tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-105670162024-03-07T14:01:50.232+00:00Macca's MotivesInherently unpredictable galactic bollocks (I have an instinctive dislike of the word 'random')Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-13194118133247247582015-05-06T23:17:00.000+00:002015-05-06T23:17:08.730+00:00General Deflection<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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After years of debating, politicking, smearing, canvassing, spinning and evading, it finally all becomes clear that the critical issue facing our nation, is how well will our political leaders handle eating awkward food. I suggest next time, instead of a leaders' debate, we simply have the prospective parties' leaders eating a selection of difficult food as chosen by the public.
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Picture the scene, glamorous colourful studio, seven podiums, David Dimbleby facilitating.<br />
<b>David Dimbleby:</b> Our first selection is from Sophie of Hendon, Essex.<br />
<b>Sophie: </b>Given the rise in foodbanks, can the panel please explain how they would eat a massively overloaded doner kebab with too much garlic and chilli sauce?<br />
<b>David Dimbleby: </b>Thank you Sophie. Mr Cameron - can you please tackle this first?<br />
<b>David Cameron: </b>Well, Sophie, I think what it's fair to say, is that *chomp*, mmffff mfff ffflm ffmf ,*chomp* is mmf num num oh fuck that's hot....oh I've got it all down my blazer.<br />
<b>David Dimbleby: </b>Thank you Mr Cameron. Now, Derek of Cirencester, you have a question?<br />
<b>Derek: </b>Yes...there's been a lot said about the cost of the Trident programme, but none of the leaders have mentioned the difficulty of eating a burger that's too slippy and is in an inadequate and understrength bun accompanied by lubricated lettuce.<br />
<b>David Dimbleby: </b>Nicola Sturgeon - how will you deal with this?<br />
<b>Nicola Sturgeon: </b>Thanks for your question Derek. For me, Trident is a red line. As is this stupid fucking bun that's about half the size of the greasiest beef patty I've ever had the misfortune to handle. Vote SNP and no more will you be left with a tiny fragment of bread trying to sandwich a gristly fetid chunk of organic matter that may have once been part of a cow. Has anyone got a fucking napkin? For fuck's sake.<br />
<b>David Dimbleby: </b>Now, I believe we have a question from Paul. Yes, Paul.<br />
<b>Paul: </b>Since the last government came to power, a record number of jobs have been created. But most of them have been low paid, low-skilled jobs. How will the panel ensure that when they eat a Flake they don't end up with millions of welded fragments of chocolate all over their expensive black trousers?<br />
<b>David Dimbleby:</b> Nigel Farage?<br />
<b>Nigel Farage: </b>Well, David, that's a simple question and a simple answer. The fact is, that since we opened our borders to the EU, the quality of Cadbury's Flake has severely deteriorated. If we are to reach the dream of *chomp* not soiling ourselves with brittle fat-laden chocolate particles like I've just fucking done right now, we need to ensure that the UK can stand on it's own two feet, have a points-based immigration system that means we only invite people into our country who can eat a Flake without looking like they've been blasted with a small diarroeah gun.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-32664727290691865422011-02-09T23:23:00.002+00:002011-02-09T23:25:09.947+00:00Why We're HereI wish people really would see the bigger picture. If only you could see it from my enlightened viewpoint - the whole sum of human knowledge, the journey from worshipping an omnipotent skygod to understanding the fundamental forces that drive existence, the sudden flashes of inspiration that turned accepted wisdom on its head and broadened the horizons of humanity, the realisation that we are a small insignificant infestation on an unremarkable rock, all of these billions of slow painful years of evolution and development have one goal:<br /><br />TO ENSURE THAT BOB DIAMOND CAN AFFORD A REALLY BIG MASSIVE FOOKING YACHT.<br /><br />Anyone ever get the feeling that we're really wasting our energy as a species in a massively stupid way?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-58408748112506631212011-01-28T23:19:00.003+00:002011-01-28T23:36:18.139+00:00Everton FC - the Season So FarWell, we've laughed, we've cried, we've wondered about the strange ineffability of the fundamental truth that we are doomed to be eternally unsuccessful.<br /><br />That is Everton's season so far.<br /><br />I've had a strange relationship with Everton in my life. Vivid memories include the 2-0 victory over QPR in the title-winning 1984-85 season when I was more concerned with why so many people were pissing at the front of the terraces. Or the season when my Uncle Tony bought us all a season ticket for 1986-87, forcing us to attend every match and resulting in me getting rapidly bored with football and reading the Your Sinclair magazine from cover to cover rather than watching the action unfold in front of me. Or the summer when my younger brother Daniel watched me and older brother John pre-pubescently sing Everton's 1984 FA Cup song for hours on end.<br /><br />Anyway, all those are happy memories. Ish.<br /><br />But this season has been the ultimate anti-climax. After a period of what seemed like incremental progress, and the formation of a strong team, Everton now play decent football, create chances, and then miss those chances with the accuracy of a 1990 Iraqi Scud missile.<br /><br />If we had a purse, the purse strings would be tightened. However, with Bill 'What's my motivation darling?' Kenwright at the helm, it seems to be a struggle to keep the lights on at Goodison, never mind compete with other clubs of a similar standing to purchase players who will improve the squad.<br /><br />We've performed admirably against the Big Guns, winning at Eastlands, drawing at Anfield and Stamford Bridge, juxtaposed against severe arse rammings at the hands of West Brom and others. <br /><br />In short, I haven't got a fucking clue what's going to happen next. All I do know is that Everton FC are in my heart, they're in my soul, they're the cause of my stomach ulcers, and greying hair. I love them, I hate them, I wish they'd fuck off, I want to hug them, and then I want to dismember them.<br /><br />Anyway, all of this angst will be passed on to my 2 year old and 5 month old sons. Poor blighters.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-78891167430527947462011-01-19T01:26:00.008+00:002011-01-19T01:56:58.451+00:00Seriously, what the fuckThe murder of a young woman. Not having change for a toll booth.