When I was a kid and we were planning a holiday, we would get a load of brochures from the travel agents (this was in the days before the internet) and all sit around looking at them. We would make a decision based on how nice the beaches were, if there was a water-park or funfair for the kids, or if there was a popular tourist attraction.
It’s all different now. These days, the family gathers around the computer screen, and instead of saying, ‘Ooh, that place looks good; it has a lovely swimming pool,’ they say, ‘Ooh, let’s go there; it has a great orthopaedic department; cheap too; I can finally get that hip replacement.’
In this modern age of internet connectivity and cheap air travel, a sort of cottage industry has sprung up in which people are travelling abroad not for a holiday, but for cheap and quick medical procedures. Gone are the days of Brits coming back from abroad as red as a lobster, covered in Sudocreme and shouting, ‘Don’t touch me! My sunburn’s stinging!’ Now, they’re coming back in bandages, or on crutches, and shouting, ‘Don’t touch me! You’ll burst my stitches!’
For a number of years now, Brits have been travelling abroad for the specific reason of having medical procedures. For those who can afford it, it’s a viable alternative to the struggling NHS with its long waiting lists and concerns about hygiene in some facilities. Now, with the new government’s austerity measures kicking in and the NHS under even more pressure, more and more are turning to this option. Not only does it mean they don’t have to wait months for a procedure, but also it’s cheaper than going private for the same thing in the UK.
Such is the demand for this kind of thing that there are even medical travel agents now. Companies like The Medical Tourist Company offer a full package service that includes making all travel arrangements, including airport pick-ups, arranging accommodation and liaising with the healthcare professionals who will be treating you. If you’re feeling flush, they can even book a recuperation holiday for you.
For the princely sum of £4,000, you can have a hip replaced. That’s less than half the price if you have it done privately in the UK. £600 will get you dental implants, and if you’re having a bit of discomfort when you’re sitting down, you can get your haemorrhoids sorted for just £700. That has to be value for money in anyone’s eyes…or arse.
There are already an estimated 50,000 medical tourists per year from the UK, and that figure is set to increase further, with Poland and Bulgaria expecting a rush, especially with the new EU Directive that will come into force in 2013 which will mean that people will be reimbursed for any medical treatment they receive in another EU country. This will further encourage medical travellers, and perhaps reduce the lengthy waiting lists on the NHS.
On the downside, this could create a two-tier healthcare system, with those who can afford it getting access to the fastest, best treatments, while the rest of us peasants have to wait up to two years for an NHS procedure. We also have the risk of MRSA to deal with. Is it a coincidence that David “Posh Git” Cameron is the Prime Minister and equality in the UK healthcare and education system is rapidly being eroded?
And it’s not just medical operations either. 7.4 million people in the UK don’t have access to an NHS dentist, and paying privately can be prohibitively expensive. So, they hop on a plane and get the dental treatment they need on the continent.
I think it’s great that people can go do that; that they have the means to jump on a plane and fly to Europe for treatment. But there is something very wrong with the UK’s dental service when IT’S CHEAPER TO GET ON A PLANE AND FLY TO POLAND to get your teeth done. Does nobody see how insane that is!
Can you imagine some bloke searching through every drawer in the house, and shouting to his wife: ‘Love – I have an appointment at the dentist; where’s my passport?’
What an age we live in now, where you can go to Bulgaria for treatment for lung cancer, and then buy 200 cigarettes from the duty free on the way back. The world really has gone mad.
Most annoying though is that we in the UK are paying more tax and getting less value for our money. Our dustbins are now only emptied every two weeks instead of every week, we have to fly to the continent to get our teeth fixed, and if you need an operation you’ll be dead before you get it unless you can go private in Europe.
It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it? We have people over here, complaining about immigration, saying there are too many foreigners coming over, stealing our jobs, using our services, yet there are tens of thousands of us going to their countries to use their health services.
But what about our health service? What happened to the British National Health Service that was once the pride of our nation, and a model for healthcare all over the world? Why aren’t people hopping on a flight to Britain to have their teeth done, or their gall bladder removed?
I can’t blame the people within the NHS. The nurses, doctors and auxiliary staff in our service are fantastic people, who do their best under increasingly tough conditions. I’ve been at my local hospital on a Saturday night, when drunks show up with injuries caused by their own stupidity, and they throw up all over the place and hurl abuse at the people trying to help them. And these people still do their best for them! God bless the staff of the British NHS.
As for medical tourism, if that’s what you want to do, then good luck to you. Personally, though, if I want to go abroad and come back broke and feeling like crap, I’ll just go to Disneyland Paris.
