaving like one herself. If you’re a man it involves going for a beer and talking about sports to ‘cool off’ – being a man is so great!

Well that’s about all I have to say about the entertainment factor of other people’s emotional turmoil. If this has put you in the mood for witnessing a live barney then may I recommend the bus stops at Trafalgar square around 3 in the morning – there’s something about the thought of a 90 minute bus ride to Croydon or Kingston that just brings it out of people.


* Unless we’re asked to weigh in and give our opinion, then it’s all “I don’t want to get involved mate. None of my business.”

**Women as a gender have failed to realise that the average man spent the better part of his teens trying and failing to get women to have sex with him. Therefore many of them somehow think that withholding sex is a viable way to punish us. This is like giving an Abu Ghraib survivor a Chinese burn – ladies, unless you’re really willing to keep it up for 16 years, we can take it.

Tuesday 15 April 2008

Return of the Time Thief



Fact of a Week: No matter how secure you feel in your relationship, buying an 18-pack of condoms is tempting fate. He/she will break up with you the next day and those things will stare at you from the sock drawer for the next six months.

Go See This: www.youtube.com/watch?v=QXyK0ean-D4&NR=1 I love James Corden.



MAIN EVENT

When you die I reckon God/Allah/Buddha/L. Ron Hubbard takes you aside and presents you with a long list of stats about your life. These stats would include things like number of days bunked off work, number of miles cycled along the pavement and the all important wank/shag ratio. He/she/they will then analyse these stats, much like Alan Hansen on Match of the Day (hmm, maybe he’s God)*, and decide how worthwhile a life you’ve led. This will then translate into how nice a flat you get in heaven – whether you get to live in a cool converted factory or above a chicken take-away 2 miles from a tube.

If this is indeed how it works then my most shameful stat is most likely to be number of hours spent watching Channel 4’s ‘Shipwrecked’. I don’t like it. In fact, I hate it. I have however still managed to spend an estimated three days of my life staring at the bloody thing like a confused marmot. There are two reasons for this: firstly, on Sunday mornings I tend to be in a vulnerable state where complex thought is impossible and an hour and a half of pretty people in a pretty environment seems appealing; Secondly, at least once an episode, Shipwrecked can be relied upon to make me so angry that I throw something at the TV – I find this perversely enjoyable.

For those unfamiliar with the format, Shipwrecked is a programme where two groups of people with ‘sexy-messy’ hair, from Godalming and the surrounding areas are marooned on two separate islands. They then proceed to wander around talking about how spiritual they feel and what a great experience they’re having, despite the fact that they’re doing literally nothing. There’s kind of a competition element tacked on but no one really pays attention.

The islanders are there for three months which, as the voice-over keeps telling you, places a huge emotional strain on them as they have only each other for company. Well actually, each other, a sound recordist, a producer, a production secretary, a couple of runners, a stylist and at least 3 cameramen all working in shifts with other production teams of equal size.

Despite this Satre’esque isolation the islands’ inhabitants rarely even argue and if they ever have sex with each other (which they surely must sometimes) the viewer never gets to hear about it. In fact, it’s bloody difficult to distinguish one episode, or even one series, from another. I’ve been watching the thing fairly regularly for its entire six series run and I can’t remember a single memorable moment or one cast member’s name - that is how unremarkable the show is. It’s basically exactly what you’d see if you put a camera in the common room of a posh sixth form college.

This year promises more of the same, though the producers have at least tried to keep a 50:50 toffs /proles split. All are ridiculously good looking except for one overweight girl. however, to her credit, after 2 days on the island she says ‘fuck this’ and speedboats out of there, pausing momentarily to pick a live fish from the water and swallow it whole**. There’s also a model who was tragically born with a speech impediment that forces him to shoehorn the words ‘sweet’ and ‘Yeah?’ into every sentence and a mouthy brunette who I’m hoping will get buried neck deep in sand with honey spread on her face (to attract ants) by episode three.

The first episode’s bile inducing money-shot comes courtesy of mouthy brunette who, upon learning that they have to nominate two people to leave the island, goes into a ‘Sophie’s Choice’ style fit of hysterics, successfully making the moment all about her – I think she’s a drama student. When they finally choose the smiley blonde from Cheshire as one of the ones who has to go, mouthy brunette goes into overdrive, hugging smiley blonde and screaming ‘I can’t do this without you’ through her sobs. Pretty impressive emotion for someone you’ve known for five days lady. She’s clearly one of those people who describe themselves as ‘big-hearted’ on application forms because they can’t spell clinically insane.

* Over the course of writing this I’ve decided that Alan Hanson is in fact God. Join me in worshipping him, the first sermon will be about the lack of clarity in the offside rule. Meet me in the car park of the Woking Morrison’s 10 am this Sunday.

