Tag Archives: daily mail

It just sickens you.

The internet is rife with corruption, disrespect and dirty, dirty porn. This will come as news to noone. However, I’ve been finding more and more evidence of this web-age paradigm corrupting mainstream media and our children!!

I found this disturbing and wrong programme schedule on my beloved http://www.tvguide.co.uk/. CBeebies is obviously under the control of some massive internet paedophile ring headed by an ageing Jabba the Hutt, out to brainwash your children’s minds into thinking it is the norm for older gentlemen to act in such a way:

paedotv

And even the Dutch are not immune to the internet’s hegemonic deconstruction of values. Case in point, this interview (and part two) with Easy Realism Regular Reader Joni Mitchell (she must be. I mean, come on, everyone Googles themself at least once a day). The Dutch translation clearly reads: “She is a slut and a slag. Because of the internet. And there is nothing we can do to stop it”.

slut-and-slag2

Look at the pain on Joni’s face. There IS nothing we can do to stop it. Won’t someone please alert the Daily Mail?!

star-wars-jabba-the-hutt_lALL YOUR CBEEBIES ARE BELONG TO US!!!

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Cold War or Cold Turkey

As relieved as I am that she has not been handed the keys to any weaponry larger than an assault rifle, I am genuinely concerned about the amount of press coverage that Sarah Palin will be able to garner in coming months. As the fear of Cold War II – caused by her absolute ignorance of foreign policy – falls, so does her newsworthiness.

Journalists worldwide are already writing about her from a sober “she can’t get me here with her hunting rifle” perspective – a massive contrast to the frantic “oh dear sweet Jesus, this ignorant, tits-for-brains hillbilly could be in charge of the entire world and we’re all going to die!!” style, which ended only days ago.

Paparazzi photos will be few and far between from Wasilla now that she is no longer a threat to world peace, world hunger, environmental health issues across the USA, animal welfare or black people. In fact, we are solely depending on angry members of the Republican campaign releasing details about her personality or IQ for her to even appear in mainstream news, blaming her for the party’s election failure – at least until her 2009 calendar is released. And even then, she may only have pictures of Miss January and Miss May (please, God, let her be wearing a different name-sash for every month!) winking suggestively to the Daily Mail readers who will be staring unquestionably at what could have been one of the world’s top politicians in a sexy-cum-God-fearing bikini.

I just don’t think voters thought this one through. I mean, sure, Obama isn’t a scary old man with a Dr Who-style cyberman for a wife (just look at Cyndi McCain’s eyes and tell me she’s human), and Joe Biden’s grasp of foreign policy unquestionably includes knowledge that Africa is, in fact, a continent; but with Palin’s face out of the papers, has her celebrity been forced to come to a sudden halt? How will Hello! magazine readers deal with not knowing what funny name Bristol gives her child? How will they cope without extensive comment from its redneck father? What about Palin’s grief when the war she supported leads directly to the death of her eldest son Track in Eye-Rack? Or the Katona-style accusations piled upon her when pictures of the mother of five smoking pot during her latest pregnancy are released and she is directly blamed for baby Trig’s Downs Syndrome?

I would make wild accusations and defamatory statements about the rest of Palin’s family, but I forget their names – and that is exactly my point. Palin is a far worthier – and better looking – celebrity than, say, Paris Hilton. Yet, Palin is even LESS suitable as a presidential candidate than Paris! I think that shows real talent.

Palin should be releasing singles, going to film premieres – maybe even being in the films herself! Samantha Bond has reportedly hung up her Miss Moneypenny spectacles for good, and I see no reason why she can’t be recast as a sexy Canadian librarian with a penchant for answering every intercom message with a spunky “you betcha!”. Or maybe she should just turn up one day on The Hills as Lauren Conrad’s new best friend and never leave. Judging from her recent on-screen performances during the Republican Campaign, her appearance on Saturday Night Live and the already-infamous Naylin’ Paylin’, Mrs Palin is quite the actress.