<br /><br />In the mind of Liz Jones, journalist extraordinaire for the Daily Mail, these two things seem equally as significant.<br /><br />A few weeks ago, the body of a young woman named Jo Yeates was found just outside Bristol. CCTV evidence pieced together her last movements through Bristol, and her final purchases. A journalist for the Daily Mail took it upon herself to trace Jo's ultimate journey and provide insight, emotion and poignancy in the form of a newspaper column.<br /><br />In fact, what she did, was commit the single most egregiously awful, unintentionally funny opinion piece in 21st century media.<br /><br />I'll let you judge for yourselves:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-1347621/Joanna-Yeates-murder-Becoming-just-thumbnail-police-website.html">http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-1347621/Joanna-Yeates-murder-Becoming-just-thumbnail-police-website.html</a><br /><br />As a counterpoint, I'd advise you to read this excellent homage to Ms Jones at the Daily Mash:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.thedailymash.co.uk/opinion/columnists/is-lovely-liz-becoming-just-another-thumbnail-on-the-daily-mail-website?-201101173437/">http://www.thedailymash.co.uk/opinion/columnists/is-lovely-liz-becoming-just-another-thumbnail-on-the-daily-mail-website?-201101173437/</a><br /><br />Just to extract a minuscule sentence from the original (serious) article:<br /><br />"I almost buy that upmarket pizza; the choice tells me Jo wanted a lovely life, something above the ordinary."<br /><br />I know someone's died here, but for fuck's sake, extrapolating pizza preference into life aspirations is a fairly bold leap. Personally, I buy 'Cravendale PurFiltr Milk'. Does that mean I yearn for the day mankind can set aside its petty differences and have a big old game of Trivial Pursuit together? Does it fuck.<br /><br />Further on in the article, our protagonist Liz describes her horror at being unable to cross the Clifton Suspension Bridge due to lacking funds. As a regular traveller through the Wallasey tunnel (£1.40 since you ask), and having experienced the beeping vitriol that gushes forth once people realise you haven't got the means to cross the toll booth, I can honestly say that the murder of a young landscape architect and temporarily inconveniencing a number of drivers through neglecting to carry enough cash to pass by a toll road are TWO COMPLETELY DIFFERENT FUCKING THINGS.<br /><br />Christ on a bike.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-18629798251761342142011-01-17T23:06:00.004+00:002011-01-17T23:23:10.793+00:00Hole in the Wall<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihULL_z0O66ZZksNDbQ5GIj56fqqcA3IHcYCu7lJsyY9y92fiV38GlISvaLcBz7o9yPIWENQ1CVBsPrPM_d0s_o8ovnCMwz0M_Nc_OcE5O6O08Viu0SREo-iGvLq-kvcUP1TDw6A/s1600/HITW-460.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihULL_z0O66ZZksNDbQ5GIj56fqqcA3IHcYCu7lJsyY9y92fiV38GlISvaLcBz7o9yPIWENQ1CVBsPrPM_d0s_o8ovnCMwz0M_Nc_OcE5O6O08Viu0SREo-iGvLq-kvcUP1TDw6A/s320/HITW-460.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563299366309964370" /></a><br /><br /><br />For anyone who hasn't seen the BBC's epoch making light entertainment orgasmathon, 'Hole in the Wall', the basic premise is that celebrities have to contort their pampered limbs into certain shapes to comply with a polystyrene wall that slowly moves towards them. Should their bodies not be in the right shape, they are unceremoniously dumped (dumped!!!) into a small pool of water, while the audience laugh like lobotomised hyenas and Strictly Come Dancing's Anton du Beke demonstrates as much charisma as a water butt.<br /><br />I was watching this, and while an irreparable hole in my soul quietly formed, I was thinking of ideas to make it a genuinely watchable experience, and not a 30 minute period of existential angst. I suppose I could have got off my fat arse, reached for the remote and turned over, but I'd just had a large meal and couldn't move.<br /><br />Anyway, here are the ideas I came up with to increase the level of viewing pleasure associated with Hole in the Wall:<br /><br />1. Swap the polystyrene for a reinforced concrete wall.<br />2. Fill the pool with concentrated hydrofluoric acid.<br />3. Increase the speed of the moving wall from roughly 4mph (walking pace) to 140mph.<br />4. The shapes that the celebrity must form to remain intact can only be performed by an eighteen-limbed silicon based life form with fourteen penises.<br />5. Replace Anton du Beke with the 45-year old corpse of Buster Keaton.<br /><br />All other suggestions welcome.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-51260181406251009082010-12-15T09:25:00.003+00:002010-12-23T22:49:40.211+00:00The Ten Must Have Gadgets for Christmas 2010No. 10<div><br /></div><div>The fork</div><div><br /></div><div>It's the craze that's sweeping the nation! Literally billions of people are discovering that using your fingers is unhygienic and can lead to severe disability in later life! Buy your loved one a fork this Christmas, and we'll even throw in a free handle! New for 2011 - the spoon! Sick of forming a rudimentary container from papier mache and watching it dissolve in seconds on contact with your cornflakes or soup? Buy a spoon! </div><div><br /></div><div>No. 9</div><div><br />The asteroid<br /><br />People were bored. They grew weary of X-factor, I'm a Celebrity and Strictly Come Dancing. They yearned for a better life. And what better way than to name a dreary unexciting rock hundreds of millions of miles away after themselves! Buy your loved one the deeds to a real asteroid that will never be closer that 300 million miles to themselves!<br /><br />No. 8<br /><br />Concrete<br /><br />Now, it's a controversial choice. But what has concrete ever done to let you down? Exactly. Concrete will never suffer a crash, run out of memory, be incompatible with the latest software or corrupt a hard drive. Get your 8 inch cube of concrete now, and lovingly consult it on all your future life decisions. Concrete. You know it makes sense.<br /><br />No. 7<br /><br />Commodore 64 Games Console<br /><br />Some people are saying that I'm only rating the Commodore 64 Games Console as a must-have gadget out of deference to my dearly-departed Nan who bought me and my brother this unsupported shitbox of a gadget in 1990. To them I say, download Fiendish Freddy's Big Top Of Fun, International Soccer, Klax and Flimbo's Quest. And then say that! I dare thee! It's probably worth 10 million quid now as we were the only cunts who had one in the Northern Hemisphere.