Monday, 21 February 2011

Steven Berkoff: the perfect twat.

Aim for the wart.
Increments are abstracts given meaning only by a process of arbitrary standardisation, a gentleman’s agreement, if you will, that becomes gospel purely so we all know where the fuck we stand. The conceptual made tangible, and suddenly even time itself can be measured by everyone, regardless of how poor, ugly or black they may be. What time is it? It’s half-past Utopia, you dingbat. Get a fucking watch.

Thanks to Einstein, Galileo and assorted other clever people with the perfect pens-to-social-skills ratio, you can measure pretty much anything these days: energy, volume, mass. You can even measure your penis, if you want. But the one that baffles science even to this day is "how to measure a twat?"

Well, the answer has been staring us in the face ever since we didn't notice it in the background of Beverly Hills Cop. Yes, from here on in, the ‘Berkoff’ will be the standard unit by which all further twats will be measured. The archetype. The paradigm. Having done much the same thing with George Galloway and turds a few years back, you should, by now, be very familiar with the drill.

Not content with being ‘that shouty cunt with the wart in the middle of his forehead’, the very quintessence of cinematic forgettability, Berkoff, despite all signs pointing to the contrary, also fancies himself as a playwright, a linguistonaut, the heir to Franz Kafka’s throne of Impenetrable Self-indulgent Horsehit. But sadly, where Kafka comes off as a bit pretentious, a gibberish-spouting navel-gazer, Berkoff is just a bell-end. Plain and simple. No complexities, no angst, just an extremely punchable BTEC Performing Arts student who’s been indulged too much and kneecapped too little.

Firstly, he pretends for a living. There’s a big red flag for you.

Secondly, he writes, too. For the stage. And anyone who writes ‘for the stage’ should be raped by a pack of stray dogs on one. Plays are always too concerned with allegory and actors ‘fulfilling their movement potential’ to amount to anything other than time wasted.

Thirdly, he’s a fucking theatre director. And in case you don't know what one of those is, imagine a pair of half-moon glasses draped over a more self-important version of your ball-bag. Yaffling great humour-vacuums, they are. But somehow they ended up in charge. Put a cretin in the cockpit of a bullet train and pretty soon you’ll have limbs, luggage and burning steel strewn across a cow field. Put a fat, pompous, corduroy-clad goitre in charge of the entertainment and quicker than you can say “Clapham Junction rail crash” you’ll have 3 hours worth of reasons to pray for absolute and instantaneous human extinction.

And finally, just say those three things again: actor, playwright, director. Can you imagine being trapped in a lift with one? I’d rather be trapped in the mind of Justin Beiber. Giving an actor a typewriter, encouraging him to present a script of personal resonance then allowing him to fulfil his delusional directorial pretensions is an evil that can only be equated with paedophilia. Yes, paedophilia. I’m equating Steven Berkoff’s artless finger-farting with the ritual buggery of toddlers. If anything it’s worse. See for yourself (for research purposes, obviously). You wouldn’t find a higher concentration of spotlit bollocks if you spent a fortnight on the dancefloor at GAY. As for this stinking rope of conceited cock-snot, I can genuinely say, hand on heart, I’ve seen harvest festival assemblies infused with more profundity.
 
“Writing is an antidote for loneliness,” is it, Steven? Well, if a social life really is all it’ll take to keep you away from the Underwood I’ll gladly put ever penny I have towards hiring you some fucking friends.

Monday, 7 February 2011

A brief rumination on deviancy.

How quickly the seemingly intolerable becomes the acceptable norm.

Less than a year ago I was all for testing the foundations of David Cameron’s jerry-rigged dictatorship with some high-velocity sniper rifles and a 6-day festival of public executions. Now I’ll be lucky if I can summon rage enough to walk across the room and wipe my cock across the screen whenever he’s on TV.

What the hell happened? I feel like I’ve been grifted. I just seemed to lose interest in the cancerous little hope-fucker. Can’t even put a date on it. My focus just dissipated.

It’s not like he hasn’t given me fair reason to start shooting wildly in his general direction. Yet far from being incensed by his coterie of interchangeable cunts taking it in turns to punch me repeatedly in the face, I think my body has quietly developed a malignant dependency on it. All a bit kinky, really: men punching men. Reminds me of a porn mag I saw in Amsterdam that appeared more like a trade periodical for serial killer’s than any kind of feasible wank-food.

