The Week that Wasn't - UK Edition 19.2.2013

Britney's Photoshoot for Her New Video

Chav Me Baby One More Time.
Silly named and suspiciously over fabulous voice judging WILL.I.AM has given a song to Britney Speares which was originally meant for X-Factor judge Tulisa. Britney's stylist obviously has taken it too far and has chavved Britney up no end. Now she sports a tracksuit and a 'Croydon facelift'. If you're unsure was that is, imagine a girl with hair scraped so far and so tightly back she looks like a balding man in his late fifties. Rumour has it the video for the track will see her smoking a cigarette and pushing a Burbury-lined pram, then the stereotype will be complete.

PD Peach Has better Writing Skills than Most Children

"What's That Lassie? The Crown Prosecution Service are a Bunch of Fuckwits?".
The prosecution service look like a bunch of idiots today, after they insisted on getting a witness statement from a police dog called Peach. After his handlers got tired of trying to explain that he was a PD (Police Dog), and not a PC (Police Cop) they finally sent one from Peach. The official statement simple stated 'I chase him. I bite him. Bad man. He tasty. Good boy. Good boy Peach.' and was signed with Peach's paw print. Clearly PD Peach is clearly more intelligent than The Crown Prosecution Service officials chasing him for a statement. Incredibly cute, just like Lolcats, only more likely to rip your face off.

Much More Useful to Society

The Only Way is Mandatory Sterilisation.
The Only Way is Essex star Maria Fowler has hit the newspapers such as The Sun (surprise, surprise) lately after she tweeted a self-taken picture of her wearing a skimpy top pulled up to show her abs, a red thong- and nothing else. It's strange seeing it. It's like looking at a picture of an alleged ghost on the show Most Haunted. You see the outline of a human shape, but you know that nothing is really there, but what is there is looks like the specre of someone dead inside. She has received enough attention, and so rather than posting the picture on my blog, here's a picture of a mop:

"HOW DO YOU LIKE IT YOU LITTLE BASTARD?"

All New Improved Recipe: Waitrose Horse Meat and 
Unicorn Blood Cottage Pie.
So the horsemeat scandal has claimed it's first arrest after police investigating the scandal swooped on 3 men. One is Dafydd Raw-Rees, owner of Farmbox Meats near Aberystwyth. Raw-Rees started this business after his last company Horsebox Meats folded due to poor sales. It has recently been claimed that the UK government were warned about the possibility of horsemeat being in the food chain 2 YEARS before the scandal hit, and yet nothing was done about it. I guess they weren't too bothered by it, what with them having a daily diet consisting solely of cavier, creme brule, champagne, unicorn blood and orphans' tears. Still, it's not Emperor Cameron's fault, afterall it's not like he's had past experience being warned about something terrible and extremely embarrassing about to explode in his fucking face and not doing anything about it. Just ask Andy Coulson.

You're Paying for ALL the Drinks Now

Our Fizzy Drinks are All in it Together.
Apparently the government are considering introducing a 20% tax on fizzy drinks to help tackle obesity. What they haven't admitted is that there is already a 20% tax on soft drinks. After the attempt at taxing hot food at Greggs bakers, they now target fizzy drinks. Perhaps Darth Osborne should just introduce a 50% tax on anyone worth less that £10million and be done with it. Then they can label it The National Serf Tax. It will bring in many billions to the national purse, which can then be distributed fairly on a grading system among the top 1% of the country. Afterall, we're all in it together.

Pope Wanted. Apply Now and Be Forgiven.

Soooo, the Pope eh? The Big Papal Cheese. Numero Uno Vaticano Honcho. The Man with the Holy Plan. And that plan is to do a runner. Perhaps the biggest, and most certainly the holiest story of the week is the Pope's shock decision to quit being God's representative on Earth. Over 1 billion Catholics were left reeling at the news which has caused the worldwide press to go absolutely fucking insane. The nation's Catholics could be forgiven for thinking that being pope is a lifetime calling, but it turns out that it is simply a temporary position which can easily be voided if something better comes along. In Pope Benny's case it's unemployment. The Vatican has certainly been unpopular lately, but you know it's bad when someone would rather be unemployed than live in a palace and be idolised by over 1 billion followers.

His brother said it was because he needed more rest time. I guess the standard 28 days annual leave wasn't good enough for him then. Before being elected pope, Benny (known at the time as Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger) was well known for having the moniker 'God's Rottweiler'. Giving his reasons for quitting as old age and ill health, perhaps he noticed that his back legs were starting to give out on him. It's possible he overheard the other Cardinals discussing taking him to the vet to put him down, and decided to get out whilst he still had the front legs to carry him. 