** This last bit may have only happened in my mind.

Tuesday 8 April 2008

Boris Johnson on the US Presidential Election


-Bet she wasn't that luv-ver-ly you spade faced twat!


Now, I think there are many good things about the US: Hollywood, cheeseburgers, guns, executions of the mentally incompetent, this is all good stuff. However, there are some things they get badly wrong. There is, for example, no American born person capable of uttering the following sentence in conversation “I’m sorry I don’t know enough about that, I wouldn’t like to comment.” They also don’t understand irony, real ale or the proper way to pronounce the letter A.

I wasn’t aware of this until recently but another one of those areas of incompetence is apparently politics. That’s why I’m glad that London Mayoral candidate, editor of The Spectator (if you haven’t heard of it you’re probably poor!) and world class political mind, Boris Johnson has agreed to offer us a brief master-class on exactly why.

Take it away Boris....

Boris Johnson on the US Presidential Election

Hello all. Let me first say how honoured I am to be writing on ‘Everyone Likes Jazz.’ I wasn’t sure at first, but then Matthew told me that his father used to play rugby with me at Eton, so naturally I was onboard in a flash. He also told me that this is going to be broadcast over some fancy computer thingy, wasn’t really listening to be honest, can’t abide boffin-talk, but it all sounds jolly clever nonetheless.

Anyway, enough chat. To the point we must go.

When we colonised North America in 19-whatever we brought with us a fully functioning, hierarchical society based on the solid foundations of guilt, shame and resignation to your lot that had worked perfectly well for hundreds of years. This august way of doing things was of course known as the class system. However, regrettably over the years since we left, the Yanks have rather eroded these noble values until all that’s left is a hollow imitation.

As we all know the basic foundation of the class system is that you will die in the class that you’re born. Ergo, no matter how much wealth the working classes somehow acquire, they will never be afforded the status necessary to affect any real change in the status quo. Quite sensible, I think you’ll agree. Can you imagine the alternative – Alan Sugar, Jordan and Ray Winstone would probably have turned Westminster Abbey into a snooker hall by now.

No, it’s far better that the serious decisions, be it in business or politics, are made by the ruling classes. After all, how are you supposed to vote for a chap or invest in his company if you’ve never even heard of his school?

The Americans however, have seriously misunderstood. They seem to be determined to choose their leaders based on so called achievements! The upshot being that now any old Tom, Dick or Harry who’s led a life of public service and happens to have made enough sound investments to acquire a rather vulgar fortune of new money is capable of being elected bloody president!

This year the Republicans have actually nominated a man who not only didn’t go to an Ivy League university – that’s the equivalent of not going to Oxford! Or even Cambridge! – but was actually in the Navy! How uncouth!

Don’t even get me started on the pair of toerags the Democrats are thinking about nominating. Thank goodness the British are capable of seeing past the issues. They know an all round good egg when they see one don’t they.

Vote Boris for Mayor!

Wednesday 2 April 2008

Unofficial Cross-Weight Boxing Match: NORLJ EXCLUSIVE!!


As great as No One Really likes jazz is, the money it generates is not quite enough to maintain my playboy lifestyle and pay child-support for my army of illegitimate children. Therefore I have to supplement my income with actual writing work. The bulk of this ‘work’ is sports related. This is great because it gives me a cast-iron excuse to waste my life in front of, say Ipswich vs Wolves, and no one can say a thing because ‘I’m working actually!’

If I wrote sports content for a national newspaper I’d get millions of perks like match tickets and proper interviews however, because I write for websites and teeny-tiny magazines I do all my writing based on TV coverage and barely ever get to go to live sporting events. So imagine my delight when on my way home from the pub last Monday I was treated to a live boxing match between two amateur fighters.

I was so impressed by this impromptu sporting display that I’ve decided to write it up, just like I would for sport.co.uk or gambling.com.

Here goes...

Bouncer vs Skinny Hacket-Top Guy: Unofficial Cross-Weight Unification Match

Result: Bouncer by a (probable) knockout

History’s great fights: Foreman vs Ali, Eubank vs Ben, McGuigan vs Pedroza have all been battles between fighters of conflicting styles. This is what made the bout between Hacket-Top Guy: with the clear height and reach advantage and Bouncer: at least five weight classes above his opponent, such a mouth-watering prospect. The build up to this fight was brief, though there was clearly no love lost between the pair, especially after the bouncer hauled Hacket-Top’s trainer and promoter, Pinstriped Shirt Guy, out of a nightclub and onto the pavement moments before the fight commenced.

Round One: Hacket-Top’s unconventional style comes into play early on as he takes the unusual step of approaching the bouncer shouting obscenities with his arms outstretched. This cavalier rejection of standard form reminds you of the early days of Prince Naseem - perhaps that thought had occurred to the bouncer who cautiously didn’t take the bait, merely crossing his arms and nodding. He saw an opportunity towards the end of the round and got a shove in but other than that, nothing. A tactical chess-match of a bout appeared to be shaping up.

