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.

Harshtag

Every time that engorged Oompa Loompa squatting in the White House empties the contents of his bile scrotum up the chutney funnel of an unsuspecting Twitter, the cost to the public of policing the fiasco-in-waiting that is his potential visit to London goes up.

Not that I am suggesting for a moment that a visit from Li’ll Donnie might result in problems.  Londoners have been putting up with all sorts of shit for centuries and if the Luftwaffe didn’t get their backs up, then a visit from Cuprinol Boy is hardly likely to stir passions.

Besides, Londoners know that stretch limos are to be avoided.  Not because they are bristling with Secret Servicemen, but because they are more likely to contain an inebriated hen party.

As for this week’s tweets, it’s been amusing to wonder ‘is the president of the US a fucking idiot?’, it’s not at all amusing to ponder if anyone on Twitter is a far right scumbag.  The best way to deal with these attention-seeking wastewads is to unfollow them.  If all broadcast media could start that trend, it might catch on.  At least it would make the news less annoying.

Little Donnie

In the last G&P post there was a thinly (ironic) veiled pop at the sort of people (fat people) who are targeted by those wishing to push New Year diets.  This is because overweight people are easy targets, both for those who would exploit them to make them purchase stuff, or for arseholes like me who mock human weakness.
However, anyone who picks up one of those diet plans has something special.
Self awareness.
Now self awareness is a precious and arguably increasingly rare character trait.  If you have been in a train carriage with somebody that either does not realise that their telephone contains the same technology that allows a whisper on stage to go to the back of the auditorium and so they do not have to conduct their conversation at a volume more suited to bellowing out of the carriage window in the hope their mate will hear them, or does not care that he is sharing his test results with a carriage of commuters slowly edging away from him, then you will know that self awareness, like doffing your hat, is a vanishing art.  I blame social media.  And arseholes.
Speaking of which, L’ill Donnie.
Self awareness appears to be as remote from L’ill Donnie as, well, let’s be blunt about this, gentlemanly behaviour.
There, I’ve said it.
What. A. Guy.
One, occasionally, wonders how the…and here I struggle, he’s clearly no gentleman, he’s not a chap, nor is he a fellow, he is certainly not a bloke.  I think that we shall describe him as a ‘guy’.
We don’t say his name, lest we summon him.
Also ‘that steak of shit that a fox leaves when it has had a bad chicken dinner from the bins’ may be accurate, but is rather lengthy.
OK, so, one wonders how L’ill Donnie got elected.  Surely there can’t be that many racist, sexist, stupid arseholes in the US?  I’ve been there, and the people are lovely.
That said, I was pretty amazed that England voted to Brexit.
I genuinely thought that the only reason you would vote to Brexit is that you had been to an agricultural fair on polling day, and a Shire Horse had shied at a Punch and Judy show, as we all might, happening possibly near a toddler, you had sought to restrain the horse, it kicks you.  Concussed, you fell into a replica threshing machine, more concussion, then you wandered into a polling booth and mark the wrong box.
Now, that might excuse the actions of a couple of thousand ‘Leave’ voters, but really, what were the others thinking?  ‘I can make some money out of this’ will do, if you know you can, but for the rest, really?
L’ill Donnie though, is truly repulsive.  The guy (let’s stick with guy) appears to communicate by social media, Twatter, specifically.  And this is quite appropriate really, because the guy is a troll, and when I say troll I don’t mean the goat loving creatures that dwell beneath bridges, I don’t even mean the lurkers who use the internet to try and intimidate others, I mean the plastic toys that were popular in the seventies and eighties and had crazy hair.
This guy appears to have no self awareness, or wish to improve.
Don is of course the title of a criminal academic at Oxford University who is exposed as a vile and beastly type by Inspector Morse.
Don is also, according to my viewings of ‘The Godfather’, the head of a crime family.  This, I think, is probably the most appropriate analogy.
However, there are noble Dons.  Quixote.  Here was a fellow who was quite delusional and thought himself a defender of the people, but was just tilting at windmills. L’ill Donnie is nothing like the noble Quixote.  Quixote managed to hold onto his loyal staff, and in his heart was a good man.
Don Amott.  King of caravans.  Growing up in the Midlands one had the privilege, if one watched commercial television, of witnessing the magnificence of the adverts for Don Amott.
The most magnificent jingle of all time.  Including that time they hung that peado Morris-man outside the Hop Pole in Droitwich.

