Dystopian Fuchsia

2011 Ends With Dignity

2011-12-31T20:42:00.001Z

I wish you all a fantastic 2012. Thanks for reading over the past year (even the quiet months, which I'll be telling you all about soon), and promise to be slightly less doom-laden in the coming year.

Except if those fucking Mayan prophecies are actually true.

Happy Nude Year, one and all!

Yes, even you.
x

Finally... Shit Britons 2011 Part 3!

2011-12-31T20:28:00.001Z

Hi there. Welcome back from Xmas hell.

Here's the third and final part of the Shit Britons 2011 results video, where Skeletor has formed a coalition (of doom) with David Cameron...

If you missed them, here's parts 1 and 2. I might edit them into 1 video when I can be bothered.

Anyway, thanks for voting David Cameron as the worst person Britain has ever produced. We'll see who wins when we run the vote again during the summer of 2012. See you then!

It's Chriiiiiiiiiiiiisssssstmaaaaaaaaaaas!

2011-12-25T01:31:00.000Z

Sod the calendar. Time for this year's festive tale of misery and woe. With apologies (and two fingers up at) Dr Seuss...

The George Who Stole Christmas

Every Brit

Down in Brit-ville
Liked Christmas a lot...

ButGeorge Osborne,

Who lived in his ancestral pile,
Did NOT!

Theprick hated people! No matter the season!

Now, please don't ask why. No one quite knows the reason.
It could be that his head wasn't screwed on quite right.
It could be, perhaps, that his arsehole’s too tight.
But I think that the most likely reason of all
May have been that his heart was two sizes too small.

But,

Whatever the reason,
His heart or his arse,
He stood there on Christmas, hating the lower class,
Staring down from his mansion with a sour, evil frown
At the warm lighted windows below in their town.
For he knew all the scum down outside of his gates
Were stinking and poor, the things that he hates.

"Andthey're hanging their stockings!" he snarled with a sneer.

"Poundland must be empty this time of the year!"

Then he growled, with his fat fingers nervously drumming,
"I MUST find a way to keep Christmas from coming!"
For, tomorrow, he knew...

...Allthe scummy girls and boys

Would wake up bright and early. They'd rush for their toys!
And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!
That's one thing he hated! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!

Thenthe bastards, young and old, would sit down to a feast.

And they'd feast! And they'd feast!
And they'd FEAST! FEAST! FEAST! FEAST!

With shoplifted chickens, potatoes and ducks,
The Tesco Value devouring fucks!

And THEN

They'd do something he liked least of all!
Every one of the scumbags, the tall and the small,
Would stand close together, with Christmas bells ringing.
They'd stand hand-in-hand. And the oiks would start singing!

They'dsing! And they'd sing!

AND they'd SING! SING! SING! SING!

And when George thought of the disgust the penniless bring
The more the shit thought, "I must stop this whole thing!
"Why for forty-some years I've put up with it now!
I MUST stop Christmas from coming!
...But HOW?"

Thenhe got an idea!

An awful idea!
THE CHANCELLOR
GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!

"Iknow just what to do!" The toff laughed in his throat.

And he made a quick Santy Claus hat and a coat.
And he chuckled, and clucked, "What a great posh trick!
"I’ll ruin their lives because they make me sick!"

"AllI need is a reindeer..."

The twat looked around.
But since reindeer are scarce, there was none to be found.
Did that stop the old bastard...?
No! The evil Chancellor said,
"If I can't find a reindeer, I'll make one instead!"
So he stole Blunkett’s dog. Then he took some red thread
And he tied a big horn on top of his head.

THEN

He loaded some bags
With a huff and a tut
On a ramshakle sleigh
And he hitched up old the mutt.

Thenthe twat said, "Move it!"

And the sleigh started down
Toward the homes where the oiks
Lay a-snooze in their town.

Alltheir windows were dark. Quiet snow filled the air.

All the oiks were all dreaming sweet dreams without care

When he came to the first house in the square.
"This is stop number one," The old fucker hissed
And he climbed to the roof, empty bags in his fist.

Thenhe slid down the chimney. It proved to be tight.

But he was determined to spread misery and blight.
He got stuck only once, for a moment or two.
Then he stuck his head out of the fireplace flue
Where the little oik stockings all hung in a row.
"These stockings," he grinned, "are the first things to go!"

Thenhe slithered and slunk, with a sneer most unpleasant,

Around the whole room, and he took every present!
Pokémon cards and a PSOne game!
Second-hand shit he stole without shame!
And he stuffed them in bags in a Christmassy farce,
Stuffed all the bags, the upper-class arse!

Thenhe slunk to the fridge. He took the oiks’ food!

Fish fingers and nuggets, how terribly rude!
He cleaned out that fridge as quick as a flash.
He didn’t want it or need it because of his cash!

Thenhe stuffed all the food up the chimney with glee.

"And NOW!" grinned the Chancellor, "I will stuff up the tree!"

And George grabbed the tree, and he started to shove

When he heard a small sound like the coo of a dove.
He turned around fast, and he saw a small brat!
A guttersnipe child in a Santy Claus hat.

Georgehad been caught by this little oik child

And wondered if the police had been dialled.

She stared at the toff and said, "Santy Claus, why,
"Why are you taking our Christmas tree? WHY?"

ButGeorge did a thing he was good at, though sick,

He thought up a lie, and he thought it up quick!
"Why, my sweet little tot," the fake Santy Claus lied,
"There's a light on this tree that won't light on one side.
"So I'm taking it home to my workshop, my dear.
"I'll fix it up there. Then I'll bring it back here."

Andhis fib fooled the child. Then he patted her head

And he got her a drink and he sent her to bed.
And when the oik child went to bed with her cup,
HE went to the chimney and stuffed the tree up!

Thenthe last thing he took

Was the log for their fire.
Then he went up the chimney himself, the old liar.
On their walls he left nothing but hooks, and some wire.

Andthe one speck of food

That he left in the house
Was a crumb that was even too small for a mouse.

Then
He did the same thing
To the other oiks' houses

Leavingcrumbs

Much too small
For the other Oiks' mouses!

Itwas quarter past dawn...

All the oiks, still a-bed
All the oiks, still a-snooze
When he packed up his sled,
Packed it up with their presents! The ribbons! The wrappings!
The tags! And the tinsel! The trimmings! The trappings!

Hereturned to his mansion, guffawing with glee!

“There’s no-one more evil or despicable than me!
"Fuck all the plebs!" he was poshly humming.
"They're finding out now that no Christmas is coming!
"They're just waking up! I know just what they'll do!
"Their mouths will hang open a minute or two
"They’ll weep at the theft and they’ll never know who!"

"That's a noise," grinned the cunt,

"That I simply must hear!"

So he paused. And Osborne put a hand to his ear.
And he did hear a sound rising over the snow.
It started in low. Then it started to grow...

Itwas the sound of a riot! The sound of looting!

The cost of the damage he was already computing!
He’d raise all their taxes! Then there was shooting!

Hewatched on the telly

The rioting folk!
Campaigning against Tories!
It wasn’t a joke!

OldLondon town burned, the houses, the slums,

The result of the folly of his banking chums!
More people were homeless, more shops were aflame!
He just didn’t care that he was to blame!

He sat in his armchair, drank his Bucks Fizz,

More jobs were now lost, but at least he had his!
He looked in his bags, and laughed at the fun,
The oiks’ horrid gifts, each and every one
Were lining the bottom, each worthless and shite!
A Gameboy Advance and a Mighty Max kite!
An Evel Knievel jigsaw! A Rainbow Brite!

The poor people’s presents were poor and dire,

Ugly and cheap and ripe for a pyre!
George threw them all on the fire!

Tucked up in bed, no tossing or turning,
George had the cash to never have yearning,
But now his old mansion was noisily burning!

The oiks had all gathered plenty of kindling
Placed ‘round his house, their patience was dwindling!
Sick of the poverty and having no money
And sick of old Osborne finding that funny!

His house now in flames and burning up fast,
Old Georgie was getting his comeuppance at last!
Everyone gathered with cocoa and beer!
And whisky! And rum! Such Christmas cheer!
The crowd grew and grew! It stretched back a mile!
Each of the people had a huge Christmas smile!

They chuckled with glee and couldn’t pretend
To be a-full of mirth that George had come to an end!

It’s a grim little story, but any excuse
To fuck around with Dr Seuss

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Advent Calendar Day 24

2011-12-24T19:48:00.002Z

It's Christmas Eve! As ever, the advent calendar, which should end on day 24, has an extra one for the big day tomorrow. In the meantime, day 24 could only be one thing...

Day 24

Broken

Britain.

With so much wrong in the world, we're in serious trouble because of a small number of greedy bastards, and their mates are in government. Corruption seeps from every pore of this sick land, and we've reached breaking point. The riots and looting from earlier this year are just the tip of the iceberg, the phone hacking scandal has yet to claim any scalps (Brooks and Murdoch remain unimprisoned, for example), television is falling prey to dumbed-down reality shows, end-of-the-pier talent shows hosted by people without any talent, dreadful comedians polluting the schedules with their safe light entertainment boredom, our prime minister has isolated us even further from the rest of Europe and the world economy is in tatters.

Still, it's Christmas, eh? Let's forget about the terror and the middling disappointment for a few days and enjoy time with our loved ones, get merry and enjoy Doctor Who on the telly.

Be back tomorrow for the annual Christmas story!

Advent Calendar Day 23

2011-12-23T16:59:00.000Z

Nearly there...

Day 23

The Daily Mail

Hateful, spiteful, racist, bigoted, slandering, scaremongering little rag; how much simper life would be if you and your stable of right-wing daemons were blasted into a high orbit. From the nasty Paul Dacre to the twisted Melanie Phillips, there's nothing nice of note about this Tory pamphlet. It drips venom, oozes bitterness, and hates the poor, disenfranchised, disabled and foreign. It's frightening that it has sustained its readership (millions of deluded souls being spoon-fed scaremongering and hatred); I wouldn't even eat my chips out of it, lest they turned Nazi.

Advent Calendar Day 22

2011-12-22T23:17:00.005Z

Hello. Let's bang on, shall we?

Day 22

George Osborne

Another returnee to the advent calendar, sneering multi-millionaire Ebenezer Osborne continues to appease business sponsors of the Conservative Party whilst ripping the world of the common man apart. I don't think I've ever wanted to smack a Chancellor of the Exchequer and Privy Counsellor in the face with something sharp so much. And. we had Norman Lamont, lest we forget. Horrible, horrible man. It beggars belief that he's only fucking 40.

We haven't heard the last of him this Yuletide, by the way...

Advent Calendar Day 21

2011-12-21T21:30:00.000Z

Hey.

Day 21

This.

Please. Please stop. Your house looks like some kind of whore.

Advent Calendar Day 20

2011-12-20T22:56:00.006Z

'Sup. All sorted for Xmas yet? Well, not quite, because we've still got the chaff of the calendar to get through. Buckle up, and try not to weep blood.

Day 20

Impressions, Impressionists and

The Impressions Show

Ugh. Y'know, this is a lost art form. It used to be an entertaining little party trick back in 'the day', from the proto-satire-tinged-with-light-entertainment-for-the-grannies of Mike Yarwood to the (ahem) "rubber-faced lampoonery" (sigh) of Spitting Image; Chris Barrie dazzled with his off-the-cuff David Coleman, Ronald Reagan and more when not appearing on Red Dwarf or Spitting Image, Steve Nallon was brilliant during the Thatcher-drag era, even Rory Bremner's old BBC2 show wasn't too bad. However, time rolled on (as it does), Bremner moved to Channel 4 and turned into a bore, churning out the same tired old impressions of politicians, loosely wrapped around po-faced satire. Spitting Image died a natural death, and that bloke from the Gino Ginelli advert ventured into the mainstream along with Lee & Herring radio stalwart Ronni Ancona... and that's where it all started to go wrong. I don't dislike them at all, but the writing was on the wall as soon as they started doing the Beckhams. It was no longer a sharpened tool for satire, but had instead become the twat hammer of simple folk, tabloid readers, Heat subscribers and knuckle-draggers.

Dead Ringers managed to claw back some dignity to some degree, if only for Jon Culshaw's wonderful Tom Baker impression (which, as he demonstrated on a programme I forget, he could adapt from an equally brilliant Patrick Stewart) and the regular forays in 'classic' Doctor Who territory. But, the programme also had Jan "Hello I'm" Ravens. Every, and I mean every, impression she provided began with her introducing who she was supposed to be (probably because none of them looked or sounded like the target); very poor, very patronising. If you have to smack your audience in the face with a big obvious fucking clue as to who you're portraying, you're in the wrong bloody job.

Now we've got The Impressions Show, where the same format as Alistair McGowan's old show claws its way back out of the dirt. Depressingly, I've lost all respect for Jon Culshaw. I hate losing respect for people. I genuinely, genuinely like the guy, but when you start applying the phrase, "well, everyone has to eat, I suppose" to a TV programme, you haven't got much of a choice (a bit like those bloody Direct Line adverts I mentioned a couple of weeks back). It's all tabloid fodder again, television so safe it's got rounded corners and is covered in bubble wrap. And, you know, he's not even that good in it. Professor Brian Cox sounds nothing like Professor Brian Cox (the odd attempt at an accent and inflection aside), and, most disappointingly, he also attempts Pip Schofield. Whilst introducing himself. Because he looks and sounds nothing like him. Tch.

Tellingly, they also do The One Show. Badly. Lowest common denominator peas-in-a-pod fodder, a match made in feeble hell. Perhaps one day, we'll reclaim the lost noble art of impressionism from the stupid people who'll put up with anything, but somehow, due to the unique way the BBC ignore petitions and appease idiots, I doubt it. Bah.

Advent Calendar Day 19

2011-12-19T23:50:00.003Z

Hi.

Day 19

Tim Lovejoy

No, not that Lovejoy. Not even that Lovejoy (though I'm sure he also has a little Tinker).

Smug football bore Tim has been stuck in a midlife crisis since he first mediocred onto our screens sometime, ooh, years ago. The drab 57 year old, after an aeon hosting some football programme or other (and therefore off my radar), counted his lucky stars in a droning mumble the day the BBC shoved him up their Sunday morning what-the-fuck-was-I-drinking-last-night hangover snake oil, Something For The Weekend, where he channels Alan Partridge alongside Kojak the chef and the one who was fired from Eternal. His presenting style is able to remove the lustre from coal.

So what next for the world's most boring man? Who knows, but whatever it is, it'll involve him sounding like the teacher in Peanuts with the word "Chelsea" creeping in every now and again. The dull cunt.

Back tomorrow!

Shit Britons 2011 Part 2

2011-12-19T00:00:00.002Z

Hello! Time for part 2 of the result of Shit Britons 2011, where we catch up with the David Cameron/Skeletor Coaltion (of Doom), where cracks are starting to show.

Final part next week (just in time for Xmas).

Advent Calendar Day 18

2011-12-18T23:50:00.004Z

One week from now, we'll be recovering from a long, arduous lesson in pain and misery. But enough about the EastEnders Christmas episode, we've got some pesky windows to open in the meantime...

Day 18

The Coalition

Remember May 2010? Everything seemed so simple then. In those mildly sepia-toned days, we had a Prime Minister who we didn't vote in, but at least was leader of the party who did earn the most votes in the previous election. We somehow traded the world's most dour man for Blue Clone and Yellow Clone, the right wing Thatcher acolyte and his supposedly Liberal comrade-in-arms-for-the-sake-of-a-snifter-of-power. Unfortunately, there's no effectual opposition to speak of at the moment, except from within,so until they tear themselves apart, we're stuck with the oppressive fuckers.

Just watching George Osborne's face achieve a new level of sneering contempt every day is enough to make Care Bears weep in forcibly-impoverished terror whilst they appease their banking cohorts. This is a government who have their business sponsors' best interests, and their own, at heart, desperately clinging onto the power that nobody blessed them with except through the failings of our supposed democracy.

