metroAh, April Fool’s Day. There’s nothing quite like not trusting anything I read, see, taste, feel or hear for a full 24 hours. The only problem is when I see something so aboundingly absurd that I assume it’s a piss-take only to discover that it’s as serious as David Cameron tugging himself onto a digestive biscuit with all of his other Eton chums. For that I can thank the indubitably spiffing Ali Catterall for showing me an article in yesterday’s faux-newspaper, The Metro. That’s because, there under the banner of Today’s Talker. were eight words that made me shit out my own duodenum before reaching for a bottle of lye:  Why men can’t be trusted with the cleaning.

Yup, on Tuesday 1 April 2014, that’s what The Metro printed as an excuse for the up-to-date, ahead-of-the-curve, bang-on-the-zeitgeist reporting of a survey of women and housework by Karcher. You can see it up there on the left. It gets one fuck of a lot worse than just the headline though because it includes such arse-nuggets as, “They dust around objects”, “Brush crumbs onto the floor instead of binning them”, “Put coloured clothes in with whites” and “Leave smears on windows or mirrors”. Oh, and of course all of this is accompanied by a bewildered and miserable man holding a selection of dusters and bottles and a vacuum cleaner while a sobbing baby dangles from his chest in a papoose. It’s what Anthea Turner would look like if you shoved her into an orphanage, wedged a can of Pledge up her arse and then plugged her into an electric current formed from vole manners, concrete powder and regret.

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Future Proof

hot tch pic

My eyes! My eyes! What in the fermentation of fuck has happened to my eyes! Has someone tipped concrete into my orbital nooks? Has a vole taken an almighty shit on my optic nerves? Or have I peered into a gaping wormhole signposted “1973 – 3 miles!”? Go on, kraken-lovers, have a guess. You see, thanks to the Everyday Sexism Project I’ve been naive enough to check out a newly launched technology website. The only problem is that while said site carries the strapline “We are innovation”, its home page image is of a woman’s naked legs with her floss-like knickers around her ankles.

No, I’m not making this up, nor have I randomly plucked Scrabble tiles from a spinning tombola in an effort to form that last paragraph. Instead it is an accurate description of Hot Tech Today, a site that claims to be a “tech blog meets Maxim magazine”. Now, there is nothing about the site to suggest that this is a spoof effort, even though it is so devastatingly outdated that it must be. You see, apart from the gusset-gawping home page the contents of the next issue is explained to visitors by a model in a bikini, there are details about monthly centrefolds and there is even a chance for visitors to send in pictures of Hotties (their errant capitals). Fair play. For a site that claims to be at technology’s forefront it’s spending a lot of time obsessed with its own foreskin.  It has to be the techie equivalent of the wet patch Jim Davidson left on the curtains during his last hotel stay.

What in the conurbation of bollocks is wrong with the men behind this site? Do they seriously think that modern humans want to receive their tech news with a heavy dollop of tits? Then again, perhaps the scab-chewing pus monkeys behind Hot Tech Today are the living incarnation of the derogatory use of the word ‘geek’ in that they really are back-bedroom, acne-riddled, pasty-faced, pigeon-chested mouse fumblers who would never have any female contact without begging for it via a substance-thin website. In fact I can image them beating one off every time a woman whispers “gigabyte” thanks to their lack of decent social contact and ever-present semis.

You see, this site is the equivalent of teaming cutting-edge brain surgery with mitten-wearing or space travel with chucking sticks at passing comets. In fact, you’d think that the tech industry is so desperate to clamber into the future that it would merrily shake off such age-old absurdities as sexism. Instead, though, Hot Tech Today looks like a cooling puddle of sick in a Silicone Valley storm drain, such is it’s ability to emulate the future. That’s why I would love to met the HTT team, because I could at least advise them to swap their breeches for jeans and ruffled blouson shirts for hoodies.

HTT is alienating not just the female half of the global population with its deeply misogynist views, but it’s putting off millions of men as well. In fact the men I know would be more likely to get their computing news from a bus station drunk than from HTT. When I asked the ever-glorious Conjugal Kraken if he’d use HTT for his computing digest he laughed so hard he almost tore a ball. As he explained through his gasps, he wants his tech news to be genuine, accurate and reliable, all the things that are unlikely from a site so worryingly obsessed with naked women. “Put it this way,” he said, “you don’t read Playboy for the letters and you don’t visit Hot Tech Today for iPhone updates.”