<br /><br />No. 6<br /><br />Plutonium<br /><br />Be the envy of your friends, with this powdery-white metal. The envy may wear off when your teeth and gums dissolve, your hair falls out and you shit your lungs out due to the effects of massive acute radiation poisoning. But fuck it, what has 2011 ever done for you? It'll probably be the year that Jordan takes control of television newscasting, the coalition government make it legal for Lords to have first dibs on virgin brides, and the price of petrol reaches one kidney per gallon. Wouldn't you rather have a conversation with your friends about how you're the only one in the county with 1kg of deathly actinide on your mantelpiece?<br /><br />No. 5<br /><br />The Right Angled Penis<br /><br />It's a penis. But at a right angle. Where in recorded history has a human sexual organ been both a symbol of fertility and an aid to building perfectly level walls? Exactly. It's no wonder that Which? are saying that 2011 is the year of the Right Angled Penis.<br /><br />No. 4<br /><br />Peter Crouch<br /><br />With the advent of human cloning, came the demand of housewives everywhere to have a lanky, clumsy, fairly affable centre forward doing the hoovering. Better still, the latest generation of Crouch Clones no longer have the inconvenient trait of independent thought! Say goodbye to all your light bulb changing dilemnas with an endlessly interesting 6ft 7in Crouch Clone.<br /><br />No.3<br /><br />A Lost Tribe<br /><br />Ever wanted to have an Amazonian tribe wearing T-shirts with strangely contemporary cultural references worship the ground you walk on? This is your chance. All you have to do is pay a logging firm £10k to intimidate a beautiful people with poetry in their souls into doing your bidding.<br /><br />No. 2<br /><br />Robert Mugabe<br /><br />Having retired from butchering opponents and sequestering funds into several hidden bank accounts, a Mugabe could be yours for a reasonable sum. Having trouble at home? Children ill-disciplined? Wife unresponsive? Simply deploy the Mugabe (and optional thug gang accessory) and you'll have the most compliant family in recorded history.<br /><br />No. 1<br /><br />Quasar<br /><br />No, not the ill-conceived wankathon that involves running round a poorly lit maze pointing a laser gun at barely seen juveniles and constantly moaning "I hit you! I hit you!", but a massive, poorly-understood object that is flying quickly the fuck away from you at close to the speed of light. I like quasars, I always have. Pulsars come a close second, but for sheer, what-the-fuckery value, quasars are the must have Christmas gadget of the year 2010.<br /><br />God rest ye merry gentlemen. And so on.<br /><br />Have a splendiferous 2011. All the way up to 2078.<br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-5996176196239124892010-02-13T00:00:00.000+00:002010-02-13T01:12:40.542+00:002012: A ReviewJust to clear things up, I haven't got a clue what's going to happen in 2012, but I am absolutely unequivocally certain that there won't be a more cataclysmically idiotic film released between now and the end of time than Roland Emmerich's recently released assault on world famous landmarks, 2012.<br /><br />Emmerich is famous for blowing 99.8% of his films' budgets on special effects, and then deploying the remaining 0.2% on catering, hairdressing, scriptwriting and acting (in that order).<br />If you've seen Independence Day (interstellar travelling warrior race blows world to bits and is undone by a 1990s Apple Mac laptop, guess they didn't want to pay £29.99 for decent antivirus software) or The Day After Tomorrow (massive storm floods and then freezes the Northern Hemisphere before easing slightly to leave a mild day with sunny spells and the entire US population emigrating to Mexico), you'll know that Mr Emmerich seems to have some kind of fetish with destroying tourist hotspots. If that turns you on in a slightly puzzlingly erotic way, you're in for an enormous amount of fun with this film.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAocVzpjtaMBHFnfOIpjaMcYFaYJC8OGyKxksIvtgwFQGQnf1Md3fiKYscBDRWiOu7YDyPevuVyJR2qBz45YdTktxEFYO927aeB7kM-d2WNHKirmaZbFWr8-uTBsq12AhohTBkqQ/s1600-h/What+Roland+Emmerich+sees.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 187px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAocVzpjtaMBHFnfOIpjaMcYFaYJC8OGyKxksIvtgwFQGQnf1Md3fiKYscBDRWiOu7YDyPevuVyJR2qBz45YdTktxEFYO927aeB7kM-d2WNHKirmaZbFWr8-uTBsq12AhohTBkqQ/s320/What+Roland+Emmerich+sees.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431070499023540386" border="0" /></a><br />Anyway, without further digression and padding, our film begins with one of our lead actors visiting some kind of physics experimental type place in India. Prepare to be hit in the face with a dodgy physics shovel. Apparently, this research centre in India, which resembles some kind of half sweat-shop knitwear factory and bat cave hybrid, has discovered that neutrinos have mutated and are now effectively microwaving the core of the Earth.<br /><br />Oh for fuck's sake.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.poptower.com/pic-15362/2012-movie.jpg?w=600&h=600"><br /></a>Just think about this for a second. By way of explanation, neutrinos are particles emitted by the sun which barely interact with normal matter, normal matter being the stuff you and I are made of. Indeed, to detect neutrinos, you generally have to build an enormous underground chamber, fill it with water and hope that one of the zillions of neutrinos that fly through it accidentally nudge something and cause a sensor to go off.<br /><br />Now the scriptwriters are saying that neutrinos have suddenly mutated and are boiling the earth from within. What about people? Why wouldn't they suddenly be boiled from within? After all, 50 billion neutrinos pass through every person every second of every day. No? Me, neither.<br /><br />I've heard of suspension of disbelief, but this is luring disbelief into a darkened alley, beating it senseless with heavy objects, tieing it up, shoving it into the boot of a 1980s Cortina, taking it to the docks and putting it in a metal container whose eventual destination is Belize. In short, it's fucking idiotic. Five minutes into the film, and every cell in my single body is embarrassed to be there.<br /><br />Mind you, I knew it wouldn't be a good day when at least eight people in the cinema laughed at the Vodafone advert, where the baldy titrash says "Catch a goat love, you've pulled."<br /><br />Hey-ho, on with the film. After what seems like an interminable thirty minutes of presidential edicts and indifferently acted scenes in which people argue the relative merits of whether or not to tell people that the planet is going to boil and they're all going to die, we meet another of the main characters, John Cusack.