Round Two: During Hacket-Top’s stern pre-round talking to from Pinstriped Shirt Guy I was close enough to hear the training code ‘leave it’. Of course only they know what that phrase means exactly but it must have had something to do with insulting the bouncer because Hacket-Top launched into the second round with a Mohammed Ali style tirade, though rather than ‘You Ugly, Foreman!’ it was more ‘Come on then, you fat c**t!’ The tactic really worked, the bouncer got so worked up that he grabbed Hacket-Top by the neck prompting the round to be abandoned as support staff and trainers poured in to separate the pair. As he was being dragged away Hacket-Top shouted ‘You’re lucky!’ sense of humour being another similarity with Ali.

Round Three: Hacket-Top senses blood in the water. As the other bouncers crowd around their guy Hacket-Top stalks his corner like a caged tiger. Pinstriped Shirt Guy is clearly confident too, so much so that he’s fucked off home. With a final yell Hacket Top swings wildly at the doorman, missing completely. In the next instant he’s buried by about 60 stone of door staff. Fight over I think.

Tuesday 25 March 2008

The Credit Crunch Explained

MAGAZINE OF THE WEEK: Just different enough to FHM for me not to get sued... Oh, bugger!





MAIN EVENT:


Remember all the smug tossers you went to school with? You know, the ones that make you drift off into your own mental world when you meet them at parties, the unfortunate souls born without personalities, who all went into phenomenally well paying jobs in the city. Well those guys have been a little worried recently. Yeah I know, I didn’t care either, until I found out that what’s worrying these guys is probably pretty bad for us as well.

It’s called the credit-crunch and it’s causing a global tidal-wave of recession that is apparently set to send us all back to a 1970s standard of living, if we’re lucky. Those of us in retail/media/arts and therefore without unions, will more than likely end up in Dickensian poorhouses, with wooden teeth, sending our girl/boyfriends out whoring and begging Mr Fenniwinkle for another week to pay the rent. I’ve already bought my stovepipe hat.

NB: If you were foolish enough to buy a house you’re especially fucked. Ha ha – Not so grown-up now are you?

The most annoying thing about an economic crisis is that despite the fact that everyone is totally fucked nobody has any idea why. It’s like sharing a studio apartment with a complicated robot that doesn’t have an off-switch, whose sole purpose in life is to poke you in the eye as soon as you fall asleep. However, as someone who once, for three whole weeks, worked in Canary Wharf – or ‘Satan’s Cathedral of Evil’ to give it its full title – I feel qualified to spare us all this indignity. So prey silence for...

The No One Really Likes Jazz Guide to our Impending Doom

Like all good international fuck-ups, it began in Washington. The hilarious Bush administration, during one of their seltzer-bottle and custard-pie meetings, decided to give every Yahoo and Yokel in the country their very own mortgage. Unfortunately, they’d forgotten that thanks to the free-market economy, the peasants were employed in low paying and precarious jobs, and that due to the school system that they’d forgotten to fund for eight years, they were too stupid to look after their own teeth, let alone their own home.

So the Federal Reserve gleefully handed out credit to every slack-jawed commoner that wanted it assuming that it had enough spare, unfortunately it had already given most of it to contractors in Iraq, who blew it up, and Saudis, who fired it into the air in celebration.

When the Fed realised this, they dispatched every employee to the corners of the country to look for more credit, unfortunately this included the bloke whose job it is to hold onto the guy-rope that keeps the dollar down. Due to inflation the dollar soon over-inflated and slipped its moorings, sailing off into the sky. The yuan, who copies everything the dollar does (it’s so cute), followed suit and soon the currencies of the world’s two superpowers were racing each other to the moon.

For a while the pound and the euro simply drank coffee and giggled, marvelling at their newfound buying power. However, they soon realised that the US could no longer afford to buy their stuff and began to cry, which sent their own economies into a downward spiral.

At lavishly catered board meetings across the continent, executives agreed that action must be taken. Strangely, nobody suggested that they take a temporary pay-cut and put funds into marketing and R&D to sure up their market share. Instead the decision was taken to drastically cut jobs in everything but core departments and adopt a zero risk, zero growth, siege mentality – the corporate equivalent of putting your fingers in your ears and going la la la la la until everything’s alright.

The upshot is the sorry situation we’re in now. So basically, you should switch down a supermarket class - Waitrose to Sainsburys, Morrisons to Lidl etc –, forget about that holiday and not expect many scientific advances in the next decade. Sounds fun huh?

Now get back to work before they sack you.