More than that, what is HTT actually saying to its visitors? Nothing intelligent or complimentary for a start. Where other tech sites tell their readers that they are discerning, erudite, clever and bang on trend in order to lure them in, HTT is telling its readers that they are outdated, myopic, immature and pathetic. They’re also telling readers that HTT knows nothing about the globally renown contribution of women to technology by the likes of Sheryl Sandberg, Jeanette Wing, Ginni Rometti, Radia Perlman and Meg Whitman. Just what you want from an apparently trustworthy tech site.

Anyway, for all of its assertions that this approach is new, HTT has forgotten that it’s actually been done before. Several decades before to be exact. Only, since then, society has progressed to the extent that presenting information via the medium of minge is as increasingly unacceptable as hollering the word “Poof!” at a same-sex wedding or screaming “Nigger!” at a visit to the United Nations.

That’s why Hot Tech Today is doomed to fail. Not only is it happy to offend the millions of women who work in technology, it’s happy to tell men that the human race hasn’t actually progressed beyond the snot-flicking stage, information that no one wants regardless of whether it is writ-large across a pair of D-cups. The result is the equivalent of scratching the answer to the Hirsch conjecture on a bloody papyrus, an effort as imbecilic as HTT’s misogynist obsessions. Kraken-lovers I have seen the future and, believe me, Hot Tech Today ain’t it.

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Grand Canyon (II)

Baps - Scottish Morning Rolls

NB: Right, Kraken-lovers, here’s a return trip to yesteryear for you. I wrote the following blog post this time last year in an effort to take a giant piss over National Cleavage Day. Clearly, not enough people read it and realised that by celebrating this toss-fodder they are being monolithic wankers. It goes without saying that 365 days on I am as enraged as I ever have been. Here’s darling readers, is the proof:

Whoa there kraken-lovers, you have to be absolutely and completely shitting me. Either I have been hit over the head with a piglet and now exist in a permanent fug of seeping confusion or the entire planet and its seven billion inhabitants is playing a frigging big joke on me. See, I have just discovered that yesterday, Wednesday 27 March, was National Cleavage Day and it has made me wail like a kitten that’s been wedged into the back of an abandoned piano.

National Cleavage Day? So tits need a day of their own now? Course, the whole sordid endeavour is the twitching brainchild of Wonderbra who, in an effort to flog more bap-hammocks, has decided that what women need more than anything is to give the world yet another reason to stare at their conjugal pillows.

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Mothers’ Ruin

Just another potted plant

You know what, kraken-lovers? Since Kraken Junior clawed her way out of my abdomen via my shredded love tunnel I’ve learned a lot about motherhood. I’ve learned that midwives only ever re-stitch vaginas to make them look like tortellini and that babies are one per cent solid matter,11 per cent panic and 88 per cent fermented mucus. I’ve also learned that you never get used to having a conversation through the bathroom door while taking a shit and that you should never explain death to a child immediately before bedtime. However, there is one thing that I have learned more than any other, and it is this: I utterly fucking despise Mothers’ Day cards.

Now, I’m not talking about the cards that Kraken Junior brings home from school, even though they display as much artistic prowess as a donkey with a paint brush shoved up its left nostril. I’m talking about the kind of Mothers’ Day cards you buy in the shops. You can’t have missed them because the sickly fuckers are everywhere, what with Mothers’ Day hitting the nation between the eyes this coming Sunday. Go on, nip into Tesco, Asda, Cintons or Paperchase and get your fill of what looks like a dissected cervix. I shit you not, you’ll find enough shades of pink to make a smear nurse weep into a speculum and that’s even before see the designs that are allegedly synonymous with modern womanhood.

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Man Alive!

men sun

Well, shag me backwards and spit out the bits, for I have news of great joy to impart! It may have come to your notice that last Friday was Sport Relief day, or whatever you call the annual BBC festival of Miranda Hart performing Olympic-style back-patting on Claire Balding. Anyway, in an effort to raise cash, professional fun-pumpkin James Corden agreed to edit The Sun for the day on behalf of said money-graspers. The question was whether he’d run page 3 in a clumsy effort to team athletics with areolas but – get this – he didn’t. And, I shit you not, The Kraken actually smiled.

Go on, take a look at that there pic. It’s of the men who work at The Sun, it ran on page 3 on Friday and it carries the message, “There’s been a woman with her top off on Page 3 as long as I remember. I thought it was time the male workforce of The Sun gave a little back. So here they are: The hottest hunks working on The Sun. You’re welcome, ladies.” I know, I had to keep checking that the page wasn’t numbered 5, 7 or 21 too. Believe it or not for one day only the paper swapped funbags for fundraising even though time and again David Dinsmore, editor, insists that his daily dose of toss-fodder is going nowhere.

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