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
Monday, 28 November 2011
Funny Boy
I like to think of myself as a bit of a connoisseur when it comes to stand-up comedy. It has been a passion of mine for many years.
As a kid in the seventies I used to listen to bootleg tapes of comedians like Tony Palmer, Roy “Chubby” Brown, and Billy Connolly. I used to watch Dave Allen and Bernard Manning on television. It was a magical time for me, and I have to admit to getting a little rebellious thrill from listening to people like messrs Brown and Manning effing and blinding and telling their crude jokes about their wives and mothers-in-law.
They were lewd, sexist, racist, xenophobic, and as far from politically correct as you can get without burning crosses on your Jamaican neighbour’s lawn. But they were all we had at the time; their vulgar humour was all we knew, and we laughed until our sides ached.
Throughout the eighties and nineties the so-called “alternative” comedians like Ben Elton and Jo Brand, and later Lee Evans and Jack Dee, established themselves and became the dominant force in stand-up. They condemned the old guard to the past, where they belonged, and they taught us that you don’t have to insult or belittle people to be funny (Frankie Boyle excepted), and that you could find humour anywhere – it was all around us. All you had to do was look.
Jumping forward to the present day, and we seem to be in a golden age of stand-up. There are a plethora of excellent comedians out there - Lee Nelson, John Bishop, and Dara O’Briain, to name but a few. And then we have Russell Kane.
I first saw Russell on a television program called Russell Howard’s Good News. He was a guest comedian one week, and I have to admit, I was a little unsure about him at first. Watching his set, I thought, ‘slightly odd; some dad issues.’
As time went on and I saw more of him, I realised I was watching a fledgling star finding his feet in a notoriously difficult profession. He grew in confidence, polished his performance and became slicker in his delivery, and then I thought, ‘My God, this kid’s good!’
This opinion was later vindicated by his winning the Foster’s Edinburgh Comedy Award, formerly the Perrier. This is indisputably the most prestigious prize in comedy, and boasts such previous winners as Rich Hall, Al Murray, and King of Stand-up, Lee Evans.
This spindly, slightly camp ball of energy had arrived, and with his Essex accent and endearing vulnerability he was set to conquer the world of comedy and emerge head and shoulders above a pool of talent arguably stronger than ever before. For me, that moment came with his memorable performance on the One Night Stand program on satellite TV channel, Dave. In this series, comedians go back to their home towns and put on a one-night-only show, with a little segment at the beginning where they show us around the place they grew up. Some played this part straight, showing us around significant places and introducing us to friends and family. Others, like Russell, played it for laughs, and his was hilarious, playing on all the Essex stereotypes (and there are many), but with a kind of fondness not seen so much these days.
Needless to say, the show itself was a triumph, leaving every self-respecting comedy fan drooling in anticipation for the live DVD that must surely come. Git that he is, he made us wait before finally releasing it on 7th November.
I took delivery of my copy this morning. I was like a kid on Christmas morning, I was so excited.
I made myself a coffee and settled down to watch it, though not before Tweeting to Russell that he could expect fire and brimstone should I not be entirely satisfied. Finally, I pressed play, and waited.
The show is called Smokescreens and Castles (he does explain why, I promise) and for the most part focuses on his growing up on a council estate in Essex and his relationship with his father, a stereotypical Essex “geezer”, the idea of which he mimics with hilarious accuracy. He enthrals us with tales of his father being the first in the street to buy his council house, of his first car, teaching his mom how to use a laptop, and why you should run for your life if a cockney ever starts talking quietly to you. But underneath all this foul-mouthed, sometimes crude, always funny madness is a little boy desperate for his father’s love and approval and feeling that he never has either.
This is where the young Mr Kane really elevates himself above his peers; for it is here, my friends, that Russell connects with his audience on an emotional level. The ability to do this is the difference between good comedians and great ones, and Russell shows his greatness here, because while you’re laughing so hard that it hurts at the tales of his right-wing father, there’s a single thought running through the back of your mind, and that is, ‘This guy really loves his dad,’ and I mean right down to the bone adoration. It emanates from every pore of the man, shining through the good-humoured mocking and sometimes cringe-worthy honesty like a beacon calling out for just a simple hug from his dad which never comes.
Russell openly admits that his comedy is a form of therapy, which in these times of emotional detachment is a refreshing change. It actually makes you feel privileged to share it with him, and journey with him through his comedic catharsis right to the end of the show, at which point I defy anyone not to have a tear in their eye.