So what now for His Royal Papalness after having dodged the vet's lethal injection? Perhaps doing the rounds of chat shows in the US is a good little earner for Joe and will help to keep his profile high. First stop Oprah, next Jay Leno, finally he could come over here to the UK for a very different experience and appear on The Jeremy Kyle show. I can image the title even now: "I accepted the job for life, now I can't take anymore! Lie detector test results". Jeremy can accost Joe for voluntarily becoming unemployed. "Why don't you get off your arse and find another job instead of expecting me and other taxpayers to support you?" *Cue thunderous applause from the zoo animals in the audience*. Perhaps semi-retirement is the ideal situation for Joe. If this is the case then a part time customer services job in a call centre dealing with for example, car insurance, will suit him better. Having him as claims handler would certainly be effective, as he could sort out your claim and forgive your sins all in the one call.   

Joe: "Hello and bless you for calling R.I.P.O.F.F. Insurance. My name is Bene..... Joseph. How can I help you my child?".

Policy holder: "Forgive me Father, for I have wrapped my car around a tree". 

Joe: "It's OK my child, just say five Hail Marys and kiss your no claims discount goodbye."   

So what kind of pension will Joe be on now? My guess is £100 and 2 bars of Nazi gold per week. You must remember, when little Joe was naught but an alterboy himself he was in the Hitler Youth. I've always wondered if he sleeps with his Hitler Youth knife under is pillow. Afterall, the streets are rough in the ghettos of Vatican City, and he lives in a very fancy house with lots of artwork. Sure, he has his own private army, but you can never be too careful when it comes to home security. Perhaps he will follow the example of his Third Reich brethren and emigrate to somewhere in Argentina. Joe and Adolf can swap horsemeat recipes and reminisce about the good ol' days. Who knows, maybe he'll find a nice little alterboy he can settle down with and live happily ever after.

And so the search for Pope number 266 commences. There has been talk that the next pope could be black, after the names of a number of front runners have been banded about. A black pope is surely a sign of progress though, and as a Catholic myself it would be great to say that we have a brother for a father. I'm sure that as I type this Simon Cowell is currently whoring himself out to ITV again with the format of a show called 'Britain's Got Catholics'. I doubt the Vatican would be so modernistic though, afterall they still live in the 16th century. So there is more likely to be an interview process to narrow down candidates for the Cardinals to vote on. I can imagine the job advert appearing on Craigslist;   

"Are you a man? Do you have an unnatural fondness for alterboys? Do you feel most comfortable in long flowing gowns? Do you like giving sex advice to the rest of the world although don't ever have sex yourself? Do you think women are less important than men and so should not be priests? If the answer to all those questions is 'Yes' then a career in the Vatican could be for you! We are currently advertising the vacancy of Managing Director and the successful candidate will start before Easter. Experience absolving people of their sins is an advantage although not essential, as training will be given upon commencement of employment. Note: The successful candidate will be proficient in deflecting blame, covering up child sex abuse scandals and will be fluent in Latin. Please reply ASAP as we expect a large number of responses. Bless you."  

I'm sure that having accepted his resignation,  God will be watching events in the Vatican with as much interest as the rest of the world. So God, if in the highly unlikely event that you are reading this, first of all, sorry. Secondly, please work in some mysterious way to make sure the new pope isn't a twat. And thirdly, what's up with wasps? What the fuck were you thinking? I mean, get that shit sorted out dude. Before I cement my place in Hell any further  I say to you, go in peace. Bless you my child. 

Pope Kieran  x

The Week that Wasn't - UK Edition (10 / 02 / 2013).

Off the back of my regular 'Week that Wasn't' column in The Glaswegian newspaper which rounds up local news in the city of Glasgow, I have decided to do a UK-wide version. What a wonderful week for news this has been. That's if you also deem getting shat on by a bird, or bitten by a dog, or stuck sitting next to a urine-soaked tramp on a bus for an hour 'Wonderful'.


Speedind Tickets and Diarrhoea-ridden Rhinos.

I Got 99 Problems and a Bitch is One.