So while we wait for the arse to fall out of the Big Society (and other meaningless buzzwords dreamt up by Porky Mumpsface's right-wing think tank), pull up a chair and watch not one, but two opportunistic political parties tear themselves asunder, whilst a third decides to get its fucking act together and actually oppose.

Incidentally, be back a little bit later this evening for the second part of Shit Britons 2011's special He-Man episode...

Advent Calendar Day 17

2011-12-17T23:49:00.001Z

One week until Xmas Eve, folks. Let's bang on with the final week of the Dystopian Advent Calendar, eh?

Day 17

Rupert Murdoch

Something, something, something, Dark Side...

Something, something, something, complete.

What can I say that you aren't already thinking or have thought? I was thinking about replacing his face with that of Old Man Potter from It's A Wonderful Life, but that would've been too fucking obscure (though seasonal, I suppose). Suffice to say, this year has finally seen some major damage to his evil empire, with News of the Screws forcibly going under, a complete Sky takeover being blocked, and some attention-hungry comedian you've never heard of hitting him in the face with a pie. Fingers crossed, this time next year something devastating will happen to Fox News, The Sun and the Murdoch family's ill-gotten fortune.

Vile.

Oh, be back tomorrow for the continuing adventures of David Cameron and Skeletor in the second part of the Shit Britons 2011 special He-Man episode, Coalition of Doom!

Advent Calendar Day16

2011-12-16T23:41:00.001Z

Hello!

Day 16

Ed Miliband

Sorry if you're reading this late. I've had a problem with Blogger in the past 24 hours where it erased this very post I'm retyping, and wouldn't let me do anything at all. Bah.

Anyway, why Ed? I don't dislike the guy, but my god is Labour in the doldrums under him. Imagine being outwitted and ridiculed by David fucking Cameron in PMQs. Especially in today's oppressive twin-headed government of terror, we deserve a competent, aggressive opposition. This man isn't it. Admittedly, under the caretaker gloom of Brown's mishandled tenure, it was always going to be difficult to get their groove back, claw back some dignity and desire to get back into government with a clean slate. Voting this pilchard in as leader was not the best way of going about it. I'm sure he's a competent politician, but he has the charisma and wit of a PE teacher. I hate to say it, but Ed Balls would have provided stronger opposition (though he now doesn't want the job).

I guess we'll have to wait for the coalition to tear themselves apart to get a bit of oomph back into the Labour leader so he can kickstart his momentum a tad.

Hmph. How depressing, eh?

Advent Calendar Day Fifteen

2011-12-15T23:28:00.003Z

Hello? What's this? I smell someone familiar.

Day Fifteen

Russell Howard

'Aaaarroooooold! Yep, the person I had the most feedback about from anonymous trolls on last year's Dystopian Advent Calendar is stinking up this year's. Nothing's changed; he's still an over-rated, unfunny, puerile blight on the TV schedules, a conduit for his team of writers and researchers' inane theft of other people's work on YouTube. The format of his show follows this pattern:

"Did you see [person X] on [TV programme Y] the other night?"

[Insert short clip taken out of context]

[Smug grin at camera]

[Audience piss themselves]

[Joke about wanking monkeys in a stupid voice]

[Or cocks]

Television comedy is in a very poor state of affairs right now; despite a vicious right-wing government in power (though how long that will last is another matter), satire's a bit thin on the ground. Channel 4's 10 O'Clock Live was tarnished by whatsherface from Kenickie, for example. Howard's presence on TV is not helping matters, dumbing humour down to anaemic levels.

Oh, and he came third in this year's Shit Britons (applauds). If you missed it, here's the propaganda video I made to bump his votes up:

Please sod off, Mr Howard.

You dirty old man.

Advent Calendar Day 14

2011-12-14T23:56:00.001Z

... And we're back.

Day Fourteen

Zai Bennett

So who's this odd-looking little weasel, then? He's the controller of BBC Three (as of December 2010). His career has been a laughable stroll through some of the UK's worst idiot fare, from Channel 5, and most of the past decade controlling programming across ITV's digital channels. Hardly fucking world-beating.

Since being employed by the BBC, he's starting ripping the channel apart. Okay, so he may have axed Two Pints of Lager and Coming of Age, but he's also recently axed Ideal, which was deservedly building on its viewer base with every series, and, controversially, some may say criminally, Doctor Who Confidential. The latter act from the pudding-faced executive sparked an online petition, currently standing at just under 56,000 signatures. Bennett's response, whilst dreaming up new brainless fodder to replace it with aimed at thick people, was that he wanted to clear the way for original British content. Which Doctor Who Confidential was. The BBC Trust is to make a final decision in the new year, but no doubt they'll uphold the decision and stand idly by as Bennett floods what's left of the channel with tabloid shite.

In the meantime, one of his latest decisions is to commission a new sitcom written by and starring unshaven toff unfunnyman Jack "Advent Day One" Whitehall. Oh, and he's also guaranteed Russell Howard's Ego Vehicle to run until at least 2013. The man must be stopped before he drags BBC Three down to the levels of ITV2 and beyond. The channel could be, no, should be great. I fear that under this man, it will be anything but.

Before we move on, I must share with you his Wikipedia entry (as it currently reads):

Zai Bennett

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Zai Bennett is Controller of BBC Three.^[1]

Career

Zai Bennett started his career in 1995 in the post room at Carlton Television, then worked as presentation scheduler

for the launch of Channel 5 in 1997. He worked for ITV from 1998 in a number of roles including Head of Programme

Strategy, ITV Digital Channels and ITV2 Programming and Acquisitions Manager. He was Controller of ITV2 from

2006 – 2009. In April 2010 he was appointed ITV's Director of Digital Channels and Acquisitions, where he was

responsible for overseeing editorial content on ITV's digital channels (ITV2, ITV3, ITV4 and the CITV channel), including

all commissioning and scheduling across the channels. In December 2010 the BBC announced that he is to become

Controller of BBC Three in 2011. After settling into this position he commenced cancelling every good comedy and

ruining BBC 3. ^[2] ^[3] ^[4]

Sometimes, people are wonderful.

Advent Calendar Day 13

2011-12-13T23:36:00.000Z

Lucky 13 time...

Day Thirteen

Rebekah Brooks

Why's she an advent calendar botherer this year? Well, for starters, she came a close second behind David Cameron in this year's Shit Britons 2011. That should be reason enough, aside from looking like an emotionless lead singer in a Simply Red tribute band.

Ambitious, amoral, supremely arrogant, and, it turns out, homophobic and a participant in domestic violence, Brooks, looking like a hedge having a mid life crisis, holds dozens of nasty little phone hackers in her copper wiring, nesting like flying monkeys. Unless she was really, really shit at her job whilst editing the News of the Screws, there isn't the remotest chance that she wasn't at least a little clued in to the fact that her freelance minions were invading privacy via voicemail. There is something extremely unsettling about someone who has been very pally with three successive prime ministers across two political parties. That she is friends with David Cameron, and used News International publications as propaganda machines for him in the run-up to the 2010 election, is unforgiveable; that one of the alleged phone hacking victims was the late Milly Dowler is reprehensible. Once proven, a life prison sentence for perverting the course of justice wouldn't come close to what this vile opportunist deserves.

If she had a motorcycle, she'd get mistaken for Ghost Rider, though I cannot imagine the level of pain she'd experience if she used the Penance Stare in the mirror. Yes, I can use obscure comic book references as poor satire.

Out of everything and everyone on the calendar so far, she is perhaps the one I would like to see get her comeuppance the most in the coming year; everything else pales as a minor irritant. Hateful, hateful woman.

Advent Calendar Day 12

2011-12-13T00:43:00.000Z

Welcome!

Day Twelve

Strictly Come Dancing

Saturday nights, eh? Back in the dim and distant yesteryear of two years ago on this very webshite, I bemoaned (as I do) about the absolute bollocks that gets thrown our way. In 2009, we were getting Hole in the Wall (last time I saw that, it had been relegated to CBBC), and in 2011, we're still getting X Factor (which is on ITV1, so I don't get to ever see it anyway, but its presence is still painful, like ten minutes after getting kicked in the nuts), and we've still got Strictly Come Dancing.

It gets its own advent window this year because its symbolic of the lowest common denominator light entertainment shitemare that's taken over the telly in recent years. Doddering Slinger's Day star Brucie "Bruce" Forsyth and Vernon Kay marriage dupe Tess "Tickle" Daly mug to the cameras whilst a slurry of z-list ne'er-do-works show off in front of a barely-live studio audience. Dream scheduling for ITV, yet it's filling up a multitude of timeslots that could be, nay, should be taken by programmes that make you think, laugh and cry, not staring in snoozing wonder as if you're morbidly watching Brucie's last hurrah.

The BBC, in recent years, have revived family viewing in Merlin, Robin Hood (okay, not the best example) and, of course, Doctor Who. Have a decent sitcom in there, a strong sketch show (I'd guess something like Armstrong & Miller, not the piss-awful chav-targeted Impressions Show), maybe even a music-based show, and you've got a reasonable line-up. Unfortunately, premium-rate phone lines and anachronistic ballroom dancing micro-slebs seem to be the way forward, and one has to wonder what the BBC are fucking playing at.

Commercial Break...

2011-12-11T22:04:00.001Z

The new fragrance from David Beckham, anyone?
Sort of,anyway. Just the sort of crap I make when I've got a spare hour.

Not A Hoax... Not A Dream... It's Shit Britons 2011 - The Result!

2011-12-11T21:31:00.001Z

Back in July, I ran the (now annual, I suppose) Shit Britons. Essentially, a bit like the antithesis of that Great Britons thing the BBC did years ago. Anybody from this sceptic isle could be voted for, from any era. Naturally, people voted for very current celebrities, z-listers and politicians.

Last year's winner, James Corden, came nowhere near winning this year. In all honesty, he's been much less of a nuisance this year, and I don't automatically switch the TV over if he's on. I made a few videos to, um, subtly influence votes:

... not that they made a blind bit of bloody difference.

Anyway, without further ado, the winner of Shit Britons 2011...

(Part One...)

(If YouTube won't allow you to watch it in your country, try Vimeo as an emergency back-up...)

So there we go. Well done, Mr Cameron. I guess. We'll return to his adventures on Eternia next week.

Thanks for voting, everyone!

Advent Calendar Day Eleven

2011-12-11T20:59:00.001Z

Hey there. We have our first returnee of the year...

Day Eleven

Michael McIntyre

If you remember last year, McIntyre was lingering behind window 15 of the 2010 Dystopian Advent Calendar:

Nothing's changed. As you can see, he still belongs in the world of puppetry, although last year I thought he looked like a Riddler. This year, I've decided that he looks more like a creepy ventriloquist's dummy. His inhuman voice caps it all. When oh when will he finish going through puberty? He sounds like a moped struggling to start. His comedy has not improved; it's still too safe, dull and with less edge than a bowling ball, belonging squarely on a 1980s ITV variety show alongside Bobby Davro or Cannon and fucking Ball.

Perhaps 2012 will be the year he's finally packed away in his suitcase for good.

Back tomorrow for more!

Advent Calendar Day 10

2011-12-10T16:39:00.000Z

Well, hello.

Day 10

Ricky Tomlinson

Can someone tell me the appeal of this man? As overrated as the sitcom he appears in, as unwelcome as the catchphrase he shamelessly 'borrows' from it and uses ad nauseum on everything he appears in or on, be it TV show, book, interview or toilet, Tomlinson is a repulsive presence on TV.

Looking like a misprint on a Guess Who board, this man's very earliest involvement in politics was with the National Front, supporting Enoch Powell's 'Rivers of Blood'. He may have had a change of heart, but it's a bit of an extreme one in a short space of time, and it's worth people knowing.

In the here and now, it's his shameless overuse of that fucking catchphrase (which I refuse to repeat here, just because I'm sick of it), using it to cash in on non-Royle-related DVDs and books, and, most recently, G.O.L.D.'s Sitcom documentaries. And yet, people buy it. Quite why they want to buy anything featuring the bloke from Operation after really letting himself go is beyond me.

Advent Calendar Day Nine

2011-12-09T22:52:00.001Z

Drinks at the ready...

Day Nine

Sarah Millican

I have a feeling that this is a bit of a Marmite one, a bit like whathisname from last year's calendar, but I'm just a little tired of this woman. She appears on so many panel shows, you can have a fairly effective drinking game. It's a bit like the antithesis of Where's Wally. Unlike most other people on this calendar, I don't dislike her, but I do dislike her always being on the fucking television. Oh, and I'm not a fan of her work by any means either, which you may have guessed, but there are dozens of comedians who very occasionally appear on TV who I detest, but I tend to ignore them. Millican's everpresence forces a sharper focus on her material, because it's always fucking there. Which is a shame. I'd largely ignore her otherwise, and she wouldn't have ended up on this list. Ah well. On with the motley.

Her comedy seems to consist mainly of food, flatulence, toilet humour, her accent and genitalia... well, on TV it does, anyway. Nice and safe and dull and twee. I'm not that familiar with her stand up material, but to be honest, I don't want to be. It breaks no boundaries, nestling comfortably in end-of-the-pier Smutville. She just doesn't appeal to me, and is suffering from extreme overexposure. However, unlike you-know-who, she doesn't come across as an horrendous egomaniac. Yet. I get the impression that she's painted herself into a corner, almost being 'in character' on every appearance, and so is very much stuck in a rut. If she ever wants to move on from this persona, she'll need to vanish from view for a good while for some much needed reinvention. I don't know if her comedy can or will evolve into something less broad, but her never-ending panel show appearances are starting to smack of 'token female comedian', which is never a good thing, especially when she isn't a great example of it.

If that is the case, at least every appearance she makes means one fewer for Andi fucking Osho.

Advent Calendar Day Eight

2011-12-08T20:15:00.001Z

Wotcha!

Today's advent calendar window is a bittersweet one, in a way. But bitter enough that it warrants a mention...

Day Eight

Those Fucking Direct Line Adverts

I know everyone has to eat, but words can't express my disappointment in the stars of this series of adverts. Remember they used to have Stephen Fry and Paul Merton providing the voices of an animated phone and mouse before? Fairly unobtrusive, weren't they? And you didn't have waves of ambivalence flooding over you whenever they were on. I'm still a big fan of both men and their work, despite advertising for the insurance arm of RBS.

However, these ones are different. Now, I like Alexander Armstrong. I like Amelia Bullmore. Hell, I even like Chris Addison. But this poorly scripted, unfunny, unwelcome campaign is really starting to get on my tits. "Free cake!" Hahahahahahahahaha! Oh, can you imagine? "Sorry! But I would say, that's very lucky!" Oh, you witty advert writers!

I realise that the trio are probably getting a tidy sum for appearing in this shitfest, but they are primarily comic actors, each of whom have also written. Would it have been too much to ask for the advertising agency to fork out that little bit more to get them to script edit the adverts at the very least, perhaps rewrite them from the ground up to infuse a little bit of wit? I'm even more disappointed in learning that the (usually) mighty Graham Linehan directed them, and there's a comedy genius right there. Oh, and the Direct Line website describes the adverts as 'hilarious'. You'd think they would be. But they aren't. But they should be. But they aren't. But they should be. And that's my dilemma.

But they aren't.

Advent Calendar Day Seven

2011-12-07T23:08:00.001Z

Hi. Time for another irritant.

Day Seven

John Bishop

Another nosebag botherer, Bishop, looking like Bez after a lengthy rehab, is just another boorish loudmouth 'comedian' who seems to have wandered into mainstream acceptance. Toothy, unintelligible twat Bishop, who barked at the autocue in monosyllabic cacophony when guest-hosting the usually-excellent Have I Got News For You last year, is symbolic of extremely disappointing times in the world of comedy. Last year (I forget which post, but it's there somewhere), I stated that the one good thing about having a Tory government is that great satirical comedy is everywhere. Over a year into this right-wing hellhole and I'm still waiting. Instead, we've got wankers like this hosting a rehashed mix of Barrymore's My Kind Of People and Canned Carrott, on a glossy set, with a dribbling, knuckle-dragging, easily pleased studio audience. I'm seriously considering not starting to pay for my TV licence.