<br /><br />Going one better than phoning in a performance, John Cusack texts his performance in. He's a down-on-his-luck writer of pulp science fiction, divorced from his wife, who has a dysfunctional relationships with his kids and is working as the chauffeur of some kind of Russian oligarch and his spoilt twin boys. The Russian is played by Zlatko Buric, a man possessed of the strangest voice in living history. Think of a frog with a heavy cold gargling treacle, and you have some idea of how he sounds. And yes, it does end up grating.<br /><br />After an obligatory scene showing how crap and unreliable as a father he is, John Cusack takes his children camping to Yellowstone Park*.<br /><br />*Coincidentally, the largest volcano in the world and home to Yogi bear. It's also the setting for a scene from Star Trek V, but if I told you that you'd think I was a right twonk. You'd especially think I was a twonk if I told you that it was the scene where William Shatner was climbing a mountain, got spooked by a rocketboot-wearing Spock, fell off the mountain and proceeded to sing 'Row Row Row Your Boat' with Spock and Bones. So I'll spare you that. Besides, Star Trek V is the shittest of all the Star Trek films, and I've seen them all loads of times. It's the one where they meet God.<br /><br />Woody Harrelson pops up here, playing a lank-haired conspiracy theorist, with a map to where the governments are secretly buiding arks for rich people. The price for these tickets aboard the arks by the way, is $1 billion dollars.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLK7ifx7QN2R9JlXGouYV8ffCTeTCo4BQJ9AvW3CnQuVj5C2ycHjsNEl_Zt0aUEATDh1y7qUuhoSiZwB_zGNZ9TP6meGlIRMZytD8wTpUzR7Ar1XMWAAjBTio04bezUlWsBe4Xhw/s1600-h/Cusack+Harrelson.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 302px; height: 302px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLK7ifx7QN2R9JlXGouYV8ffCTeTCo4BQJ9AvW3CnQuVj5C2ycHjsNEl_Zt0aUEATDh1y7qUuhoSiZwB_zGNZ9TP6meGlIRMZytD8wTpUzR7Ar1XMWAAjBTio04bezUlWsBe4Xhw/s320/Cusack+Harrelson.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431071252373629170" border="0" /></a><blockquote>I will NOT do the film. I have acting credibility, I have standards, I have dignity...I...I...that's an enormous amount of money. When do we start shooting?<br /></blockquote><blockquote></blockquote><br />Whilst at Yellowstone, Cusack and his kids inadvertently stumble upon the US military who are investigating increased volcanic and seismic activity at the park. After almost being imprisoned, they are only saved after the chief seismologist (another central character in this film), vouches for him by saying he once read his book.<br /><br />That's right. Despite gaining access to an area clearly marked as being out of bounds, under control of the US military and with authorisation to use lethal force, Cusack is let off the hook as a government scientist once read his shit book.<br /><br />Once back at home dropping the kids off in his company limo, we get to the film's first real set piece and the introduction of one of the most egregious abuses of seismology ever to take place. I'm not claiming to be a seismologist, but my vague recollections and a quick trip to Wikipedia tells me that earthquakes tend to occur at a single point, with the energy released in waves radiating outwards from that point (the epicentre).<br /><br />In this film, we've got a malicious marauder of an earthquake with a limousine fetish. With the gang all aboard Jon Cusack's magic limo, buildings tumbling all around, the very Earth ripped and torn asunder, this limousine-seeking earthquake follows the heroes* through about seventeen right turns. By my calculations, they travelled forty yards and made five U-turns. But anyhow, they escape for now, and manage to fly a plane back to Yellowstone, to pick up the fabled map to where the world governments are building arks for rich people. I'm not sure how these people financed their $1billion tickets, but I'll bet a good portion of them borrowed it from RBS and the British taxpayer will end up footing the bill.<br /><br />In the next scene, we're treated to Jon Cusack managing to find the map, Woody Harrelson being engulfed by lava on his way to cash his cheque for appearing in this film, and then Jon Cusack being chased by lava. In fact, Jon Cusack ends up being chased by so many forces of nature, he must wonder if the planet holds some kind of gigantic fucking grudge against him. After (yawn) just about evading the lava and avoiding falling into a gaping maw to the roiling pits of flame that below, Cusack manages to reboard the plane. They then just about (bigger yawn) escape the dust and ash cloud from Yellowstone's final cataclysmic explosion and make their way to Las Vegas in the hope of finding some better lines to read.<br /><br />This film is now developing a pattern of: Journey - Explosion - Near Escape - Journey - Explosion - Miraculous Escape - Journey - Explosion. Don't expect it to change too much.<br /><br />They reach Las Vegas where they somehow purloin a large cargo plane carrying some extraordinarily expensive cars. I think I spotted a Lamborghini, a Ferrari and a 1985 Ford Fiesta. Again, the world below explodes and they (yawn) just about escape from the rising explosion and dust. Further banality continues and then the most massively contrived situation in cineamatic history is committed to celluloid.<br /><br />The heroes (and I use this term loosely) realise that they haven't got the fuel to travel to China where the arks are going to be launched from and resign themselves to their fate.<br /><br />Now, as stated above, the Earth is undergoing massive upheaval and our heroes are left tragically short on fuel, meaning they'll be thousands of miles away from their goal when the plane's fuel is depleted. What do you think the odds would be of the Earth rearranging its surface so that our heroes now have enough fuel to reach their destination? Yes, that's right. It really is that tragically bad. Words fail me. Well, swear words don't, but I've already used a lot of those so I'll remain silent and let the glory of this film sink in.<br /><br />Anyway, the plane reaches it's now conveniently relocated location, and some further unexciting drama takes place which leaves the party having to escape the plane by driving out of the rear of the plane in midair in the sports cars. They meet the family of some Chinese workers and a Tibetan monk (or similar) who agree to let them sneak into the giant hollowed-out mountain where the arks are being built.<br /><br />Simply put, the arks are four seafaring vessels that each hold 400,000 people. They've been built over a period of three years up in the Himalayas in a hollowed-out mountain. Did I mention that they were built in total secrecy? This isn't just insulting the audience's intelligence, it's carrying out a decades-long campaign of hatred against it.