Oh, dear God! I’ve developed a class war perversion! I’m a degenerate, a deviant. Perhaps not quite in Stephen Milligan territory yet, but look at me: slumped on the sofa day-in-day-out, indolent, servile, inviting the contempt of my leaders like one of those self-loathing gimps you find lying in gay bar urinals waiting for e’d-up Muscle Marys to piss all over them. Sweet baby Jesus, I’m a watersports enthusiast! I’ve got my top off and my balls in a choke-chain while Oliver Letwin drains his port-addled pissbag all over my thorax – and it all feels so perfectly normal.

I genuinely think I have Stockholm Syndrome, as well a boner. I’m a willing prisoner. I have a paradoxical psychological impairment that’s clouded my judgment so severely I’ve deleted the concept of insurrection from my existential clipboard and pasted ritualised sadomasochistic humiliation in its place. Give it another 6 months and I’ll be locked in a birdcage begging various cabinet ministers to throat-fuck me through the bars while I prod myself in the craphole with a hot kettle element.

Maybe that’s the key. Maybe I need to plumb the depths. Maybe I’ll only truly find myself again once I’ve reached hot-bottom.

Only one way to find out…

Tuesday, 1 February 2011

Torres out; Carroll in. Or ‘How I finally finished with Football’.

Priceless.
When his time comes, you can all but guarantee every newspaper carrying Frank Skinner’s obituary will give heavy rotation to the words ‘Three’ and ‘Lions’. As legacies go, not a cure for cancer but still infinitely more impressive than yours or mine.

That said, should I still be around to raise a whimsical eyebrow in Frank’s honour, my over-riding memory of the man will not be “…and Nobby dancing” but a long-forgotten gag he made in 1994 at the expense of Leeds United.

Rarely is classical literature used as a springboard for terrace humour, a fact that only serves to make Skinner’s use of the “exchange me for a goat” monologue from Othello as proof that Shakespeare had prior knowledge of Howard Wilkinson’s defiantly cretinous plans to replace Eric Cantona with artless crapshack Brian Deane all the more impressive. The exact date of broadcast escapes me but it was expertly delivered from the comfort of the Fantasy Football League sofa sometime in the aforementioned year. Blink and you’d have missed it. I didn’t, and it’s brought a smile to my face for many a year since.

Yesterday, however, the laughing stopped.

Having just watched the football club I’ve supported for 35 years piss away a million pounds for each of those years filling the vacant shirt of one Fernando Torres with what appears to be the bass player from Reef, I realise the joke is now very much on me. Torres out; Carroll in. Forget the metaphorical; I’d happily take an actual goat instead.

The mother of all sleepless nights now behind me, it was only this morning I realised that expecting anything other than mind-boggling negligence from Damien Comolli (Anfield’s recently appointed recruitment officer and the visionary genius who brought Juande Ramos to Spurs, lest we forget) was itself an act of idiocy befitting both the man and the moment.

Let’s not pussyfoot about, here: Andy Carroll is an oaf. A classless, guileless, one-dimensional oaf. To call him Neanderthal would be to short-change the unevolved. How on earth he’s even regarded as a footballer I’ll never know. He wouldn’t even be allowed into Arsenal’s club shop, never mind one of their teams. He’s Duncan Ferguson without the best bit: the sweat band. A liability off the pitch; an unsightly battering ram on it. If Al Qaeda designed a footballer, he’d be it. Hijack his mind and have him run forehead-first toward the infidel. And when I say run, I do, of course, mean lumber. Slow? Put it this way, Dirk Kuyt is going to have to put the anchors on while Big Andy catches up.

While my fellow Liverpool fans look on bewildered, I’m left only to wonder what life would be like had Roy Hodgson overseen yesterday’s clusterfuck instead of King Kenny. Selling Torres alone there’d have been hundreds, thousands, burning his effigy outside the ground. Luckily all we got was a couple of dingbats melting Torres shirts behind the Kop. Had Uncle Roy then flushed £35million down the shitter drafting in Jimmy Nail’s pet ape as a replacement, Police forensics would still be retrieving his entrails from the Stanley Park treetops.

My gast has been so roundly flabbered over the past 24 hours not even its own mother could spot it in a line up. Dumbfounded. Mortified. Appalled. Indignant. Fucking livid. Had I known we were in the market for crocked youngsters I would’ve sent Comolli a video of Fiorentina’s obscenely gifted Stevan Jovetic. He’ll be back on two legs come spring, too, and if ever there was a pathological sick note worth taking a risk on, it’s Little Stevie.

Christ.