A genuine star has risen, gentle reader. If Lee Evans is the King of stand-up, then Russell Kane is the Crown Prince. Buy his DVD or spend the rest of your life wondering why his father never hit him and what the only thing to bring a tear to the big man’s eye was.
Russell Kane – Smokescreens and Castles Live is available from Amazon.co.uk for £12.93.
As a kid in the seventies I used to listen to bootleg tapes of comedians like Tony Palmer, Roy “Chubby” Brown, and Billy Connolly. I used to watch Dave Allen and Bernard Manning on television. It was a magical time for me, and I have to admit to getting a little rebellious thrill from listening to people like messrs Brown and Manning effing and blinding and telling their crude jokes about their wives and mothers-in-law.
They were lewd, sexist, racist, xenophobic, and as far from politically correct as you can get without burning crosses on your Jamaican neighbour’s lawn. But they were all we had at the time; their vulgar humour was all we knew, and we laughed until our sides ached.
Throughout the eighties and nineties the so-called “alternative” comedians like Ben Elton and Jo Brand, and later Lee Evans and Jack Dee, established themselves and became the dominant force in stand-up. They condemned the old guard to the past, where they belonged, and they taught us that you don’t have to insult or belittle people to be funny (Frankie Boyle excepted), and that you could find humour anywhere – it was all around us. All you had to do was look.
Jumping forward to the present day, and we seem to be in a golden age of stand-up. There are a plethora of excellent comedians out there - Lee Nelson, John Bishop, and Dara O’Briain, to name but a few. And then we have Russell Kane.
I first saw Russell on a television program called Russell Howard’s Good News. He was a guest comedian one week, and I have to admit, I was a little unsure about him at first. Watching his set, I thought, ‘slightly odd; some dad issues.’
As time went on and I saw more of him, I realised I was watching a fledgling star finding his feet in a notoriously difficult profession. He grew in confidence, polished his performance and became slicker in his delivery, and then I thought, ‘My God, this kid’s good!’
This opinion was later vindicated by his winning the Foster’s Edinburgh Comedy Award, formerly the Perrier. This is indisputably the most prestigious prize in comedy, and boasts such previous winners as Rich Hall, Al Murray, and King of Stand-up, Lee Evans.
This spindly, slightly camp ball of energy had arrived, and with his Essex accent and endearing vulnerability he was set to conquer the world of comedy and emerge head and shoulders above a pool of talent arguably stronger than ever before. For me, that moment came with his memorable performance on the One Night Stand program on satellite TV channel, Dave. In this series, comedians go back to their home towns and put on a one-night-only show, with a little segment at the beginning where they show us around the place they grew up. Some played this part straight, showing us around significant places and introducing us to friends and family. Others, like Russell, played it for laughs, and his was hilarious, playing on all the Essex stereotypes (and there are many), but with a kind of fondness not seen so much these days.
Needless to say, the show itself was a triumph, leaving every self-respecting comedy fan drooling in anticipation for the live DVD that must surely come. Git that he is, he made us wait before finally releasing it on 7th November.
I took delivery of my copy this morning. I was like a kid on Christmas morning, I was so excited.
I made myself a coffee and settled down to watch it, though not before Tweeting to Russell that he could expect fire and brimstone should I not be entirely satisfied. Finally, I pressed play, and waited.
The show is called Smokescreens and Castles (he does explain why, I promise) and for the most part focuses on his growing up on a council estate in Essex and his relationship with his father, a stereotypical Essex “geezer”, the idea of which he mimics with hilarious accuracy. He enthrals us with tales of his father being the first in the street to buy his council house, of his first car, teaching his mom how to use a laptop, and why you should run for your life if a cockney ever starts talking quietly to you. But underneath all this foul-mouthed, sometimes crude, always funny madness is a little boy desperate for his father’s love and approval and feeling that he never has either.
This is where the young Mr Kane really elevates himself above his peers; for it is here, my friends, that Russell connects with his audience on an emotional level. The ability to do this is the difference between good comedians and great ones, and Russell shows his greatness here, because while you’re laughing so hard that it hurts at the tales of his right-wing father, there’s a single thought running through the back of your mind, and that is, ‘This guy really loves his dad,’ and I mean right down to the bone adoration. It emanates from every pore of the man, shining through the good-humoured mocking and sometimes cringe-worthy honesty like a beacon calling out for just a simple hug from his dad which never comes.