Aye or Naw

Right, here we go.  After months of debate, debate bordering on ill-tempered bickering and countless hours of political pundits banging on endlessly with ill-informed speculation and scare-mongering, the Scots are voting on independence.  Every single Jock seems to have registered to vote and is off to the polls.  A high turnout is expected and of course 16 year olds have the vote, which is either inspiring or terrifying depending on which sort of 16 year olds you know.

So, obviously, I’ll be staying up all night.

This requires a strategy.  The last time I stayed up all night I was in my teens and was at a party and there were girls and everything.  Actually, that’s not quite true, the last time was probably travelling, on an aeroplane where free booze brought to your seat and free movies made sleeping something of a waste of time.

This time it’ll be something of a long haul.  The results are going to take even longer than bloody Eurovision.  And coverage starts at half ten, meaning the BBC coverage (always the best pundits and coolest graphics, and the presenters always get a little crazed around mid-morning) is going to consist of at least a few hours of speculation, recapping and desperately filling.

First up, a quick trip to Waitrose.  Obviously what’s required are snacks that will slowly and evenly release sugar throughout the night.  But sod that, nobody’s interested in virtuous flavours at the turning of the tide, so it’s crisps, and, oh my God I can’t believe it, a Ginsters pasty – the perfect three-in-the-morning hot snack, as when microwaved to perfection (nuked to buggery) it transforms into something akin to a phenomenon studied by vulcanologists and would certainly wake you up if you ate it before letting it cool.  Which takes a while.  It’s the only snack with a half life.

But mostly, let’s celebrate the fact that for the first time in a decade I’m able to have a cup of tea after six o’clock without worrying that it’s going to keep me up all night.

Crisps.  Chocolate.  A mango.  Put mango back.  Sorted.

22:30  Telly on.

22:32  Kettle on.

22:45  First chance to see how the BBC graphics boffins have risen to the challenge and it appears they have gone somewhat bonkers, with a huge graphic of a nuclear submarine seemingly navigating the depths of the news room.

22:48  A whistle-stop tour of the counting centres.  Scotland appears to be very well provisioned with sports halls.  Ironic given the health of the nation.

22:56  Oh Christ, looks like Jeremy Vine’s strategy has been to drink a shed load of pro-plus laced coffee.  Cool graphics though, got a whole 3D thing going on.  Looking forward to exhausted graphic technicians going doolally with exhaustion later on and really getting creative – ‘Let’s take a look at the results so far with the result represented as a caber being tossed’.

23:01  An expert has just announced that ‘More votes will take longer to count’.  Genius.

23:04  Montage!  Proof that even a Primal Scream soundtrack can’t make politicians look cool.

23:14  Oh shit, it’s a people’s panel made up of folk who didn’t get an invite to a referendum party.

23:30  Quick break for news headlines.  All presenters rush to the loo at the same time for a wee and a wee line.

22:35  Over to Westminster.  Andrew Neil co-presenting with a truly appalling hairpiece, no wonder this bloke only goes on after the watershed.  Luckily John Redwood is also on the programme and so Neill appears normal by comparison.

23:41  Huw Edwards is reminding us that Scotland is a ‘rural’ country and there are ‘logistical challenges’ to transporting a box to a sports hall.  Luckily, it would appear that the Scots have access to vans.

23:44  Leader of Scottish Conservatives looks quite a lot like ‘Scots funnywoman’ Susan Calman.  Suspect they have the same tailor.

