Showing results for 'Racist Arsehole'

Permanent petulant Li’ll Donnie has been sheeting* again.

This time, the subject of his ill-considered emission is Google, specifically how, when you search for news, a lot of the results are critical of the ‘policies’ of the subject doing the Googling.

If that is indeed the case, and it may well be for reasons so obvious they can be understood by moss then it is, at least on one level, surprising.

Surprising because over years the internet has moved from being the place where you could go for almost limitless knowledge, and limitless opinion, to the place that you go to for almost limitless knowledge, almost limitless ignorance, and a hell of a lot of opinions that align with your own.

No doubt it is the inevitable result of more and more stuff being put on the internet, so the chances of coming across a comforting endorsement of your own views, however niche those views might be and even if the allied opinion is expressed in the comments section of a teen’s instagrammed selfie, is moderately certain.  Alternatively, you could just go the media outlet or nutcase conspiracy website of your choice to have your vile (Daily Mail) or smug (Guardian) views endorsed.

Ah, for the days when the internet was the home of chatrooms and bulletin boards that were wee digital salons where great matters were discussed.  Yes, I am talking about the debate about who the greatest Star trek captain was+.  Again.

Apparently, when li’ll Donnie Googles presumably himself, he is confronted with negative news stories.

This is probably because it is difficult to be objective, and positive, about Li’ll Donnie.

It should come as no surprise to anyone but a tan-addled buffoon that the internet tends to be negative about authority figures.  And it does not matter who they are or what they have done (obvious honourable exception is Nelson Mandala).  Look at Aung San Suu Kyi, somebody who is not enjoying a whole lot of positive press at the moment, and she’s got a Nobel peace prize (details correct at time of publishing).  Even if you fade from politics and try and rehabilitate yourself, you are still fair game.  In 1997 Michael Portillo exited politics in a ‘where were you when Portillo went?’ teevee moment that was as shocking as it was hysterical.  Everyone viewing reached for their dictionary to look up if ‘hubris’ meant what they thought it meant.  Since then, he has made a series of steam-porn documentaries for the BBC where he affably wanders round Britain, guided by a guide book decades out of date.  Now he is mocked merely for his choice of attire, rather than repulsive views and making life difficult for millions when in power.

Former PM David Cameron is very much not rehabilitated.  Never mind gurning selfies from festivals, the bloke could post pictures of a UK wide tour of him in an ice-cream van dolling out free lollies to the kiddies, and the reaction would probably be that he is either a peado or, worse, is actively contributing to childhood obesity levels.

It’s doubtful, of course, that Li’ll Donnie even knows what an algorithm is or how one might be applied to sifting and sorting results for news searches.  It’s doubtful that he has an understanding that his action of putting children in cages, like the fucking Child Catcher, is likely to inspire at least mild criticism.  It’s doubtful that he understands anything that can’t be expressed on the front of a baseball hat.  He probably doesn’t know how to click past page one of Google results.

He certainly has yet to learn that you never, ever, Google your own name.  the best result is that you will find that there is somebody with your name who is more famous than you, obviously, and will probably be younger, richer and less tubby than you.  Worst case is that you, your actual self, are somewhere at the top of that first page, because that means that you have done something to attract the attention of a third party on the internet and, unless you are Nelson Mandela or James T. Kirk, the results are not going to be favourable.

* ‘Sheeting’ is a hybrid term that I’ve invented that I’m hoping will be, if not word of the year 2019, then at least accepted by some sort of urban dictionary with really, really low standards.  It’s a mash-up of ‘Shit’ and ‘Tweeting’ and describes the process of making an ignorant statement on Twitter.  In short, the digital equivalent of talking out of your arse.  For instance ‘I see Linaker’s been sheeting about a top four finish for Man U this season’.

+ Kirk.  Obvs.

The snarking of the Hunt

The internet has given us many things, the ability to call up as if by magic images of cats in humorous situations being just one of them.  It’s also the Gateway to Porn.  Back in the day, the gateway to porn was a doorway, either to a local newsagent where, you know, your mum and dad got their paper and ciggies and the owner knew you and would rather laugh his fat arse off (newsagents always used to be fat, when did that change?) telling them that you had tried, and failed, to buy a copy of ‘Razzle’ (very much the tabloid of porn mags) than have your repeat custom, or the dark door of a ‘private shop’ selling exotic foreign porn which was essentially continental naked women less hairy or more hairy than the domestic variety.

Before the wide availability of the internet, if you were a (manic) minor, your opportunities for obtaining porn were limited to the close surveillance of the hedgerow.  It may be something of a cliché but honest to God, back in the day porn used to appear in hedgerows the way Costa cups do today.  Presumably the same drivers applied; an adult disposed of something messy unthinkingly by tossing it in a hedge.  I mean the mag.

One of these days Naturewatch will do a piece on HedgePorn (although Kate Humble’s emails back to me on the subject so far have been dismissive bordering on rude), but until then, you’ll have to take my word for it.  Before the internet and Channel 4’s red triangle, you found your porn in hedges.

Of course, there was always ‘soft porn’.