Russell openly admits that his comedy is a form of therapy, which in these times of emotional detachment is a refreshing change. It actually makes you feel privileged to share it with him, and journey with him through his comedic catharsis right to the end of the show, at which point I defy anyone not to have a tear in their eye.
A genuine star has risen, gentle reader. If Lee Evans is the King of stand-up, then Russell Kane is the Crown Prince. Buy his DVD or spend the rest of your life wondering why his father never hit him and what the only thing to bring a tear to the big man’s eye was.
Russell Kane – Smokescreens and Castles Live is available from Amazon.co.uk for £12.93.
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road
The customary answer is: to get to the other side.
But I wonder if there’s more to the story than that. Was there something more sinister in the chicken’s journey from one side of the road to the other?
While it’s not beyond the realms of possibility for a chicken to cross the road, it’s not very likely, is it? How often do you even see one walking down the street? I will say, though, I did see one wandering around a Toy’s R Us car park once, and I found myself wondering if he’d lost his car.
Anyway, if you can suspend disbelief long enough to imagine a chicken walking down the street – maybe doing a bit of shopping, paying some bills, drawing money out of the bank – we can break this down.
So, there he is – our chicken. We’ll call him Dave for convenience.
So, Dave’s walking down the street. The dirty bastard’s looking up all the women’s skirts as they pass. He throws some shit at KFC’s windows before laying a wreath on the path outside. He once brought a marker pen to vandalise the picture of the Colonel, but then he realised he already had glasses, a beard and a moustache.
Okay, the scene’s set. It might not be great but I never said I was William Shakespeare, so bugger off.
Right, so Dave’s walking down the street. I like to imagine him striding along like John Travolta at the start of Saturday Night Fever with Stayin’ Alive playing in the background.
‘Well you can tell by the way I use my squawk…’
Now, for some reason, Dave now decides to cross the road. Why?
Actually, before we get to the why, maybe we should look at the how. Does he just dart across and hope for the best? Does he do the Green Cross Code and wait away from the kerb and away from parked cars until a sufficient gap appears in traffic then walks – not runs – across? Or does he go to a pelican crossing?
There’s the how…now for the why.
All the stuff I’ve been babbling about before is just nonsense; mere whimsy. Of course there’s no reason why a chicken should be walking down the street – they’re domesticated birds, bred for food. So, there’s no reason why they should be crossing the road either. That is…unless they’re up to something.
Think about it – what other reason can they have? They must be up to no good.
They can’t be going over there to do some shopping – we’ve already established that. They can’t be going to do some charity work. They can’t be helping an old lady cross the road.
So, why did the chicken cross the road…?
Friday, 8 July 2011
Think it through!!!
I just saw that advert where the voice-over bloke says, “If you give a man a fish, he can feed himself for a day. If you give him the means to catch his own fish, he can feed himself for a lifetime.”
What a load of bollocks!
Correct me if I’m wrong, but most of the world’s hunger problems come from a lack of water, and unless evolution has taken a quantum leap forward that’s just about the most important thing needed for fish to survive. I’ve never seen a famine appeal where they say the crops have failed because the fish are hogging all the water. Or one where they say, “This little girl has to walk 5 miles every day to get clean water…because the fucking fish keep shitting in the river next to her house.”
I can just imagine some bloke who’s just been given a fishing rod hurrying off to the river. He casts out and sits himself down on a rock as he waits for the fish to bite. His mouth waters as he imagines the magnificent banquet to come. He’ll make Cod a la Mornay, Trout with a fennel and butter dressing, maybe even fish and chips.
The fact that his fishing hook is lying on a cracked, sun-baked riverbed that hasn’t seen water in months doesn’t really register with him.
Five hours later, he’s still waiting for his first bite. His culinary ambitions have become more modest now. If he catches a fish now, he will just bite into the bastard as soon as it’s out of the water.
His mate, Tom comes along and says, ‘Hey, Steve – how’s it going?’
‘Crap,’ Steve replies. ‘Fucking fish aren’t biting.’
‘I know what you mean, mate. I was here all day yesterday and didn’t catch a friggin’ thing.’
‘You’ve done all right today though, mate,’ Steve says, noticing the large fish in Tom’s one hand and the fishing rod in the other. ‘Where did you catch that one? It’s a beauty.’
‘Oh, this?’ Tom says, holding up the fish. ‘Some charity bloke came up to me and asked if I wanted the fish, to feed me for a day, or the rod, to feed me for a lifetime. So, I just twatted him and took them both.’
What a load of bollocks!