These are only suggestions, but Palin should seriously consider them if she wishes to stay in the public eye – and God only knows she does. Everybody knows that the number-one most powerful and desirable thing in life – and therefore what Jesus wants us to acheive – is fame. Even moreso than money. I’m not simply being facetious and sarcastic here: if Palin is able to boost her falling profile, she may be able to keep people like Tina Fey in a job; and how would this strip club keep its customers without Palin’s warped, Dolly Parton-esque “it costs a lot to look this cheap”, hockey mom style?

She should be given her own talk show on one of the big US television channels – one that is broadcast globally – and made to interview other celebrities. Not to interview politicians in the Couric style, of course; not even to interview someone as heavyweight as Oprah. She should be restricted to Britney and below: hillbillies and managed-by-Republican-voters-from-Nashville preteen superstars like Miley Cyrus. And second rate actresses that are going nowhere – the Rumer Willis set.

Essentially, without telling her directly, Palin should be encouraged to move out of public office and into a far less endangering line of celebrity – one which encourages her ignorance as opposed to highlighting it like it was really detrimental to her career. She could be the new Ricki Lake. You can see it, can’t you? You betcha! It really is just too funny watching her squirm under the watchful public eye for us to stop looking just yet – and too important. Even when it comes to national security, sometimes prevention is the best cure. It is your duty and mine as citizens of the world to stop this woman from becoming our pro-life dictator. We must pacify her thirst for fame by watching her catchphrase-riddled TV attempts, especially around 2011/12. She must be kept under no illusions – we DO want her on our televisions, we DO want her in a sharp suit; but we do not want her anywhere near a trigger that could set off World War III.

Destination Unknown: Notes on a Mental Breakdown

I think I am experiencing acute information overload. My brain is becoming as blunt as my observations; my memory failing me like Sarah Palin’s debating skills minus the cue-cards.

I first noticed the symptoms a few weeks ago – I would think back to a conversation, remembering some scant detail or a quote; but not be able to place who I was actually speaking to. The paranoia started to set in at this point, because my life has been profoundly affected by Skins. I always think back to that episode where Chris died, his brain exploding after not being able to remember his girlfriend’s name. Plus massive drug intake. Plus actual brain disease. But I have no guarantee that my brain is not physically afflicted by some memory tumour. Do you see where I am going with this?! And as for drug intake, well, I ate Mexican food once.

So these conversations with no people began to increase in frequency, to the point where all of my social life just merged into one big ball of anonymous soliloquays which I happened to overhear; my brain compounding them into one massive, confusing, Modernist ramble of text.

So with all form of speech completely lost to me, the next thing to go was stimulating books. Because of my uni work, I have been physically unable to read anything beyond media theory for the past month – as previously ranted about. I’m surprised people even speak to me any more, considering I have nothing in my brain worth talking about outside of academia. Case in point – my mum’s boyfriend tried to pull me out of my week-long “bad mood” the other night (I was already out of it by then, but cheers…) by striking up a discussion about Aldous Huxley. He had stolen my copy of Point, Counter Point weeks ago and, by his own account, has read the first five paragraphs of it (I finished it in nine days the first time I read it – the man’s a genius); but found the conscise biography of Huxley at the beginning of the book very enjoyable. So I had this confused, Modernist ramble about Huxley’s experimental use of LSD and mescalin with a man who thinks gays should be shot and that my mum hanging a golliwog with a noose round its neck on her kitchen window is acceptable. I was completely unable to keep my argument on track, just spouting potted facts about Huxley’s defense of recreational drug use, ending with me calling my parent and lover-of-parent-who-steals-my-books fascists. I was not impressed when L-O-P-W-S-M-B thought his backchat-reference to The Young Ones went over my head. Who does he think I am!?