And now, on top of the tsunami of laughter currently rumbling westbound down the M62, it’s since transpired that Anfield’s new lummox was so reluctant to sign for us he virtually had to be forced over the threshold at gunpoint, instantaneously stripping all passion from a player whose only worthy attribute is blood-curdling levels of local pride.

With that gone, he’s nowt but an empty vessel. A 6ft 3ins footballing void. A black hole with very bad hair that just cost us THIRTY FIVE MILLION POUNDS. We may as well have stuffed the money in a shirt, planted it scarecrow-style in the opposition’s penalty area and commenced the barrage of aimless punts. The results would be the same and our new No9 would be infinitely less likely to end up in prison.

Football, you’re chucked.

Thursday, 20 January 2011

The Daily Show goes weekly while misery goes on eternally.

Benign ignorance I can forgive. It’s not your fault you were short-changed in the intelligence department. In fact, after one gets used to your perpetual Plott-hound drooling, it’s actually kind of endearing. You boss-eyed, duck-fucking Gumby, you.

Wilful ignorance, however – a seemingly enlightened 40-something TV executive actually making a concerted effort to dislocate his spinal column and shoe-horn his brain up his own arse – why, that’s the stuff my nightmares are made of.

For the 900,000 elite British citizens who bothered to watch The Daily Show the way Jon Stewart intended – on a daily basis – 2011 has started in the most unseemly manner imaginable.

The only programme on TV, bar none, that I felt compelled to watch religiously every bastard day it was broadcast has been rudely aborted from the schedules by some spack-handed, coat hanger-wielding twerp at More4 HQ. And why? To make room in broadcasting’s stinking crypt of a womb for some much-needed endless repeats of Grand Designs, that’s why – along with (allow me to speculate, here) a brand new cunt-fronted gawp-porn carnival validated by the ubiquitous bullshit portmanteau disclaimer whereby we, the viewer, are given the chance to “broaden our knowledge of human biology” by staring blankly at 58-year-old taxi driver Geoff’s cankerous gonads while gorging ourselves on an evening meal of mechanically reclaimed mule entrails and shit lager.

Evolution, as it transpires, was a dreadful mirage.

According to “a More4 spokeswoman” (telling that no-one would have the stones to put their name to such a profoundly stupid statement), the show was evicted from its original ‘daily at 8.30pm, that’s why we call it The Daily Show’ luxury dwelling and rehoused amongst the ‘Mondays only at 11pm’ projects to, ahem, “bolster More4’s roster of high-end American programming”. What? The? Fuck? 'Paradoxical' doesn’t do her unique brand of blue-sky thinking justice. I'm not sure anything would. It’s exactly the sort of freewheeling, petrol-sniffing logic that led me to smash my cock to a sickening pulp with a claw hammer in a bid to bolster its roster of high-end blow jobs.

All this dumbfuckery does beg the question, if The Daily Show doesn’t fit their new “high-end American programming” remit, what does? And this is where I lose my sense of humour. The Best Show on Television has been bumped so More4 can afford the rights to…wait for it...the US version of Shameless. Yes, Shameless. A trans-Atlantic rehash of a British TV series that ceased to be relevant or funny the second we all realised it was never either of those things to begin with. Old rope. Old rope that we made at great expense then sold cut-price to the Americans so they could wipe their dicks all over it and sell it back to us at a tidy profit. No wonder More4 don’t have money enough to buy The Daily Show anymore. With that kind of business acumen it’s a wonder they’ve got enough money for the gas meter. Fuckwits.

Meantime, instead of 30 minutes expanding our understanding of/disdain for the politics of today, we get yesterday’s smug affluence on an incessant purgatorial loop – Groundhog Day with the same upper middle-class twat having the same £300,000 bespoke granite work surfaces fitted in the same dream kitchen in the same dream home in the Cotswolds we all hoped would burn to the fucking ground with him still in it.

Repeatedly.

Tuesday, 11 January 2011

Death is fiction, but leg-boiling stupidity is still all too real.

So this is the New Year. Barely a week old and we’ve already reverted to type. A shitter effort at resolving our short-comings I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed.

Humanity, you are a disgrace.

No sooner had I finished mumbling the tune to Auld Lang Syne in lieu of knowing any of the proper words than I swung round on a Dean Martin-esque tilt, pint of white wine spritzer in hand, to find the whole known universe had lost its thimble-sized mind over a set of Third Division thespians hamming their way through an ill-conceived but ENTIRELY FICTIONAL cot-death/baby-snatch storyline, declaring all-out war on the concept of objectivity in the process, and providing me with a surplus-to-requirements reminder as to why the words ‘nuclear’ and ‘holocaust’ had dominated my Christmas wishlist for the third year running.