23:45  BBC ticker declaring that Queen is following the vote closely.  I bet she’s having a party.  Wonder if she is serving Ginsters?

23:46  Apparently Glasgow normally has a low turnout, but having a say in the future of your nation, and putting polling stations in branches of Greggs, appears to have greatly increased turnout.

22:55  Cool graphic of a helicopter, representing Scottish Army.  Given state of defence cuts, presume this helicopter will be shared with England, with Wales getting it at alternate weekends.  Rotors spinning and everything.  Look forward to the helicopter strafing the newsroom later.

00:10  Now well past time would normally be in bed.  Usually midnight means New Year’s Eve, and ten past midnight means finishing the last of the fizz, saying ‘fireworks were good, Hootananny was shit…again’ and going to bed.

00:13  Ooh, have discovered ‘Trendsmap’ on the interweb.  Essentially this works out who is tweeting what where and puts it on a map.  It’s fascinating.  In Scotland you have a lot of #Yes and in the West of England, you have a lot of #Thunder and #Lightening.  Thank God for the English’s preoccupation with discussing the weather, it means you can track bands of thunderstorms in real time.  Also worth watching just to see if suddenly loads of hashtags along the lines of ‘Aliens’ or ‘Invasion’ pop up.

00:21  First interview of the night with bolshie Welsh person, who also wants more power.  Yea, right.  Like that’s going to happen.

00:45  Andrew Neil up again.  Of course, his normal programme is on so late it’s almost early, so he’s used to napping through the afternoon and appearing chirpy well after ‘Newsnight’ has finished.  He has a boffin on who is saying that there will be huge changes no matter what the result, and that there will need to be a lot of work done on the constitution.  Oh, he’s a constitutional expert.

00:53  Jeremy Vine is standing in front of a graphic titled ‘Battleground’.  You can just tell that everyone involved is already gearing up for the 2015 election.  Speculation starting to resemble desperation.  Fill.  Waffle.  And shout ‘Count faster you bastards’.

00:57  Edinburgh count appears to be taking place in an aircraft hanger.

00:59  Which of the workers in the high-viz vests in the background at the count is going to do something amusing and become a social media star?  My guess is the girl doing the dance moves.

01:00  BBC have apparently dispatched all of their reporters around Scotland.  The chap in Orkney is, judging by the fleece he’s wearing, is BBC Scotland’s rugby correspondent.  On radio.

01:05  Reporter in Midlothian is talking about ‘social factors’, classing people as posh if ABC, moving steadily into working class with D and E.  Something tells me that Glasgow doesn’t bother much with the first bit of the alphabet.  Reporter doing a really good job and seems very posh, obviously pitching for her seat on the BBC news copter back to London if there’s a ‘Yes’ vote and Scotland’s national broadcaster goes from being the BBC to being a bloke with a bell and a loud voice.

01:20  Huw releases the panel, who were all actually insightful, measured and charming.  Huw has promised them ‘something a little stronger than herbal tea’.  Boozing on the License Fee.  Excellent!  Must be massive temptation to try and drink the value of your Fee and pocket any BBC pens you can get your hands on.

01:27  Clackmannanshire result is in.  And it’s a No!  More importantly, how cool is the name ‘Clackmannanshire’?

01:28  Footage of celebrations at ‘Yes’ HQ show quite a few bottles already open, and LOADS more lined up ready.  Pace yourself chaps.  Luckily, the Scots are famously abstemious.

01:39  Jeremy Vine has a bloody huge map of Scotland that is apparently filling the newsroom.  It’s on a scale of the sort of map that a Bond villain would use to plot the destruction of the nation’s haggis industry.  Clackmannanshire is flashing red.  Jeremy then goes on to explain that the area is populated by members of the ‘DE’ social class.  Possibly this means that they have heard that if you vote ‘No’, Westminster will give you all sorts of goodies and are holding out for a Greggs gift card for every man, woman and child.  Areas populated by As and Bs will expect to get a Waitrose.