How the blessed fuck did this happen? He's not a funny man; just who is he supposed to appeal to? And, one has to ask, why is it acceptable for him (and others like him) to make racist portrayals of the Welsh on his prime time BBC One show? Or making jokes about a woman who appeared on his show's facial tic? Shameful, lazy, cheap-shot crap. The sooner someone at the Beeb realises they've made a dreadful mistake in hiring him, the better. He doesn't deserve television exposure. Unless Kirsty Young's hosting and there's a reward.

Back tomorrow!

Advent Calendar Day Six

2011-12-06T19:49:00.001Z

Hello, you.

It's a year and a half down the line, but it still hurts. A year and a half since one man put his own political ambition ahead of the people...

Day Six

Nick Clegg

Liar.Traitor. Sellout. Arsonist. Backstabber. Hypocrite. Just some of the wonderful character traits that 'our' Deputy Prime Minister can list on his ill-gotten CV. Arsonist? Just ask him about cacti.

Remember when people used to vote Liberal Democrat because they felt wrong voting for sack-of-spanners-Brown and didn't hate the poor and disenfranchised enough to vote Tory, but had enough of a grey area over most policies? Those days have gone, my friends. The warnings turned out to be true; a vote for the Lib Dems was indeed a vote for the Tories. See? See what you've done?

So yes, the quickest route to power (from a man who has form in this area, being instrumental in the downfall of Charles Kennedy and playing the waiting game with Sir Menzies Campbell, after blatantly stating in public that it was his ambition to be leader) was chosen by a man with no fucking shame whatsoever. Going from telling his party faithful at their 2009 conference that the "choice before people is the choice between fake, phoney change from David Cameron's Conservatives, and real change the Liberal Democrats offer" to, just a year later, saying to Cameron on microphone: "If we keep doing this we won’t have anything to bloody disagree on in the bloody TV debates", he has permanently damaged his party. Not that he cares. If his party decide to oust him, he'll just cross the floor to the Tories. And quite comfortably too.

Anyway, the man's an arse, and a disgrace to boot.

Back tomorrow!

Advent Calendar Day Five

2011-12-05T23:48:00.001Z

Hey hey.

The Dystopian Advent Calendar,in case you haven't realised, has evolved into a rundown of people or things that sicken or annoy me, that I would like to see gone in the coming year. Some past entries have vanished from view, others still linger. Today, we have another newcomer. To me, an extremely recent one.

Day Five

Stacey Solomon (apparently)

Who? Well, I had to Google this one. She's the one in the Iceland adverts at the moment, and used to be in the X Factor. So why the long face? Well,I suppose she can't help it, but I am surprised that nobody offers her an Iceland sugarcube in the latest in a long production line of abysmal commercials from Katona's Pleasure.

Anyway, Iceland's Xmas campaign started a month or so ago, and I was none the wiser who this idiot was. I'm still not, aside from a name. Just look at her quintessentially ITV face. It's like they tried creating the embodiment of the nation's worst lowest common denominator channel just to advertise some budget mini beef fucking Wellington.

Oh, and in the latest one, she sings (amidst the pretence of being a major recording artist):

So, straight from the horse's mouth, she's driving home for Christmas (whilst patronising all of Dagenham). Perhaps she'll get snowed in and never trouble my fucking television again.

Back tomorrow!

Advent Calendar Day Four

2011-12-04T21:48:00.001Z

Greeting's.

The world of advent calendar hatred shouldn't be limited to people or, indeed, comic strip's... *

Day Four

Extraneou's (or missing) apostrophe's

I cant believe in thi's day and age that this nefariou's practice still occur's. Its not just limited to grocers shop's any more. Ive seen instance's in newspaper's and even the BBC New's website of late. If you havent guessed, I'm talking about the misuse of the possessive apostrophe and the apostrophe in general. It drive's me insane.

Urgh. I have to stop the deliberate misuse there. After typing the paragraph above, I don't think I've seen so many words underlined in red. As bad as seeing such abuse of it on what should be one of the world's most respected news sites, it's upsetting seeing it in my children's school on a display for the eco committee as soon as you walk through the door. Sometimes, I get inadvertently drawn into it myself; I use my iPhone for tweeting and going on Feckbook, and Autocorrect kicks in; for example, if you're not paying attention, "TV is at its worst today" will get magically transformed into "TV is at it's worst today", and you end up posting it and looking like a twat. Thanks, Apple.

I realise there are much bigger, much worse things to get irritated or angered by in the world, but as a lover of the English language, those extraneous apostrophes are like miniature daggers being stabbed into my eyes. "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but "name's" will never hurt me". Bollocks.

Futurama covered it nicely in a recent episode, Möbius Dick (nicked from someone's Tumblr page, thank you, whoever you are):

Leela: “Hang on. ‘Its’ shouldn’t have an apostrophe. This means, ‘And it is crew’. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Alien: “It’s a minor error, lady. I mean, we’re space aliens! It’s a miracle we can even speak English.”

Leela: “The miracle is that I’m not kicking your ass.”

Nicely put. More tomorrow!

* Adding those apostrophes actually made my skin crawl.

Advent Calendar Day Three

2011-12-03T23:22:00.001Z

'Ullo. I trust you've had a pleasant Saturday so far.

One good thing about Saturdays is that you're given a welcome break from today's advent window subject.

Day Three

Nemi

In many ways, Nemi follows a long-held tradition of 3-panel newspaper strips, like Peanuts, Marmaduke, Fred Bassett and Garfield, in that it is totally and utterly bereft of humour. Translated into English from its Norwegian original, either something has been lost during the translation process, or its creator Lise Myhre really has no sense of humour at all. Whereas the horrible, horrible Peanuts occasionally will make it very clear what the punchline is supposed to be (albeit presented in a standard unfunny way), Nemi is completely impenetrable. Here's a couple of examples:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Here's another:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA*cough*HAHAHA. Oh no, my sides have split.

Honestly, this is supposed to be the second most popular comic strip in Norway? It's fucking horrible. It's almost as bad as the made-up texts and letters they print in the Metro saying how much they love it. It truly is a piss-poor abuse of the art form, taking up space that something entertaining could inhabit instead. I hate this strip so much, I got a job where I don't have to catch a bus. It was either that or gouging my eyes out with quartz.

Back tomorrow.

Advent Calendar Day Two

2011-12-02T18:24:00.001Z

Here we are again, and another newcomer to the world of advent calendar-based annoyance.

Day Two

Fiona Bruce

Television news is very much a one-way medium, yet somehow this achingly arrogant woman shows how much she hates you, and you don't even have to press the red button to get this level of interaction. Our Fiona adopts the same pose, no matter the severity, tragedy or light-heartedness of the item she's drawling about; left arm on the desk, leaning subtly forward, head cocked, eyebrow raised, slight smirk. She manages to reduce the biggest devastation on the world stage to idle watercooler gossip.

And that's just the news. This woman, whose face you could grate cheese on, seems to be the shoehorned current favourite of the BBC brass (since Natasha fucking Kaplinsky left for the green, green crass of Five and extended multiple instances of maternity leave), and they seem to find a new misplaced vehicle for her every week. She's been in more vehicles lately than a hooker working extra shifts, where she's had more chances than ever to mug to the camera. It's not a pleasant image, having Fiona Bruce-shaped screen burn on my TV.

Rather anachronistically, she also seems to be an ardent monarchist, sycophancy smarming from every chiselled pore as she interviews the nation's favourite grandfather, Prince Philip, or gushes messily over another fucking building that the Queen owns. More so than Selina Scott and the aforementioned Kaplinsky before her, she is very much the real-life avatar of Sally Smedley, yet utterly joyless without an Andy Hamilton/Guy Jenkin script around her.

One final question; is she worth £500,000+ per annum to read smugly from an autocue?

No. No she isn't.

Back tomorrow!

Bloody Nora! It's the Dystopian Advent Calendar 2011! Day One...

2011-12-01T23:54:00.001Z

See? Told you I'd be back.

Things change. Some of the ne'er-do-wells and bastards from last year's (and 2009's, for that matter) Dystopian Advent Calendar have faded from memory, which leaves space for a whole new batch of tossers on the run-up to Xmas. Ho ho ho.

Without further ado, let's heave open the creaking hatch and see which reprobate's twitching behind the beige curtains of the first window...

Day 1

Jack Whitehall

What a good start to the proceedings. Unkempt joke thief toff Whitehall has been stinking up panel shows ad nauseum for a few years now. The man's a fucking disgrace. How did his cocaine binging as reported in the papers only a few short years ago get swept under the carpet, or snorted from it, so quickly? And how did he get on the fucking telly in the first place, despite being bereft of talent (swiping a Stewart Lee routine and hoping nobody would notice)? Perhaps being Nigel Havers's godson has something to do with it. Is that right? No. No, it isn't. This is one man who will make me turn my TV over, rather than enduring him and getting angry. I just find his presence tiresome.

More tomorrow!

Well, that was a long bloody absence.

2011-12-01T19:30:00.001Z

Hello!

You may have noticed this blog hasn't been updated in over 4 months. That's the longest I've gone without posting anything on here since I started the bally thing a few years ago.

There have been many reasons for me not being here, but I won't bore you to tears with any of that now. I'll be doing that in a few days' time. Something to look forward to, eh?

I've also managed to not tweet in all that time, too. Blimey, I've lost a few hundred followers. Fickle, but understandable. Bah. I'll be back on Twitter in the next few days. Again, another treat for you to look forward to. I bet you can't wait.

A year ago today, I posted the first window of 2010's Dystopian Advent Calendar. Ooh, it's that time of the year again... I'll be posting the first window for this year's tonight. Huzzah! Here's this year's harrowing background image...

What else have I let slip in the past few months? Well, there's the results of Shit Britons 2011 for starters. I literally had some votes, and will update you on this later. Honest.

Anyway, it's nice to be back. For me, anyway. See you later!

Shit Britons 2011 - For Your Consideration Part 3 - Vernon Kay

2011-07-26T03:31:00.003+01:00

'Owdo.

You've got a few days left to get your votes in for Shit Britons 2011. I've had a few newcomers adding their votes in the past few days, which has been lovely to see. See the previous post for details on how to vote. You don't have to vote for any of the tossers I've suggested (and my votes don't count); you can vote for whoever you like. Voting this year's been a lot more widespread, whereas last year's tally was very much geared towards one or two people in particular (neither of whom are doing so 'well' this year - Corden I can understand, as he's barely been on TV in 2011, but Piers Morgan? Cheryl Cole? Where oh where are their votes?! Not that I'm trying to influence your vote in any way, of course).

On that note, let me try and influence your vote with:

So, either tweet me with the hashtag #DFShitBritons2011 and tell me who you want to vote for (multiple votes allowed for different people), or post your votes as a reply to this very post.

By the way, David Cameron's still winning. Want to change that? Get voting!

Ta.

Shit Britons 2011 - For Your Consideration Part 2 - Russell Howard

2011-07-20T03:40:00.003+01:00

Hello!

Time for another suggestion for your Shit Britons votes (it could do with a bit of prompting; last year, they flooded in. It's been a bit of a limp trickle this year so far).

I opened up a can of worms in December when I posted my first window for the Dystopian Advent Calendar. I casually mentioned what an obnoxious, puerile waste of scheduling Russell Howard was. Three months later, an angry (deluded) fan stumbled upon my blog and sent an angry reply. So livid were they, that they forgot to spell correctly or adhere to basic grammatical rules. It would seem that I, nor indeed anyone else, is entitled to their own opinion if it deviates from their own misguided set of values. Oh, and 'popular' means 'right', apparently. So if waving a cute little puppy over a blazing fire suddenly came into fashion, you'd be wrong not to do it. This is the kind of idiotic thinking that gets the hive brain cell so worked up over the fucking "journey" of X Factor contestants.

Without further ado, here's the second voting suggestion video for this year's Shit Britons.

But don't let me tell you how to vote. You can vote for whoever you like...

How to vote

You can vote for any British person from all of history (not that I've seen very much of that going on), so long as you think they're reason enough to make you feel ashamed of being from Blighty. You can vote for as many different people as you like, once per person.

You can cast your votes via any of these methods:

1. Join Dystopian Fuchsia (link on the right hand side of the site) if you haven't already, and post a comment on this (or either of the other two Shit Britons 2011 posts so far).

2. Tweet me (@IanHewett) with the hashtag #DFShitBritons2011.

3. Email me at dystopianfuchsia@gmail.com, with the title "Shit Britons 2011".

Voting closes 31/7/11, results in early August. Ta!

Oh, by the way, happy birthday to me.

Shit Britons 2011 - For Your Consideration Part 1 - Rebekah Brooks

2011-07-18T22:25:00.002+01:00

Well, what a bizarre couple of weeks. I shan't go into details, as the non-Murdoch parts of the media (and Twitter) will be doing that in force for months to come, but the demise of the News of the World, leading to the unemployment of its 200-odd staff to save the neck of (alleged) phone hacking approver Rebeka(Cell Block)h Brooks, has been a bittersweet tale. As wonderful as it is to see Rupert the Bare-Faced Tosser's empire begin to crumble (perhaps), the reason for the dreadful redtop's closure (the alleged hacking of Milly Dowler's voicemail) is horrifying. That somebody can trade in their humanity for 30 pieces of silver is one thing, the fact that it was (again, allegedly) in the name of a very powerful political propaganda machine is a terrifying thought. Murdoch's newspapers have (unfortunately) been highly instrumental in influencing the vote. No doubt their reliance on scandal began to give the public a taste for reality TV. For that alone, I can never forgive them.

Anyway, Shit Britons is still running (closing date 31/7/11). Undecided on who to vote for? Here's an idea...

Of course, you can vote for anybody British from all of history (though last year's winner, James Corden, seems to be lagging behind somewhat this year), but I felt Brooks deserved a special mention. Post your votes at @IanHewett on Twitter, using the hashtag #DFShitBritons2011. New to Shit Britons? Read all about this year's contest here: http://www.dystopianfuchsia.com/2011/07/shit-britons-2011.html

Thank you. The results will be announced in early August. Happy voting!

Shit Britons 2011

2011-07-07T16:11:00.002+01:00

Hello! Blimey, has it really been 2 months?

Yes. Yes it has.

Loads to tell, but I unfortunately can't tell you yet. But I will.

At some point. How exciting, eh?

Anyway, last year, I ran the first annual Shit Britons contest, where Dystopian Fuchsia readers voted for the absolute worst that this country has to offer. The doors were thrown open for people to vote for history's biggest tossers, from repressive tit Oliver Cromwell to most destructive chess player ever Field Marshal Douglas Haig, from bloated murdering bigamist Henry VIII to creaking embodiment of evil Margaret Thatcher.

Naturally, votes flooded in for people from the modern world of celebrity. Fair enough.

After the final votes were counted (click here and here), it became clear that the people of the ancient era of last year thought that self aggrandising knight of the realm baiting chunk of unfunny James Corden was the worst person that Britain has ever produced.

Ever.

So, how have things changed this year? Votes were fairly low for Cameron and Clegg, and nobody voted for Thatcher. How odd.

For your consideration, then:

David Cameron and Nick Clegg, public school educated scourge of working class rights.
Cameron, former Bullingdon Club member, hates you. He's plotting against you, personally.
Unless you're landed gentry, in which case you should be fine.
Meanwhile, Clegg... something something something. Oh, you know.

Russell Howard... he indirectly sparked some controversy on this very site earlier in the year; he was the first entry on 2010's Dystopian Advent Calendar, and 3 months later, some internet troll stumbled upon it. Ooh, they didn't like that.
Anyway, he's a bit of a bore, not remotely funny, enjoys talking about a mixture of bestiality and wanking, and is not above the odd bit of casual racism. Tit.

Gary Glitter, still one of the most reviled men in the country, he failed to garner a single vote in last year's shitfest. Which is highly puzzling, given that in the past couple of years, we've had such lovely fare as The Execution of Gary Glitter (click here, here and here) to remind us what a sick human being he is. How will he do in this year's contest?