And while my mum and her boyfriend are sailing away in their utopia of red wine, premarital sex and ignorance of anything beyond the Daily Mail dictated status quo, my dad has decided that he is going to come and visit – for an entire month. Last time he was in the country, I only had to see him for five minutes before he buggered off elsewhere. This time, I don’t know. We have a strange set-up for Christmas, with my mum, my sister and myself visiting my paternal grandparents for dinner: with my dad here over the holidays, me presumably working and my mum busy burying her head in the Daily Mail letters page during premarital coitus; I am not sure how I will be able to avoid a few run ins with Big Davie.

I am not sure what percentage of my brain has been used to deal with these mounting problems, but I sure as hell know it is trying to cram in even more than that. For some reason, my tumultuous-cum-non-existant love life seems to be taking up more space than is really necessary. In fact, ever since I read an article about people defining themselves based on who they are with at a certain time, I have been needlessly convinced that I fit into this category. The only problem is that I am perpetually single, and therefore CANNOT exist! I need a new solipsism. Dark thoughts. Dark, dark thoughts.

Building out of the dark thoughts seems to be my dissertation, but there is really no point in even talking about that right now. What is really getting to me, though, is that I have OTHER classes at uni. When did that happen!? I am only now, six weeks into fourth year, realising just how much work I need to do in a very short space of time. I am trying to set up some decent interviews to use in a large portfolio, but I am finding it incredibly difficult to – for one thing, set up interviews; and for a second thing, actually motivate myself into doing the work. I got a blow to the professional side of my brain today when the local paper used a piece I tried to sell to them as a tip-off as opposed to a completed story. None of my (good) quotes were even used; and I certainly got no recognition for finding the story. I was well and truly scooped; I am well and truly gutted.

At most, I have managed to box all of my individual problems off – the Modernist, plagarised ramblings of my inner poet; the lack of stimulating reading material; the issues with my ever-expanding list of parents; the mutual hatred between the local newspaper editor and myself; and my complete inability to apply myself to anything productive – have all given their own topic headings under the umbrella term of information overload.

My first attempt at a remedy was some bastardised form of Cartesian meditation – trying to clear my mind of every intricate thought to leave only proof that there is a God (or so the theory goes!). This didn’t seem to work very well, but that may have been something to do with having downed a bottle of gin before making my attempt. At least that method relied only on my own initiative: my current plan is wholly dependant on outside influences – namely the Passport Office.

Today, regular readers Chris, Max and myself (yes, I include myself as a regular reader; even if my Number Of Hits Today ticker does not!) decided on a whim to book flights to Paris for our Christmas uni night out. If all goes to plan, we’re going to get loaded on the mainland five weeks from now! The only slight problem here is that one of us doesn’t have a passport, and of course, that would be me.

I have applied for a passport, but according to the leaflets, I should wait until I receive my documentation before booking any flights. Well guess what, I did, all right!? I’m not even interested in your “interview” or your “passport” or whatever! I just want to get the hell out of here!!

So regardless of how much I complain, I have to wait six weeks for a passport unless they decide off their own backs to do their job effectively! Any passport officials reading this – drop me an email. I will totally sleep with you or whatever if you fast-track my application.

Anyway, after I get loaded in gay Paris, miss my flight back and have to pawn my winter coat in order to afford the obligatory £15 worth of jellybeans, requisite for any good uni trip; I plan to make damn good use of this new-found freedom of world travel. My dad tells me he has moved out of his old apartment building (“it smells of cats and pee!” – his words), and into somewhere bigger (“this flat has more than one room!” – his words).

I’m excited, I must say. Wherever it is my dad lives in Spain is bound to be warmer than this icicle-riddled excuse for a country – which will work wonders for the Seasonal Affective Disorder I have double-think-ed my way into believing I have; and I will get to meet my dad’s girlfriend – for purposes of further stoned-out-zoned-out discussions of English Literature and firey blog-material of course! And who in their right mind wouldn’t want yet another unstable parent??

As soon as that Passport Office cheque clears – screw Rene Descartes, postmodern parenthood and thinking for myself, and let the world tour commence!!