newsnight’s maitlis; what a poppet,
but what’s that dress sense all about? just stop it!

though oft in cold and winter gloom her
scripts suggest a sense of humour.
but the trick which seems to most enamour her
is pointing her left shoulder towards the camera.

how did you enjoy the wall-to-wall tv coverage? sadly, with exit polls achieving unnerving levels of accuracy, it soon became clear that almost all the excitement of the event had come and gone in the four week run-up. shame ;-(

to make matters worse, as if there wasn’t enough hot-air around at election time, sky tv subjected us to the nauseating spectacle of adam bloater’s repellant burp-fest, this time in glorious hd. cut down on the nose bag and ditch some ballast fat boy.

(surely high-time he was replaced by the lovely ‘botto’ of whom i caught no more than a tantalising half-second glimpse in some media melee)

at the bbc we were at least spared any repetition of the now-infamous ‘surreptitious mars bar incident’ which is widely believed to have set an incurable rot into election results reporting worldwide.

we were however forced, once again to endure repeated spasms of the ludicrous jeremy vine, lurching around like some deranged stick insect with his virtual toys.

mr mugabe called the bingo. mrs banana-republic and mrs lockout made the sandwiches and we sang ‘things can only get better’, which they probably won’t in a hurry, if ever.

miss bugger-off-home-now accompanied, one-handed on the harmonium and a good time was had by all.

looking forward to october’s return match already.

catch you later couch-potater :-0

the public’s elimination of talented, elegant, leggy bill-actress ali bastion in favour of some cheruplegic sports monkey made my normally tepid blood boil. (well it warmed-up a bit)

i would have spat the dummy if my minders had not dipped it in special brew.

to be honesht i have not been sho angry shince the lasht time they forgot to dip my dummy in shpecial brew.

mine’sh a pint.

the candidates are the usual bunch of of up-themselves young gits and it’s a treat each year to watch them show the holes in their smug arses to an audience of millions, whilst speculating as to which will meet with most displeasure each week. obviously they deserve all the humiliation they get.

this week a baby-faced butty tycoon met his chicken marengo waterloo in the boardroom having, hilariously, failed at his own job. brilliant! extraordinary that even he could lose to an ‘award-winning restaurateur’ whose food i would not have offered to my pet pig. (alright; if i had one. don’t start)

but what’s this change i detect in the sucrose one? could it be that having exhausted his meagre repertoire of native ribaldry, some sap has been tasked to script gags for the business guru? is the great man, heaven forfend, scripting his own?

either way they ain’t working. sir al may have made a few quid but a stand-up, he ain’t.

take my advice, big-boy, “bang-bang and off”. ooh, missis, where’s me washboard?

just when she might have hoped that the fuss over her disgusting second home expenses claims had faded into the background comes news that home (homes, surely?) secretary jacqui smith has claimed parliamentary expenses for the cost of viewing pornographic videos at her home. whether or not she enjoyed them remains undisclosed at this time. i think we should be told. (my little joke)

the cost? a trivial £10 you say. i say this might just be the wispy little straw which finally breaks the camel’s back of public opinion on this ever more sordid government.

of course the £10 is trivial; but that makes this claim more offensive, not less. the fact that they feel free to simply broad-brush even the most demeaning expenses of their trashy lives into the taxpayers’ lap is a perfect example of the contempt with which these grasping creatures treat the public purse, not to mention the public who fund it.

if, in the absence of her resignation, brown does not fire this woman now, i predict it will come back to bite his arse.

on a happier note, for me at least, i further predict that this tangy snackette is no more than an appetizer to the smorgasbord of disgrace sure to be disinterred when shortly, courtesy of the long overdue freedom of information arrangements, mp’s expenses are revealed wholesale.

lip smackin’.

so long sleazebags

“what’s the winning format?” you’re saying. alright already, let’s choose some lucky contestants first.

yeah, they’re lucky alright because they only need (1) an iq in single figures and (2) not to have been locked-up for their own safety. anyhow, once we have steered enough of these fame-hungry jar-heads into the tv studio the game can begin.

here’s how it works: each brain-donor, scuse i, great contestant has to gaze ernestly at the outsides of a series of randomly numbered shit bags, pretending that any one of them has any significance whatsoever.

now, strap yourselves in because here’s where the killer format really kicks-in. for each shit bag, the preening, self-obsessed host with a joke 1960′s hairstyle, geography teacher beard and personality lifts enquires of the knuckle-dragger “shit, or no shit?”

needless to say the pond-life, after trying monosyllabically to build up their parts are persuaded to give it their best shot, i mean shit.

when they’ve all done this so many times that the average viewer will have fallen into an irreversible coma, assuming they weren’t in one before their carer tuned-in for them, a highly-trained shit-counter with an iq in double figures goes to work, advising the host as to who guessed correctly most times, and they get to take all the shit home.

of course, in reality the winner will always be the one who guessed “shit” most times, because obviously, it’s all shit!

holy shit, or no shit, it’s a winner! where do i sign?

another case of much ado about nothing dominates the news media.

so no surprise there you might think, and you’d be right. knee-jerk outrage has lately become the standard reaction of the british press to the slightly off-colour utterances of any gob-on-a-stick, however low down the food chain.

of course clarkson has been known to amuse from time-to-time. there again, my springer spaniel sometimes farts in middle c but that shouldn’t and won’t make it a tv star. (bring back esther rantzen … just kidding

the more important question here is why these gibberings should make anything more prominent than page 47 of the beano.

and similarly, why do charities who support the blind feel the need to get so exercised over this trivia? don’t they know that those they seek to represent are more than capable of treating the clarksons of this world with the disdain they deserve? give them credit for being average, sensible people like the rest of us.

every week they are among the millions who tune-in to clarkson on the tank. every week they hear him slowly sealing his own fate with his crass, worn-out remarks, like the death of a thousand cuts, and respond accordingly.

sure he might know a bit about cars, but would you want to own one he’d ever driven? personally i’d rather be a pig!

bottom line, my opinion; he’s a sphincter looking for a headline (which once again he has found) but he’s past his sell-by date … tick tick tick

and on that (discordant) note, goodnight

still watching tv programs about decorating (wrecking your house), antiques (flogging-off your old tat), gardening (covering every square inch of your garden in hardware to avoid the inconvenience of plants)?

where you been boy? they’re all so passe. cooking is the new black. it’s the way forward. in fact it’s the way backwards and sideways as well. you can’t avoid cooking on tv whichever way you look!

yes, cookery programs, not unlike their predecessors mentioned earlier make classic edutainment: look and learn and copy. such a pity then that so much news and current affairs output on the same channels (when they can fit some in between the cooking shows) is devoted to reporting the dire state of nutrition in the uk, and in the western world in general.

sadly all this culinary gymnastics is almost entirely a spectator sport: amusing background entertainment; something to break the silence while the microwave prepares today’s tasty treat or pass-on half an hour till the chinese takeaway or pizzas arrive.

how depressing. pull your fingers out and get some cooking done!

‘ping’ oops, must go, don’t want it going cold!