Things That Rip My Knitting by Gill Hoffs

I’m going to try to avoid the usual suspects here of vaguebookers and homophobes, bigots and “I’m no (euphemism for arsehole), but…” spouters. Instead, here are some really quite specific annoyances.
*Please note, I did say ‘try’.*

Spitefully inaccurate headlines of the medical variety

You’ll have seen this kind of headline.
“Woman defies doctors to have miracle baby”
“Man defies doctors to survive terminal cancer”
“Boy defies doctors to walk again”
Headline writers and journalists casting doctors as nasty bastards who’re hoping, no, rooting for their patients to lead miserable lives then die, preferably horribly. It’s bollocks, of course. Doctors like that, the Harold Shipmans of the world, are few and far between. The people whose stories are highlighted in this kind of piece have usually been given advice on the usual course of their illness, the statistics relevant to their situation, and the common events other patients with a similar diagnosis have encountered. Do the women who have these miracle babies, the people who recover from supposedly terminal cancer or at least outlast their initially predicted death-date, or the kids who walk/talk/swim/sing unaided against the odds and their doctors’ reasonable expectations honestly think the healthcare professionals involved in their cases are trying to keep them down? That they’re spitting feathers at the news that their patient has had a baby or any kind of happy event, screwing the paper or primary-coloured-magazine into a ball and shouting obscenities at the poor sod who has had the fucking audacity to defy their order to remain barren or wheelchair-bound or die? Really?
If that’s what anyone thinks of their doctor, my advice would be to do one, pronto.

Double-decker prams

Or, as I think of them, dogbite buggies.
Not that I’ve ever seen a kid get bitten, in one of these awful buggies or anywhere else (thank goodness). But I reckon they’re an accident waiting to happen, one hungry puppy away from a newspaper campaign and tasteless jokes by shock jocks and scumedians.
I can see the attraction for parents and caregivers. A buggy that carries two kids, baby and toddler (or toddler and toddler), but with the width of just one grownup. Easier for public transport, doorways, and ramming your way through crowds, and – another huge annoyance – tipping the buggy onto an escalator so as to risk the kids’ wellbeing instead of waiting for the lift. Easier for parking in Starbucks between tiny tables while parents pretend things are almost the same as before, if not better (mm-hmm).
But the basic design of having one kid stacked above the other with the lower child just skimming over sweetcorn-speckled turds and glowing fag ends, its view of the world restricted by its sibling’s probably fragrant arse, makes me worry about it being at bite-height. Especially if it’s waggling toys or nibbling fistfuls of food.
I fully expect comments from people who have this kind of buggy and have never had a single problem, to which I say Good! I’m glad to hear it! But my loathing of this model remains.

The ‘only a joke’ ‘luv ya realy hun, u no dat, aw now i feel bad, soz’ fb posters

People who say THE most horrific or annoying or passive-aggressive things to people online BUT because they end with ‘xxxxx’ or the more individual ‘xoxoxo’ or my least favourite ‘lol’ (or for emphasis ‘LOL’) seem to think any anger or resentment will be cancelled out. My arse it is. Lol xx


Little-known fact: Jaws was originally going to be about dolphins. It would've been called "Snout."

Little-known fact: Jaws was originally going to be about dolphins. It would’ve been called “Snout.”

Dolphins give me the fucking creeps.
This confession may mean I’m forced to check my ovaries in at reception next time I go for any kind of woman-medicine, what with dolphins being some kind of totem animal for all bearers of wombs, but fuck it. They really, seriously, give me the fucking creeps.
Now, I should probably state for the record that I’m an animal lover who minces round ants on pavements and messes about with paper and woodlice in an effort to get the mini-armadillos out my house at night, and I’m in no way advocating the death of dolphins or the banning of them from TVs, films, and tattoo flash. But I do think instead of the assumption that I will love them because a) I have breasts, and B) they are smiley, friendly, shark-crushers with huge IQs and a decent line in acrobatics, people should catch a fucking grip.
These newly designated non-human persons can crush a fucking shark! How is that not creepy? Instead of rock-paper-scissors they play cartilage-bone-FUUUUUU! Don’t get me wrong – if I’m about to be eaten by a shark and a dolphin just happens to ram it with a bony snout then manoeuvre me to shore I’m not going to say “Hell no!” and swim off to a toothsome death. But equally, what is this odd love affair we as a species seem to have with something that smiles yet has no eyebrows and chitters like we’re the joke? Why not narwhals, the unicorns of the sea? (Not that I get the whole unicorn thing, either.) Or cuttlefish? Have you seen a baby cuttlefish? They’re fucking adorable!

I wouldn’t mind one of them for Christmas.

hoffsGill Hoffs lives with her family and Coraline Cat in a horribly messy house in Warrington. Find her on facebook or as @gillhoffs on twitter, email her a dirty joke at, or leave a clean comment at ‘Wild: a collection’, her word-mixture of sea creatures, regret, and murder, is out now from Pure Slush. Get it here.
Gill’s often-sad sometimes-grisly nonfiction book about the Victorian Titanic will be published in January 2014 by Pen & Sword. Feel free to send her chocolate.