Correct me if I’m wrong, but most of the world’s hunger problems come from a lack of water, and unless evolution has taken a quantum leap forward that’s just about the most important thing needed for fish to survive. I’ve never seen a famine appeal where they say the crops have failed because the fish are hogging all the water. Or one where they say, “This little girl has to walk 5 miles every day to get clean water…because the fucking fish keep shitting in the river next to her house.”
I can just imagine some bloke who’s just been given a fishing rod hurrying off to the river. He casts out and sits himself down on a rock as he waits for the fish to bite. His mouth waters as he imagines the magnificent banquet to come. He’ll make Cod a la Mornay, Trout with a fennel and butter dressing, maybe even fish and chips.
The fact that his fishing hook is lying on a cracked, sun-baked riverbed that hasn’t seen water in months doesn’t really register with him.
Five hours later, he’s still waiting for his first bite. His culinary ambitions have become more modest now. If he catches a fish now, he will just bite into the bastard as soon as it’s out of the water.
His mate, Tom comes along and says, ‘Hey, Steve – how’s it going?’
‘Crap,’ Steve replies. ‘Fucking fish aren’t biting.’
‘I know what you mean, mate. I was here all day yesterday and didn’t catch a friggin’ thing.’
‘You’ve done all right today though, mate,’ Steve says, noticing the large fish in Tom’s one hand and the fishing rod in the other. ‘Where did you catch that one? It’s a beauty.’
‘Oh, this?’ Tom says, holding up the fish. ‘Some charity bloke came up to me and asked if I wanted the fish, to feed me for a day, or the rod, to feed me for a lifetime. So, I just twatted him and took them both.’
It's the End of the World
This Sunday will see the final edition of the “News” of the World published. I’m a bit upset, because it means I’m going to have to start buying proper toilet paper now.
For 168 years, this gutter-rag has pumped out bullshit and “exposed” scandals in the interests of profits and circulation. How fitting that it has been forced to shut down because it has been involved in a scandal of its own worse than any it has dug up or made up for its own ends.
In its pursuit of the salacious and vulgar, it decided it was above the law and any idea of morals or common decency, and started hacking into people’s phones. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it has also been alleged that they hacked into the phones of Milly Dowler, Holly and Jessica from Soham, and the families of dead war heroes. I can’t think of anything more vile and disgusting. It kind of gives you the idea that they would have actually filmed the murders of those little girls if it meant selling a few more papers. I use papers in its broadest term, and you’ll notice I didn’t include the word “news”.
News International, Rupert Murdoch’s behemoth of a media company, owns the News of the World, and they have decided that finally this piece of gutter press has gone too far. So, they announced that they will shut it down. Far be it from me to suggest that this action was taken because they want to keep people sweet while they’re involved in the whole BSkyB takeover.
The “News” of the World liked to set itself up as some kind of moral conscience by tricking people into incriminating themselves, such as the time they sent someone pretending to be a Saudi sheik to entrap Sven Goran Eriksson. They particularly liked scandalising the England football team right before major tournaments. So, they would kick the shit out of the players and manager’s psyche and then start wailing when they lost. Oh, and they used to love to print paparazzi shots of celebrity nip-slips, or topless sunbathing, or any other form of invasion of privacy.
I personally will miss this rag as much as I miss that really painful spot I had on my arse last week. I think the world is a shitty enough place without some bunch of media bullies walking all over everyone in the pursuit of higher circulation.
So, the tabloid equivalent of an annoying nosey neighbour will finally print its last piece of shit. I would like to say – on behalf of all the people this rag has needlessly embarrassed or hurt – “News” of the World, you will not be missed. If there is a newspaper hell, your seat at Satan’s right hand will be waiting for you. Your only use now will be as a lining for a bird cage – kind of fitting when you consider all the shit you’ve thrown at other people.
For 168 years, this gutter-rag has pumped out bullshit and “exposed” scandals in the interests of profits and circulation. How fitting that it has been forced to shut down because it has been involved in a scandal of its own worse than any it has dug up or made up for its own ends.
In its pursuit of the salacious and vulgar, it decided it was above the law and any idea of morals or common decency, and started hacking into people’s phones. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it has also been alleged that they hacked into the phones of Milly Dowler, Holly and Jessica from Soham, and the families of dead war heroes. I can’t think of anything more vile and disgusting. It kind of gives you the idea that they would have actually filmed the murders of those little girls if it meant selling a few more papers. I use papers in its broadest term, and you’ll notice I didn’t include the word “news”.
