Friday 19 November 2010

12 O'Clock

Forget Jack Bauer and CTU (if you haven’t seen 24, then at this point you may as well go and do something else now. Perhaps go back to watching Morse, you fucking tedious individual).  There is a new TV sensation that is going to make you spend at least 35 quid on the boxset (plus merchandising, game and ringtone) and only get 4 hours of sleep for the next week. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you;
















12 O’CLOCK
This gripping new series of seasonal series seasons is based around Jock Sour, the great grandson of John Logie Baird.  Jock is the lead agent for the Counter Nauseating and Unwatchable Television Unit (CNUT Unit).  His mission is simple; to hunt down and neutralise every television show that poses a direct threat to the nation’s collective intelligence.  Needless to say, he’s a busy little chap.  Oh and he’s also a raging alcoholic.  Because he’s Scottish. Got a problem with that have ye laddie?  Here is a wee taster of what is in store:

EVENTS OCCUR IN REAL TIME......UNLESS YOU ARE USING SKY+

7pm – 8pm
Jock gets a phone call from the Director at CNUT Unit informing him that an as yet unidentified television production company is planning on making a TV show so inanely repulsive that it could potentially lower the national IQ by up to 45%. Jock is instructed to track down the producer and stop him at all costs. Clearly shaken by this news, Jock goes straight to the Pig and Fiddle and blows the froth off a few to calm his nerves. He also has a few wee drams to take the edge off.

About 5 past 8 - 2100
Following his instincts Jock heads for the X-Factor studios via Oddbins to pick up a bottle of Buckfast. On arrival he chins all the Buckie in one go, smashes the bottle over Louis Walsh’s head and glasses Simon Cowell in the face, all without once taking his eyes off Cheryl Cole’s tits. Cheryl is now whimpering with fear as Jock pulls down his pants and begins to urinate on the desk. She tearfully confesses she has heard that SyCo TV was approached by a producer to make a show called ‘Which One Of You Desperate Twats Wants A Celebrity Lovechild?’. Jock is forced to leave by security, but is somehow still able to cop a feel of Cheryl’s chest bollocks before he is dragged out. As the security guards are stamping on his head he notices one of them has a Thames Talkback company tattoo on his ankle.

Around 9 – 10pm
A badly beaten Jock heads to a nearby safe house / strip bar. Whilst there he drinks several restorative Newcastle Browns and has a lap dance. He makes a call to CNUT unit to get them to find out more about the Thames Talkback television company. Jock is shocked to learn that they are the same group responsible not only for X Factor but also for other atrocities such as the Apprentice, Pop Idol, Britain’s Got Talent and Celebrity Juice. Jock is so shocked he vomits copiously, but blames it on not having eaten all evening. He re-tops up with a refreshing half bottle of gin.

10ish – sometime around last orders
Inexplicably Jock is now wearing a pink sequined cowboy hat, only has one shoe and has blue WKD all down the front of his shirt. Jock gets a taxi to the Thames Talkback offices and is charged 100 quid clean-up costs for getting shit on the cab seat after pushing a fart too hard. At the offices he confronts the CEO of the company and waves his cock at her whilst shouting very, very loudly. The CEO informs Jock they are already preparing to film ‘Which One Of You Desperate Twats Wants A Celebrity Lovechild?’ in the studios right now and that the first episode is being shown live within the next hour. Jock quickly formulates a plan, necks the contents of his emergency hip flask and suffocates the CEO with his soiled underpants that he had stuffed in his pocket.

2300 – 12 o’clock
Jock stumbles over to the studios, grabbing a cheeky kebab on the way. He infiltrates the studio by falling through a plate glass window after leaning on it to take a piss. Now bloodied, barely coherent and still with his knob hanging out, Jock staggers onto the set just as the live feed for the show is being aired across the nation. Before Piers Morgan can begin his introduction Jock spots Myleene Klass in the judging panel and begins to masturbate live on TV. The OFCOM switchboard is immediately so swamped with complaints from Daily Mail readers that they are forced to order an airstrike directly on the studio. As the missiles hit Jock is blown through a wall, across the street and into an off-licence. A now relieved but emotionally wrecked Jock cries his heart out, downs some Famous Grouse and then texts a picture of his bollocks to an ex girlfriend and also, by accident, his mum.


Season Two teaser:  Jock gets a Majestics loyalty card and is sent to the jungle to take on Ant and Dec.