Today, if you say ‘Catalogue’ to somebody, they may, if you are talking to the right sort of person, respond with reference to the ‘Laminated Book Of Dreams’, the Argos catalogue.  This was basically aspiration porn for the whole family; dad could look at the tech, mum could look at the [reference removed because of the whole metoo thing] and the kids could look at Sindy and other forms of moulded plastic that were just so cool.

Other catalogues used to be available.  Rather than being paper shops, these were mail order catalogues where you saw stuff and ordered it, and could pay by instalments.  Like a benign Wonga.

‘Stuff’ includes clothing.  Includes underwear.

Mention ‘Kays Catalogue’ to any bloke of a certain age and they will smile knowingly not at memories of He-Mans castle, but at the underwear section of the catalogue that, in the absence of Hedge Porn, was erotic to the point of emission.

Top Tip: always keep your ‘free’ hand clamped over the spine of the catalogue, or on subsequent legitimate use it might naturally flop open at a particular page.  My mate told me.

The peruse and purchase catalogue is something of a lost, possibly lamented (but not laminated), marvel.

Catalogues have been used to sell many items.  The fabulous ‘Maplin’ catalogue for electronics naturally, but my understanding is that there are other catalogues offering other products.  All sorts of stuff.

So, Jeremy Hunt got into trouble with the media, and presumably Mrs Hunt, because he forgot where his wife was from.  Japan, or China.  Easily confused.  If you are an arsehole.

It could be worse.

Given the current enmity between the previously warring nations and the unresolved ‘comfort women’ issue, the only way it could be worse if by introducing your York born and raised wife as ‘A proud Lancastrian”.  That final ‘an’ syllable would be silent as the kick to the bollocks would put your voice beyond the hearing of humans.

It’s just so awful.  Putting aside the implied stupidity and casual racism, it suggests that Jeremy Hunt is actually on a mission to make everyone in the world, even his wife, angry with him.  This is a man who already has everyone in the NHS, who look after with a smile tramps that assault them, Googling ‘Novochock’.  But to get the nationality of the Little Missus wrong?  Bad form old boy.

I am not suggesting for a moment that prospective MP J Hunt flipped to page 43 of ‘Asianish Mail Order Brides’ and made a hasty selection.

The Decoration Game

Blokes love stuff.  They just do.  Those chaps that live in caves subsisting on rice and calm thoughts, they are all very well and may go for minimalist chic atop a Hymalayan pea but, given the choice, by which I mean given an Argos catalogue, they’d swap zen for a karoke machine and a snack and sandwich toaster faster than you can chant ‘Om’.

Bluntly, blokes acquire stuff because it is useful.  William Morris (inventor of many wallpaper prints and the classic Minor) was of the opinion that you should have nothing in your house that is not beautiful or useful.

And it’s that ‘or’ which allows blokes to possess items such as replica sonic screwdrivers because, while they may not actually be able to defeat an actual Dalek, they are jolly nice to look at, and hold, and play with when the wife is out.  Screwdrivers plural of course because let’s face it, if you are the sort of chap that owns a replica sonic screwdriver, you are the sort of chap who is going to own more than one replica sonic screwdriver.

Chaps of a blokish tendency, however, tend toward the useful possessions, and oddly enough this too involves collections of screwdrivers.  To begin with, you need at least two types, normal and Phillips head.  Then you need different sized ones, and ones of different length.  Then you need an electric one because once you have used an electric screwdriver, you will be wondering why you have been wasting your life tightening and loosening screws like some sort of bloody serf from the dark ages.

Obviously you will need a shed to store all of this stuff in.  Luckily, you have an electric screwdriver, so putting one together will be a doddle.

Gear is useful, it’s a fact.  There comes a point in a man’s life when he will finally have as many tools and as many jars of assorted nuts, bolts and screws as his father did.  It’s quite a proud moment and one to be celebrated with a cup of tea and most definitely not telling the wife how right you were not to throw anything important away for the last two decades.

The right tool for the right job is important.  A bad craftsman blames his tools but I can tell you with absolute authority that a bloke decorating who discovers on the second brushstroke that his brushes, or roller, are inferior is instantly on the web to Screwfix, in the car to pick it up his order and back in time to pick the moulting bristles or roller pile pillings from the still moist emulsion, and then do the job right.

I have recently been decorating.  There is nothing quite like being in a room with all the windows closed on a baking hot day wondering if the paint is supposed to be that colour or if the fumes are making you hallucinate, listening to Radio 5 because that’s the law.

The latest discovery to vastly improve my life?  Selotape for carpets.

Previously, to protect carpets one would spend time and masking tape sticking down sheets of polythene, or sheets of newspaper.  Not any more.  Now you can buy these big rolls of selotape that stick to the carpet.  Down they go and you can start splashing the gloss about the place without fear of sticky stains on the tufted wilton.  Fantastic.

I am for anything that makes DIY less of a chore.  If you have the means, I heartily recommend getting somebody else to do it for you, but if you must DIY, then at least try to get some cool kit out of it.

My decorating collection is not quite complete.  I rather fancy some working lights, that permit one to do a decent job after dark.

I also rather like the idea of one of those paper suits to keep the paint off you.  Although, one person’s ‘disgusting track suit bottoms that you never wear anymore and looked horrible when you bought them what were you thinking?’ is another man’s Painting Pantalons.  And remember, a shirt is never at the end of its useful life until it’s rigid with dried emulsion.