Ok, so if you have been anywhere near this blog, my Facebook account or my Twitter timeline in the last 48 hours you’ll know that I’ve been raving like a crack-addicted monkey that’s been forced into detox. Such is my reaction when The Sun attempts to promote its bleak-hearted page 3 by claiming it can help women check for signs of breast cancer. I kicked the foaming shit out of this stunt right here. What I didn’t do, though, is kick the shit out of the breast cancer charity that helped The Sun to do this. So, CoppaFeel!, today is your turn.
You see, The Sun linked up with CoppaFeel! especially to run this campaign, a campaign that has only appeared now that the paper’s page 3 is under grave threat from mounting opposition to its continuation. Consider it to be the publishing equivalent of being in a bank when gunmen run in, only to shield yourself with a small child when they start firing shots. And in this case said infant is CoppaFeel! The charity says that it has made this deal with the devil to encourage 18 – 30 year old women to check for signs of breast cancer. The only problem is that in its stampede to get its name into a newspaper, a name that no one knew before this week, it’s sold women so far down the river that we need a bloody life raft.
What in the eternally festering conurbation of fuck have my eyes just seen? Hang on, let me rub them and then take another look… Oh my fevered shittingtons, it’s still there! There, look, on the supermarket shelf at roughly the same eye-level as six year old Kraken Junior. It’s The Sun with a page three girl taking up the entire cover. Only that’s not the worst of it because – deep breath – the paper is claiming to have done this to support the fight against breast cancer.
I wish to fuck I was making this up but I am not. God knows, my imagination is fevered to the point of indignity but even my brain could not have come up with what The Sun has done now. You see, the cover of Tuesday’s The Sun had a semi naked woman on the cover (go on, have an educated guess at which part of her is naked) with the words “Page 3 v Breast Cancer”. In a staggeringly cynical attempt to protect itself against the ever growing No More Page Three campaign the paper has linked arms with CoppaFeel!, a breast cancer charity, to encourage women to check their breasts. It’s started printing ‘Check ‘Em Tuesday’ reminders alongside images of naked women (the other days of the week are reserved for male readers to check that their bollocks have been drained over their own thighs) and its excuse of an editor says, “We thought we could do some real good with page 3”.
Kraken-lovers, after having an entirely blog free week, thanks to the enforced parenting otherwise known as half-term, I’ve had to restrict such phrases as ‘foaming knackersacker’, ‘ staggerment of cock’ and ‘wearing his fucking kidneys as earmuffs’ for when I’ve locked myself in the toilet for a sneaky rum. Now that it’s once again up to Kraken Junior’s teachers to keep her and the grim Reaper apart I am free to publicly splutter once more and today I am dedicating such public splutter at the exhaust sucking fucktards who drive six inches from my back bloody bumper.
Unless you travel via magic carpet and have never set wheel on a British road, you know exactly who I am talking about. You see, regardless of whether I’m hurtling down a motorway, pootling through a 20mph zone outside a school or actually sitting in a six mile tailback on the Second Severn Crossing there will be a car so close to my arse end that I can’t actually tell if it has a registration plate, headlights or bonnet. In fact said Audi or BMW – because it is always, always, always one of those fucking cars – will be so close that I can smell the Lynx, Wank Edition that the driver is invariably wearing.
Posted in Public
Tagged drivers, driving
Hot knobheads! Kraken-lovers, today I have for you an item of such clunge-clenching sexism that I fear we may all have fallen into a wormhole signposted 1864. No really, I am actually writing this blog post from a Dickensian slum while sailors attempt to pluck at my garters as I root through rubbish for dry coal. That’s how sexist this situation is. And for that you can lay the blame slap bang on the doorstep of toy-knockers Hasbro because it is currently producing Monopoly Boutique Edition. For girls.
I shit you not, Hasbro has decreed, in a fit of wisdom low enough to enter a limbo competition, that girls need their own version of Monopoly. Now, I know this has been on the market for a while but it’s only now that I have witnessed it with my own bugging eyes. And in case you haven’t seen it, let me regale you now with the horror contained within the miles of cardboard and plastic that surround this portal to Hades: bastardised to appeal to what Hasbro thinks is the typical female, the game involves buying boutiques and shopping malls, paying a cell phone bill, blowing cash on a spending spree and endlessly sending text messages. That’s not all though. Fuck no. Not content with insulting girls with the rules the whole vile shebang comes in a keepsake box which doubles as a jewellery box with redesigned money, a pink board, pink dice and get this – even the instructions are written in pink. In fact the whole thing looks like a fold-out cervix. The only surprise is that not a single square on the board where players have to stop for a smear.
You know what, kraken-lovers? If there was any way in which I could round up the population of the entire world for the simple purpose of setting fire to their fingers, I’d be stocking up on Swan Vestas as I type. Alternatively I’d take a trip to Manhattan, the HQ of website Buzzfeed, to eradicate the over-spaffed brains behind the latest internet rage. In a perfect world I would do both. That’s because if I see one more Buzzfeed pop quiz about discovering what type of city/ rock band/ crouton I am on my Facebook timeline, Ban Ki Moon is going to have a new diplomatic crisis on his hands.
You know what I am talking about: the endless questionnaires popping up on the likes of Facebook that claim to tell you which type of food/ dog/ internal organ/ muppet/ ‘Friends’ character/ pie/ decade/ prime number/ country you are (only two of those are made up by the way). And if you dare to click on the links you’ll find various questions to answer, questions that apparently determine whether you are Paris or Sydney, the 50s or the 80s, steak n kidney or chicken n mushroom. It’s the digital equivalent of those paper chatterboxes that junior school pupils obsess over in play yards, the ones that tell you whether you’ll one day buy a cat, a dog or chimp. The only difference is that these Buzzfeed pop quizzes are done by people who left school thirty years ago and should know one fuck of a lot better.