<br /><br />I don't think I've ever seen such a moronic film. And there's another thirty minutes to go. Holy shit.<br /><br />Our bunch of boring, cliched twats have now managed to sneak into the base, and are busily trying to stow away on one of the aforementioned arks. Another contrived chain of events now takes place leading to one of the four arks malfunctioning, leaving the 400,000 guests all paid up with nowhere to stay.<br /><br />They obviously don't like this at all, not one little bit, having paid their $1billion. They storm another of the arks but the head honcho is having none of it. It requires an Oscar-winning speech by the seismologist who earlier saved Jon Cusack before the gates are opening. At this point, I had tears in my eyes. Fuck all to do with the speech of course.<br /><br />Anyway, the film was nearly at an end, and I had stopped paying too much attention. Another malfunction means that the ark our heroes are aboard can't shut its doors properly, and with a tidal wave fast approaching, it's left to Jon Cusack to save the day by turning some wheels, fixing a few bolts and nipping down to the B&Q for a few bits. And nearly dying another eight times.<br /><br />In the final five minutes, most of the major characters die, Jon Cusack narrowly escapes death another twenty times, and some shenanigans happen when the ark is almost dashed upon the rocks of Mount Everest by a vast tidal wave. As a result of the profound rearrangement of the Earth's surface, Mt Everest is a lot lower, Africa is a lot higher, and Milton Keynes is at the North Pole.<br /><br />Our seismologist friend kops off with the late American President's daughter (Thandie Newton), Jon Cusack rekindles his relationship with his ex-wife and children and to be honest, it all gets a bit Love Boat at the denouement. Actually, watching every single episode of The Love Boat at half speed would be better than watching this monumental lake of shit again. The barking mad bastards are actually thinking of making a spin-off series.<br /><br />Final rating: 0.01 / 9<br /><br />I would gladly have the world end before another movie of this standard is made.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-23619088553827070072009-08-20T00:03:00.000+00:002020-11-18T10:59:01.845+00:00Tasteless Celebrity Tie Ins 2009Cluedo: Michael Jackson edition.
There's been a murder at Neverland! Can you deduce who has assassinated Mr White from the clues you obtain? Was it La Toya with the Botox injection? Was Bubbles in the Oxygen Tank with the Grammy at the time of the murder? Baghdad Monopoly
We've dispensed with the houses and hotels, and have instead gone for the pure simplicity of suicide vests and ethnic violence. Do not pass 'Go', go straight to Abu Ghraib and be humiliated by Yankee bastards. If you land on the Utilities, don't worry, because they're being continually fucked up and won't be online till 2109, when Obama's great great Grandson confirms that the battle for Iraq has been won. Land on 'Community Chest' and discover that your shop has been blown to fuck, collect $100 compensation. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-48016721318154028022009-06-09T07:14:00.004+00:002009-06-09T19:16:47.032+00:00Watching Films Backwards : Part II<span style="font-weight: bold;">Cocoon</span><br /><br />Black comedy in which a group of surprisingly spritely pensioners slowly lose their energy after mysterious hairy eggs suddenly appear in their swimming pool. Gradually, as debilitating arthritis and senility set in, a group of aliens suddenly remove the eggs and bugger off, leaving our protagonists in a sorry state.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest</span><br /><br />A silent, dignified, tall Indian delivers a water cooler to a mental asylum via a window, before rescuing a lobotomised man in the midst of being suffocated to death by a pillow. The rescued man, Randle McMurphy, while repairing his relationship with Nurse Ratched, then annoys his fellow inmates so much that they all retreat back into their shells, before Randle waltzes out, leaving them none the wiser. The Indian never speaks again.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Curious Case of Benjamin Button</span><br /><br />A complete freak ages normally, while all around him age backwards.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Moses</span><br /><br />Lavishly produced, and with a cast of thousands, this famous story receives a new twist as Moses returns the troublesome Israelites back to the Egyptians. Along the way, he takes tablets of stone and places them on a mountain-top, extinguishes a burning bush and rescues thousands of Egyptians from the clutches of the Red Sea, before finally curing Egypt of a variety of diseases and restoring all of their first-borns to life. Sails off in a basket for a fitting and emotional finale.<br /><br />A true Egyptian hero. Not very popular in Israel though.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-13591149395820635782009-06-08T15:05:00.002+00:002009-06-08T15:59:39.105+00:00Watching Films BackwardsWhile not necessarily completely compliant with reversing time, perhaps the next generation of film franchise reboots will provide originality by taking existing plots and completely reversing them. Or some shit like that. With more CGI explosions and better merchandising. And some kind of deal with Burger King involving plastic toys that really capture the spirit of the films themselves.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Titanic</span><br /><br />A brave captain takes the heroic, last-ditch decision to repair the largest passenger liner in the world by twatting into a massive iceberg. The boat, carrying passengers returning from America to go back to their old lives, magically sucks the bloated, drowned and frozen corpses of a thousand victims from the icy grip of the North Atlantic and returns them to life.<br /><br />A handsome young scamp called Jack immediately regrets his decision to engage in carnal affairs with a stuck-up young aristocrat and instantly breaks up with her.<br /><br />He also spends half an hour erasing a perfectly acceptable pencil portrait of the naked trollope.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Star Wars : Retreat of the Jedi</span><br /><br />Darth Vader begins the film by using his magic hands to suck the dead Emperor from the Death Star's reactor. Then, after welding his father's arm back on with his lightsaber, Luke Skywalker makes a heroic retreat, while bringing back to life scores of stormtroopers.<br /><br />Meanwhile, his friends assemble the largest repair armada in Galactic History in a bid to completely and utterly repair the Imperial Fleet. Sadly, the most annoying race in Star Wars history (Ewoks) are also given urgent medical attention, and return to Endor to shout Beech-a-fucking-wawa at each other.