And there are literally millions of other people you could choose from:

George Osborne

Richard Littlejohn

Fearne Cotton

Nick Robinson

Michael McIntyre

... or any of the vile scum from yesteryear. Jack the Ripper, Lord Lucan, Myra Hindley...

Or how about those people you forgot existed? Adam Rickett, Bill Grundy, George Formby, Jim Davidson, William Rees-Mogg...

Perhaps you'd like to vote for the famous scum and talentless wrecks of today, like Cheryl Cole, Piers Morgan, EastEnders destroyer Bryan Kirkwood, Adrian Chiles, Dappy... The choice is yours.

As with last year, you can vote for as many different people as you like; so, if you wanted to vote (for example) for James Corden, Bryan Kirkwood and Cheryl Cole, you can, but you can vote for each person once only. If you only want to vote for one person, that's obviously okay too. You're not limited by the suggestions above - last year's vote carried many people I'd not considered before. So long as they're British, they're fair game.

Vote by emailing me at dystopianfuchsia@gmail.com with the title "Shit Britons 2011", or tweet me @IanHewett with the hashtag #DFShitBritons2011. After you vote, if you remember somebody else you'd like to vote for, be my guest.

Last year's winner James Corden ended up being the star of my 2010 Christmas Story, It's A Wonderful Corden, and I might do something similar with this year's winner. Ooh, what a fucking honour, eh?

Can Corden hold onto his slightly rubbish crown? Or will bizarre puppet Michael McIntyre usurp him? It's entirely up to you!

Votes by midnight on July 31st please, results in early August. Ta!

In the meantime, do check out my comic, Destinauts, which is progressing steadily (if slowly), and click "follow" while you're there (in fact, if you haven't followed Dystopian Fuchsia yet, you can do that at the top of the page).

Back soon for a lovely Vernon Kay video I've been cobbling together. You'll like it, probably.

David Cameron has last minute change of heart on AV

2011-05-04T10:19:00.000+01:00

Puffy toff David Cameron, long an opponent of the Alternative Vote (despite the fact that it essentially got him elected as Tory party leader, as well as his predecessors), has had a last minute change of heart about electoral reform.

Realising that his arguments about a system that "has always worked [for myself and my job-for-life chums]" didn't ring true for the 67.5% of voters who didn't vote Conservative at the last election (not to mention the 35% of the population that didn't vote) and are stuck with "a shower of shit", as Ed Miliband colourfully described the Cabinet last week, Cameron has held a press conference this morning to rally support for his former political enemy.

Too little too late? Or is it actually designed to derail the Yes campaign once and for all? Cameron's belief that the British public are slack-jawed ne'er-do-wash knuckle draggers, unable to count to 4 so unable to be trusted with something as tricksy as writing numbers in a box, can not be ignored, and this may very well be a tactic to scare Cameron haters away from the campaign.

Watch the clip below.

In all seriousness, please vote yes to AV on May 5th. If it's good (and simple) enough to elect the Conservative, Labour and Liberal Democrat leaders, then it's good (and simple) enough for we simpletons. Any system that gives a larger section of the population proper representation whilst simultaneously eliminating the dangerously undemocratic lull of "safe seats" (propagating the "why bother voting" mindset) is a step in the right direction. If the referendum is voted down, we'll be stuck with two-tier one-upmanship politics for decades until this issue is brought up again.

Do what's right. I thank you.

Fuchsia Shocks: Episode 3

2011-04-29T18:18:00.001+01:00

Afternoon. Apparently, there was something or other going on today. Look back at my post Blue Blood And Other Congenital Mutations for my thoughts on it.

In more important news, David Croft and Jimmy Perry's loveable Cockney sitcom EastEnders celebrates its 26th birthday this year. To celebrate, the BBC are releasing a compilation DVD of the best bits (as you and the BBC know, Best Of DVDs, with clips selected by someone else, are always much, much better than owning the complete series of something).

EastEnders: 26 Years of Cockney Capers features all of your cheeky Walford favourites.

Apples 'n' Pears!

Watch beloved Queen Vic stalwarts Den 'n' Ange as they stick together through thick and thin, no matter what scrapes ladies man Den gets 'em into!

Whistle 'n' Flute!

Those loveable Mitchell Brothers Grant 'n' Phil... what Barney Rubble will they drag their Ma through next?

Brown Bread!

26 years on, they still don't know what to do with lazy stinking 'dead' man Reg Cox. What will he get up to next?

Ooh, Me Farmers!

Dozens of special features, including cheeky chirpy Lucas's Trail of Terror game, James Wilmott-Brown fun-packed fact file, and featurette "Doof Doof", showcasing Laura Beale's tumble down the stairs in a frame-by-frame analysis by "Mad" Frankie Fraser and Duncan Goodhew.

Watch a cut-down version of everyone's favourite funsters' DVD:

Fuchsia Shocks Episode 2

2011-04-27T16:46:00.002+01:00

Another day, another future DVD.

No doubt you're enoying the current series of Masterchef as much as I am. As it's ending, the BBC, eager to capitalise on its gastro-cash-cow, are launching a spin-off DVD in the coming months.

Get ready for MASTERCHEF: OFFALGEDDON!

Hosted as ever by a mockney weeble and some end-of-the-night, down-on-his-luck, dishevelled loner, they drag back the current contestants to face their toughest challenge yet...

They say the first bite is with the eye. Can 3 esteemed restaurant critics spot the eye staring back at them from the plate? Our intrepid amateurs must heavily disguise the most unappetising slop as gourmet cuisine. From human brains to dead cats, from pigs' intestines to a contestant's own finger, can they fool the humourless critics long enough before gastro-entiritis sets in? Put a smile on your nan's face; pre-order a copy today!

Masterchef: Offalgeddon
DVD coming soon

Plus, watch an exclusive clip below... but don't click if you're squeamish.

Incidentally, I really should complain to Tesco about their choice of Easter Eggs they stock...

Part of Cadbury's PedEgg range.
They had unfortunately sold out of Jonathan Kings.

Fuchsia Shocks:Episode 1

2011-04-21T04:26:00.004+01:00

Hello. Welcome to the first of a regular feature where we preview the DVDs of the future. When you watch these, you'll most likely be wearing a silver space suit, eating roast dinners in capsule form and riding a hoverboard, but dreaming of what's yet to come is the central guiding force of humankind. For millennia, Man (and woMan... phew, that was close) has gazed up at the stars and dreamed of owning these very products. So let's bang on, eh?

We're fortunate today to get the jump on every other website, by exclusively revealing two titles due for release during the highly competitive Christmas gifting season, from BBC Video and 2|entertain.

One could get highly irritated by their complete inability to release shows which are crying out for venturing onto shiny beermat (see Please Release Me, above), but these two new DVDs have swept away all claims I could have made about them being slow on the uptake, missing a trick, and possibly something about personal hygiene.

First up...

The One Show Complete Series Box Set
Volume 1 shown (of a 40-volume collection)
A handsome addition to any DVD collection, deserving of its
own annex. Worthy of the extra cost.

It's the ONE you've been waiting for! Finally, all 1000+ episodes of smash hit BBC One early evening drudgery The One Show are heading your way in a complete series box set! All uncut, too-hot-for-TV director's cut episodes feature commentary tracks from every host. Plus! Dozens of bonus features, such as "Where Are They Now... And Why?" featurette, focusing on Hardeep Singh Kohli, Carol Thatcher and Jason Mamford, extended karaoke version of The One Show theme tune, and exclusive CCTV footage of Adrian Chiles stalking Christine Bleakley, plus the hilarious answerphone messages he left her. Don't miss out on this 200 disc box set, retailing at a mere £999.99, just in time for Christmas. Put a smile on grandma's face!

Next...

Wonders Of The Lovely Professor Brian Cox DVD
A lavish series of stills of the science teacher you
wish you had, featuring starwipe upon starwipe
for your viewing pleasure.

Do you like Professor Brian Cox? Of course you do. Ever wish you could just watch him on mountaintops and not worry about learning about science and that? This is the show for you!

Wonders Of That Lovely Professor Brian Cox is for those nobbers that want their fix of physics guru Professor Brian Cox, but can't be bothered to listen to his sage wisdom about pulsars, Gliese 581D, dark matter and entropy. Put a smile on your mum's face this Christmas with this beautiful DVD.

Not convinced? Click below to watch an exclusive clip...

Wonders Of That Lovely Professor Brian Cox

Click here for a slightly more HD version

I hope that these end up on your Christmas wish list. You'd better get those pre-orders in pretty damn sharpish...

Children's TV Re-Imagining Update

2011-04-18T15:16:00.001+01:00

Hi there.

I started this blog in 2009 with Children's Television: The Re-Imagining, and have added new ones every so often. Except I haven't added a new one for months, for many reasons. Well, two.

Firstly, I've been too busy. I've been working on Destinauts, my web comic (links on the right), and haven't had much time to even write a blog here. The other reason is that I've never been happy with the page itself. Too cumbersome. So, I'm looking into ways of making it look a bit better, more user-friendly, and, well, less shit.

I had a request from @HenryDoohan on Twitter to write a new Re-Imagining based on Ulysses 31, so I did.

The Odyssey drifted soundlessly through the void, its captain tired but happy. Despite all the evidence, he'd never really considered how their adventures seemed to recall ancient Greek mythology. The clues were always there, to be fair, but Ulysses was usually too busy preening to think about it, his flowing locks and Richard Stilgoe beard the most important things in the universe. Since putting two and two together (realising that he was called Ulysses was quite a large clue), he abandoned his quest to save his crew, and searched the galaxy for those more colourful aspects of ancient Greece that he'd read about on the, um, Space Internet.
The past fortnight, they'd spent time on the planet Dionysia 5, in the city of Orgion. Perhaps not the best of things to expose Telemachus to at his age, but what sort of father would he be if he didn't, somehow, explain the birds and the bees? Here he now stood on the bridge of his ship, the echoes of his son's vomiting reverberating along the bulkhead, Ulysses headed to his quarters, passing the telepathic Yumi. She paused to read his mind, screamed, and ran down the corridor in floods of tears. Ulysses decided to have a cold shower.
He reached his quarters, the shame of a fortnight's debauchery weighing heavily on his conscience. There, sprawled coquettishly on his bed, was the creepy little robot Nono, as apt a name as any right now, as he made suggestive gestures with a rusty screw. Ulysses felt nauseous, slightly concerned at the burning itch that had flared up.

I've also got to add the Thundercats one I did in the 100th Blog Post. Once I've found a page format I like, I'll write some more.

I might actually write a proper blog post one of these days too.

For Anonymous: More harsh truths about Russell Howard, fickle humans and life in general

2011-04-05T18:22:00.000+01:00

Hello, everyone. Lengthy absence... My father-in-law Richard passed away, and I lost my job (illegally) in the space of a month (I got my job back on appeal last week). Things have been all over the place. I need a nice, sane segue back onto Dystopian Fuchsia. Oh, hello, what's this..?

Back on December 1st, I posted this (squeamish uber-fans of Russell Howard, don't click the link! It contains somebody's actual opinions that you may disagree with):

http://www.dystopianfuchsia.com/2010/12/aaargh-its-dystopian-advent-calendar.html

The other day, I found an unmoderated comment on my blog dashboard. I thought I'd share it with you all, verbatim. It would seem that Mr Howard does indeed have his fans, though I hope not all of them are as dangerously hero-worshipping, illiterate, sensitive and unfamiliar with satire, caricatures and differing opinion.

By the way, Anonymous, if you are reading this, which I doubt, having lots of fans doesn't make it right. Slavery and Gary Glitter used to be quite popular. So anyway, over to Anonymous. With my responses edited in. Enjoy.

"Okay, you people dont like russell howard, we can all see that but is there any reason for the horrible comments about him? (yes, that was the point, and generally the tone of this blog - Ian) fine, if you dont like him, no one is fourcing you to, but just keep your comments to your selves (there's only one of me, and as this is my blog, I keep them to my blog, which people have the freedom to read or ignore. You chose to read them, disagree with them, and took the time to respond. Nobody "fourced" you to - Ian). i dont think people really want to see horrible comments like that do they (the world's a horrible place sometimes - Ian)? no matter what you think of the guy you cant deny that he has many fans out there who would happily argue thatwhat you all have said is a massive pile of bullshit, but each to there own i guess (I'm quite happy to see differing opinions to my own; if somebody is able to provide a convincing enough argument as to why I should think differently, then I will consider it. However, if people's opinions are laced with elementary grammatical and spelling errors, I tend to tune out. Incidentally, having lots of fans means absolutely nothing, and will not sway my opinion one jot; millions of people like the X Factor and its banal cover versions, the public being fickle fairweather fans until they're no longer flavour of the month, but I could wax lyrical over how much it has destroyed the music industry in this country, subjugating genuine talent. Popular means absolutely nothing. If you base who and what you follow on popularity, I genuinely feel sorry for you that you've let yourself get swept up with the unthinking cattle, and hope you find your own thoughts one day - Ian), and whats with the picture? (it's called a caricature - Ian) i think people have kinda gatherd that russell howard has a lazy eye but to be honest i dont really think it slowed him down any has it (I never said that it did. It's a caricature. - Ian), because no affence but i think he will be earning quite a bit more then you and me (what has that got to do with anything at all? - Ian), i think its wrong tht you pick up on one minor imperfect thing and make a meal out of it (I didn't. I assume you didn't notice his nose and mouth. - Ian), because No ones perfect these days are they? its just advice but keep it to yourselves (thanks, but no. If it bothers you, which it clearly has, don't read it or rise to it. Oh yes, I do have to emphasise, there's only one of me - Ian) as no one really wants to read horrible/ affenceive things, the worlds depressing enough thanks, (as I always say, end on a comma. To be honest, I don't really want to hear lazy racism. As a Russell Howard fan, defending every little detail about the man, I assume you're okay with racism? And I assume that by "keeping it to myself", you're in favour of subjugating free speech against a man who has the platform of two television shows and who I feel is the linchpin of comedy's downfall, along with the equally bland McIntyres, Kieltys and Whitehalls of this world. You do realise that you're starting to sound a little bit like a Nazi with "advice" like that, in a passive-aggressive tone? And you do realise that this is the internet, where every pillock has an opinion? Why, pray tell, can this pillock not have his opinion voiced? My blog tends to be about things which I feel are wrong; they could be as meaningless as a drab TV comic, or something as devastating as a Conservative government. The beauty of free speech is that I can write about it to my heart's content, and people can choose to read it, or not, agree with it, or not. I know nothing about you, Anonymous, and you know nothing about me. I don't know how you stumbled across my blog, but, no "affence", I don't think you're the target audience. Perhaps one day you'll take off your blinkers and realise that not everyone thinks the same as you. Good day, thanks for dropping by. - Ian)

By Anonymous on Aaargh! It's the Dystopian Advent Calendar 2010! on 27/03/11"

(I do feel sorry for Anonymous. I grew up in a time when comedy was subversive, clever and thought-provoking. Nowadays, most television comedy is homogenised boredom, and in the case of Russell Howard, lazy, childish and crude. I barely get comments posted on this blog; when I do, they're usually lovely. This stood out like a sore loser. I disagree with everything Anonymous has said, and I despair over the poor use of the English language, but have posted his/her comment regardless. Freedom of speech. Perhaps they can start their own blog and keep their opinions to themselves on there.)

2011-03-20T19:53:00.005Z

Please Release Me Updated

2011-03-04T15:23:00.000Z

Hi. Haven't been around lately for a few personal reasons.

I've just updated Please Release Me, the collaborative DVD release wishlist, with contributions from Stella Kordun, and Mary Whitehouse Experience by me. Please feel free to contribute!

http://www.dystopianfuchsia.com/p/please-release-me.html

Introducing: Please Release Me

2011-02-10T18:56:00.000Z

Hello, all. Just a quick note - click the menu bar under the logo to go to a new page I've set up, called Please Release Me. Everything you'll need to know will be there.

Ta ta.

It weren't like that in my day.