News International, Rupert Murdoch’s behemoth of a media company, owns the News of the World, and they have decided that finally this piece of gutter press has gone too far. So, they announced that they will shut it down. Far be it from me to suggest that this action was taken because they want to keep people sweet while they’re involved in the whole BSkyB takeover.
The “News” of the World liked to set itself up as some kind of moral conscience by tricking people into incriminating themselves, such as the time they sent someone pretending to be a Saudi sheik to entrap Sven Goran Eriksson. They particularly liked scandalising the England football team right before major tournaments. So, they would kick the shit out of the players and manager’s psyche and then start wailing when they lost. Oh, and they used to love to print paparazzi shots of celebrity nip-slips, or topless sunbathing, or any other form of invasion of privacy.
I personally will miss this rag as much as I miss that really painful spot I had on my arse last week. I think the world is a shitty enough place without some bunch of media bullies walking all over everyone in the pursuit of higher circulation.
So, the tabloid equivalent of an annoying nosey neighbour will finally print its last piece of shit. I would like to say – on behalf of all the people this rag has needlessly embarrassed or hurt – “News” of the World, you will not be missed. If there is a newspaper hell, your seat at Satan’s right hand will be waiting for you. Your only use now will be as a lining for a bird cage – kind of fitting when you consider all the shit you’ve thrown at other people.
Thursday, 7 July 2011
Favourite Headline of the Year?
From the BBC website:
THREAT OF VIRGIN STRIKE LIFTED
Ah, what an image that conjures up!
What would happen if Virgins went on strike? By going on strike you’re refusing to fulfil your job. So, does that mean that if Virgins went on strike they would all be shagging like rabbits?
The only “service” they could withhold would be being a virgin. So, by withdrawing that then surely they would be doing the sticky belly.
How would it work, though? Would there be picket lines, with women dressed in white waving banners like “No more chastity!”, or “Bye to abstention, Hymen.”
Would they chant things like, “What do we want? A right-good seeing to! When do we want it? Now!”
Ah, but once that first bloke had “crossed the picket line” they wouldn’t be virgins anymore, so, technically, the strike would be over for them.
I think I need to give this one more thought; I’m starting to get a nose bleed.
What's the Point of Jordan?
I know this entry is counter-intuitive, but I want to know – what is the point of Jordan? Why does this talentless, brainless caricature of a woman keep getting press attention?
The Sun newspaper has got to be the worst. She’s in that rag almost every day, and so desperate were they yesterday to find a reason to put her in there that they actually covered her taking delivery of a car.
Well whoopee-fucking-do!!!!!!! Oh my God!! My life is so enriched by seeing a picture of that non-entity having a car delivered. What would I have done without that news yesterday? There’s war in the world, famine, disgraceful behaviour by the press, so many important events taking place all over the world, and The Sun chooses to show some stupid tart jumping for joy at the delivery of her new Porsche while millions in this country are struggling to make it from one week to the next.
Jordan (real name Katie Price, as The Sun likes to point out, as if anyone gives a shit) got famous for showing her tits on Page 3. Then she got more famous for having various boob jobs and plastic surgery and showing her ever-growing norks.
It seems someone told her that getting your kit off means you have absolutely limitless talent and can do anything. So, she decided to spread her wings, and show us all just how talented she wasn’t.
She’s done a sex-tape, written books, gone on a reality TV show and had an incredibly public marriage to a bloke named Peter Andre who once had a chart hit in the 90s and has the gall to call that a musical career. She even went into singing herself. Who can forget the famous recording of the duet she did with Peter before the auto tune got hold of it and tried to make a tune out of it? She must have melted that poor friggin’ machine. It didn’t stop her having another go though, and she recorded a solo single that, thankfully, flopped. The high-point of this was a disastrous “live” performance during which she utterly failed to lip-sync properly and treated people to the sight of two zeppelins tied to a lamp post trying to dance. She later tried to defend this car crash by saying it was really hard to dance and sing at the same time.
Yes, it is, love. It’s even harder when you can’t do either!
So, I’m sending out a message to the media: Please, for the love of God, stop giving that nob-end the publicity she’s so desperate for.
The Sun newspaper has got to be the worst. She’s in that rag almost every day, and so desperate were they yesterday to find a reason to put her in there that they actually covered her taking delivery of a car.
Well whoopee-fucking-do!!!!!!! Oh my God!! My life is so enriched by seeing a picture of that non-entity having a car delivered. What would I have done without that news yesterday? There’s war in the world, famine, disgraceful behaviour by the press, so many important events taking place all over the world, and The Sun chooses to show some stupid tart jumping for joy at the delivery of her new Porsche while millions in this country are struggling to make it from one week to the next.
