Celebs: the truth#1

Alistair Darling: Zonga Zonga residentAlistair Darling
Who’s under the impression that Alistair Darling is a member of the human race? Look at this picture carefully – there’s no way that man has blood pumping through his veins.

There will come a day when Darling, a creature with nothing to lose, will pull back that mask and reveal himself to be an alien that has landed from planet Zonga Zonga. He’ll tell us in that understated monotone drone that he, with the help of Uri Geller, is in the process of completing a comprehensive report on human behaviour that’ll precede an imminent and devastating Zonga Zonga invasion.

Anne Robinson
Who thinks Anne Robinson is fit? If you are one of these unfortunates deluded into believing that this facially-enhanced old trout with a neck resembling folded crepe paper needs his, or even her, head examined.

These people on The Weakest Link who try to flirt with Anne as she tells them that they are fat, bald, short, small-breasted, large-breasted, poorly dressed, with no-hope jobs and little or no intelligence should just have the wherewithal to say: ‘Look, Anne, I’d rather file my own head than spent a night of passion with you. Now, shut up and get on with asking the ruddy questions.’

Tom Jones
Like Anne, Tom cannot now be regarded as sexy. He looks like a twilight moon wearing a goatee. Whoever thought Tom Jones is an object of desire needs a cataract operation or some sort of emotional realignment training.

Yes, he has a voice like a banshee, but let’s face it, you wouldn’t want ol’ moonface bearing down on you wearing a look of hardened desire as you lie back on black satin sheets ready for the ‘magic’ to begin.

Sex or bomb? You decide…

David Blaine
Have you seen the section when David Blaine asks a person on the street to look into his eye and think of an object? Then he draws an image of what they are thinking. Usually it’s a key or some other household object.

This has to be a fix. Can’t remember anyone drawing an outline picture of a penis.

Loose Women
Have you ever seen a more uptight collection of females in your life?


Didn’t think so.

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‘Civil’ servants

'Sorry caller, can't help'. Click, burr

Today, civil servants in the UK are worried as George Osborne and his cronies start hacking away at our public spending budgets. That’s good, these people definitely had it coming.

If you have you ever tried to reason with somebody responsible for implementing the law at Whitehall, administrating at a local authority or merely the point of contact for service provision then the words ‘civil’ and ‘servant’ won’t be the first two that enter your head when looking back on your dealings with these quite infuriating people.

The fact is, a civil servant is part of a huge clunking organisation that – let’s be clear –  is absolutely not there to help you. It may be the Highways Department, the Welfare Department, the Inland Revenue, the Department for Health or the Home Office that you are dealing with but the result is always the same: unending, pride-swallowing misery.

All civil servants, whatever the department, hate everyone and everything. They are classically trained in obduracy, soul-theft and mental torture. They will eat your children. If you are prone to depression and suicidal tendencies, never attempt any discourse with a civil servant because a trip to the hardware store and a subsequent hosepipe purchase will be the inevitable result.

Phoning any government or local authority department hurts. If you do (stupidly) attempt this, you’ll first have to negotiate your way through a labyrinthine telephone menu selection. If you do get through to a human there’s a good chance that the person you are talking to will need to transfer you to another. Then you’ll be put on hold for a period of about five minutes, listening to Greensleeves or some other reworked classic. Within minutes the phone will go dead and you’ll have to go through the whole process again.

If you persist and get through to the correct person you can be sure that there’ll be a series of bureaucratic hoops to jump through to resolve the situation.

Six months later you’ll undoubtedly get a bill for not complying with the procedure or failing to give some innocuous piece of information to the civil servant whose name you simply can’t remember.

These people are trained to confuse the hell out of you. Have you seen their job specs? They take up about five full pages of A4 and after a quick examination of the questions you will notice that sadists are the target audience. To secure any one of these posts you’ll be asked to reinvent the wheel in a 14-page application unless of course you are going for a job to work with children, in which case they’ll simply ask you your name.

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Cats – great pets

Don't ever buy one of these

No, cats are hopeless pets.

The first task you have to embark on when you have taken delivery of a nice fluffy kitten is to teach it not to scrape its claws down the arm of your sofa and not to crap on the carpet. This requires patience and a fair amount of animal cruelty. If it dumps in your slippers the best way, apparently, of making sure there isn’t a repeat performance is to rub Fluffy’s nose in its own turd – an unpleasant practice for both parties involved.