2011-02-09T16:51:00.001Z

Hello, everyone. Blimey, I haven't posted since Christmas Day. The main reason is because I was finishing off Destinauts issue 2, which is now posted in its entirety. Click the cover below to read it (and see how 3 present-day supervillains fare against the Nazis).

So, anyway, kids TV. Back when this blog started in November 2009, I was out of work, and subjected to loads of pre-school kids TV, as my daughter, who had just turned 3, was not yet in nursery. The rubbish I saw across Playhouse Disney and Cbeebies drained my will to live. Disney's endless, soulless, Groundhog Daily repeated CGI dirgefest saddened me beyond belief; despite the schmaltziness that Disney had become (a little unfairly) known for, I've always been impressed by the quality of their cel-animation (ie, proper drawings and that). However, their pre-school output was full of cheap, cold CGI tat. I wasn't comfortable with my daughter being subjected to that (despite 2 genuinely good shows in Handy Manny (CGI with a heart) and Imagination Movers), so we tried Cbeebies (but not before my daughter started developing an American twang).

It was a little better, but seemed a little too young, even for my (very forward) 3 year old girl. In The Night Garden, despite its obvious made-to-sell-toys design, is actually a fine show, believe it or not; it's actually supposed to be shown just before 7pm (when the channel closes), with the aim to help the child settle down for the night. But, in the Beeb's wisdom, they used to show it around 11am. Brilliant. It makes no fucking sense at that time of the day. In fact, it makes no fucking sense anyway, what with its Ninky Nonks, Pinky Ponks and Wanky Wonks. It's currently back in its proper timeslot, but my daughter's moved on (the introduction of the fucking creepy dirtgirlworld was the last straw for me). Thank Christ. It is, overall, a very condescending channel. Kids don't need that.

Months later, and for the past couple of months, I've been at home with my daughter during most of the week (flexitime thingy arranged with work). As of last month, after going through loads of (incredibly tacky and cheap) kids channels, I finally settled on CBBC for her. Do you know what? It really, really surprised me (and managed to fire off some nostalgic synapses).

I was ready to hate everything. As it turns out, Copycats (starring bargain bin reality TV losers Sam and Mark, the latest attempt by the BBC to create their own Ant & Dec), a gameshow whose format has been pilfered from abroad, feels very much like Fun House, Double Dare and stuff that used to be on 'proper' kids TV (ie when I was a kid). People making tits of themselves, essentially. Relic, a co-production with the British Museum, is in the tradition of Knightmare and The Crystal Maze (not as good as either, mind you), and strives to be educational. Little Howard's Big Question (starring comedian Howard Read and his animated 6 year old self) is pitched perfectly; it educates, is fun and has little in-jokes for the adults. Great stuff.

Alternating animal shows Roar and Deadly 60 (and their ilk) have been a staple of kids TV since the 60s, so it's great to see stuff like that is still around. Gastronuts and Junior Masterchef have been pretty good (and surprisingly unpatronising), but I doubt kids would be that interested (my daughter dips in and out, but tends to ignore them). Richard Hammond's Blast Lab seems to not know who it's aimed at; indeed, the kids in the audience and the contestants often seem a little bemused as to what's happening (they're probably wondering why there's a man shorter than them hosting the show), as it switches between Brainiac and the inner workings of Peter Simon's tortured mind every few minutes.

Young Dracula has actually entertained, and is probably as dark (in places) as you can expect kids TV to get in a comedy drama (which sadly ceased production 3 years ago on a cliffhanger), M.I. High is a fun show (though less so now that Danny John-Jules has left), and Paradise Cafe is a New Zealand oddity where kids run a (ahem) smoothie bar on a beach, and have to deal with (ahem) sea ghosts, and feels very much like loads of kids shows that came from Australia in the 90s, like Round the Twist, Girl From Tomorrow and so forth, only with horrible acting.

The animated portion of the day is awful, though. Outdated Canadian cartoon Mona the Vampire, featuring a mentally ill child dragging two of her friends further and further into her imaginary hellscape, has been on the channel for over a decade, as has "what the fuck is that character supposed to be" borefest Arthur. These two feel like generic, lazy scheduling that has always plagued kids TV in one form or another, just throw whatever they still have the broadcasting rights to at the poor children (it's the same reason the fucking Raccoons were still on TV at the start of the last decade). Post modern, polished What's New Scooby Doo has now been replaced with The Scooby-Doo Show from 1976, complete with shaky, classic Hanna Barbera animation and self-perpetuating rolling backgrounds. It must've been very jarring for kids to see this sudden change, but I love it. At least these ones are long before Casey Kasem insisted that Shaggy became vegetarian because he had in real life. Shaggy wanting to eat tofu? It just seems wrong. Bizarre Spanish cartoon Eliot Kid seems to have lost something in translation, the League of Super-Evil is fine, and Shaun the Sheep is surreal genius.

I mentioned nostalgia at the start of this piece. Firstly, I have to mention The Slammer, hosted by Ted Robbins. It's essentially a talent show (a format I actually despise on primetime), but this being a kids show, it's set in a prison (HM Slammer), and the kids in the audience (who judge the winner) can be brutally honest. It was lovely seeing a child describing former CITV cunt Stephen Mulhern as "boring". About time too, I say. Anyway, it's littered with "jokes for the grown-ups" that kids won't pick up on, but it was the cast that caught my attention. Mr Burgess (the Mr McKay-alike warden) is played by Ian Kirkby. I had that nagging feeling I'd seen him before; it turns out he was a regular in Palace Hill and Your Mother Wouldn't Like It from 1985 to 1990. I'm so old.

(Palace Hill clip starts halfway through this... just after the credits of Round The Bend, featuring dozens of recognisable names...)

Kirkby plays Chelsea Bun, the character with the rabbit. Criminally never repeated or released on video or DVD, this as YMWLI were the anarchic shows that the kids had for satire back then. It also featured a character called Jimmy the Time Warp Kid, who's a schoolboy from the 40s. He's played by Steve Ryde, who, aside from playing Tatty Bogle in Wizadora, went on to produce The Slammer, Dick & Dom In Da Bungalow, and...

The Legend of Dick & Dom. Now, for years, I've disliked these two for no reason at all. They were undeniably popular, but I'd barely ever seen them in anything. Whenever I did see them on TV, they seemed to be talking about various bodily functions (one of my pet hates on TV, particularly kids TV - it's lazy and idiotic to assume that all kids find this kind of thing amusing. I never did). But, this show came on. Initially, I was annoyed by the title (yet another fucking D&D vehicle, I thought), I then noticed that it featured the brilliant Stephen Furst as a main character, and was clearly a parody of fantasy films from Krull to Lord of the Rings. Then, I found two things. Fisrtly, it reminded me heavily of Maid Marian & Her Merry Men in tone, look and humour, and secondly, I found I was enjoying it. It's one of those shows which is wasted on kids. They even slip in the odd joke for adults, too (Man: "Oi! Don't touch that, Dick!" Dick: "How did he know my name's Dick?"). Oh, and Brian Blessed turned up in an episode as the king, too. That is a seal of quality.

Okay, so as you can tell, I'm largely impressed with the current state of the output on this channel. It's never going to match what I saw in my own childhood (or indeed yours), and the playing field is very different now; back in the 80s and 90s, there were about 2 hours of children's programming across 2 channels (the Broom Cupboard on BBC One with Pip Schofield/Andy Crane/Andi Peters/Philippa Forrester) or CITV (with Tommy Boyd/Jeanne Downes & Scally etc), with the Wide Awake Club for a couple of hours on Saturday mornings, with the consecutive options of Swap Shop/TISWAS/Saturday Superstore/Get Fresh/Going Live/Motormouth/Live & Kicking/Ghost Train. My memories of kids TV will be very similar or identical most people of a similar age. You won't get that today; it's too divisive, too many channels (mainly filled with random imports of dire quality - at least there was some vetting back in the day, as they had to be selective due to limited broadcast hours to make sure it was of a particular quality). It's a shame. In a decade or two, you probably won't get as many people speaking passionately about the nostalgia they have for their childhood television, but if you do, you'll get vastly different accounts, followed by embarrassed silence.

So where does the channel go wrong? Well, aside from the shonky cartoons, they are definitely obsessed with Dick & Dom, devoting a whole weekend to them last week (though this does show the sheer volume and variety of work they've produced), and child-faced Barney Harwood seems to be their default choice for shoving on anything at all (including the embarrassing Bear Behaving Badly and perma-show Blue Peter). More dreadfully though, it's their obsession with Dani Harmer. Who? She's the jazz-hands me-me-me 'star' of Tracy Beaker, who's apparently tried launching a pop career, and has a sitcom on the channel called Dani's House, where she plays an actress. Called Dani. Quite why they adore her so much is beyond me. Her face seems to be expanding on a weekly basis like an orange satellite dish, and she has short little t-rex arms. Don't believe me? Next time she's on TV (which is probably right now, as they show adverts for Tracy Beaker Returns at least hourly on CBBC and/or BBC One until primetime kicks in), have a look. You half expect Jeff Goldblum to blunder in, muttering some lines in a half-arsed drawl like he never doesn't.

The absolute, absolute worst though is Sadie J. I hate this show. Why? Because, all things considered, it's a cunt. With a laugh track. It's about a 13 year old jazz-hands bitch, played in full drama school show off mode by a girl who speaks exactly like Michael fucking McIntyre. Her best friend is an extremely camp gay kid, a stereotype that gets another demographic box ticked. Whilst I don't have a problem with gay kids being represented on TV (in fact, it would be a step in the right direction if handled correctly), the portrayal is so hideously, stereotypically contrived, I think it'll do more harm than good. The characters speak in fucking text speak. "O. M. G!" said one. "L. O. L!" said another. Oh do fuck off. Okay, so it's supposed to be aimed at girls (yet was created by a man), so I'm not supposed to get it. My daughter sat there watching it, looked at me, and asked "is this meant to be funny?"

She's a sharp one, my daughter.

So, this one show has destroyed my faith in the channel, nay, humanity. Bastards.

Seriously, the main problem with this channel (other than this one piece of crap) is that the schedules will change almost on a fortnightly basis; they show consecutive episodes of programmes daily, so will have covered the entire run of something very quickly. Back in the day, you'd have to wait a week between episodes as there was less airtime to fill, making programmes something to look forward too. Nowadays, it's all very disposable. I do feel sorry for kids nowadays; they're not given enough time to fall in love with shows. I doubt they'll look back fondly and remember any of them.

Oh, but Newsround's got an updated version of its original theme tune back from the John Craven era! That makes it all better.

ADDENDUM: Horrible Histories is one of the greatest shows ever made. Seriously. Watch it on iPlayer if you get the chance. Wasted on kids.

It's A Wonderful Corden

2010-12-25T10:36:00.000Z

Good morning, and Happy Christmas, fuckers! No, wait, that's not right... Merry Christmas, fuckers!

Much better.

Anyway, hope you all have a fantastic day. Continuing a tradition started, um, exactly a year ago today, here's this year's Christmas morality tale. Last year, it was the turn of Noel "Ebenezer" Edmonds in A Christmas Arsehole (if you're on the web version of the site, look down the right hand side to find the link). This year, please welcome lardy ego monster James Corden, winner of Dystopian Fuchsia's Shit Britons 2010 (as voted for by yourselves), in...

It's A Wonderful Corden

by Ian Hewett

High up in the heavens, somewhere 'twixt Uranus and Gliese 581d in the constellation of Libra, two lights sparkled, but these were not comically-named gas giants or disappointing exoplanets 20 light years from Earth, but angels looking down on Earth and its meerkat loving, t-shirt wearing inhabitants. One individual caught their attention, as he seemed to be praying mockingly in a high-pitched whine, whilst wobbling his belly in a vile manner. They were slightly repulsed, but, like all good car crashes, could not help looking back over his life to see how he got to this stage.

James Corden lay on his sofa, scattered with biscuit crumbs and remnants of cake, watching DVDs of Gavin and Stacey. He chuckled to himself. "I really am a fucking comedy genius," he said to nobody. He tutted as the phone rang, and reluctantly heaved his ample frame to a relatively upright position.

"You're through to James Corden, the funniest man you'll ever meet," he whinnied down the phone. "What is it?"

"Hi James, it's your agent," began the caller, before adopting a tone that sounded like they were reading from a pre-prepared statement. "The public aren't sick of you yet. Seriously, they all really, really love you."

James smiled and nodded knowingly, and the caller continued.

"I've got you a spot hosting the Glamour Awards this weekend. Shall I confirm it with them?"

He sighed. Or perhaps got out of breath; it was hard to tell. "I dunno..."

"There'll be an after-show party with free food."

"Well why didn't you say so? Sign me up, Scotty!" He hung up the phone, and silently cursed, as he realised he'd planned a £100 order from Dominos that day.

He walked over to his full-length, full-width mirror, lifted his t-shirt, and wobbled his belly. He winked at his reflection. "You've still got it," he said, and wrote down the belly gag he'd just made on the back of a Kit Kat wrapper, which he pocketed.

As the weeks went by, James started feeling a bit under the weather. The Glamour Awards gig had backfired slightly when he publicly berated Sir Patrick Stewart when he shot down another of his belly gags. How dare he? He may be a Knight of the Realm and a highly respected actor, but you just don't do that to the great James Corden. It was now approaching Christmas, and things had dried up slightly. His hilarious sketch show with that one from Gavin and Stacey had yet failed to get another series, and his obviously hilarious football-based panel game was getting a small audience of cunts on late night satellite TV. Where had it all gone wrong? He needed some publicity-friendly good luck. And a kebab.

He approached a bridge overlooking a freezing river, feeling at his lowest ebb. Then, a little boy walked past with happiness in his eyes at seeing him. Nervously, he approached the star with his mother ushering him on. "C-can I have your autograph, sir?"

James beamed. "Of course you can, young man." He pulled out his pen just for such an occasion, and began to scrawl on the boy's scrap of paper, now smeared in garlic sauce.

"Can you do that thing you do?" asked the boy.

James chuckled. "Of course I can." He pulled up his sweaty t-shirt, and wobbled his belly. The boy screamed.

"What the hell are you doing, pervert?!" bellowed the mother. "I'm calling the police, you fucking sicko," she continued as she dragged her bawling son away. "Your career's over, Wonga Man. Envirofone'll never employ you again!"

James began to weep. Then he began to pray. "Hi, God, it's me. James Corden, the world's funniest man. Only, people don't appreciate me any more." He coughed. "You know what, fuck it. They don't fucking deserve me." He took out the Kit Kat wrapper from his pocket containing his hilarious belly gag, and tore it into little pieces. "I'm just going to end it now. That'll teach the fuckers." As he puffed and wheezed his way onto the edge of the bridge, ready to jump, a man fell past him into the river. "Oh for fuck's sake, what now?" asked a breathless James. He was ready to leave the other jumper to his fate, when he realised this could be great publicity. If he saved him, he'd be all over the papers. Something to gloat over as he ate his fish and chips out of them on Christmas morning.

He belly-flopped into the river, half emptying it on impact. Struggling to stay upright, he suddenly found he was being boarded by the jumper, and guided to the riverbank. Soon, in an old cabin, the two men were wrapped in towels, and a look of recognition flooded onto James's puffy face.

"Bobby Ball?" he said in a high-pitched cacophony. "I do not believe this."

The curly-haired annoyance grinned broadly. "I'm yer guardian angel, fatty. You were about to top yerself in a moment of self pity. Me an' Tommy was watching, and it were makin' us sick, yer big jessie. I tell yer one thing for nowt, you make really good ballast."

"But you're not dead. How can you be my guardian angel?"

"Well, me career's dead. Has been for years." He stretched his red braces out with his thumbs. "Rock on, Tommy!" he shouted. The wet braces pinged back, whacking him painfully in the nipples. James sat silently. "Anyway," he continued, a tear of pain rolling over his moustache, "if I get to show you that life's worth living, I get me wings. Tell yer what, I'll show you what the world would be like if you were never born. That'd be good for a laugh. I love a good laugh, me!"

James sighed. "Fine. Let's get on with it."

