Thursday, 16 August 2012

"Celebrity" Big Brother 2012...



Ooooooooh, who is going to poison my televisual enjoyment for the next few weeks....

First on comes an irritating Julie Goodyear, AKA "Bet", in a blatant wig held on by a leopard ears headband, then the 11 chinned and aptly nicknamed "Fat Hev", who arrives looking like a high priestess from the Church of The Everlasting Pie.

A panic stricken "Fat Hev" chasing an ice cream van.
Fucksake, am I really going to be subjected to this for THREE WEEKS??

Next along, some annoying Yank bellend calling himself "The Situation". What an utter wanker of a man. He's got the boat of a dustbin man and he's wearing Ugg boots. The situation he's encountered is a sandwich between two of the most nauseating beasts ever to hit British television.

The ever shrieking hyper gay Brian Dowling, then presents one of his batty comrades, Julian Clary- who happens to be wearing what looks like a car crash between a camp acid hallucination and what an epileptic needs to see to start violently fitting.

Predictably, before the house turned into a morbid alchemy of beasts and gays, "Rhian", the token Barbie slut, arrives. She's apparently only famous due to the fact that a lanky showbiz fella from Bolton got caught sending her pictures of his cock. Naturally, she's as bright as coal and will provide us all with many valuable insights over the coming weeks.

Better hide, Harvey.
Considering we've not long celebrated the anniversary of last year's riots, it comes as no surprise that one of the people seen carrying a widescreen out of Currys on Tottenham High Street has entered to house to give it a bit of an urban twist. Presenting: Harvey from So Solid. Given his group's name, how long will it be before Clary gets the wrong idea and the rapper gets raped? Short odds on that one.

I'm genuinely praying for someone remotely interesting, or bitterly hated, to enter the house. Sadly, the show isn't called "Little Sister" so I doubt we'll see the latter criteria filled with the likes of Gary Glitter. I'm truly devastated Dog The Bounty Hunter isn't going in. I could see him accosting Harvey with the legendary advice "There ain't no ice in paradise, bradda". What a shame.

Housemate number 7? Samantha Brick. Who the fuck is she? She's been to "Maga-luff" apparently. What a coup to get her on the show. I'm sure she'll add a unique blend of fuckall to the house.

Next up: Prince! Sadly not the ribless, self fellating "Purple Rain" singer, but some sap called Prince Lorenzo. Sounds a lot like a pizza. I'm sure Fat Hev agrees and, with slobber dripping down her vast, gravy soaked cheeks, has already started planning her initial attack.

As the house fills with random idiots, the Albert Square reject and her Corrie counterpart are busy getting to grips with their secret task. The entirely innocent until proven guilty (legal aid) Harvey is lured into the glutton's close quarters as she feigns sadness on Big Brother's command. I'm genuinely concerned for his safety. Thankfully, the baying predator doesn't include Ackee & Salt Fish in her diet and skulks away to continue her pursuit of the pizza.

Time for another housemate- an executive brass called Danica. Looking very much like something to roll out of a Berlusconi "Bunga Bunga" party, she wastes no time in saying hello to her new housemates as "The Situation" furiously bashes one out, safely hidden in the shadow of Fat Hev.

The hungry housemates appear to have ordered a kebab. Oh no, it's not Mehmet from the Elstree branch of Kebabish Cottage, it's the next addition- a judo fella called Ashley with a head greasier than a KFC bin lid.

I'm seriously underwhelmed at this point. Seriously. Not that I was ever expecting a spectacular, unless they happen to throw in an armed and enraged Raul Moat or a totally wankered Gazza, I fear this might turn out to be a massive yawn fest.

Whoopti fucking woo. Here comes the former Bucket Clunge Grannies panelist, Coleen Nolan. Shane Ritchie got fed up with her and, coming from that irritating muppet, she's hardly the tonic we need to liven it up. I'm certainly not in the mood for dancing, that's for sure.

My head is hurting and it's not made any better by the next arrival, another gormless executive whore, the gaunt Jasmine. Swearing a few times to add credibility doesn't do it for me. I imagine that's who Fat Hev will use as a toothpick after finishing with the pizza.