01:50  Oooooh, flash of lightening and roll of thunder.  Drama in the skies as well as on the telly.

02:01  Orkney declares.  It’s a HUGE NO!  Loving the bit where they read out the different categories of why certain ballots can’t be counted.  BBC always cut away from speaker before he gets to category of ‘crudely drawn cock’ on ballot.  Shot of No! HQ celebrating result.  Everyone looks marginally more refreshed than they did the last time.  I don’t need fancy graphics to illustrate a continuing trend of young people, excitement and alcohol meaning the only sort of political party that is agreeable.

02:07  Guests on BBC all look remarkably kempt.  Think the same people are doing a circuit of teevee shows.  Suspect those doing radio shows might be a little more casual.  But would love to see a guest turn up in PJs and dressing gown, possibly clutching a favourite soft toy.

02:21  After two o’clock, things are starting to get a little bit more relaxed.  First OB from a ‘Yes’ party, where the BBC journo is sporting a party shirt and begins by explaining that there has been stand-up and poetry!  Very nice too.  I hope the producer says that they’ll be going back to him at 6:00, so he can’t start in on the Babycham yet.

02:25  Jeremy Vine is explaining that people from lower social classes are more likely to vote for independence.  Presume this means UKIP will be courting the chav vote.

02:42  Andrew Neil appears to have a twelve year old as a guest.  Who appears to have modelled himself on Nick Robinson.  Thunder and lightening over Houses of Parliament in the background looks spectacular in HD, whereas Mr Neil most certainly does not.  Nothing wrong with wearing make-up on telly, but when it looks like it needs not so much touching up as reapplication with a trenching tool, maybe a rethink is needed.

03:43 Shetland says No!  Ponies love the union.

02:49 Huw is a bit bloody familiar with using first names, if you ask me.  Calling Michael Gove ‘Michael’ is just, well, unnatural.  This is the BBC, he should be addressed as ‘Mr Gove’ or ‘Twatty’.

03:00 Eilean Siar votes…who bloody knows, they’re speaking Gaelic.  Oh, English now.  And it’s…NO!  Something of a surprise.  Could No! pull off a clean sweep.  Let’s see those figures expressed as a wicker man.  Eilean Siar sounds like a folk singer whose music is used in a John Lewis Christmas ad.

03:14  Good to see that UKIP remain true to form, the bloke from UKIP speaking to Huw is a total bloody foaming-at-the-mouth nutter and, bonus, rude too.

03:33 Inverclyde declares.  And it’s…No.  Just.

03:35  Half three and the snacking is going well.  Ginsters is still in the fridge rather than the microwave.  But have discovered a cup a soup at the back of the cupboard.  Past the three o’clock hump, closer to dawn than dusk last night.  Tension draining out of coverage though and people are trying to move the story on already to what comes next, as that involves England.

03:51  Renfrewshire says…No!  79 rejected ballots, reasons muted again but ‘used to wipe arse’ has to have happened at least once.

03:53  Dundee bloke reading out spoiled ballots first.  Builds tension.  Dundee vote for independence.  If necessary, one gets the feeling Dundee will go it alone!

04:06  West Dumbartonshire says fucking AYE!  Pundits now back pedalling.  Lots of talking about working together as ‘Team Scotland’.  No footage of SNP headquarters.

04:09  Midlothian says No, no independence please.  No! party really looks like it’s hotting up.  Cheering, drinking, embraces.  It’s swung No, experts reckon we can all pack up and go home.  Cup-a-soup tasty, but with that oddly gritty texture you get from packet soups.

04:14  East Lothian says Naw!  Big win for the no campaign.  Also lady reading out the results very well turned out for past four o’clock in the morning, possibly rightly thinking this is her big chance auditioning for job involving standing up and talking on telly, weathergirl, lottery ball girl or something to do with Countdown, or at least a regional quiz show.

04:16  Stirling says NO!  Stirling also has least imaginative backdrop.