<br /><br />Han Solo is frozen right at the end of the film.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Mighty Ducks</span><br /><br />Emilio Estevez reduces a highly trained team of young hockey stars to inept, incompetent and incapable buffoons, eventually leading them to embark on an unceasing losing streak. The utter bastard.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Incredible Hulk</span><br /><br />A man, who's boiling vicious anger can only be placated by firing hundreds of thousands of missiles at him, runs towards armies.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Armageddon</span><br /><br />A team of miners use a nuclear device to fuse a pile of debris that was heading away from Earth into a single asteroid. They then return to Earth. No-one knows why they bothered. Forwards or backwards, in actual fact.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Highlander</span><br /><br />A lonely man attempts to resurrect his friends by welding their heads back to their bodies with his magic sword.<br /><br />I'm running out of ideas now.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-77576352966710772582009-05-08T11:46:00.002+00:002009-05-08T12:58:26.462+00:00My Diminishing Faith in SmallvilleAfter what feels like several thousand episodes and countless seasons, I'm finally getting tired of Smallville. I'm a very loyal type when it comes to my television programmes; some might say almost obsessively compulsively loyal.<br /><br />After all, I was there at the bitter end of Quantum Leap, despite almost everyone having realised that Sam was destined to bounce about through time fixing past ills for ever. Taken to its logical conclusion that eventually all severe past ills would be righted, this probably would have entailed future series seeing Sam fixing ills such as a leaky pipe, a grazed knee or spelling mistakes, with Al informing him that 'Ziggy thinks there's a 78% chance that you're here to make sure Mrs Belvedere doesn't get that atrocious hairdo.'<br /><br />Regardless, even I can belatedly tell when the reward for watching a programme is negligible, non-existent or prolonged pain.<br /><br />I remember the first series of Smallville fairly vividly. To use an oft-stolen and ball-achingly dull witticism, Superman 90210 was my initial impression. It was fairly engaging though, and despite the standard filler episodes, it was enjoyable enough.<br /><br />The unrequited love triangles, or rhombuses, or actually, pentagons come to think of it, carried tangible chemistry between the leads. I even forgave the cloying sweetness of Clark's apple-pie family upbringing, as it was counterbalanced fairly well by the disfunctioning enmity of the Luthor clan.<br /><br />I came close to putting Smallville in a lead-lined box after the diabolically poor season four not only suspended disbelief, but broke its nose and kicked it repeatedly in the testes, before dousing it in petrol and setting fire to it.<br /><br />Yes, I know, suspension of disbelief in a programme about an alien who can fly, fire heat from his eyeballs, run faster than the speed of sound and assemble an IKEA wardrobe in less than three hours is a dubious thing, but if you'd seen any of the shit-smeared episodes I'm referring to, you'd feel the same way.<br /><br />Anyway, the worse part of falling out of semi-love with a favourite TV programme is the moment where you finally open your eyes to seeing its myriad flaws as a non-fan would perceive them.<br /><br />The fact that in almost every single episode, Tom Welling as Clark Kent was asked to react to Kryptonite morphed from being a minor irritant to a full blown crime against humanity. I felt sympathy for the actor, who has probably been directed hundreds of times to show his 'Kryptonite reaction', falling to the floor like a sack of shit in the presence of a substance which is seemingly more common than hydrogen in the Smallville universe.<br /><br />At least he can take his acting prowess into future roles that require him to fall to the ground like a sack of shit. Perhaps a film about a narcoleptic rentboy, unless it's already been done (it has).<br /><br />His portrayal of continually refusing to share his secret with his nearest and dearest comes across more as a slight apprehension of being rumbled for eating the last two slices of bread in the house, rather than the crippling existential angst of having to live with a lifetime's secret that would change his existence forever should he choose to reveal it.<br /><br />Fuck off Lana.<br /><br />That's probably not a complete paragraph, but the trouble with Lana Lang is that the writers haven't known what to do with her since the end of the first series. After realising that the childhood sweethearts angle was getting a mite tired, they tried to turn her into a witch in one of the most abysmal story arcs ever committed to screen. They tried to turn her into a superpowered spy who feels no pain. They made her kidnap and torture Lionel Luthor. They gave her a phantom pregnancy. They finally wrote her out of the series by permanently suffusing her with enough kryptonite to shrink Clark's gonads for good. Good riddance. Twatbasket*.<br /><br />After losing the best actors in the series and being left with the inoffensive plank that is Clark surrounded by what feel like cheap imitations of Lex and Co, the series is limping over the line while being harried by feral dogs and homeless people swinging sticks. And I don't think I've got any remaining patience to be there to see it.<br /><br />As the ultimate rejection, I'm going to watch E4 up to the point that Smallville starts and then swiftly turn over, and then an hour later, watch E4+1 up to the point that Smallville starts and shun it for a second time. As gestures go, it's fairly futile, especially in the days when you can pause live television and shun programmes to your heart's content, but it's time to finally take a stand.<br /><br />That no-one will notice. Or see. Or care about.<br /><br />Ahh, fuck it, I'll probably end up watching it.<br /><br /><br />*an insult shamelessly stolen from the ever-excellent http://ifyoulikeitsomuchwhydontyougolivethere.comUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-3039461006875453452009-04-24T07:14:00.002+00:002020-11-18T11:18:20.343+00:00Walkers Customer Crisp Flavours Ideas that Didn't Make the Final CutI was intrigued by Walkers recent campaign for a customer-led crisp flavour competition, and subsequently entered some of my own ideas. Imagine my horror, my extreme mourning, the wails of agonised grief when none of my flavours made the final cut.