Once you have negotiated that first hurdle you will inevitably be faced with the issue of sofa abuse. If Fluffy keeps clawing your Habitat special it’s important that you resist the temptation to drop-kick him over the next door neighbour’s fence but it is quite acceptable to beat it on the head with a table tennis bat in order to get the message across.

If the disciplinary action has had the desired effect, cat-ownership convention implores you to install a cat flap so your pet can terrorise other animals in the neighbourhood, bring home dead sparrows and generally go out and lead a life of Reilly. Throughout this you will have to accept that your house will forever smell of one or two things: mulched-up horse and cat crap.

The exterior of your home will fare no better. Your rear lawn has now become a sizeable lavatory for your pet and any attempt at mowing will lead to garden carnage. As your Flymo redistributes your cat’s faecal matter you’ll experience that gut-wrenching stench that is second only to a rotting corpse. The cat, meanwhile, will be happy to observe his handiwork from the security of the neighbour’s fence.

As time goes on your furry friend will become increasingly miserable. It clearly has had disappointment in its life: it hasn’t dumped in all the gardens in the area or woken up enough people in the middle of the night as result of a fight. Its diet has been limited to horse and the mice-and-bird killing stats are way below Marmalade’s two doors along.

As a way of settling scores there will come a day when Fluffy will lance your children’s faces, leaving them scarred for life. Its final act of revenge will be to suffer a stroke, it’ll walk with one leg dragging along and you’ll have to shell out £120 to end the misery.

A cat is a 16-year mistake that’ll hurt you from day one. If you are determined to have an animal in your life, adopt a penguin from London Zoo. Somebody will look after it and you can visit it whenever you like.

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Skinny jeans

Skinny jeans... for skinny people only

The inference here is that if you wear skinny jeans you’ll look skinny in them. That’s highly optimistic. A fat person in skinny jeans looks like a piping bag full of sausage meat.

If you buy a pair of skinny jeans in the vain hope that people will mistake you for Kate Moss, you are either delusional or blind.

Skinny jeans are for people under 25 or for those whose main meal usually consists of celery and string. If you have a figure that resembles bamboo cane make your purchase, otherwise, give the skinny jeans a miss

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Bad hair day

Bad hair? Get a comb, sort it out

There’s no such thing. If you get up and your head looks like a military compound, sort it out.
Wash it, dry it properly, maybe comb, brush it or put some product in it and once that’s done you can get over yourself and get on with your day.

A bad hair day is a lame excuse for ugliness. Bad hair is the human equivalent of a poorly chosen garnish. If you have a face like a climbing wall, a decent hairstyle will not put you in the Brangelina league. Ugly people say ‘Oh deary me, I’m having such a bad hair day’ but no-one has the gumption to say, ‘No, it’s fine, it’s just you’re butt-ugly.’

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iPhones – mobile phones?

The iPhone 'stroke'. Dull

Have you ever seen anyone make a call from an iPhone? Doubt it, because they are absolutely no use as mobile phones.
The iPhone is merely a plaything for the socially inept: it’s a monumentally irritating gadget that people insist on placing on the table in the pub in the hope that they’ll receive a text or email that’ll distract them from the unfeasibly dull conversation they are having with the so-called friends they are with.

Pubs are now fully loaded with communities of people who don’t communicate in the normal fashion – doubtless they are Facebooking or Tweeting something inane. The iPhone ‘stroke’ is now part of society. That desperate scroll down the contacts list tells you that the iPhoner is having a problem finding someone that just isn’t quite as vacuous as them.

And don’t get us started on the coma-inducing apps conversations…

‘What have you got? I’ve got Shoobeedoo’.
‘What’s that man?’
‘Well, it’s mega. If you hear the name of a song on the radio or from an advert, it’ll search the iTunes bank, identify it, put it through a filter, add a spoon of sugar and it’ll make it sound like a cover version of any Lulu song.’
‘Cool, sounds wicked. Well, I’ve got Icantcutmyownfood’, which is equally sick. What it does is, it recognises your plate of food in a restaurant and instructs the chef (remotely of course) to dice it up into little chunks so you don’t have to chew too much. It’s not as wicked as ‘Howtobreatheairbook’ that does all the breathing for you so you don’t have to.’
‘Cool, which website can you download that from…?’

Etc, etc.

The iPhone is a life-support machine for dullards. If you are in a group of iPhone-strokers at a social gathering get up, get out and count cars because although that’s unfathomably tedious it’s more interesting than spending time with these quite ridiculous individuals.

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