04:29  Falkirk says No!  Lady reading results is a stranger to hairspray.  Meanwhile back in the studio the politicians are having a bit of a bicker.  Past four o’clock, it’s an effort to stay civilised.

04:25  Jeremy Vine finally has some stats to render in graphic form.  Lots of coloured boxes.  Possibly after the vote this could be used in the gameshow the lady earlier was auditioning for.

04:28  Angus says No!

04:29  Dumfries is a ‘hefty’ no.  So, that’s a NO then.

04:32  East Renfrewshire have a backdrop with windfarms on it.  And they say no.

04:33  East Dumbartonshire go no.  Aberdeen go no too.  Huw keeps speaking to pundits, then cutting them off as the picture jumps to another sports hall with, if we’re lucky, a coloured backdrop.

04:46  North Lanarkshire go yes!  Creeping sensation that the yes campaign are now playing for pride.

04:47 Perth and Kinross lady go no!

04:52  Glasgow!  Here we go!  Glasgow go yes!  Glasgow wants to be independent from the UK.  Scottish Borders go no though.  West Lothian vote no.

05:01  North Ayrshire goes no.  Feeling very close to Huw and the team at the BBC.  We’ve sat up through the still watches of the night without any sustaining booze.  Well, Huw may have been sneaking a dram or two, but it’s been tea and cup-a-soup here.

05:05  South Ayrshire are a no.  Woman reading out the numbers does not like cheering.

05:09  East Ayrshire.  No.  Apparently this is a surprise to the pundits.  The pundits keep banging on about communities with high levels of depravation equalling voting for independence.  No formal link between desire for independence and aversion to vegetables made yet.

06:33  It’s getting light outside.  It’s all over, and it’s a No from the Scottish public.  The newscaster doing the short news bulletins throughout the night on BBC News 24 must have thought it was her lucky day, instead of having to read out the same bit of rolling news every half hour for half and hour and then start all over again, she basically did the headlines and then, presumably, had a nap for 25 minutes while Huw did his thing.  Some grainy still pictures of Alex Salmon being whisked away somewhere in a car and private jet, he actually looks like a foiled Bond villain.

6:38  Time for bed.  Question is, should I have a cheeky beer first?

#‎R.I.P.

Rik Mayall is dead, and I can’t quite believe it.  How could somebody with that amount of energy, somewhere between a dynamo and a typhoon, expire at so young an age.  If he had lived out his life and wound down naturally, he would probably have lived to be 472, but to go so young is wrong.  Of course, there was the whole quad bike accident, but still.

He was, I think it’s fair to say, formative.  It’s normal playground behaviour to discuss last nights telly the morning after, I think the episode of ‘The Young Ones’ where they go on University Challenge is actually still being discussed among those who saw it when broadcast.  Certainly, whenever I happen to turn on the telly and UC is on, my first thought is ‘Achtung!’.  More than that though…Lord Flasheart, in Blackadder II and Blackadder goes Forth.  ‘Always treat your kite, like you treat your woman’.  In my experience, if you heed that advice you won’t go far wrong.

Reaction to Mayall’s death has proved something of a litmus test for reaction to celebrity mortality.  In short, Twitter.

There are various expressions of public grief

The most affecting are those public memorials, garage fourcourt bouquets of flowers gaffa taped to a lamppost at the site of another roadside tragedy.  If you want to spare yourself some grief you can pretend that they are actually a traffic calming measure put at busy junctions by the council.  If you like.  In America, they’ve even got a word for them, ‘descanso’.

Away from the roadside, there’s the equally affecting doorstep memorial.  Usually set against a backdrop of fluttering scene of crime ‘Police stop’ tape and a single bobby standing watch.  Simple messages and stuffed animals tell you all you need to know about that.  Want to know more?  Read the novel ‘Fullalove’.