Accept-a-speeding-ticket-for-a-sneaky-bastard-gate rumbles on in the news with the depressing monotony of a lazy rhino suffering from crippling diarrhoea being forced to march at gunpoint towards a pack of rhinos really annoyed with him and who are about to tear him a new arsehole. Recently the ex-wife of disgraced former cabinet minister Chris Huhne told a journalist about taking some speeding points for him because she owed it to the electorate to expose his 'true character'. The latest is that said ex wife is claiming that Huhne forced her to have an abortion because it was 'bad timing financially and for his career'. Now she has claimed that he he tried to force her into getting a second abortion but on the day she refused to go through with it. And all this is being revealed to expose his 'true character'. Right. Nothing at all to do with him being her ex husband then? No, of course not. Better late than never I suppose. Surely if she wanted him to expose his true character then she should have let him get on with his job, and his policies would have exposed his alleged cunt-osity soon enough. Still, as they say; 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but a woman scorned with undeserved points on her license is an absolute bastard'. Or something like that.


'I Have a Cunning Plan...'

Rowan Enjoying His Courtesy Car.

Rowan Atkinson's insurers have agreed to pay out a record amount of £910,000 to get his limited Edition McLaren F1 supercar repaired after he crashed it into a tree. Perhaps when explaining the incident to claims investigators his did an impression of the hopelessly adorable Mr Bean and they let him off. The clumsy and likeable nature of Mr Bean with the mind of cunning Edmund Blackadder? No wonder the poor suckers paid out. Well played Edmund, but you can forget your No Claims Discount. That's still wrapped around the tree you assaulted.





False-Start as You Mean to Continue.

Lewis During His 1st Stage Interview.

Lewis Hamilton has crashed his F1 car at nearly 200mph on his first trial session into his new job with McLaren. Most people are afraid to get their boss' name wrong on their first day, not to write off one of their bosses cars. Two question springs to mind though: How the hell did that lad ever get his license in the first place, and after Mr Bean's mishapd, what is wrong with McLaren cars? Perhaps steering wheels are an 'optional extra'.









I Bet Shergar Tasted Delicious.

Findus: A Passion for Horses Food.

If yo're thinking of having that Findus Beef Lasagne for dinner tonight, I wouldn't bother if I were you. That's because latest tests on the products showed that out of 18 samples tested 11 contained 60% horse, whilst 1 sample contained 99% horsey. At least you know what happens to all the fallers at the Grand National - they're whisked away to become your dinner in time for You've Been Framed starting. The scary thing is that there is a serious fear of carcinogenic horse painkillers having been introduced to the human food chain. Just enough to give you cancer, but not enough to actually see any of the benefits of being on animal painkillers. Truly a crime. The Government have said that this will not be the end of revelations over other meat products. One is therefore forced to wonder what else could be revealed. Dogs in dogfood? Monkey brains in chicken dippers? Sawdust in hotdogs? At least it will be exciting finding out what other shit we've been shovelling into our faces. So if the last time you had a lasagne you got a dose of the trots, you'll wonder why. Sorry.




Arrivederci Signore Headcase.

Mario Heads the Hunt for Osama Bin Laden.

Some Man City fans will be sad to see the back of part-time footballer and full-time mentalist Mario Balotelli as he headed off to join AC Milan. Still, little Mario was only 14 minutes into his unveiling press conference in Milano when he got a talking to from Milan vice-president Adriano Galliani over an answer Mario gave to the press which was to the VP's displeasure. Adriano, you can't moan now, Mario is the craziest, most egotistical footballer in the world. If you don't know that then you only have yourself to blame. At least now Man City fans can join the rest of the world and laugh at the antics of Super Mario instead of cry.




Size 8 Heifers and the Inflatable Sex Doll.

Katie as Classy as Ever.

In her column in The Sun, the UK's most prolific oxygen thief Katie Price ( aka. Jordan, aka. Barbie doll gone wrong) has claimed that model/presenter Kelly Brook is a heifer. Katie, who likes to think of herself as a positive modern role model for women has just called another girl who is a size 8, a 'heifer'. If size 8's are heifers then I wonder what she would consider all those girls size 10 and up, who buy her numerous books and dvds. Perhaps those girls don't count because they make Jordan rich. Good going Jordan, as the song goes, 'Sisters are Bitching for Themselves'. Or something.

Buy One Steak and Get a Complementary Stomach Pump

Romantic Meals Make Me So Happy

 Uu uurg. I'm ill. Far iller than can be healthy for me. As I write this I'm currently in bed having come down with a particularly nasty case of the Bubonic Plague. Having the Black Death (or perhaps it's Malaria) is no fun at all. My head feels like it's about to fall out of my arse and my limbs feel like they're being manipulated by some vindictive bastard with a voodoo doll of me.
 
