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Skyfall? SkyBALLS.

7 Nov

So, I should precede this article by firstly saying that I have not watched every James Bond film, nor have I seen the most recent variation on a theme, entitled Skyfall; (I should point out that Skyfall is SUCH a stupid name, my spellchecker has highlighted it in red.) But I don’t give a tiny rat’s arse – I’m going to slam it anyway…

WHY do I feel like it’s Groundhog Day and I am, once again, having Daniel Craig’s dry-lipped pout being rammed down my throat? As offensively sexual as I would actually find that, I am BORED of seeing his good looks plastered across every billboard, TV screen, chocolate bar, condom packet etc… In fact, I hear he’s even advertising Heinken beer now. I mean… REALLY?? Get some standards, Danny C. Shake and don’t stir THAT bad boy and I’ll tell you what happens: beer jizzy. All over your face.

Needless to say, I shan’t be spending my monies on watching Skyballs on the big screen. In fact, I will bet you money that I could predict the beginning, middle and end, as well as any twists. (I won’t. But only ‘cause I’m poor.)


Daniel Craig is running/jumping/sexing in some corner of the world. He receives a call from Agent M (or Agent A, or Agent B, or Agent C, or even Agent F-U-C-K-O-F-F) telling him to stop mouth raping the woman he is with and get his tight little arse back to London. He then gets shown some pictures of baddies. He then goes to find them. He finds aforementioned baddies. He shoots them with all of his big scary guns. They shoot back. He shoots again. They shoot back again. He shoots some more. Bang bang bang. Shoot shoot shoot. Woops – he accidentally trips over and lands with his cock inside several hot women. The baddies shoot some more. Daniel Craig throws a bomb and everyone DIES. Except for him of course. Because if he didn’t die, none of us would be able to sit in the cinema in 2 years’ time watching the same bullpoop.

You’ll notice that I forgot to predict the big twist. The twist is that Adele turns up and sings a song about never minding cause she’ll find someone like you and then she’ll make them feel her love and then they’ll roll in the deep before she sets fire to some rain (how do you even do that?) and it’ll be a song in a minor key that is all about getting your heart broken and bla friggin’ bla. Oh, wait. THAT’S not a twist. That’s Adele’s Groundhog Day.

So, one and all, enjoy spending many of your Great British Pounds on watching a great British tosser run around and shoot ‘em up. I’ll be bitterly flicking my bean to the thought of Daniel Craig tripping over and falling on me. Or in me. Or both.

Yes it’s Hallowe’en. No I don’t want to see your gooch.

4 Nov

I love Hallowe’en as much as the next fat kid. I’m all over it like a tramp on chips. It means for one day of my life, I can wake up, get out of bed, not put on any make-up and generally walk around like the munterish slob that I am, and yet people will still think I’ve made a conscious effort to look that fugly.

It’s an excuse to eat even MORE junk than usual. You can be creative and cut shit shapes into large fruit. For some girls, it’s an excuse to knock on random neighbourhood doors in the hope that your future husband may be waiting behind one of them. (I don’t do that…) For some guys, it’s a way of hiding in dark alleyways ready to commit the most violent crimes, and fob it off as a Hallowe’en “trick”. It’s a valid way of scaring the bejeezus out of unsuspecting small children without getting arrested, just because it’s funny. Everyone’s a winner.

Everyone, that is, except for anybody that has EYES and happens to be outdoors after 7pm. For beware the Curse of the Exposed Flange.

Somehow, somewhere, appear a generation of females that think it’s OK to use Hallowe’en as an excuse to LITERALLY get their wounds out. I, for one, do NOT appreciate seeing readily available gooch wherever I turn my head.

The other night I had the absolute displeasure of sitting at the train station opposite not one, but TWO peeping vaginas. Added to that, my eye was nearly poked out by an unsheathed nipple. Apparently it is now effort enough to wear what I can only describe as NO CLOTHES, draw a couple of stitches on your neck with an eyeliner pencil, et voila, you are now a zombie prossie. I know the look is meant to be monstrous, but this really takes the word “growler” to a whole new level. Whatever happened to just wearing a bed-sheet with eye holes?

I honestly do love Hallowe’en. But please, ladies, for the love of GOD (and for the sake of my visual and mental health), put your minge away.

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