Jordan (real name Katie Price, as The Sun likes to point out, as if anyone gives a shit) got famous for showing her tits on Page 3. Then she got more famous for having various boob jobs and plastic surgery and showing her ever-growing norks.
It seems someone told her that getting your kit off means you have absolutely limitless talent and can do anything. So, she decided to spread her wings, and show us all just how talented she wasn’t.
She’s done a sex-tape, written books, gone on a reality TV show and had an incredibly public marriage to a bloke named Peter Andre who once had a chart hit in the 90s and has the gall to call that a musical career. She even went into singing herself. Who can forget the famous recording of the duet she did with Peter before the auto tune got hold of it and tried to make a tune out of it? She must have melted that poor friggin’ machine. It didn’t stop her having another go though, and she recorded a solo single that, thankfully, flopped. The high-point of this was a disastrous “live” performance during which she utterly failed to lip-sync properly and treated people to the sight of two zeppelins tied to a lamp post trying to dance. She later tried to defend this car crash by saying it was really hard to dance and sing at the same time.
Yes, it is, love. It’s even harder when you can’t do either!
So, I’m sending out a message to the media: Please, for the love of God, stop giving that nob-end the publicity she’s so desperate for.
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
Japan Warning
Following my last post, I thought I would issue a public warning.
For anyone, male or female, considering having children with a Japanese national, please know that there may come a day when you will never see, speak to or hear from those children again.
Japanese parents are kidnapping children from all over the world and taking them to Japan, which is actively encouraging wholesale international child abduction.
Since 1951, more than 10,000 children have been abducted to Japan, and not a single one has ever been returned to their country of birth.
Bear that in mind, because the pain you could potentially go through is more than the human psyche was ever meant to endure.
Make no mistake - behind the jolly smiles and willingness to please, at the heart is a system that is as racist as any nationalist party in the world. They're just able to hide it better because they are the third largest economy in the world. Until recently, they were second.
It's amazing what money can get for you - just look at David Cameron and George W Bush.
For anyone, male or female, considering having children with a Japanese national, please know that there may come a day when you will never see, speak to or hear from those children again.
Japanese parents are kidnapping children from all over the world and taking them to Japan, which is actively encouraging wholesale international child abduction.
Since 1951, more than 10,000 children have been abducted to Japan, and not a single one has ever been returned to their country of birth.
Bear that in mind, because the pain you could potentially go through is more than the human psyche was ever meant to endure.
Make no mistake - behind the jolly smiles and willingness to please, at the heart is a system that is as racist as any nationalist party in the world. They're just able to hide it better because they are the third largest economy in the world. Until recently, they were second.
It's amazing what money can get for you - just look at David Cameron and George W Bush.
David Cameron - What a twat!
David Cameron really is a tit. I was saying it before he was nearly elected - that's right, I say nearly because he didn't actually win an outright majority.
I wonder if there's anyone in the world who still believes a word that man says. I bet even if he tells his wife he's done the washing up she still has to poke her head round the kitchen door just to check. Actually, I say "done the washing up", what I should have said was put it into the dishwasher or ordered their maid to do it, the posh twat.
The man has done more u-turns than an escape driver, broken more promises than a horny teenager and has all the principles of a fox in a chicken coop. The man is an utter disgrace.
The thing that really gets me though, and the thing that has brought me into direct contact with the snotty-nosed ponce, is when he starts harping on about family values, and now his latest attack on errant fathers.
There are many fathers in this country who would give anything to see their children, but they can't because they have been abducted by their mother to another country. Japan is the worst. There are about 40 ongoing cases in this country of men who married Japanese women, and when the marriage broke down the woman whipped the kids off to Japan, where even if ordered to, they are not returned, and the father can't even speak to his children, let alone see them.
This figure is increasing, and to the already rising total of more than 10,000 children abducted to Japan since 1951 with NOT ONE SINGLE CHILD RETURNED TO THE COUNTRY THEY WERE BORN IN.
David Cameron knows all about this. He knows how many children are having their human rights abused by a system that won't even give foreigners a fair hearing, be they the mother or the father.
The simple fact is, Cameron doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything unless it's going to get him more votes and make him richer. He's the biggest opportunist in history. He would sell his own mother for for a few more votes.
So, David Cameron, either show a bit of integrity for the first time in your pathetic life or shut the hell up!
By the way, can you tell I don't like David Cameron???