Pain
Hubris and vinegar
Chaffing
Ready Gritted
The Broken Dreams of a Thousand Orphans and Mature Cheddar
Arse and Elbow
Cajun Fungus
Thai Sweet Chilli and Sex Tourism
Cock
McFly Potato Shapes
The Tears from Gordon Brown's Eye
BBQ Burnt Hair
Civilisation's Nadir
Porn Cocktail
Smokey Flesh
Gout
Incessant Unbearable Whining
Yesterday's Kebab
Morning Beer Mouth
Shaved Pubic Region
Pickled Mercury
Tramp's Coat
All I can summise is that Walkers are afraid to try anything new. Unless it involves Gary Lineker.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-50204828321744062392009-04-17T12:40:00.009+00:002009-04-22T15:48:11.584+00:00The Ugliness of Modern CultureSusan Boyle. An unremarkable name for a woman with a powerful and melodic voice.<br /><br />If you saw the first episode of the new series of 'Britain's Got Talent', you'd have witnessed the unedifying sight of a middle-aged Scottish woman amble modestly out onto a stage, in front of a crowd who were eagerly prepared to rip the stinking piss out of her, as soon as they'd appraised her appearance. Once she got her lungs into gear however, they were stunned into silence, presumably thinking, "Holy Ghosts of Mars, this lady can sing." They were as surprised as a cinemagoer would be to see Val Kilmer's facial expression of the last twenty years suddenly change.<br /><br />Amanda Holden, the lady filling the role of 'the compassionate judge' turned on the tears, driven to them by the overwhelming sight and sound of a fairly plain looking woman singing well. The crowd and judges gave her a standing ovation for her performance, while secretly feeling like complete cunts for equating her looks with the expected inversely proportional quantity of talent.<br /><br />A question - why would this sight drive someone to tears? Is being ugly the new autism? Is Susan Boyle an 'ugly savant'?<br /><br />Somewhere along the line, and I'm not saying it's a new phenomenon, one of those strange unwritten rules was erm, unwritten, which states that 'ugly people can have no talent'. To be of less than supermodel looks and make it in today's showbusiness, you have to have an inordinate amount of talent, or appear on a reality TV show, or be a loud and vacuous polemicist.<br /><br />And even if people of unglamourous appearance do somehow make it into the public eye, they run the risk of being patronised to death. 'Aw, the blind woman can sing', 'Aw, there goes the ugly bastard who can play a piano', 'Awww....Awwww...AWWWW.'<br /><br />Still, I suppose it's better than being an attractive celebrity being harried at all hours of every day to satisfy the morbid curiosity of people for who's looking fat, who's looking thin, who hasn't got make-up on, who has cellulite, who has a spot, who was caught mid-blink and looks like they've had a massive stroke, and who is suffering from debilitating diseases. The obvious next step for these abysmal weeklies, is poublications devoted to highlighting particular 'flaws'.<br /><br />When I see 'Celebrity Acnewatch' and 'Anorexic Rib Revealing Death-Verging Star Shots', I'll know it's time to do a Bill Bixby and hitch-hike to sad music up and down A-roads and motorways for the short amount of time before the planet finally gets bored of us and eliminates us.<br /><br />And it'll be richly deserved, because let's face it, the human race and the noxious stench of modern mass Western culture have no place in a universe where we can view the ethereal beauty of a stellar nursery, of the divergent range of natural phenomona that the Earth has provided, but choose to watch '50 Celebrity Meltdowns' again instead. Hosted by Paul Fucking Ross. FFS.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-24714251508847214612009-04-15T07:40:00.006+00:002009-04-16T10:47:32.046+00:00EggheadsIs there a more consistently annoying programme on television than BBC 2's 'Eggheads'?<br /><br />It's hard to think of one.<br /><br />The basic premise of the show is that a pub team of five friends challenges a team of 'Eggheads' who are former winners of other quiz shows, such as 'Millionaire', 'Mastermind' and the like. There are five rounds altogether, the first four of which are head-to-head battles between one of the challenging team and a nominated 'Egghead'.<br /><br />The loser of each head-to-head battle is eliminated from the final group head-to-head, where the two teams go against each other for three questions each, followed by sudden death. A fairly bland, generic quiz format, if ever there was one.<br /><br />The presenter is either Dermot Murnaghan, a fairly capable and affable chap, or Jeremy Vine, the Radio 2 lunchtime show idiot-baiting host, with a voice that can only be described as someone who sounds like they're permanently in the middle of having a particularly difficult butternut squash-sized shit.<br /><br />The Eggheads look as you'd expect human encyclopaedias to look, and far be it from me to decry others' physical characteristics, but a couple of them wouldn't look out of place with pewter tankards full of home brewed mead in their hands, one of them looks a bit like Mackenzie Crook's tanned foreign cousin, another looks like a cards-in Women's Institute member and the last was the uber-posh winner of 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire'.<br /><br />She was the lady who invoked ire from the angry uneducated masses because she didn't really need to win a million quid, but thought that she might as well, seeing as she knew a planetload of useless information. Fair play to her really.<br /><br />On to the quiz then. During the one-on-one rounds between an Egghead and challenger, either Dermot or Jeremy will ask a multiple choice poser, and here is where the problems begin. Rather than simply answer the question, I can only presume that the Eggheads are encouraged (I resisted the urge to say 'egged on') to elaborate on their answer and make themselves look like massive cunts by elucidating at great length about why the capital of Peru is not Cerro de Pasco because that's a city in the Pasco region of the country and was formerly a great exporter of silver, and at over 4,000 metres up is one of the highest cities in the world.