With the resulting cloud of amentia still billowing large, large enough to block out the sun for all eternity, I dare say there’s a couple o’ three far more important events took place last week that slipped past your radar completely unnoticed. So, if you’ll afford me your attention long enough, I’d be happy to elucidate:

1. I thought I saw Nicholas Lyndhurst in the Enfield branch of TK Maxx. But it wasn’t him. He works in the one in Watford.

2. My wife found a spare biro lid on the shelf above the TV yet all the pens in the house appeared to have lids already. Weird. Don’t think we’ll ever get to the bottom of that one.

3. Not quite as unsettling, but almost as inexpilcable, it started raining dead birds in Louisiana. Actual dead birds. An aptly biblical downpour, given the state’s pride of place just to the right of the buckle on the Bible Belt. And don’t be leaping to any conclusions simply because the birds were black and we happen to be talking about America’s deep South, here. It’s mere coincidence.

4. Cameron Frye’s house went on sale. Yes, that one. The site of cinema’s most compelling ode to teenage hypochondria is now officially up for grabs. Which is quite exciting. Should you have a spare million-and-change lying fallow in that Griffin Savers Account you forgot you opened in 1985, that is. Anyone? Anyone?

5. Gerry Rafferty died. Worth noting, you’d think. He just made the mistake of handing in his badge the same week as The Greatest Actor In the World™ – a bold claim, by the way, particularly for a man whose revered skills of mimicry couldn’t even conquer a simple Irish accent. At least Brad Pitt could play the ‘what else would you expect from a gurning American mongoloid?’ card. Postlethwaite had no such excuse.

6. At long last, Catford is to be demolished. Well, part of it, at least. But anything’s a start, right?

7. And finally, during the week you wasted barking condemnation at a soap opera plotline, in the UK alone, 6 couples lost a new-born child to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, a further 19 children were abducted, 12 people were murdered, 1048 sex crimes were perpetrated, 3052 people died of cancer, 58 unfortunate souls were killed or seriously injured by drink drivers, and betwattled stupidity continued its ceaseless fucking reign over everything.

But you’re absolutely right, it’s the fictional tragedies we need to be worrying about.

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

The Year of Living Aimlessly.

Ambition. Desire. Direction. Zest. Zeal. Aspiration. Enterprise. Passion. Purpose. Enthusiasm. Initiative. Intent. Hope. Belief. Anticipation. Dreams.

Take a long look at all those words, people, because it’s the last time you’ll see any of them ever again. Well, here at least.

Yes. At the risk of ostracizing my cheerful and devoted congregation in its entirety, 2011 will be forever known as the year El Especialista del Odio abandoned his trademark positivity, his determination to always see the silver lining, his bordering-on-the-nauseating capacity to wave a sparkler of dickish joviality in the face of insurmountable misery, and settled upon a new world view – one of absolute and unconditional fuck-it ambivalence.

Oh, sure, I’ve dabbled before, waved my bat limply outside apathy’s off stump. But it’s time to commit fully to the stroke. All the way. The big stride forward. In fact, fuck the big stride forward. I’ll be charging up the track like a gacked-out samurai, slashing at the ball before it’s even left the bowler’s hand. Which is an absurdly energetic metaphor for a man who just pledged himself to undivided sloth. But new year, new rules. And the rules are...there are no rules. Those are the rules. And I make ‘em. Or not. As the case may be. Not. Or.

Anyrape, the long and the short of it is, along with the Christmas tree I can never be arsed to take down, I’ll be toeing any remnants of vitality and vigor toward the corner of my spunk-besmirched dungeon, throwing some laundry over them and filling my existential lexicon instead with words like torpor, indifference, huh?, uuuurgh, mphhh, and erm.

Why, I hear myself cry in the absence of an audience?

Truth is, I don’t rightly know. Could be all manner of reasons. But the good thing is, with my new-found Philosophy of Disinterest, not to mention the timely arrival of a My Two Dads box set, finding an answer has never seemed less important.

Free at last.

Friday, 17 December 2010

The ‘Throbbies 2010.

Everybody loves an award ceremony. The pomp. The splendour. The self-congratulatory herd of emotional cripples stampeding toward a15inch monument to fleeting validation. I know I can’t get enough of it. I could happily live another 600 lifetimes trapped like a paraplegic otter inside a glass case of needy razzmatazz, I really could.