I wonder if there's anyone in the world who still believes a word that man says. I bet even if he tells his wife he's done the washing up she still has to poke her head round the kitchen door just to check. Actually, I say "done the washing up", what I should have said was put it into the dishwasher or ordered their maid to do it, the posh twat.
The man has done more u-turns than an escape driver, broken more promises than a horny teenager and has all the principles of a fox in a chicken coop. The man is an utter disgrace.
The thing that really gets me though, and the thing that has brought me into direct contact with the snotty-nosed ponce, is when he starts harping on about family values, and now his latest attack on errant fathers.
There are many fathers in this country who would give anything to see their children, but they can't because they have been abducted by their mother to another country. Japan is the worst. There are about 40 ongoing cases in this country of men who married Japanese women, and when the marriage broke down the woman whipped the kids off to Japan, where even if ordered to, they are not returned, and the father can't even speak to his children, let alone see them.
This figure is increasing, and to the already rising total of more than 10,000 children abducted to Japan since 1951 with NOT ONE SINGLE CHILD RETURNED TO THE COUNTRY THEY WERE BORN IN.
David Cameron knows all about this. He knows how many children are having their human rights abused by a system that won't even give foreigners a fair hearing, be they the mother or the father.
The simple fact is, Cameron doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything unless it's going to get him more votes and make him richer. He's the biggest opportunist in history. He would sell his own mother for for a few more votes.
So, David Cameron, either show a bit of integrity for the first time in your pathetic life or shut the hell up!
By the way, can you tell I don't like David Cameron???
Wimbledon 2011
Okay, on to Serena Williams and Arazane Rezai.
The reigning champion doesn't look as comfortable as in previous years, probably down to the fact that she has been out so long with that injury. She just broke Rezai's serve, though, so she can't be feeling too bad.
She's kind of stocky, isn't she, Serena? I reckon she could beat up all the women at Wimbledon, and probably most of the men. They should do that sometime - have a Wimbledon fight off.
Well, Serena just won the match. She's a little emotional, which I guess is understandable after the year she's had.
It's good to see her at Wimbledon again.
The reigning champion doesn't look as comfortable as in previous years, probably down to the fact that she has been out so long with that injury. She just broke Rezai's serve, though, so she can't be feeling too bad.
She's kind of stocky, isn't she, Serena? I reckon she could beat up all the women at Wimbledon, and probably most of the men. They should do that sometime - have a Wimbledon fight off.
Well, Serena just won the match. She's a little emotional, which I guess is understandable after the year she's had.
It's good to see her at Wimbledon again.
Wimbledon 2011
Okay, I'm watching Jelena "Jelly" Jankovic against Martinez and there's not an erect nipple in sight. So disappointing.
I'm a big fan of Jelly as a tennis player. She's very talented, and on her day she can be a joy to watch.
Unfortunately, today doesn't seem to be her day. She seems a bit out of sorts today and is struggling.
Pardon my vulgarity, but do you think women tennis player's fannies get really sweaty when they're playing? Do you think there's steam coming off them when they go into the shower after a match? They must be giving out a right pong.
Does Jelly suffer from hayfever? I've noticed she blows her nose a lot during matches. Not while playing, of course, just when they take a break.
It's sad to see former world number ones struggling. It's kind of like seeing a tiger with the flu getting a kicking from a hyaena.
Come on Jelly!
She's serving to stay in the match at the moment. Get in! She just played a great volley to win the point.
Why do some players make those ridiculous noises? Martinez sounds like a sheep with nipple clamps on sometimes. It must work, though, because she's just won the match.
So, that's the secret for winning at Wimbledon - just make stupid noises.
I'm a big fan of Jelly as a tennis player. She's very talented, and on her day she can be a joy to watch.
Unfortunately, today doesn't seem to be her day. She seems a bit out of sorts today and is struggling.
Pardon my vulgarity, but do you think women tennis player's fannies get really sweaty when they're playing? Do you think there's steam coming off them when they go into the shower after a match? They must be giving out a right pong.
Does Jelly suffer from hayfever? I've noticed she blows her nose a lot during matches. Not while playing, of course, just when they take a break.
It's sad to see former world number ones struggling. It's kind of like seeing a tiger with the flu getting a kicking from a hyaena.
Come on Jelly!
She's serving to stay in the match at the moment. Get in! She just played a great volley to win the point.
Why do some players make those ridiculous noises? Martinez sounds like a sheep with nipple clamps on sometimes. It must work, though, because she's just won the match.
So, that's the secret for winning at Wimbledon - just make stupid noises.
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