FINALLY. Someone with some pedigree- Martin Kemp. A Gooner, singer of "Gold" and, arguably, the saviour of this programme. The house goes quiet in the presence of someone with more than a grain of personality.
Impeccable taste in perms - and football teams.
Julie Goodyear and Fat Hev have been given the next twist in their secret task. Beef it out!! In an exciting development, acting skills never displayed on television come into play and the hideous duo stage a mock argument. It ends in Bet hurling a glass of drink into Fat Hev's face. This is particularly impressive as the victim fights her insatiable desire to gleefully lick the liquid off her chops. She succeeds and the fa├žade is complete.

A relatively amusing end to the introduction of this years gallery of "celebrity" freaks. Let's hope for some half decent bloodshed in the next few weeks.

Wednesday, 1 August 2012

My Midnight Seaside Adventure!...



Where the hell do I begin...

The next station is Westgate-on-sea. I've been walking for about two hours straight and now the morning people are looking at my suited, bleary self like I'm mad as a sack of rabid lemmings. Last night I fell asleep on a train that ended up in RAMSGATE. What chaos... But that's only the start...

Some hours ago, myself and a few colleagues attended an industry awards ceremony in Leicester Square, free drinks, all the usual malarkey. We indulged, but didn't go bananas. Sadly, my company didn't win an award, but it was a nice shindig all the same.

We departed the venue and went to rendezvous with our remaining colleagues who were just packing up a company conference event that coincidentally took place the same day. Apparently, to our entirely sober colleagues- our awards gang were already a bit smashed. But nobody told me!

As a new bigger bunch, we walked to a pub, sank a couple of pints then headed for LaPerla, a Mexican restaurant with a great bar in Fitzrovia- on my recommendation.

On arrival at the restaurant's bar, we were greeted by Patrick, the massively overzealous, but friendly, Canadian bar manager who I had met on several previous visits whilst working in the local area. He's a sound enough fella and properly adores ice hockey. The margaritas flowed and we didn’t waste any time in enjoying the trappings of the establishment. In our merry state we struck up a conversation with Patrick about ice hockey and I spoke some fluent bollocks about how much I loved his favourite sport. In celebration of our common ground, the Canuck decided to award myself and my workmates with a little treat.

From behind the bar, Patrick produced a "special little something" for his "ice hockey buddy". His reward happened to be a very rare, potent motherfucker bottle of agave spirit.

It went down easier than a crackwhore at a Charlie Sheen house party. And that's where things got a tad blurry....

My spontaneous WingChun dancing and Arsenal songs were clearly a bit too awesome for the venue and we collectively decided to move on- yet I individually decided, like a good boy, to go home and left the party to get my train from Charing Cross.

The next memory I have is looking up at the train's LCD display telling me the next station was RAMSGATE. It's gone midnight. What the sweet Jesus am I doing at the seaside?! It dawned on me that I'd been asleep for at least an hour on this warm, cosy train.

Wondering aimlessly like a fat man through Holland & Barrett, I thought a quick stroll down to the High Street might give me something to do for the five hours before the next train arrives to take me back to civilisation.

Ramsgate is not an opulent location. For starters, the name conjures up very unwanted thoughts of buggery- and that was most certainly something I wanted to avoid during my stay. Secondly, these seaside folk only see a man in a suit when they tune into their daily episode of Jeremy Kyle. Actually featuring on the show to obtain free paternity results constitutes a significant local achievement. It didn't bode well for me..


The only open pub/club/dive was starting to chuck out their customers and it took the best part of about 18 seconds before a trio of pissed up web footed scumbags decided to have a dig at me because of the suit.

"OI DICKHEAD! Do you work in a bank?! Are you a banker?! Or just a masshhhhive WANKER?!?" the trio's leader slurred (or something along those lines) loudly in my face.

"Well, bellend, you and your two lovers have probably never been in a bank, so how did you find that out- your social worker?" I replied (or something along those lines).

Needless to say, the banter had gone sour and matey's only remaining option to save face was to try and give me a slap...

His slow motion delivery of a drunken windmill punch amounted to absolutely nothing, other than a cheerful punch straight back in the chops. He fell over.

Bandit two and three looked gobsmacked that this random fella in a whistle outside their local had just managed to get the better of their leader and decided seek an instant revenge. After a bit of a scuffle, they hadn't got very far either and our dancing attracted the attention of the seaside law enforcement, who gleefully arrived to separate us and send us on our way.

My night wasn't going very well. I sat in a bus stop wondering what on Earth I was doing in this utter shithole, freezing cold and getting attacked by local mongs.

Sitting back pondering my fate whilst I stared out into the darkness of the sea, I get a tap on the shoulder from a dishevelled teenage girl.