They made their way into the city, and passed a nightclub. He saw all the stars going through the neon entrance, from Christopher Biggins to Tim Lovejoy, all of the nation's favourites. "Ee, that looks dead posh, does that," chuckled Bobby.

"I'll get us in," said James with an air of utter confidence.

The bouncer pulled the rope across James's path. "Where the fuck do you think you're going, tubby?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"This is an exclusive club. Now clear off," he growled, as he let Timmy Mallett through.

"Don't you know who I am?" shouted an indignant James.

"Look, pal, clear off, before I fucking cut you." James backed off nervously. "Just a minute," he suddenly said. "Oh my god, it's you!" James beamed broadly.

"That's better. Now then..."

"Not you, prick. Can I have your autograph, Mr Ball?"

Bobby grinned. "Of course, son." He took a pen out of James's pocket, and signed.

"Oh, and can you do that thing you do?"

Bobby twanged his braces. "Rock on, Tommy!" James shook his head as his face dropped.

"That's brilliant. Nice to meet you, Mr Ball!"

"Unbelievable! How can he not know who I am?"

"Don't forget, you've never been born. You'll see some things've changed."

"No, wait. This is brilliant! I can bring my amazing jokes and belly-related fun to a whole new world!" He felt in his pocket for the remnants of the Kit Kat wrapper. "It's gone! My fantastic belly joke's gone! Did you nick it, you little tit?"

"What would I want with that, dipstick? It's not there, 'cos you never wrote it. You were never born, were you? Keep up, yer silly beggar."

"No, that's okay, that's okay... I've just got to get on the phone to the BBC, so I can flog 'em Gavin and Stacey."

"'Ang on... Didn't you co-write that with that... that big girl, Ruth summat..."

"Fuck her. It's her loss. Give me your phone."

Bobby shrugged, handed James a brick-like mobile phone, and put his hands in his pockets, adopting an impish pose out of habit. "You're making a mistake."

"Ssh, it's ringing... Yes, hello, my name's James Corden, and I'm a very talented comic writer and actor. I've got an idea for a show called Gavin and Stacey, a sitcom with a girl from Wales and a bloke from... what? No, this isn't a joke... No, I'm not wasting your time, I'm just... No, please don't hang up. DON'T HANG UP!" His face dropped as he looked at Bobby. "They hung up."

"Course they did, son. You weren't around to 'old Ruth whatsit back, and she wrote that sitcom off 'er own back. It were much funnier in this world too. See, you were basically writing yerself as a character. Thing is, you're a massive wally. People realised that soon enough when yer started believing yer own 'ype."

James felt like weeping, as they passed his local kebab shop, boarded up with a sign indicating they'd gone out of business due to poor trade.

"I've got nothing. I'm fucked in this world, I'm fucked in the real world..."

"It's never too late, son. Everyone goes through a dry patch. Look, yer sitcom. It were alright, that. Okay, yer sketch show were shit, and yer shouldn't've 'ad a go at Picard and made yerself look like a massive wally, but you've 'ad a wonderful life, and yer voice ain't even broken yet. You could always write yer biography while some people still know who you are."

A tear rolled down James's reddened face. "You're right, Bobby. Thank you. Thank you so much." He went to embrace him.

"Ee, keep away," said a retreating Bobby, comedy fists aloft. "I've seen you with yer 'omo bits on yer sketch show, yer big nancy."

James smiled. "All right. Look, I've learned my lesson. Can you put things back the way they were?"

"They already are. Look in your pocket."

James reached into his pocket, and pulled out the torn fragments of his Kit Kat wrapper, still scrawled with his wonderful belly gag. "Kit Kat wrapper! It's my Kit Kat wrapper!" Excitedly, he jogged through the snowy streets, and saw the kebab shop was open once more. "Hello, kebab shop! Hello, you wonderful Greggs!" He slowed his pace as sweat poured down his face. Bobby slowly caught up to him in a casual stroll.

"Come on, son. Let's get back to yer 'ouse, and I'll 'elp you sort out yer book deal."

Christmas Day, and James walked into his house a happy man, clutching fish and chips wrapped in yesterday's newspaper. He read the headline in the grease about his autobiography deal, and when he read the word "million", he giggled like a schoolgirl. Finishing off the meal, he took a Christmas dinner for one from the freezer, popped it in the microwave, grabbed some mistletoe, and began snogging his hand. Life was good. As he waddled through his living room, he came across the home-made spit with the roasted corpse hanging from the ceiling from red suspenders. He gnawed at some newly formed wing meat, grateful for the help Bobby had given him. "It's what he would have wanted," he chuckled, as the grease from washed up Northern comedian dribbled down his chin. He collapsed into his crumb-laden sofa, and began writing the best belly-related gags he had ever written. He was back.

Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope you and yours have a great few days. See you before New Year's Day!

2010-12-24T07:17:00.000Z

Welcome to Christmas Eve, y'all.

Well, the final window then. Excited? Hmph.

Ladies and gentlemen...

... A white Christmas.

I bet you all thought it was going to be James Corden, didn't you?

Well, bollocks to a white Christmas. It's caused nothing but misery, chaos and discomfort. I had to miss two days of work last week because of it, and things we've ordered for Christmas presents haven't shown up.

I shall be finding every snow scene Christmas card I can (especially ones painted by my former art teacher John Upton), and burn them in a big fire. I have nothing more to say on the subject. Hmph.

...

That said, I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas either way. I'll be here briefly tomorrow morning to post this year's Christmas morality tale (you may remember A Christmas Arsehole last year, starring Ebenezer Edmonds - scroll down on the right hand side to find it).

In the meantime, here's a story I wrote for Diary of a Ledger's short story competition from last year. Enjoy!

Yuletied

by Ian Hewett

The bell rang as the door creaked open. The woman's sour expression entered first, followed by her two screaming children and a blast of freezing air. Chris sighed, shivered, and surreptitiously checked his watch was working. His face twisted into a smile like a well-worn catchphrase.

“You,” said the customer, instantly failing to get in Chris's good books, “I want the complete Shakespeare and the Banjopips Annual.” Silence. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you going to find them for me or not?”

“Wait there,” he harrumphed, and trudged off to find them. BloodyBanjopips; this year's must-have flash-in-the-pan merchandise fodder. Dragging his feet through his small bookshop, he barely noticed the man browsing his small collection of occult-themed tomes. Putting his hand on the last of the Banjopips Annuals, with The Complete Shakespeareunder his arm, he did his best not to make eye contact with the man. Chris slowly made his way back to the counter, when one of the children addressed her mother.

“Mummy,” said the grizzling offspring, “I hate this shop. It's dusty and smelly. I want to go home.”

Sliding both books onto a random shelf, he returned to the counter. “We're out of both books.” He could barely contain his sarcasm with his next word. “Sorry.”

“I saw you!” shouted the woman. “You had them under your bloody arm!” She got right in his face, her lip trembling. “I want to see the manager!”

Chris stood his ground, and indicated himself silently, barely able to suppress his smirk. The woman shook her head in disbelief, and dragged her brood out of the shop, leaving the door wide open. Chris went to close it, ignoring the dozens of shoppers, mouths agape, staring his way. He returned to the counter, where the man now stood. Chris turned on the radio, and Slade's festive hit rang out.

“Well, she was fun,” mused Chris to the customer.

“Not in the Christmas spirit, young man?”

Chris exhaled loudly. “No, not really. It's Christmas Eve, and what am I doing? Selling books to rude idiots.” He surveyed his customer; he was an old man, with half-moon spectacles and a greying beard, his overcoat a genuine antique. His lined face had a thousand tales to tell. “Got to keep the shop going, though.”

“Oh, I wish it could be Christmas every day...” mocked the radio.

Bagging the gentleman's items, he offered a small smile. The old man smiled back sympathetically. “Have a nice Christmas, young man.” Chris muttered indistinct words back, as the man left. He had had enough of the ingratitude, the impatience and the miserable faces. Locking the door of the shop several hours early, firmly turning the sign around to “closed”, he made his way up to his flat above the premises, and cracked open a bottle of whisky. Humbug. At least it was Christmas Day tomorrow, and he could have a day off. Slumped in his armchair, his fifth straight whisky sloshing around his palate, he drifted angrily into a deep sleep.

He was woken rudely from a disturbing dream about Noel Edmonds by a banging noise from downstairs. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth like velcro, tearing away painfully. Getting a drink of water to appease the drought in his mouth, he picked up his sole Christmas card. His mad old mum sent him one from the same multipack she'd had for years every Christmas, written in her standard drunken scrawl. Making his way to the shop floor in his dressing gown, dropping the card on the counter, he saw a man staring through the window. A look of confusion and annoyance drowned his face as he unlocked the door.

“We're closed.”

“On Christmas Eve? What sort of shop is this?” The man stormed off, leaving Chris bewildered. Why were there so many people on the high street on Christmas Day? He turned on the radio, but each excitable DJ confirmed it. How had he lost an entire day? Turning off the radio, he scrambled upstairs, got dressed, and within minutes tumbled back down the stairs, a slice of toast hanging from his mouth. The shop was reluctantly open again. He was convinced he was going mad.

That feeling was confirmed after a couple of hours. Chris served exactly the same people that he had the day before, all wanting the same items. He looked around for hidden cameras, to no avail. By midday, he reasoned that it was just his imagination. He had been working all hours lately, exhausting himself. All of his friends had drifted away, and he had no family he was in contact with any more, so the shop, “Leaves All Around”, was all he had. He heard the bell ring, and heard the whining children. Chris felt himself turn cold, and it wasn't just the breeze. Looking up, he saw the woman from yesterday. Usually when he annoyed a customer, he never saw them again. He hated confrontation, so was not looking forward to this.

“You,” she said, “I want the complete Shakespeare and the BanjopipsAnnual.” Silence. “Well?”

The events played out exactly as before. The old man was there, as were the books the woman wanted. Hands trembling, he returned to the counter. This time, she bought the books, but still didn't thank him. As she left, the chilling breeze filled the shop. He edged towards the door and closed it quietly, the coldness remaining within him. Returning to the till, the old man was there, right on cue.

“Are you okay, young man?”

Chris didn't know what to say, in all honesty. He nodded quietly, as he switched the radio back on.

“Oh, I wish it could be Christmas every day...”

As he bagged the old man's physics books, he noticed him reading the Christmas card on the counter, a glint of sadness in his eyes. The man placed the card back on the counter, smiled thinly, and left once more. Shellshocked, Chris walked to the door, locking the world out.

Making his way upstairs, he slumped into the armchair, and began drinking, hoping he could drown the nightmare, wishing it would drag his sorrows down with it.

“Oh, no...”

Within minutes, he was back downstairs, gripping some toast between his teeth as he unlocked the door. The same man was there, but Chris decided to let him in. The day played out exactly the same again, though he felt a little more prepared, but couldn't help the annoyance in his tone with people. Was this some sick joke? This should be Boxing Day, but it appeared that somebody had forgotten to tell the space/time continuum. He kept an eye out for the old man, but by the time the miserable mother and her horrible children had entered, there was no sign of him.

“You,” she said predictably, “I want the complete Shakespeare and theBanjopips Annual.” Silence. “Well?”

“Certainly,” said Chris. “I'll just go and fetch them for you.”

The look on her face was worth it, a small victory. It appeared that she wasn't used to friendly customer service. Mind you, Chris wasn't used to giving it. Making his way to the back of the shop, there was the old man. Chris looked at him strangely. “I didn't see you come in.”

The old man smiled, but didn't say anything. Chris found the two books, slightly bemused, and returned to the woman. “Here we go,” he said, a broad, if slightly forced, smile on his lips. “You were lucky to get theBanjopips Annual. It's my last one.”

The woman smiled slightly, actually looking relieved. “Thank you so much. You know how it is, trying to find that one item for your loved ones that you just can't find anywhere.” Chris hadn't given anyone a present in years, so he didn't know how it was. He could only imagine. Bagging her items, she headed towards the door. “Merry Christmas,” she said with a smile, and closed the door behind her.

He returned to the counter, and turned the radio on.

“Oh, I wish it could be Christmas every day...”

“Well, that went a little better,” said the old man with a wry smile. Chris eyed him curiously. “Is there something wrong, young man?”

Chris squinted slightly. “Nothing... I've just noticed, you've got the same scar as me.” Just under the old man's right eye was indeed a small but visible scar. Chris had the same mark in the same place, the result one of his father's little 'accidents' with a teacup years ago.

The man chuckled, and stroked his scar. “My, so we do. Isn't that strange?”

Chris bagged his quantum mechanics books. “Who are you?”

Picking up the Christmas card, sadness bled into his expression. “I'm a very lonely old man, trying to put things right as best I can.” The rhyming couplet was lost on him.

Chris locked the door. “You're more than that. You know what's been happening to me. The only thing that hasn't been constant is that you've bought different books each time.”

The man sighed. “Let's just say, I'm the ghosts of Christmas past, present and yet to come rolled into one.” He paced around the counter. “You seem very lonely, too. Don't you have any friends or family you can spend Christmas with?”

Chris shook his head, glumly. “Not any more. They all left.”

The man looked him directly in the eye. “It's never too late, young man, to change your fortunes. You're so intent on pushing people away, it shows in the way you serve people. You'll lose your shop if you keep doing that.” He pushed the Christmas card into his hands. “It's never too late.”

The man collected his bag of items, and made for the exit. “Merry Christmas, young man.” Then, he was gone.

Chris locked the door, and made his way upstairs, still clutching the card. He sat gently into his armchair, awash with emotions he hadn't felt in years, still unsure as to what the events of the day meant. He picked up the whisky bottle, full again as before, but decided against it this time. Time to break the circle... or at least, chip away at it. He drifted off into a deep slumber.

He woke peacefully the next morning, listening out for the banging at the door. It didn't happen, and he found himself strangely missing it. He made his way to the shop floor. There was precisely nobody outside. The street was empty. He unlocked the door, and went into the street, still in his dressing gown. Nobody. He tried to suppress his laugh, but failed. It echoed loudly around him, reverberating around the otherwise silent buildings, punctuated by frosty-white breath. He ran back inside when the chill became unbearable, glad that it never actually snowed at Christmas. Locking up again, he turned on the radio.

“Oh, I wish it could be Christmas every day...”

He sat and listened to every note, welling up with nostalgia when Noddy broke into the scream at the end of the song. The DJ confirmed that it was Christmas morning, but Chris already knew that.

He smiled, and picked up the telephone, dialling a number from memory.

“Mum,” he said, tears trailing down his cheeks, “it's me.”

Day 23...

2010-12-23T14:20:00.000Z

Well, what a dreadful year, eh? So dreadful, in fact, that today's advent calendar window gives us a twofer.

Ladies and gentlemen...

... David Cameron and Nick Clegg.

No one party gained a majority during the 2010 General Election, so it fell to David Cameron to give a "big, open and comprehensive" offer to Clegg's Liberal Democrats, and Clegg, eager to enter Cameron's big, open and welcoming buttocks, stabbed the nation in the back, bringing a dreadful right wing coalition government into power. Kay Burley said that the country has "voted for a hung parliament". No it hadn't, you silly cunt.

Since then, law and order has collapsed, (quite rightfully) angry protests at the steep hike in tuition fees (which wouldn't be of immediate concern to these two privately educated millionaires) will continue and exacerbate, whilst the Liberal Democrats in government prove ineffectual. The one ray of light is that the cracks are already beginning to show; no coalition government has ever lasted for long. Let's hope that this one falls by the wayside before they do too much more damage.

Last one tomorrow. See you then!

Day 22...

2010-12-22T11:54:00.000Z

The last couple of years has seen television vomit out some particularly unpleasant presenters. Today's advent calendar window reveals one of the most irritating. Ladies and gentlemen...

... George Lamb.