I'm supposed to be going to some restaurant later tonight to help a friend write a review for a newspaper, but to be honest I'm not really looking forward to it. I'm hardly going to be fantastic company this evening unless you're a scientist researching searching for some undiscovered disease to make you famous, and in terms of refinement or especially culinary knowledge I don't really bring much to the table (Get it? Oh fuck off then).

Afterall, what is she going to write?

Cough Once and This Glass is Going Over Your Head

"This baby seal heart stuffed with chicken liver pate was tender and moist and the recommended wine complemented the dish perfectly. My dining partner was enjoying his sirloin steak right up until the moment he vomited it back onto his plate. I chose the dessert of coffee and ice cream, and was about to ask him how his chocolate fudge cake was, but I noticed that by this time he had passed out before having been served it."


So here I am, with either Malaria or the Plague (or maybe it's Gonorrhea) feeling sorry for myself, and the Missus trying to wind me up by saying that it's the worst case of man-flu she's ever seen. Fucking arsehole. Why doesn't she try having this Plague/Malaria/Gonorrhea/Ebola and I can tell her to stop moaning because it's only her time of the month.

Perhaps the restaurant staff will be kind enough to put my meal in a blender and they can feed me intravenously. I've never had pureed steak before, but apparently it's all the rage in Amsterdam. That and prostitutes, but I doubt this restaurant will have hookers on the menu. If it does though, it will receive an immediate 10 out of 10 by me. The next part of this blog will be written after the meal, and hopefully my dose of Plague/Malaria/Gonorrhea/Ebola/Syphilis won't ruin the meal too much.

 ***UPDATE***

Having a Simply Joyous Time

Well I'm back home and still in (relatively) one piece. I didn't vomit once, although I may have passed out a couple of times because there are parts of the night I don't remember. I think I may have made the joke "and for the dessert I'd like a stomach pump please." but I might have imagined it. Although there was a bit of a mix up and they got my order wrong (I ordered the char-grilled Cairnhill Sirloin steak (10oz) and crispy onion rings in a peppercorn sauce, but instead I was presented with an admittedly scrumptious looking burger and chips) the man who took over was fantastic and couldn't do enough to service us. Through the haze of my Plague/Malaria/Gonorrhea/ Ebola/Syphilis/Asbestosis he became more charming by the minute.

My friend who actually knows about food seemed to be loving her crispy saucy duck thing and when the desserts arrived I was already full. She had some ice cream with salted caramel sauce, and I had possibly the most delicious food I've ever had, in the form of an apple and cinnamon crumble with some fancy thick cream stuff. This was an orgasm on a spoon, and the Missus will seriously need to up her game to come close to this little beauty, especially after the "man-flu" comment.

Her Saucy Duck Thingy                      A Strange Looking Steak                 Food of the Gods

For some idiotic reason I decided to get a bus back home as I saw it approaching, and I know it stops a few yards from my home. That was a mistake. Especially when you're so full after a meal that you're waddling like an overdue pregnant woman, and the suspension on the bus seems to have been made out of concrete blocks. I consider it nothing short of a miracle that the old woman sitting in front or me didn't end up wearing my sirloin steak down the back of her coat.

So in short, will I be back? Certainly. Did my dose of Plague/Malaria/Gonorrhea/Ebola/ Syphilis/Asbestosis/Consumption put a dampener on things? Well yes, but it wasn't enough to stop me from having multiple orgasms during the desert. On a related subject, I think I may have been banned from that restaurant forever.

To Standup or Not to Standup

Recently I did a silly thing and now I'm beginning to blame my friends and family for it. I'm not used to putting blame on other people. I fuck up far too often to spend half my life pointing fingers. But this time I am. Sure, their hearts were in the right place, but perhaps their brain cells weren't. A shower of well meaning bastards, if you like. So what is this silly thing that I've done? Well, it's to enroll on a stand up comedy course at university. Look, if you can get university courses on Britney Spears and The Simpsons, then you sure as shit should be able to get university courses in Dennis Leary and John Bishop.