Friday 5 November 2010

Politician

Ooh fuck, here we go. I have wanted to say something about politicians since this blog started but every time I began to write I veered away from being frivolously humorous and became more ominously murderous.  This may get less and less funny as I rant on. I have also got a rounded wooden dowel on my desk to poke my lower intestine back up my anus as I tend to prolapse with anger every time I think about Ed…….fuck, that’s going to leave a stain on the chair……Balls.

For this piece I was going to loosely link the whole November 5th - Guy Fawkes - Gunpowder Plot - blowing up Government anti politics thing, but not only would this be a bit lazy, I also remembered old Guido’s motivation was primarily religious and therefore making him as much of a catholic twat as the protestant twats he was trying to turn into crispy crackling. 

Politicians are twats.  It’s a universal truth. You know they are twats. I know they are twats. And each one of them must at least have an inkling that they are a bit of a twat too.  It’s not a secret; in fact the definition of Politician in the dictionary could easily be shortened to one word.

By spouting my distaste at all politicians I am being deliberately apolitical.  Actually that’s wrong, it’s not deliberate it’s just that I can’t tell the difference between the political parties anymore.  It’s like staring down the unfocussed telescopic sight of a sniper rifle and trying to pick out which of the blurry images is Fearne Cotton or Holly Willoughby. Frankly it’s impossible. But that’s OK because I am quite happy to just blaze away at all of them anyway. 

The policies of the ‘opposing’ parties are also more or less the same.  The gap between the Tory and Labour policies on education are as thin and small as a catholic priests speedos on a Sunday School swimming trip.  This is because politicians spend most of their political life scrabbling over the middle ground of policy-making in order to not appear controversial and risk losing their valuable seat.  And this is the key point; Politicians do not care about you.  They care about looking like they care about you so they can care for themselves and keep their seat of power.

There is no altruism in Westminster; every single one of them is looking to further their careers and that’s all there is to it. How many MPs have you seen recently resign their seat in protest over an issue they feel strongly about? Exactly.  Just like a fat kid fighting tooth and nail in the playground to keep hold of his lunchbox, they will do anything to keep hold of their power because power tastes as good as a Ben 10 box full of Cheesestrings and Penguin bars. 

But it’s not just seats in parliament they want. Oh no, these fuckers are by their very nature ambitious and power hungry. It’s why they are there in the first place.  They want to go all the way and will do any of the shit jobs to get there.  None of them want to be the Secretary of State for Transport. How fucking dull is that? No, they all want the cooler and sexier jobs like the Home or Foreign secretary because they get to mess about with spies in MI5 and MI6 and have secret meetings in bunkers 100 metres under Whitehall.  Do you really think Chris Hume gives a steaming shit about re-evaluating the current policy on educational league tables? Or does he dream of sitting behind a large mahogany desk watching a live video feed of a suspected terrorist getting the good news from a car battery and a wet sponge?

We of course must shoulder some of the blame; we voted the buggers into office in the first place. But then 51 percent of the British public believe that Darwin's theory of evolution is incomplete and that intelligent design must be somehow involved. Plus we are also the same voting public that allowed Jordan to become unbelievably famous*.  We are all equally dim and to blame. When you look at the viewing figures for I’m A Celebrity it should not come as a complete surprise that we managed to elect an over privileged, game show host buffoon as the Lord Mayor of London – our stupidity is boundless. 

Don’t worry though, because as always, I have a half-baked plan.  I won’t bore you with the details now, but it primarily involves the appointment of a new independent parliamentry position; The Twat Finder General. This protector of the people shall stalk the corridors of power with a cricket bat ensuring twat levels in the government are kept to an acceptable minimum. The sound of righteousness is that of a piece of seasoned willow thwacking off the cranium of a smarmy prick in a suit.  I suspect he is going to need a few spare bats.


*A little aside on Jordan. Why is she still famous?  OK, I understand how she got famous – young men used to quite enjoy masturbating over pictures of her when she got her boobs out in men’s lifestyle magazines.  I get that.  But that was over 10 years ago.  I can’t believe that young men are still masturbating over her?  There are toothless Rwandan gang enforcers that are sexier than her, plus it’s hard to knock one out when you keep fetching up bile in the back of your throat. I know; I’ve tried.  So right now she is famous for being a woman who used to get her knockers out, has ‘written’ three books about getting her knockers out and appeared in a few reality TV shows with her knockers out.  Not a single man has masturbated over a picture of her for the best part of a decade and she has made £40 million so far.  I hope all those young men are feeling more guilty than usual after that cheeky wank over FHM in 2003 – LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. 

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