And having awoken this morning to the thrilling realisation that, as author and potentate of this here hateful republic, I have my own platform for meaningless accolade, it’s now my dubious pleasure to pay homage to the great and the good/spray both barrels of abuse in the vague direction of some cunt or other from my sneering vantage point atop Mount Contempt.

So, without any further ado may I welcome you to these the inaugural 2010 ‘Throbbie Awards, given in recognition of… Christ Almighty, I’ve lost interest in this already, so let’s just get on with the poorly punctuated avalanche of expletives, shall we? F,uck yEa.h;

Man of the Year: And the winner is…if I can just prize the envelope open… Yes, the winner is… Absolutely no one. Nobody. For one simple reason: all men are nothing more than a cluster of unsightly reproductive organs towing a barely sentient bag of giblets behind them. A cock-first caravan of offal, arrogance, stupidity and deceit. And if any Y-chromosome-wielding dingbats out there care to disagree, take off all your clothes and go stand in front of the mirror for 20 minutes. Vulgar, aren’t you? And twice as dumb. Now get back in your box.

Woman of the Year: A landslide victory, this one. She swept the board. Ladies and gentlemen, the only argument you’ll ever need to successfully lobby for state-enforced sterility: Tracey Connelly. Yes, thanks to this pungent sack of remorseless evil, this waddling one-woman plague of barbarity, this horrifying black hole of humanity, 2010 will forever be remembered as the year I realised I’m not half the atrocity I thought I was. Cheers, Trace. I owe you one.

Moment of the Year: After 12 long months of homogenised gloom, there really are so few to choose from. So I’ll give it to the one that won at the BAFTAs: the split second of compass-spinning confusion that occurs each morning as I’m catapulted from a state of blissful sleep head-first into the brick wall of miserable cognisance by my alarm clock. Disorienting? I think the world would make more sense if the sky suddenly grew an arse and shat a new consonant-devouring vowel into all our mouths.

The Dr Faustus Award for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Shameless, Alchemical Cuntery: For his bare-faced willingness to sell both his principles and what remained of his soul in return for a slightly demeaning footstool in government, this could quite easily have gone to Nick Clegg. But I never expected anything else from the weasely little penis-turd (yes, that’s a turd that slithers out of a penis). He got what he wanted…almost (not so much power as the opportunity to appear on the news walking impotently into, and then out of, various buildings – well done, Deputy). And I got what I expected: two wankers in 10 Downing Street for the price of one. So, with Clegg absolved by predictability alone, the plaudits for this year’s most spectacularly sickening Judas Kiss instead go to… Vince Cable. It takes some kind of cunt to go so far back on his word he actually starts to ingest the English language. Let’s hope he chokes on it.

Darkly Symbolic Mutilation of an Inanimate Object by a Brutal and Overbearing Despot…of the Year: A tough one, this one. Almost impossible to call. So I’ll have to give it to both Ayatollah Khameni and his bonsai Roy Keane-a-like compatriot Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Too rarely do you see shopkeepers being force by law to perform mastectomies on mannequins because a window-display full of anatomically accurate plastic women would be heresy (scroll down to the ‘Permission Denied’ heading in this article and enjoy) – an oversight addressed head-on by this pair of megalomaniacal psychopaths. And then some. So atuned are they to the frequencies of sense and reason that once Tehran’s answer to Arkwright & Granville have finished chopping the udders off a sacrilegiously hot dummy, the top half of her skull has to be butchered too (I still can’t figure out why), leaving all shop fronts resembling ghoulish rest homes for breast cancer survivors who, having emerged scarred but victorious from chemotherapy's battlefield, then had to overcome the injuries sustained during a comically botched shotgun-against-the-forehead suicide attempt. What a wonderful country theirs is. Oh, and if you’re planning on going tie shopping in Tehran next year, don’t bother. Ties are just as outlawed as fake tits. Neckwear is a pornographic western affectation, apparently. And as a man who simply cannot stop wanking in Tie Rack, himself, I’m inclined to agree.

…Fuck it. That’ll do for 2010. I’m bored. You’re bored. The guests here in the studio are bored – they started leaving 10 minutes ago and the entrees haven’t even been served yet. So let’s follow the crowd and head for the fire exits, too. See you in 2011, cocksuckers. And remember, if the van’s a-rocking…I’m probably raping somebody.

Onward.