"We've ad trouble off those arrrrs'oles tunoight too" the girl said in her best pirate accent as she stood with shoeless her mate. "And, Tina's broken her foot and needs to go to hospitaaal, but the police won't take her".

Ambulance perhaps?!? They explained that a paramedic did actually visit earlier, though refused to answer her pleas, telling her she was absolutely fine. I wasn't entirely convinced there was much wrong with her, apart from perhaps a bit of a gene pool crossover when she was conceived, but at 1am it was a conversation - and I humoured them.

'Kaaaffee' or whatever her name was, started crying that she needed to go to hospital immediately and, as I had zero to do in the locality and was getting bored shitless of their moaning, I decided I get them a taxi.


Queen Mother Queen Elizabeth Hospital is in the absolute middle of nowhere in Margate- the middle of nowhere and despite the harbour scum running around mindlessly drunk that evening, it was completely empty. Not only does it have a fucking ridiculous name, the staff are idiots and it wasn't long after I'd seen the two Vicki Pollard clones into triage was I set upon by the jobsworth wanker of a security guard.

This grey haired plank couldn't have been a day younger than 70, yet felt harassing yours truly was well within his ability and he decided to have a pop at me for lying across a few seats in the waiting room, trying to get my first sleep of the evening.

"I'm sorry sir, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave. This waiting room is for family members and those waiting for treatment. It's come to my attention that you are neither of these and I must ask you to leave" the almost antique muppet droned.


The time was half past bastard freezing o'clock in the morning and the very last thing on my mind after somewhat of a palaver of an evening was to obey this pathetic excuse for a man and stand outside in the Arctic coastal winds whilst I waited to see if my project of saving that young lady's life was going to come to fruition.

I replied honestly "No mate. I'm doing nothing wrong here, it's icy cold outside and I've paid my last tenner on Earth to make sure the girl getting treated, in there, made it to hospital- so I'm staying put."

Clearly Herbert or Norman, or whatever this walking power trip happened to be called, didn't like the fact I had no respect for his authority and said he was going to call the old bill to remove me. Brilliant! That would actually come as a right touch, I'm totally brassic, have no idea where the hell I am and a lift to the station would go down a treat. "Go and call the police then you mug", I said before getting comfy again across my five seats.

As I drifted off to the sound of a 1998 episode of Midsomer Murders on the waiting room telly, Judge Dredd returned from behind the thick reception glass to deliver his next spine tingling threat.

"That's it sir. I've given you enough warnings and I'm now going to be forced to remove you myself".

Being half asleep and wondering if this irritating mosquito might just go away, I thought I'd show him a compromise and wait in the porch area, in the warm, yet away from his precious waiting room territory. He followed me out and bizarrely tried to shunt me out the door, which failed miserably.

"Look, Batman, it's fucking freezing outside, I've done nothing to you or your establishment and I'm legitimately here as I paid for the taxi for a patient who's currently getting treatment. Can you fuck off?" I shouted as his pointless pushing was really starting to piss me off.

"RIGHT, THAT'S IT!", the grey haired warrior squealed whilst grabbing my wrist and trying the classic neighbourhood watch jitsu manoeuvre of twisting my arm behind my back. It didn't work; I twisted away from his deadly technique and pushed him off. This was starting to get a bit moody. I decided against ironing him out as my lift from the old bill would inevitably end up taking me to entirely the wrong type of station- especially as this was all bang on camera. I wasn't here to cause trouble anyway!

Finally, Frank Drebin gave up his futile attempt to rough me up and scuttled away to apparently call the plod once again. They must have been so bored of this buffoon, relentlessly crying wolf the minute an innocent pinstripe came into his beloved waiting room. What a massive, pointless wanker of a man.

Shortly after the fracas, the two young vagabondettes emerged out of the A&E doors and it was time to make a move. "Cheers mate", I waved sarcastically through the reception glass at my new friend. Finally I could start making my way home.

We left the hospital grounds, I said goodbye to the two girls and attempted to follow their vague directions to Margate station. It took about 30 seconds before I gave up and reverted to the trusty old maps app on my iPhone. I felt a sense of victory walking along the sea front and arriving at the station in the blinding early morning sunshine. I knew I would soon be out of this shithole, never to return ever, ever again.

(Written on the morning and during the day of June 22nd following my adventure the night before, only able to post today due to lack of internet access)