The only man in the western hemisphere to be named after two pubs, Lamb is the son of Larry Lamb, who was the main puppet character in Toytown and went on to play evil rapist Archie Mitchell in EastEnders. Lamb Jr's droning pretentiousness has grated against the nation's speakers for a few years now, fronting such heavyweight fare as Big Brother's Little Brother and Celebrity Scissorhands, and his cocksure arrogance is a punchable offence. How a man with amoebic charisma with a face like a spoon's reflection and hair like an octogenarian mushroom cloud is allowed anywhere near a television camera is a source of irritation for me.

Kindly piss off and let someone with an inkling of how to engage viewers step in instead, you orange tit.

22 down, 2 to go... who's next? Find out tomorrow!

Day 21...

2010-12-21T10:59:00.001Z

Good morning. Hope you're dealing with the snow better than I am.

We have another returnee for the advent calendar, simply because they're annoying as much this year as they were 12 months ago, and it's another case of bafflement as to why they're so revered, especially considering their past.

Ladies and gentlemen...

... Cheryl Cole.

Back in 2003, bruiser Tweedy (as she was then known) tried taking some lollipops from the toilets of The Drink nightclub in Guildford. The attendant tried stopping her as she had to pay for them. Obviously, this was unacceptable, and the attendant was punched by Tweedy. During the incident, she called Sophie Amogbokpa, the attendant, a "black bitch," and said "go and get that Caribbean jigaboo back up here and I will give her another one." Nice.

Of course, this whole incident was brushed under the carpet, and Tweedy, twice suspended from school (once for fighting) is now enjoying a career of judging the talent of others (which really doesn't sit well at all, as though irony was made of osmium to make it heavier), and making piss-poor music, simultaneously advertising shampoo that gives you a "healthy Cheyenne".

Quite why you'd want to acquire a healthy Cheyenne, I don't know. Perhaps you have to send off tokens.

It would take a very cynical person to even suggest that her recently-ended marriage to Ashley Cole was a celebrity-culture marriage of convenience to quash accusations of racism. Thankfully, I'm not cynical enough for that.

So here we are, about to enter a new year, and pudding-faced slugger Cole is still fucking well everywhere. Her music is cacophonous, her crocodile tears wash over the stupid and the easily led, and it turns my stomach that such a vile bully with dead, soulless eyes is so adored and allowed on television. It sends out a poor message that this is what young girls have to aspire to.

Seemingly, the only thing that will get rid of her is if she shoots herself in the foot. Given her past, she's not too bright but extremely self-serving; it's a delicate balance, but one prays that she'll do something very, very stupid soon that will remind everyone what a nasty thug she's capable of being.

Back tomorrow!

Day 20...

2010-12-20T15:00:00.000Z

Hello.

There's nothing quite like great political satire. Some people are absolute masters. Some are... well, slightly over-rated. Ladies and gentlemen...

... Rory Bremner.

Why him? He's hilarious! Actually, no he fucking well isn't. He's never, ever been funny. Ever. Unless karma is a reality, in which case he's due to become the funniest man who ever lived.

A man of 1000 voices, my arse. He's got about 3. His George Bush is just his old Ronald Reagan with a bit of a slur, his Ed Miliband will no doubt just be his Tony Blair, and his Geoffrey Boycott was recycled in recent years as Gordon Brown.

He's a fucking bore. He was on the Andrew Marr show this week; he was asked to do his review of the year in as many wacky voices as he could. So, cue the George Bush impression. Obviously, Bush has been a major figure in the year's news. Oh, and cue Tony Blair, again a major figure in the news for all of five minutes. That's ALL HE FUCKING DOES.

Guaranteed, whenever he's cropped up on a panel show (be it Mock The Week, Whose Line Is It Anyway or whatever), they'll suddenly have an impressions round. Why do these shows cater to this blank slate like he's some kind of comedy god? His material is devastatingly weak, and yet here he is still, twenty or so years down the line, still polluting the airwaves with his tired patter. The current crop of politicians are fairly bland and anonymous (much like Bremner himself), so perhaps he can create some scenarios where Bush, Blair, Brown and even John Major and Geoffrey Boycott are shoehorned in, the unimaginative cunt.

More tomorrow!

Day 19...

2010-12-19T16:30:00.001Z

Hello.

News channels. Aren't they great? Free from political bias of any kind whatsoever, and anchored by journalists at the very peak of their profession, providing balanced, thoughtful insight and calm, rational delivery.

But then there's today's advent window. Ladies and gentlemen...

... Kay Burley.

A dreadful embarrassment to the news anchor profession, equine-faced Burley is the moron who stated, on the morning of September 11th 2001, that " the entire eastern seaboard of the United States has been decimated by a terrorist attack", and called the student protesters "insurgents". Ham-fisted journalism at its very worst. You can expect no less from this real world Sally Smedley. Just watch this for evidence of her fuckwittery:

"Nobody cares what I think." Indeed. Now kindly fuck off and let a grown up do the job.

More tomorrow!

Day 18... Sontar Ha!

2010-12-18T20:35:00.000Z

Hi.

I hope everything's okay with you lot. Me, I'm not great. The snow has prevented me from being able to get into work, so I'm feeling pretty shitty. I live on a steep hill, and there's a foot of snow so far. No buses are coming this way at all, taxis refuse to drive up... Pretty much stranded. Bugger.

At least one person will be nice and warm, with all that fat. Oh, and armour. Ladies and gentlemen...

... Eric Pickles.

Sometimes, some people appear in the public eye who go beyond parody. Charles Dickens had some very colourful names for his characters; who knew that one of them would cross over into the real world?

Pickles is Secretary of State for Communities and Local Government, an overblown title for an overblown man, severely out of touch with the working classes and any sense of reality. Watch this...

... and this...

Isn't it worrying that Michael Winner has contributed to two of this year's advent calendar subjects? Terrifying.

Not as terrifying as having a Sontaran in government.

More tomorrow!

Day 17... Children of the Dumbed (Down)

2010-12-17T20:15:00.002Z

Hello!

Today's choice may seem a little obvious to some, but after last year's calendar, they're still here, corrupting the very quality of television, music, sanity and matter. It's about time they fucked off, but it doesn't seem that's going to happen any time soon.

Ladies and gentlemen...

... Jedward.

Contrary to what some may think, that isn't a contraction of Jacob and Edward, the supernatural flavours of the month, but instead something else that's a worse affront to natural order in the eyes of whatever god you believe in. There are ways of killing vampires and werewolves at least. How do you destroy stupidity?

This pair of imbeciles, despite not winning that rubbish talent show that so many seem to like, haven't gone away. Their voices haven't yet broken, and, more worryingly, the vital synapses relevant to sentience don't appear to have fired either. I often state that people on here are thick, but these two... these two... it's a dreadful state of affairs that this talentless duo of cunts is still in the public consciousness, or that they got there in the first place. In perhaps the cruellest mistake that genetics has ever overseen, not only do we have the densest, most annoying person the human species has ever birthed, but we have it in duplicate. Thank fuck they weren't triplets.

From advertising Nintendo to getting fronting a CBBC show in 2011 (I fucking knew something like that would happen), all you idiots that voted for them in that thing last year, I hope you're fucking happy. We should not be celebrating or promoting stupidity. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.

More dreadfulness tomorrow...

Day 16...

2010-12-16T11:48:00.001Z

Good morning, all.

Before we get onto today's subject, there's an update on yesterday's, justifying his inclusion on the Dystopian Advent Calendar. Michael McIntyre has proven his light entertainment credentials by signing up as a judge on Britain's Got Talent. Good lord, shoot me now. Last year's advent calendar alumni Amanda Holden and Simon Cowell are still there (the later only cropping up later in the series, but still), Piers Morgan's fucked off to replace Larry King of all people (how?! How are these ridiculous things happening in the world?!), and they're joined by David Hasselhoff (a man who does a decent enough job of parodying himself, but maybe he'll be here on next year's advent calendar... we'll see how much he annoys in 2011). Hasselhoff aside, the full set of bastards have been on the calendar now. I hope they all annoy you as much as they annoy me.

So, today's window, then. Earlier in the year, I sang the praises of EastEnders around its 25th anniversary. The storylines were more compelling than usual, the standard of acting (apart from a couple of dregs who have since departed) far surpassed that of your usual soap opera stereotypes, and it showed that it was capable of pulling the rug from under your expectations on occasion. It was in the best shape it had been in years. That was mainly down to departing Executive Producer Diedrick Santer, who had guided the show to the brilliance it was more than capable of.

But then he left. And things went rapidly downhill under his replacement. Ladies and gentlemen...

... Bryan Kirkwood.

When I first heard that the former producer of Hollyoaks was being drafted in, I was a little worried about the state of the show to come. Looks like my fears have come true. During his tenure, Phil Mitchell has developed an addiction to crack; it took a pesky fire (where nobody died, unusual for a soap) to cure him within a couple of weeks, Shirley has lost any morality she developed as a character since she joined, pretty much going back to square one, the excruciating Gold family have been brought in, where we were supposed to care about the failing marriage of orange woman Vanessa and her Dominic Littlewood-alike husband, and the paternity revelation of their moon-faced daughter, eldest Branning daughter Lauren has been recast as an animatronic drama school gonk with jazz hands and a whole new personality (which seems as though it was poorly written on a beermat and typed into the show bible verbatim), Ben Mitchell has resurfaced with a new face (specifically Jay's), utilising the first use of split screen in a soap opera when he appears in a scene with said character, with a generic Mitchell characterisation grafted on, entirely replacing the old character to the point of being unrecognisable, Billie Jackson's death was poorly handled and with no dramatic lead-up, a poor pay-off for the build up of his joining the army... In a nutshell, it's become embarrassing.

EastEnders can be good. It has been good. But the man in charge is overseeing a show that has all the believability and impact as... well, Hollyoaks. I hope his tenure is a short one. He certainly shouldn't be running something as high profile as EastEnders. Perhaps there's a Primark in need of a changing room attendant somewhere. In the meantime, the only "doof doof" moments I want to hear are Kirkwood getting beaten up in a car park.

Back tomorrow evening for the 17th window. Fuckity bye!

Day 15...

2010-12-15T12:00:00.002Z

Morning, all.

Last year's Dystopian Advent Calendar, much like this one, was based primarily on what's been of annoyance in the recent past, though last year's had a bit more irrelevant stuff. Like Christopher Lillicrap and Arthur Fowler banged up. This year, many of last year's subjects have fallen by the wayside, as although they're still alive, they haven't been as troubling. Heather Mills must be happy with the money she got from Macca, as I've barely heard her mentioned this year. Likewise, Josh whatshisname from the T-Mobile ads (who, bizarrely, started following me on Twitter not long after (he's unfollowed since)), Justin Lee Collins (who, since then, has been rapidly vanishing up Sky Three's welcoming buttocks into oblivion), and Patrick fucking Kielty (only one or two TV appearances this year, and though I still detest the man and his mean-spirited 'comedy', it's nice to have a break from him on my telly).

I'm hoping that today's subject, by this time next year, will be a distant memory (albeit the sort that you need decades of therapy to recover from). Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome...

... Michael McIntyre.

Yet another generic light entertainment enema of a man. Why do so many of his ilk wind up on television? Supremely outdated, there's no danger, no edge to his comedy. Perhaps it's the pinprick eyes and mid-puberty wavering voice, annoyingly and permanently teetering on the edge of breaking. Maybe it's because he looks like one of the Riddlers. I just don't know where his comedy is supposed to come from. I just don't "get" him. Bland, pointless, unfunny, ever so slightly smug, with an irritating hyperactivity, as though he's fallen into a character that he wishes he could leave behind, like Slurms McKenzie on Futurama. It all feels a little bit... safe. I think we're about due a resurgence of "alternative" comedy, like we had in the early 80s; we have a Tory government out of touch with the people, and disastrously anachronistic comedy on TV. We need something subversive. This pilchard ain't it.

Michael McIntyre

A Riddler

More tomorrow!

Day 14...

2010-12-14T11:24:00.000Z

Everybody needs a role model.

I have several myself, ranging from those that have influenced me with their writing, like Simon Furman, J. Michael Straczynski, Rob Grant and Doug Naylor, to artists such as Andrew Wildman, Geoff Senior, Liam Sharp and Stephen Baskerville, to the pure intelligence and punk ethic of Greg Graffin.

It turns out that thick chavs need their role models too. Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to drop several dozen IQ points for...

... N-Dubz.

Those ridiculous hand signals they do (which could, I suspect, be indicating either IQ points or brain cell count) have been copied by Spar doorstep dwellers (I know of one such chav; her photos of her and her friends all have them doing some stupid hand gesture akin to these fuckers). It does make me laugh when British street urchins suddenly think they're in the East Side. A'ight. Do they still say "a'ight"? I don't fucking know. I can't keep up with the vernacular of stupid kids any more. "Safe" seems to be one of the latest ones. And I swear, if I hear anyone else saying "oh my days", I'll push them in front of a bus.

Anyway, that's all besides the point. They're a symptom of something that I hate about this country, manufactured "bands" (the sort that don't play instruments, write their own songs or graft tirelessly from seedy pub to seedy pub building up a following through their own merits), compartmentalised into cartoon characters, thousands of thick people who aren't wise to the ways of the world thinking that it's all real.

Dappy (the cunt that wears the stupid hats all the time, probably hiding an embarrassing combover) is pretty much one of them, a thick chav mascot (a "chavscot", if you will). Whilst this group were supposed to be central to an anti-bullying campaign, this utter turnip of a man decided to send malicious text messages to a woman who dared say on Radio One that she didn't like N-Dubz. His appearances on Never Mind The Buzzcocks just emphasise what a waste of atoms he is. Thicker than two short walks through heavy fog in a swamp.

I know very little about the other two, except the other bloke (who I've just learned is called Frazer, thanks to Google, perhaps the only time I'll ever search for these cunts) apparently was facing a life of crime if his music career didn't take off. One, that's probably a load of bollocks invented by the record label who are well aware of the simpleton audience who'll buy into the story, and two, I wouldn't get too comfortable in your "music" career, sonny. The woman, Tulisa (which has got to either be entirely made up, or the product of a really stupid parent; it sounds like one of those illnesses you read about in Dickensian novels), has the vacant stare and arrogant manner of your typical tracksuit wearing chav.

If you happen to walk past N-Dubz hanging around outside your local Spar, no matter how much they plead, do not go in and buy them 20 Lambert & Butler and a bottle of cider. They'll threaten you, laugh loudly and swear at you as you walk past, but they're only showing off in front of each other. They'll eventually just go to the local youth club or hang around in the Tesco car park nicking trolleys. Besides, Dappy's only about 3'5".

More tomorrow. Ta ta!

Lucky 13...

2010-12-13T14:49:00.000Z

Hi there.

Sometimes, TV gets into a rut. It becomes lazy shorthand to get flavour-of-the-month X to host mediocre programme Y, deluding themselves into thinking that it's by public demand. It's a self-perpetuating circle of despair, as the same bland starlets crop up ad nauseum on absolutely fucking everything.

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the cavernous nostrils of...

... Fearne Cotton.

The BBC have often done this. Get one young-ish presenter cropping up on children's TV, stick them on Top of the Pops or whatever yoof show happens to not be dead yet, then shoehorn them onto Radio One, whilst simultaneously letting them whore themselves around any old lowest common denominator shit that happens their way (this is known as the Edith Bowman Scenario).

BBC controller: "I've just commissioned a generic, brain-dead programme for generic, brain-dead young people. I just need someone generic and brain-dead to present it."

BBC producer: "I know just the person."

And that's the way it goes. Fearne Cotton's a complete mystery to me; she's not the one that used to host This Morning with Pip Schofield, by the way. Instead, she's the dim-looking one with the nostrils that Osama bin Laden wouldn't mind hiding in, the gravelly voice of a 40-a-day long distance trucker, and more unattractive tattoos than Popeye. How this simpleton that crawled from the reject bin of Jim Henson's Creature Shop is allowed anywhere near a broadcaster just escapes me.

Not even hosting the Xtra Factor was beneath her. Now, she's apparently trying to break America. I can only hope it breaks her first.

Be back tomorrow morning for window 14...

Day 12...

2010-12-12T20:10:00.000Z

Howdy.