"That's the Way to Do It"

You see, people have long given me the impression that I am funny. That I am somehow amusing. That I make people laugh. That I'm like some kind of clown. Like some desperate, crack-addled homeless clown. What I don't think my friends realise is that people don't laugh at me. They laugh at me, which is completely different. Sometimes in bemusement, but most often in pity. I can't lie I'm excited, but I'm also hesitant at the prospect of making even more of an arse of myself than I already do. It's not the fact that it is taking place in a university that makes me nervous, afterall I've been to university before. Once you've sat in one hall full of people who thought they were complete smartarses, you've sat in them all, so nothing new to me there. No, it's the prospect of something else entirely which makes me nervous.

One of the things which makes new stand ups most nervous is the thought of getting a heckler in the audience. That doesn't bother me so much because I am quite adept at criticizing people. If they dare to be a smartarse then I'll verbally destroy them. Or failing that I'll just tell them to fuck right off. No, what terrifies me is not getting any laughs at all. Not one. No matter what I say the crowd just sit in complete silence as one joke bombs after another. Now that fucking terrifies me.

Would the Real Kieran Please Standup?

As I write this my first class is a couple of hours from now and I am sitting having a cup of coffee in some place belting out 1980's power ballads like there's no tomorrow, not knowing what to expect from tonight. And so I'll sit there and take it all in, the pearls of wisdom from a teacher who has been there, seen it, done it and bought the T-Shirt. And maybe one day I can buy a T-Shirt, but for now I'll sit here and sip this coffee, continue writing on this tablet thingy and try not to break down and cry when it's eventually my turn on stage.



***Update***
The night went very well indeed. The teacher Viv Gee was nice and encouraging. My fellow classmates were friendly, funny and supportive. I even felt comfortable enough telling everyone that this afternoon was spent explaining to my family priest how when I was 8yrs old, I once peed in my mum's kitchen bin when she was having friends around for drinks (but that's another story for another time).

Kieran x

Internet Trolls and "Knights" in White Satin.

Hello!

There was a time when the word 'Troll' used to spark frightful images of ugly giants living underneath bridges waiting to eat poor unsuspecting children. Think Jimmy Savile with eczema. Then in the 1980's trolls would incur images of cute, loveable, little frizzy-haired dolls which had a permanent smile and were about as frightening as a sleeping kitten farting and waking itself up suddenly.

But now in the 2010's there is a new meaning of the word 'Troll'. This time it incurs images of spotty little sad acts typing on a keyboard and giggling at how clever they are, having mocked a family who just lost their child. Or having harassed some vacuous celebrity oxygen thief who neither knows of, or cares about, the existence of these bellends. The definition of 'internet troll' runs thus;

"An Internet troll, or simply troll in Internet slang, is someone who posts controversial, inflammatory, irrelevant or off-topic messages in an online community, such as an online discussion forum or chat room, with the primary intent of provoking other users into an emotional response or to generally disrupt normal on-topic discussion."

 - Urban Dictionary

"I Love Annoying Pathetic Bastards"

These specimens unfortunately take advantage of peoples' right to free speech, by hounding either high profile celebrities, or worse, normal people and children who neither deserve it or asked for it.

It doesn't take much to set a troll off, as they seem to take the deepest offense for the slightest reason. I remember I was trolled for a while, and for literally the silliest reason. I tweeted a compliment about The Moody Blues song 'Nights in White Satin', but my autocorrect changed 'Nights' to 'Knights'. This was enough to set some Moody Blues fangirl off, and she became very abusive towards me initially for getting the name wrong, and then for unrelated subjects, commenting on tweets of mines which involved neither her nor the Moody Blues. I thought it was hilarious at first, before I finally got a bit bored of it all and blocked her. Thank fuck I didn't say that the song was shit.

Fathers Ted & Dougal Protest Against Internet Trolls

There have been several high profile cases of these smartarses being taken task by the courts and in some cases sent to prison. The initial reaction is to cheer them getting some kind of comeuppance. But in the cold rational light of day, to jail people for being arseholes with their mouth sits ill at ease with peoples' God given right to be arseholes at all. So perhaps a different kind of punishment is required. Perhaps temporarily banning them from owning or operating anything with an electric plug would be a start. At least it would prevent adding to the already overburdened prison system. On a negative note though, the disposable tissue and internet porn industries would take a hammering.

I'm sure that behind every high profile internet trolling case which hits the headlines there will be plenty of politicians ready with kneejerk soundbites declaring 'Things Must Change!'. They're about as effective as a sniper with a peashooter in the desert wearing a clown costume. They'd be as well taking a leaf out of Father Ted's book and waving homemade signs in Parliament in front of the cameras on Prime Minister's Questions reading 'Down with This Sort of Thing' and 'Careful Now'.

Kieran x