, I stole your gig. But "Ranting with MIRVs", while more accurate, is not as catchy. Blow me.
As regular readers (and anyone who knows me in person) is already well aware, I’m hardly the calmest human being. But even now, I’m pretty sure I’ve not so much crossed a line as jumped over with both feet.
Maybe it’s the lack of sleep talking, I don’t know. But I’m currently on a train0
. I’m in the quiet coach1
. The train’s been underway for about ten minutes—Auld Reekie has given itself over to snow-covered fields, but only just. And so far, three people have had noisy phone conversations, and another one is ignoring his phone. His phone with a stupid bastard squeaky ringtone. His phone, which has sounded this disgusting offence against the ears of everyone with a brain at least thirty fucking times.
Ten minutes. I’m fit to be tied. I swear if things don’t change I’m going to find this cunt and feed him the twatting phone. And then I’m going to throw him out of a bastard window. Next, the gobby bellends who think the world needs to hear how they think they’ll be on time, and maybe they’ll have red sauce with their tea or maybe it’ll be brown sauce because they don’t have the conversational skills of a six-year-old. I’m going to cut out their tongues to make a necklace, then beat them to death wit their own twatphones.
Then I might pause for a bite of lunch.
The idea of the quiet coach is an excellent one, but the lack of enforcement really fucks me off.
Just passed through Berwick Upon Tweed. Scarily, much of the river under the bridge and out towards the sea was frozen over, large sheets of ice that didn’t look like they could hold much weight—but this is the UK, where rivers freezing over close to the sea is a once-a-century occurrence.
I’m not going to get this posted until I get to my parents’, because the train company has apparently decided that the best way to ensure that their free wifi doesn’t shit itself at the thought of people using it is to stop them. First class still gets it, but for proles like me I’m limited to 15 minutes unrestricted then they charge way over the fucking odds for something that makes dialup look worthwhile.
The window-side armrest refuses to move up. As I’m 6’3”, the only way I can use the laptop is with my back to a window (or to share with three random fucking strangers at a table, which is about as likely as my suddenly joining the Conservative party, or shaving). So I’m randomly uncomfortable, but listening to the delightfully sweaty Amateur Transplants’ χmas album2
has suited to mollify my previous murderous rage.
One thing that pisses me off4
is when people claim that the greatest of Pulp’s political songs is Common People. Now, don’t get me wrong, Common People is an excellent song. But these people are missing one little thing: the aforementioned song is all about how the bastards with power can’t understand the lot of people who do not have power and money.What’s the point of being rich if you don’t know what to do with it because you’re too
On the same album, also released as a single, is Mis-Shapes. Less a political song and more a full-on bellowed screed inciting revolution, it is the song everyone claims Common People to be. It’s not about misunderstanding, it’s about grabbing those in power by the bollocks and kicking the evil cunts until they stop moving.
We’re making a move, we’re making it now, we’re coming out of the sidelines. Just put your hands up, it’s a raid. We want your homes, we want your lives, we want the things you won’t allow us. We won’t use guns, we won’t use bombs, we’ll use the one thing we’ve got more of: That’s our minds.
Yeah. Fuck Common People.
Having got in and spent an evening here, I’m now well appraised of the quality of television available to people stupid enough to pay bigoted Australian cunts named Murdoch. And fuck me, it’s pretty fucking grim.5
The BBC has A Question of Sport, a quiz show about, well, sport. This works on multiple levels—in addition to being interesting, the host and the captains have real chemistry, and the guests generally turn out to have hidden depths.
Sky has A League of Their Own, a show so bland and forgettable that I had to google the title having seen it not an hour beforehand. Bad enough that this is yet another vehicle for pathetic whining cunt James Corden, the man who could sell condoms with a picture of his face and the words “His parents didn’t. You should. For all our sakes.” The only funny person available is cricketing legend Freddie Flintoff, who is actually a funny man with a wonderfully deadpan delivery. John Bishop looks like he’s been dragged in from being the kind of pathetic club-compere that Dave Spikey lampoons in Phoenix Nights. The other team members are a footballer notable for being the son of someone famous and being married to a forgettable pop nothing who provided countless teenagers with wank material throughout the late 90s; and a woman who has accepted her role as braindead tits&arse, and demonstrates this by shagging Ant and/or Dec. The other guests are selected primarily by the criteria “Are you mates with James Corden?”
This programme lasts an hour, but that hour feels like several decades. The game “features” two rounds and a quick-fire thing. One team “answers” one question, a task that should take a competent human being roughly twenty seconds, and an Only Connect team somewhere around the Planck Time. Unfortunately, the remaining quarter of an hour allocated to each team’s answer to a question is given over to Corden not yet realising that most teenage boys have left funner things than him in an old sock, and the panels trying in vain to be witty and all failing. Miserably.
The only reason for any human being to watch A League of Their Own, which does require fattening the bank balance of a corpulent non-com racist and homophobe who thinks Fox News is just what the world needs, is to see precisely what the human race is heading towards. Anyone who can raise a laugh at this awful excuse for prime-time television should be made into Soylent Green post-haste. That they’re not reminds me of just how much despair it’s possible for one human soul to contain.0: Note to Americans and other aliens: a train is a strange conveyance designed to move large numbers of people over long distances at high speeds between all cities and towns. This is called “public transport” and is neither Communist nor the sole preserve of the poor. The only way to get mugged on a British train is to buy something from the snack trolley3.
1: One of the finest inventions known to man: an entire carriage where one must wear headphones to listen to music, put phones and other electronic devices (like my laptop) on mute, and not talk too loud so people can actually relax while travelling.
2: As mentioned, that’s a pre-emptive “fuck you” to the “xmas is blasphemy” retards. Not because I think blasphemy matters; I’m somewhat more militant than Dawkins in my mocking of the religious, but because taking the piss out of the braindead is funny.
3: (added later) Or pay for the wifi.
4: Because fuck know the world isn’t full of the bloody things already…
5: I’ve currently had a bottle of wine, so give me some leeway on the spelling.