Some people just won't go away. Despite their views being vastly anachronistic and offensive, they somehow manage to keep in the public arena, and openly embraced proudly by their employers.

Ladies and gentlemen...

... Richard Littlejohn.

This man's been a thorn in the side of decency for as long as I can remember, going as far back as when he tried to stop Robin Hood crossing a river. Notoriously bigoted, Howard the Duck lookalike Littlejohn firmly believes in the racist, homophobic nonsense he spouts from his approximation of a mouth.

Three things sum him up nicely. Firstly, when he returned to the Daily Mail, the newspaper proudly declared that he was returning to his "spiritual home". Secondly, he is Nick Griffin's favourite journalist (most likely because he provides a mainstream voice for his small-minded scaremongering and lies). Thirdly, on his own talk show, Littlejohn was branded an "arsehole" by, of all people, Michael Winner, which is a bit like the pot calling the kettle black.

Littlejohn wouldn't like that at all. Cunt.

Back tomorrow for another of the nation's finest.

Day 11...

2010-12-11T23:48:00.001Z

Hello.

One of the worst things about having a Tory government (with Lib Dem frosting) is, inevitably, you're going to get somebody with the middle name Gideon. Ladies and gentlemen, the 11th advent window has yawned open to reveal...

... George Osborne.

What a dreadful man. Looking like a Victorian workhouse owner, Osborne was actually named Gideon Oliver Osborne. When he was 13, he changed his name to George as an "act of rebellion". That's just not normal.

Not yet 40, this man is in charge of the nation's beleaguered finances. Being heir apparent to the Osborne baronetcy and a direct descendent of Lady Clarisse Loxton Peacock, coupled with his personal fortune in excess of £4m, he obviously has the working classes at the forefront of his decisions.

The sight of him makes my skin crawl, and it's only going to get worse; the VAT increase to 20% from January is the tip of a very large right-wing iceberg.

Ugh.

Be back tomorrow for another reason this country's morally crippled.

Day 10... Ooh, crumbs, PM!

2010-12-10T23:12:00.000Z

Good evening. It's Friday, so a late addition to the advent calendar today because of work. Hmph.

So, are you feeling the sting yet? Y'know, the evil snare of the Tory Fatherland in which we're now engulfed? Well, today's advent windowlicker couldn't be happier...

Nick Robinson.

When everybody knew that the inevitable was going to happen (ie the downfall of the Labour government), most sane people were slightly trepidatious; was this going to mean a coalition government formed from the remnants of Labour capped off with Liberal Democrats, or worse, the same with the Tories forming the bulk of the government? When it became clear that Nick Clegg had sold us out, this stain of a man was utterly delighted. Leaving his remit of avoiding political bias firmly at 221B Baker Street, he was practically mid-coitus as David Cameron and Clegg skipped merrily along Downing Street, holding hands like two giggling schoolgirls.

Smugly batting off any potential Lib Dem/Labour deals, he took just a bit too much delight in the events that unfolded. I mean, I've never liked the oily tick, but this pushed me over the edge. Perhaps one day, we'll see the likes of John Cole back in the position of the BBC Political Correspondent, and we'll get thoughtful, balanced coverage again, regardless of their personal political bent.

It would help if you could see his fucking eyes. If you squint at him like a magic eye picture, you can just about make them out. Shouldn't they be attached to his head? That can't be normal.

More tomorrow night...

Day 9...

2010-12-09T13:25:00.002Z

Hello there.

Firstly, the announcement trailer for Transformers: Dark of the Moon has just been released online. Tonally, I love it. If Bay can avoid the dire, puerile slapstick this time around, then we may actually be in for an intriguing film...

Onto business, then. Let's open the 9th window of the calendar...

Kara Tointon.

You know, that one that used to be on EastEnders? The one that spoke each of her lines in a precise, monotone approximation of cockernee? The one that's been on that anachronistic dancing programme lately?

Just another fame-hungry drama school alumnus, she used to date that one from Busted that isn't the one you're thinking of. As soon as they split up, she dumped him as he wasn't famous any more, and therefore would not help her career. Despicable, and typical of the self-serving attitude that a lot of young 'stars' seem to have nowadays.

She's threatened that she would like to return to EastEnders one day. Christ, I hope not. When she's on screen, her face looks like she's sucking a lemon whilst an inconvenient quantum singularity forms up her nose, and so hungry for fame she eats three shredded Heats every morning. Weasel-faced starfucker Kara wants YOUR attention, so expect a flurry of mediocre reality show appearances before she tries to launch a singing career, tries desperately to get cast as Eliza Doolittle (the character, not the flavour-of-the-month NME fodder), and winds up back in monotocockernee mode on EastEnders again.

More tomorrow...

Day 8: Cheeky Chipper Cockernee Wanker Day

2010-12-08T12:52:00.001Z

Good day, all.

You know, sometimes a person will appear on TV that you just know you won't be able to avoid for years to come. The vile opportunists will crop up on any low budget, lowest common denominator shit going. Today, we open the Dystopian Advent Calendar's 8th window on one such annoyance.

Dominic Littlewood. The man annoys me for many reasons. It's his affected cheeky chappie persona that really fucking grates, for one thing. On a more personal level, a couple of years ago when I was working for HMV, he happened to be filming on the main street outside. That day, the amount of people coming in and actually fucking haggling over the price of what they were paying for (from singles to consoles, even gift cards) was ludicrous. He was notably absent from this minor act of chaos, and god only knows how many other retailers had to put up with his nonsense that day. The man's a menace.

He used to be a used car salesman. Does anyone really trust this irritating slaphead? Those rumours of him being a former burglar just won't go away either (though many references to that have mysteriously vanished from the internet).

The sooner he's off the telly, the better, though I get the feeling that won't be for some time. Fuck.

Anyway, back tomorrow for more.

Day 7...

2010-12-07T14:10:00.001Z

Good afternoon!

Just got back from seeing my son in his Xmas concert. He played 3rd Shepherd, and was brilliant. He got a couple of laughs too, so I'm feeling immensely proud, and in a great mood.

Oh wait, I've got to do today's Dystopian Advent Calendar... who did I line up for today? Oh, shit. Him.

Well, that's ruined my mood.

Without further ado, let me introduce you to...

Derek Brockway.

Most of you, hopefully, have never heard of him. He's a local weatherman for BBC Wales, and every time I see him on the telly, I punch a wall.

You know those local media types who, for whatever reason, think that they're a major star? This complete arse is the flabby embodiment of it with his fake tan and camp presentation. Just look at this video to see what sort of man we're dealing with here:

Ugh. I can't help thinking that that entire piece was not about Children In Need, but... him. He's the sort of weatherman that loves receiving your snow pictures. Amongst other things. Here's a recent bit of a weather forecast I managed to film. Note his cavalier use of the word "penetrating". The thing that made my skin crawl was the use of "Brrrrrr..." on the graphic behind him. The patronising cunt.

You can thank your benevolent stars that he's unlikely to ever go national, the odious fucker.

Join me again tomorrow for another unpleasant individual.

(If you've got a minute, pop along to my web comic. I've added a few new pages lately. Oh, and click on "Follow" whilst there. In fact, why not click "Follow" on this site too? Ta.)

Destinauts.co.uk

Advent Calendar Day 6...

2010-12-06T14:48:00.002Z

And a very good afternoon to you.

Time for another advent calendar window, then? Yes, let's do that.

In all honesty, I wouldn't have become overly aware of today's subject had it not been for Twitter. The great thing about Twitter is that people in public office are very capable of showing themselves as the self-serving liars they are (particularly if they throw slander and libel around on their blog which you can't comment on).

Ladies, gentlemen, other, I give you...

... Nadine Dorries MP.

Who?

You may well ask. She's the Conservative MP for Mid Bedfordshire, and there's a long trail of lies, deceit and self-serving, self-promoting nonsense glistening behind her like a narcissistic slug.

Amongst her pearls of wisdom are that “Tridents are not weapons of mass destruction”. Her anti-abortion campaigning was based on incorrect information; she doesn't let a thing like cold, hard science and fact get in the way of a good bit of self-promotion on issues bigger than her. I don't follow her on Twitter, but I read enough about her and her childish games and slander. She, of course, is utterly blameless, maddeningly unable to admit wrongdoing. Just like most MPs, really. The worrying thing is that her constant media-hungry furore might one day get her a ministerial position. This is a woman who has been compared to Sarah Palin in the past, and recently praised said numpty on her vile blog.

Oh god, they let her on Question Time again this week... She's a frigging lightweight, dancing around issues without providing a substantial answer, and comes across as clueless on here. Trying to avoid questions with double talk, she gets rightly torn apart. Very amusing amidst serious questions. She flatly refuses to accept responsibility for her party's decisions, tries to insert spin and rhetoric, and oh my word she's never ceases to amuse in her quest for self-promotion.

For more Dorries gems, click here, here, here and here. Oh, and watch this, which sums it all up nicely.

One of the highlights of her tawdry blog in recent months was that people claiming disability benefits should not be using social media. Read this for the full story. She was forced to admit that 70% of her blog was "fiction" during a sleaze investigation.

Well, perhaps it is. She is definitely 30% Michael Winner, either way.

Hopefully, we'll have a less vile person tomorrow...

Advent Calendar Day 5...

2010-12-05T23:39:00.002Z

I love cartoons, me.

Actually, that's a bit of a generalisation. That's a bit like me saying I love the British, whereas we can (unfortunately) count Gary Glitter and Chris de Burgh amongst our populace. What I should say is that, by and large, animated series can be extremely enjoyable, particularly if you have a team of visionaries behind them. They may have fallen out of fashion in recent years, but Ren and Stimpy and Beavis and Butt-Head were the products of twisted genius, as much as Tom and Jerry and The Flintstones before them.

Animated television shows have come a long way, and though you have The Simpsons, Family Guy and Futurama for an adult audience (despite what Channel 4 listings shows would have you believe), first and foremost, cartoons will find their natural home on children's television. From your standard comedy cartoons (the entire Looney Tunes and Silly Symphonies back catalogues, all beautifully animated and wittily written, along with Animaniacs, a modern day classic), to action/adventure fare (the list I could write here would extend for some time, taking in everything from Battle of the Planets to Dungeons and Dragons, Transformers to Visionaries, Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends to Batman: The Animated Series), cartoons will always have a special place in my heart.

But then this cunt comes along.

I had a choice today between two distinct entities. For sheer crimes against all that's decent and good, Special Agent Oso narrowly beat Kim Jong-Il to become the fifth choice for the calendar. It's a poor state of affairs when the once great (but often grating) Disney allow their branding to be attached to this soulless cutscene from a Net Yaroze game. Being a father to two kids, I've had to watch a lot of preschool TV in the past 7 years, and my daughter's channel of choice right now is Playhouse Disney. Okay, it's for preschool kids, but it's fucking insulting to their intelligence. The more I have to watch it, the less intelligent I feel. It saps you with its empty computer generated event horizon.

Let's break it down. Firstly, it's ugly. It truly is. It's perhaps the ugliest looking programme I've seen since Keith Chegwin got his winkle out on Channel Five. It's the endless Bond-themed puns ("To Grandma With Love", "Fly Another Day" and so on). It's the fact that the title character has perhaps the most punchable cartoon face I've seen in many years. It's their cavalier abuse of time. "Quick, Oso! You have 9 seconds!" Cue a countdown, with exposition between each second, making it actually last around half a minute. Seriously, my daughter's sense of time has been fucked by this programme. It's eyeball-gougingly irritating and infuriating, and I want its creator shot.

Out of a cannon.

Into the sun.

Day 6 is nearly upon us... be back here tomorrow morning.

Advent Calendar Day 4

2010-12-04T23:32:00.001Z

Every so often, evolution takes a strange turn, be it the fingerprints of opportunist kleptomaniacal koalas or the octopus's inky sac. Humankind's own path of genetic improvement has, of late, encountered some potholes. The subject of day 4 of the Dystopian Advent Calendar is proof that we, as a species, have started to devolve.

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome...

... Piers Morgan. Please, don't vomit over my site.

A few days ago, this utter flan of a person joined Twitter. He tweeted once, and soon had 3000 followers. It was at this point that I started to think that what I thought was my species had adopted me.

The man has less fucking substance than fog, and is about as charismatic as piles. How did this turd in a suit end up with the career he has?

Let's rewind a bit. About 15 or so years ago, Piers Morgan was editor of The Sun's showbiz page, Bizarre, where he pretended to be the linchpin of current z-list slebs. He dropped more names than a Sugababes autograph hunter during his tenure, pretending to be "celebrity friends" with everyone, from that one from that thing, and that one from that pop band that nobody remembers. It was like reading copy from a radically narcissistic Andi Peters.

Then, he vanished for a bit, and somehow became editor of The Mirror. He decided to run a front-page story claiming that British troops were torturing Iraqi POWs. It turned out to be utter bollocks, and he was very publicly sacked for his money-chasing lies. Hurrah. That's the end of him.

Except it wasn't. All of a sudden, he turns up as a judge on a talent show. Worse still, he also ends up in the same position on American TV, with the audience being blissfully unaware of his very cunty past. Coupled with his ITV (well, it had to be ITV, didn't it?) chat show, the man's barely off the telly, and it makes me want to weep. I gave humanity far too much credit, but no, there he still is, pretending to be a hard-nosed judge and destroyer of dreams. If he could muster a facial expression, other than self-satisfaction, I'd like it to be the expression of a man in morbid fear of the baseball bat heading his way. But I'll probably never meet him.

In short, Piers Morgan has no more right to judge the talent of others than I have the right to perform bowel surgery with pink plastic cutlery. Cabbage Patch Kid-faced Cunt.

Please come back tomorrow for another (late) window opening of utter shitedom.

Advent Calendar Day 3

2010-12-03T21:47:00.001Z

Evening.

Well, it's bloody typical, innit? Whilst the rest of the UK suffers with harsh snowy conditions, we in Cardiff get rain. It's absolutely bucketing down. I'm not complaining as such. I just feel a tad left out. My kids, at least, are disappointed. Broken fucking Britain.

Speaking of problems plaguing this septic isle, you know who's still fucking well alive? It's time for Day 3 of the Dystopian Advent Calendar.

Yep, it's Paul sodding Daniels.

This man serves no purpose, other than to remind you that you might need to buy some lightbulbs when you go shopping. Married to a woman who's never been seen in the same room as Jasper Carrott, he's still appearing on TV after 30 or so fucking years. My god, he looks like the fucking Mekon. You're led to wonder when he's going to unleash his horde of Treens against Dan Dare and Digby. Such a huge ego for a product of Jim Henson's Creature Shop, the only magic trick he seems to perform is disappearing up his own arse. The only reason nobody's ever tried sawing him in half is nobody knows if the two halves will become smaller Paul Danielses. Can you imagine that in stereo? My god, it doesn't bear thinking of. I'm hoping that someone will persuade him to perform Houdini's escape-from-a-casket-full-of-water trick, and put some breeze blocks on the lid.

Perhaps somebody should ask him where he buried Martin.

Tune in (late) tomorrow for another edition of Nature's Cruellest Mistakes.

Dystopian Advent Calendar Day 2

2010-12-02T12:15:00.004Z

Good morning! Is it snowing where you are? I'm still waiting. Bah.

Well, after yesterday's arsehole, which fucker that just won't go away is behind window number 2? Go on, point at Jonathan King. Poke him in his gurning paedo face.

Christine Hamilton. Her rectangular face should make her fascinating to medical science alone. It shouldn't make her famous. The fact that she is speaks volumes about how much our species has started to decay. She and her husband (the very drippy Neil, who sometimes is allowed to wear trousers) have clogged the airwaves since his election defeat in 1997.

Celebrity Masterchef, I'm A Celebrity... Get Me Out Of Here, This Morning... There's nothing she wouldn't appear on to propagate her self-serving media whoring. The corruption that she and her husband have been central to in the past is now buried in the fluffy comfort of daytime ITV, where her face is broadcast sideways to fit on widescreen TVs.

Horrible, horrible woman.

Come back tomorrow for more festive scumbuggery.