Moving into social media, Facebook has proved a popular site to post messages and share photographs of the departed.  It’s fitting that Facebook should serve some purpose in mourning the dead, as it’s often the source of images for the news media breaking tragic news of the passing of somebody who isn’t a celebrity and so is not the subject of thousands of stock photographs.  That’s why a newsreader with a serious face and a low voice occasionally breaks the news of the unfortunate death of an individual in front of a background showing the only picture available to the news media of that individual, usually grinning like a loon and giving a cheery thumbs up or, quite possibly, a pixillated hand gesture.

Then there’s Twitter.

If a news item starts ‘Tributes have today been paid to…’ get ready for some quotes that are no longer than 140 characters and which may read how much somebody will be missed, or how important they were, but really mean that the person sending the tweet couldn’t even be arsed to send an e mail.

Always looks for lengthy, sincere and long statement.  That is the celebrity with the good agent who has taken the time and trouble to craft something genuine for their client and it is a lot, lot better than tweeting a tribute which can say anything you like, but only ever means ‘Read of the tragic passing of X while on the loo reading Twitter.  Immediately tweeted in response, as am feckless media whore’.

It’s a measure of Mr Mayall’s standing that his tributes were substantial.  Mind you, comedians all do like to bloody talk, don’t they.

Didn't they do 'whiter shade of pale'?

What, the actual, fuck.
Occasionally Twitter makes up for the fact that it is essentially a social media site dedicated to allowing people who rely on others for validation to broadcast their every thought without reason (‘just snorted cereal thru my nose, LOL’).  The story of the kidnap of 200 schoolgirls had made a footnote in the mainstream media but had been a constant presence on Twitter since the atrocity was first reported, my favourite comment being ‘If this had happened anywhere else, the entire country would be in lockdown’.
It’s true.  Can you imagine what would happen if 200 schoolgirls were kidnapped here?  Every single adult would get up, get their coat, grab a torch and, as the mood took them, a shotgun or cricket bat, and get out there, probably only to meet every single police officer in the country going door to door with dogs and tasers.
However, mainstream media doesn’t much go for foreign reporting.  It’s expensive and in countries like Nigeria it’s hard to establish facts to a deadline or find enough informed speculation to fill a cycle of rolling news.  This is especially the case where there are no westerners involved.  Far better to hope the French correspondent from AP sobers up in time to file some copy and, with that and Wikipedia and a bloke from some East Anglian poly specialising in ‘African studies’, get a solid two minutes for the ten o’clock bulletin.
All that changed when a video from an arsehole in a bobble hat turned up.
Back to the bobble hat in a moment but first a public service announcement:  If you are the sort of utter detestable arsehole who believes that children shouldn’t be educated, then you of course have the right to keep that belief to yourself and never, ever do anything about it, you despicable turd.  If you manage to hook up with some like minded people, no doubt when you were cruising for porn on the internet and accessed a chat-room ‘for research’, that’s when the problems start.  Things usually come to a head when you find yourself in a Toyota dealership haggling for a fleet of Land Cruisers.
And what the fuck is it with arseholes and Land Cruisers?  Now, I like pick-up trucks. The best example I saw was in Aspen where a guy pulled into a gas station and there was one inch of snow and two over-excited dogs in the back.
All good pick-up trucks should be well-loved and come with dogs in the back.  Land Cruisers, it would appear, come with arseholes in military fatigues, and fucking flip-flops, hanging out the back all holding AK47s and looking for trouble.  Rednecks who murder hikers at the weekend are worried that Land Cruisers are giving pick-up owners a bad reputation.
Back to the bobble hat. (Obviously, there was a sigh of relief round the boardroom table when the BBC found out that a tosser in novelty knitware appearing on telly was not yet another disgraced former teevee presenter).
Some kidnapping arsehole has recorded a video where he claims responsibility for kidnapping children and announcing that he is going to sell them.  Lovely.  Putting aside the obvious monstrous evil and the desire for that video to end with a whistling sound before it cuts to black and then to another angle of the same scene, this one from above, in different shades of green with a fucking crosshairs in the middle and a top-down view of a bobble hat getting bigger and bigger, did anyone else think the guy was odd?
I don’t know much about doing a piece to camera but I do know that, ever since the craze for ‘Chatroulette’ passed, you don’t repeatedly touch yourself while talking to your audience.  The guy starts by, no other way to put this, plucking at his trousers and then pulling on the bobble of his bobble hat.
Usually when you see such behaviour, it’s being exhibited by a toddler and is rectified by a percussive slap around the legs from the kid’s mother.  One rather wishes that somebody was there to sort out bobble-guy, with a cricket bat, dipped in shit, on fire.
Now, I am not one to judge the mental state of the sort of arsehole who kidnaps children, but I would say that any adult who plucks their bobble hat repeatedly is, accordingly Wikipedia, a FUCKING NUTTER.
In the meantime, the whole world is united in praying for the safe return of the children and the continuation of education of our children in the hope of a better tomorrow.  In the meantime, maybe the mainstream media had better start looking over its shoulder, because hashtags have started to replace headlines.