Friday 14 March 2008

BEGINNERS GUIDE TO (GOOD) US TV

Dammit! I was so onboard with the whole Obama thing until I saw this. Now I’m seriously going to miss George.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ghSJsEVf0pU

Oh, and do you remember the ‘I’m fucking Matt Damon’ song? Well this follow up was probably inevitable – very good though.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sIQrBouWRiE&NR=1

Beginners Guide to (Good) American Telly.

Part 1: The West Wing and 24.

A couple of weeks ago I used this blog to vent my spleen on exactly why US television is so much better than ours. You’d have thought I’d have it out of my system by now. Apparently not, this is the rant that keeps on ranting so prey silence for my beginners guide to good US TV via the medium of talking about its 6 best shows of recent years in no particular order....

1. The West Wing.

Some people think that this programme is merely an exercise in self congratulation by left-leaning media types. However, considerably more people, with more teeth and less ‘complex’ family trees, think it’s one of the best things ever to be shown on telly.

It centres on the challenges facing president Jed Bartlett and the group of ‘Harvard types’ that make up his staff. The first two seasons are produced and largely written by Aaron ‘A Few Good Men’ Sorkin, who is to pithy dialogue what Jimmy Hendrix was to the electric guitar. The back and forth is quick-fire, witty and generally of a quality that makes a viewer suicidally ashamed to have ever laughed at a joke on ‘The OC’.

It’s also educational without being (very) preachy; I’m not ashamed to say that about half of everything I know about world politics comes directly from the show. The amount of politicos, presidents and journalists that list it as their favourite show should tell you a little bit about its realism too.

When Mr Sorkin left the show, as a result of being arrested with enough cocaine to frost the Leicester Square Christmas tree in his carry-on luggage (officially exhaustion), the show became soapier and lost some of its spark though remained better than 99.896% of the worlds TV.

Down-points. It’s a little too impressed with itself sometimes: there’s only so many ‘God Bless Americas’ a European can take. The soundtrack is also FUCKING ANNOYING! On a technical note, they spend a lot of screen time introducing people and storylines only to drop them a couple of episodes later - in one case a member of the core cast, Mandy simply disappears, though she was a right pain in the arse so I forgive them. Also there’s a very daft character called Donna who exists solely to explain semi-complicated plot points by endlessly popping up out of the blue asking questions like ‘so what’s all this about?’ I don’t care how complicated your story is. That’s just sloppy writing.

These are just niggles however. It’s still one of the best things ever to grace our screens.

Quote:

Josh: I really don’t anticipate the Capitol Building exploding.
Donna: What percentage of things exploding have been anticpated?

See For Yourself:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rHaVUjjH3EI

2. 24.

Each series of 24 centres around a particularly hectic day for CTU (Counter Terrorist Unit) agent, Jack Bauer, as he tries to thwart some terrorists who have a bomb/virus/state secret/thingy that can make nuclear plants go wrong - delete as appropriate. With the obvious exception of Warren from Hollyoaks, Jack Bauer is the hardest man in television. Over the six series of 24 Jack has been shot, stabbed, blown up, addicted to heroin, tortured by the Chinese for 2 years, seen his wife murdered in front of him and been forced to kill his father and brother. Throughout all this he has never just said ‘oh for fucks sake’ and gone down the pub. Speaking as someone who once left his place of work in a huff because a colleague deleted a semi-important excel spreadsheet, I find this trait particularly admirable.

In later series Jack is given a sidekick called Chloe who has a really weird looking face and sits somewhere on the autistic spectrum. I can’t put my finger on it, but some reason she’s my favourite character in any TV show ever.

The show isn’t perfect. In fact there’s a lot wrong with it, for instance it’s more in need of a sense of humour than any programme I’ve ever seen. It would also be nice to have just one episode where Jack doesn’t have to brutally torture someone for the good of national security – Amnesty International are very much not fans (Fucking hippies!). Also, the acting is highly suspect and there’s several niggling questions that don’t seem to leave your head when you watch it: Why do the terrorists only ever attack LA? Shouldn’t there be someone over 35 working at CTU? Why does no one ever eat?

None of this is really that important though. The real appeal of the show is that almost without fail the producers manage to create consistent tension with credible cliff-hangers every 15 minutes – a difficult thing to do. Often you literally can’t look away as Jack drives around at speed chopping people’s fingers off, having personal Crises and saying ‘Dammit!’

So much so that this programme should really come with a health warning. Seriously, it’s the crack cocaine of TV Drama. Sit down with a box set and watch an episode - I defy you not to watch another straight after. Before you know it you’re strung out on explosions and melodramatic dialogue and your attention span has shrunk to that of a Meer Cat on ProPlus. Smokers whinge about Nicotine. Pussies! Where’s my Bauer patch!

You realise things have gotten really bad when you start doing things like ringing the switchboard at work and asking to be ‘patched through’ to people. At that point it’s time to read a book.

Quote: ‘Chloe. We don’t have time for your personality disorder today!’
(Bill Buchanan. Director, CTU)