<br /><br />The challengers then carry out the same trick, but, by dint of not spending their childhood reading Encylcopaedia Britannica and Schott's Miscellany every night, generally fumble their way through by excluding Chris de Burgh on the basis that he doesn't really ring any bells and Curtis Stigers is far more likely because the random firing of a few neurons in their tattered brainbox says so.<br /><br />If you took out the stultifying banality of the contestants giving their answers in this way, the show would probably only last ten minutes. Which would be good all round, as that would be exactly twenty minutes less Jeremy Vine, and a short snappy quiz where the viewers wouldn't want to hammer nails through the eyes of each and every participant.<br /><br />A severely strange aspect of the show is the giant screen behind each team. During the final round, the giant disembodied heads of the eliminated appear on the screen, leading to a surrealistic scene reminiscent of having really clever BFGs sitting behind the remaining contestants. See here - <a href="http://tinyurl.com/ck2fbp"><b>http://tinyurl.com/ck2fbp<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span></b></a><b><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span></b>I guess this blog is a really really long-winded way of saying that nobody likes a smart-arse.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-1109197784859403302005-02-23T21:59:00.000+00:002005-02-23T22:29:44.863+00:00Oh my me, I've only gone and done it againThey're strange things, these blogs. I suspect the reason a lot of people write them is due to the ungraspable, ethereal nature of the internet. Millions of computers, hundreds of thousands of microPCs and erm, other technical terms that don't sit well in my head.<br /><br />"Man, there are 6 billion people on the planet and half of my mates have got broadband. That means there are 3 billion people who are going to read it!!!! I'm going to be famous!!!"<br /><br />In reality, I reckon a lot of people's habits are pretty similar. In my case, I'll check the usual few things, my two e-mail accounts, has the uksf archive been updated (ffs, someone's got to be an optimist), any world-shaking catastrophes happened, how are Everton doing, and any decent pictures of the foxy Estella Warren.<br /><br />It would take an ardent, perhaps even obsessive compulsive kind of blogfan to sift through the reams and reams of "One-post specials", the internet equivalents of such flash-in-the-pan trendsetters as Musical Youth, Glenn Madeiros and Madonna, only to find what they were seeking. <br /><br />Some kind of life-affirming, inspirational missive festival. Like mine, only better. <br /><br />To be perfectly and accurately, possibly even precisely frank with you, these tales of blogs being so arse-tearingly good are a bit too much like the old Soviet stories of the uberminer, Stakhanov, who single-handedly mined an entire mountain range that no longer exists using only his big toe and a pair of canvas underpants to excavate the said range.<br /><br />"Jendary Hooblestein, a 28 year old lawyer from Kranzville, ND, won a publishing deal thanks to her weblog, or blog, detailing her daily struggle against the No. 31 bus and it's stone-faced driver." Okey Dokey.<br /><br />Actually, cancer's all the rage these days. Something of a cancer race in the blog world has developed. Across the world, bloggers are seeking rarer and rarer forms of cancer so that they can detail their struggle against it. If I wasn't such an honest 12-inch cocked man, I'd tell you all about my own struggle against cancer of the area immediately below the bit where my forearm muscles taper into the crook of my elbow.<br /><br />Signing off, <br /><br />Blogger Chief MaccaUnknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-1107807981565618862005-02-07T20:22:00.000+00:002005-02-07T20:34:04.136+00:00THIRD<strong>I like me when I'm drunk</strong>
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<br />Heh, normally my desktop picture is some kind of elvishy, dwarvey, fantasy-y, spooky-y forest scene. I was pissed some nights ago and haven't been home for a couple of days.
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<br />In my inebriated state, I've put a beautiful picture of the penis-hardening Estella Warren instead...I may just keep it. Here's a link...
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<br />http://3littlepigs.free.fr/images/warren02.JPG
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<br />Oh yeah, it might be an idea to have a look at Nathan Barley, this coming Friday on C4 at 10pm. If you watch it, you'll be well trendy.
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-1107308973362230562005-02-02T01:42:00.001+00:002005-02-02T01:49:33.363+00:00SecondDid I ever tell you about all my wasted nights on a game called "Striker" on the Speccy? No?
<br />
<br />Wow.
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<br />Anyway, there I was, watching a dial oscillate between two positions, judging the ideal angle to press a key at for my frozen-in-time striker to hit the ball at, when I heard Father jump up out of bed.
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<br />Immediately, I assessed the situation.
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<br />"He doesn't know about the power lights on the top right of the Spectrum 128k +2. If I can find a suitable item to block off the light, jump back in bed and pretend to be *really* asleep, he'll never suspect that I'll be playing for my country as soon as he's emptied his bladder and toddled off back to bed."
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<br />Evolution, that's what it's all about.
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10567016.post-1107308655008879422005-02-02T01:42:00.000+00:002005-02-02T01:44:15.006+00:00InitialIt's a grand old team to play for,
<br />It's a grand old team to support
<br />And if you know, your chemistry,
<br />It's enough to make your sodium react violently with water.
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<br />That's my first post, deal with it. I've got a third of a bottle of cider left. I won't be deflected.
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0