The Pope - one year on

A year ago the Pope shocked the world by being just about the only world leader not to use Twitter to make an important announcement – he’s off!

Pope news!  The Pope announced he is to retire.  This came as something of a shocking surprise for, well, absolutely everybody, as the firm belief held by all was that Popes were supposed to expire rather than retire.  Following the announcement there was a lot of speculation about why the Pope had taken this unusual red-shoed step.  The common reason; being able to spend more time with your grandchildren, does not apply in this case and, if that is the real reason, is unlikely to form part of any official press release from the Vatican.

The announcement allowed the media to do what they increasingly love to do most of all, which is look up the entry for the subject they are reporting on Wikipedia so that we don’t have to, rephrase it to avoid copyright infringement, don’t bother with a fact check because in this case the more outlandlish the reported fact the more likely it is to be true, and then broadcast it.  There was also  endless speculation, especially about who the new Pope will be.  Let’s be clear, speculation is simply gossip distributed by people wearing ties.

The most intense speculation was about whether the new Pope will be ‘non European’.  ‘Non European’ means coming from either Africa or South America and is possibly newspeak for ‘Black’.  One could tell from the way the newsreaders said the phrase that they were not sure about it, is it a racial slur, or just a quick way to describe somebody not of European heritage?  Safe bet is that if it is the latter, then it’s the former too but hey, who’s got the time to say ‘from Africa or South America’ and, if you do, is it ‘Africa or South America’ or ‘South America or Africa’?  Better to just say ‘foreign’ and nod meaningfully, like you would if you were in a pub in the home counties.

An African or South American Pope would, apparently, have been a big deal, but hardly a surprise.  Whilst Europe has lurched towards secularism, mostly as a result of smirking smart-arses writing the word ‘Jedi’ next to ‘Religion?’ on their census form and thinking themselves positively Wildeian, Roman Catholicism is very much a strong force in the emerging religious markets of Africa and South America (or South America or Africa depending on your geographical bias).  This is because they are both full of developing countries where the promise of a better afterlife, possibly including meat for dinner three times a week and a whole month going by without some ghastly ethnic violence or natural disaster, is very attractive.  No wonder these places like religion, it’s just like the old testament.

Of course, the real reason that the Pope decided to step down was probably connected to Twitter.  It’s one thing to get a news report, every day, that another person in your organisation is a peado, it’s quite another to have to face it when you fire up Twitter because you just have to retweet that link to a hilarious Youhootube clip of an squirrel and a row of vodka shots, and find that are the subject of quite a number of messages referring to you as ‘kiddifiddler in chief’.  

When you’re Pope and find out that in addition to having fewer followers than Stephen Fry you get droves of unfollowers every time another peadopriest is exposed, it can get a bit wearing.  

For any figure of authority, Twitter should be treated like a toxic substance, that it is the source of a cavalcade of condemnation is the polite way to put it.  The reality is that if you attract the ire of Twitter, a river of shit meets a tide of abuse and, accordingly, surfing is unpleasant.

