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.
Kraken lovers, I rarely take the trouble to gripe about people who attempt to make an honest living. Fuck knows, all of us have to do what we can to stop ourselves from living it large under the nearest railway bridge. Yet in a screeching exception to my rule there is one merry band of cash-grabbers who deserve to be fed into churning cement mixer while their balls are snagged on rusty fish hooks. No, I am not talking about bankers and nor am I talking about members of the Tory party. That’s because I am, in fact, talking about the nation’s least-favourite tea swiggers: tradesmen.
Madeleine Albright, the first woman to become US Secretary of State, once said, “There is a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women”. Well I would like to amend that statement to read, “There is a special place in hell for tradesmen who are so stutteringly incapable at doing their jobs that they make circus monkeys look like philosophy professors”. In fact, ‘tradesman’ is the career equivalent of the Defcon scale for plasterers, builders, roofers, chippies and plumbers, only all of them reside at the Defcon 1 because they are permanently one smashed nail away from unleashing hell.
Hold the boat, kraken-lovers! Hold the bloody boat. And that’s not a reference to the floods of water that are blanketing the country but a reference to the flood of nadge-tassling incompetence that has recently swept through whatever lair counts as the ITV HQ. That’s right, not satisfied with force-feeding the nation a diet comprising solely of the colonic effluent of Robson Green/ Paul O’Grady/ James fucking Nesbitt it has only gone and created a new definition of indefensible. Yup, you know what I am talking about: ITVBe, a new channel aimed at – deep breath – women.
There I was thinking that television watching still a vague domain of gender equality but in a fit of profit-shagging panic ITV has shat all over that notion like a cow spraying diarrhoea out of its arse. That’s because ITVBe, which will be launched later this year, will be a “female skewing channel focusing on entertainment and reality”. That’s management speak for “endless reruns of TOWIE”. Peter Fincham, ITV director of television went even further, spaffing the words, “reality and non-scripted shows… are very popular with young women and housewives with kids” while Adam Crozier, ITV chief executive joined in to say that this is “an important step forward”.
Look, if you’ve been running your peepers over this blog for any length of time you’ll know that the state of celebrity impresses me as much as the Government’s diluvian fuck-ups. It impresses me even less, though, when people with brains consisting of cat sick, gravel and lint are similarly shoved into the limelight. Katie Hopkins is one and I disposed of her body last Friday. That’s why today I have moved my festering attention to that wig-wearing, gurn-faced, tune-throttling fuck-nugget called James Arthur.
See, it’s been reported that, not content with his previous inability to communicate without shoving a thumb up his own arse, X Factor winner Arthur has been begging model Teddy Edwardes for sex. Only thing is that upon very sensibly turning down Arthur – after receiving such captivating messages as, “I would like to fuck the living shit outta you,” – Edwards made public Arthur’s series of tar-hearted responses which included such delights as, “You’re lucky I’m moving my thumbs for a random like you”, “Don’t flatter yourself alright”, “Little sket”, “What an attention seeking loser you are” and, hysterically, “Haha i (sic) have the best lawyers in the country I think I know”. Aye, that’s right Kraken-lovers, he really is as charmless as he is tuneless. In fact I suspect that dating Arthur is the social equivalent of sticking your tongue between the spinning blades of a combine harvester.
Dear Katie Hopkins
At the risk of starting this open letter in a less than polite manner I feel compelled to ask you this: will you, for the love of fuck, just shut up? No, really. Shut. Up. Look, you do it by letting your top lip touch your bottom lip all while not forcing air through your larynx. It’s easy when you try. There! Look! You did it! Now, for your next trick, how about trying it for two whole seconds?
And try it you must, Katie. That’s because I can no longer bear the weekly misfortune of seeing your puckered, bitter-slick sneer in the press or on TV. In fact, listening to your piss-infused opinions about modern motherhood and current affairs is the 21st century equivalent of hearing a village witch screeching after she’s been stabbed with a hot pitchfork. Fuck knows why you are continually on the media horizon because the only audience people like you usually get is when they are hollering drunkenly at bus station pigeons.