Being Pope is, I suspect, something of a thankless task.  It’s something that you take on once you are past retirement age (like a job at B&Q but without the benefit of nicking stuff to supplement your wages) and you get the blame for everything and the credit for nothing.  It’s unfair, and unkind, to expect somebody to work until they drop, not even B&Q do that, officially.  

Twittering on Facebook

Social networking, isn’t that just grunting ‘alrig?’ to one of your neighbours as you pass them on the street?

Apparently not. The internet has revolutionised the way in which we communicate (some features, such as ‘Chatroulette’ more than others). A decade or so ago for example, if you wanted to bore somebody into displaying narcoleptic-like symptoms with your holiday photographs you had to paste them into an album or, holy God and fuck preserve us, pitch up at their front door with a screen, a slide projector, two carousels of 35mm slides and a pointer. While if you wanted to share your random innermost thoughts with everyone, immediately, you dressed in a filthy raincoat, shit your pants, and shouted them to strangers on the street.

Happier, simpler, times.

Now, through the magic of the world wide whatever (which, don’t get me wrong, has given us much, like being able to book flights on-line and seeing Porn Of Many Lands) we can subtly bully people without ever having to leave our fetid pits.

This is because, thanks to Facebook changing their privacy settings faster than their users can click ‘don’t accept’, users can ‘let’ everyone see their photographs, including the many, many holiday photographs of the view from their hotel balcony of cats and construction sites, while twitter means that we can now share our bigoted views of, for instance, BBC coverage of a national event, or somebody featuring in a documentary about disabilities (‘She may have type 2 diabetes but she could still wash her hair’) and so on, immediately.

In an age when you bored your neighbours with your photographs, slipping in a nudie pic of your wife or cock shot every twenty snaps or so to see if they were paying attention and were possibly swingers too, you at least had to make an effort for your audience, practicing your patter such as the drunken argument that you and the missus had about whether or not she had enjoyed that dance with the waiter a little too much.

Twitter seems free of quality control. Reading tweets is like being cursed with telepathy and seeing into the mind of the nation. Randomly browsing, what seems to be ‘trending’, that is, being mentioned the most by the sort of fucking people who tweet, are the following subjects:

1. Biscuits (well, actually, I’m with them there, biscuits are not only important but make up around 30% of my waking thoughts, 70% of my subconscious ones).
2. Outrage about removing Blue Peter from BBC1. Again, have to agree with this. I know that since the digital switchover there is no reason not to relocate BP to CBBC, but by the same token there’s no reason not to relocate the Royal Family to fucking Salford, except that IT WOULD BE WRONG!
3. A celebrity. Unless any celebrity has been caught fucking a jar of marmite that they have warmed specially for the occasion, then anything they are doing is not worthy of comment. Commenting on new albums, hairstyles and celebrity relationships is what God invented forums and teenagers hanging around bus stops for.
4. What that bitch Alison said to Jason about me, yea? An odd one this but it appears a disagreement about romantic intentions in a comprehensive school in Rotherham is drawing worldwide comment.
5. Eastfuckingenders. I’d rather discuss Alison and Jason’s problems.
6. The Olympics. Trying to ignore it is like waking up on Alderan, seeing the Death Star in the sky and pulling the curtains in the hope it will go away.
7. Shredded Wheat. People love Shredded Wheat, or shredded wheat. I am as yet unable to determine if this is a reference to breakfast cereal or a depraved sexual practice. Likewise…
8. Kicking the back doors in. Thought this was a misquoted reference from ‘The Italian Job’. It’s not. Don’t Google this.
9. Trevor Eve.
10. Facebook privacy changes warnings.

While Twitter has been credited with helping organise democratic uprisings (‘Tanks on lawn. LOL’) it also appears to be the main communication method of despots (‘Just sweated through Levinson evidence session. :-0’). Not so much how users use the tool, but how the tools use it.