Martyn Taylor Is In The Sitting Room

Mr Allen Miles suggested to me after his recent successful stint in the Sitting on the Swings ‘Sitting Room,’ that I should have a visit there as well to exorcise some of my demons. Unlike Mr Miles who could have many visits to the Sitting Room due to his distain for people, I myself will be frequenting this deepest, darkest of places just the once. So here are my five bad vibes that I would like to submit to our version of ‘Room 101.’ In no particular order.

1. Nostalgia being a let down.

Our heads are full of many wonderful memories from our childhoods. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than a trip down memory lane.

YouTube is a particularly good place to go and have a look for little snippets from your early years. On a recent visit to the memory bank, I organised it for me and my 2 boys to watch a Thundercats marathon. I had received the DVD box set as a gift one Christmas and had been harping on at my kids about how great is was. Because of my obvious excitement, my boys were also hyped to see them. We watched 2 or 3 episodes, and to my disappointment they were not interested!

To be honest, I couldn’t blame them, it was not as I remembered. The feeling I had reminded of the time my Dad had tried to get me to watch episodes of Stingray and Thunderbirds in my childhood. I wasn’t interested in seeing this ancient trash. Did he feel the same disappointment that I felt as an adult, during our Thundercats marathon?

Other memories that have left a sour taste in my mouth in recent years are:

The Sega Megadrive classic, ToeJam and Earl.

The albums of Oasis.

Pot Noodles.

The lesson learned here folks, keep your memories where they are best remembered….. in your heads!

2. Peer Pressure from The Spelling Police.

I, like many people over the last 15 years or so, have grown more and more attached to my laptop and mobile phone. Modern lingo and text abbreviations have crept into peoples everyday vocab. Me? I’m no different. I’ll slip a ‘B4’ or a ‘cos’ into a message when in a rush. Is it laziness or convenience? That is for you to decide. Recently, a new force has arrived on Facebook. ‘The Spelling Police.’

"You want a semi-colon there, not a comma you fucking idiot!"

“You want a semi-colon there, not a comma you fucking idiot!”

These people really are a snobby and pompous sort, whose sole purpose in life is to trawl the internet, hunting out people’s spelling mistakes and grammatical errors. Once they spot an error, they feel the need to point it out smugly to the person, via a comment, to humiliate the person. This recently happened to me when I incorrectly spelled ‘Quiet.’ I typed ‘Quite’ (silly me) in my haste. I was publicly flogged and humiliated on my Timeline by a certain busy body (you know who you are.) I now feel the need to spellcheck my texts, blogs, tweets and status updates to avoid future mockery from these spelling Nazis!

3. My Self-conscious Mind.

Them Spelling Police bastards have got me rattled! I’m quite a self-conscious person, and I do worry what people think about me. So not only do I spell check like crazy when I text, E-mail, or write to certain people to make them think that I am not a total retard, I have now started to make intentional mistakes when texting other people that don’t really give a fuck about grammar. This is so that when they read my message I do not come across as a bit of a ponce! Will this make people like me more or less? I doubt it! but it makes me feel better about myself. So please can I leave this part of my brain in ‘The Sitting Room’ just to give me peace of mind?

4. Judgemental people who watch soaps.

I am a gamer. I get a lot of stick off friends, family and work colleagues for this fact. There is no more awkward moment than when you feel you have known a work mate long enough to ask them the question. “So, are you a gamer?” If the answer is ‘yes’, great, a new on line buddy. If it is ‘no’, ridicule and mockery soon follow. As you sink into your seat in shame, the conversation soon turns to soaps. “Did you see ‘Eastenders’ last night Martyn?”

Can Kat Slater do this?

Can Kat Slater do this?


How dare they! How bloody dare they mock me for playing X-box, when they sit down with their wives or partners to watch this utter, utter shite! At least when I go on-line to play my games, I can interact with the environment and change the outcome of the game with the controller. People laugh at me for playing games, but I laugh back at them when they plonk their arses in front of the T.V and are force-fed whatever cack is happening in Weatherfield, Walford or Emmerdale. I used to like soaps when they were produced for the purpose of family entertainment. Now, the script-writers seem to be trying to out do each other to come up with misery for their much loved characters. Truly gruesome!

5. People’s lack of adventure (on the internet)

I recently wrote a blog about how great it is to come across something new on the internet (You can read it here.) I came across a man who I had never heard of before, and because of my interest in him I spent many an hour learning something new. I see people on Facebook, moaning about how boring their lives are, and how there isn’t any thing to do. The internet is out there people, use it. Don’t just go on Facebook. Get online and learn something new. I suppose if I leave the unadventurous people in ‘The Sitting Room’ they would never be able to get out to learn something new. Could we hook up an internet feed for them in there to get online please?



mart questionsMartyn Taylor is a 31 year-old father of three and lives in Hull. His pastimes include watching 80s action films over and over again and and debating the all-time Premiership XI with Mr Miles. His knowledge of American sitcoms of the 90s stands second to none. He once walked into a men’s public lavatory absent-mindedly singing the theme tune from Two And A Half Men. You can find him on but he never tweets, so just follow him on here.

Allen Miles Is In The Sitting Room

Before you read the following coruscating diatribe, I’d like to point out that, even though I’ve written over 2000 words here, I could’ve written over 10,000. I actually just wanted to write about Coldplay and Piers Morgan, but my doctor told me that it would not be good for my blood pressure. Other near misses included Self-Service checkouts, pubs that encourage family dining on Sundays, Jonathan Ross, Bohemian Rhapsody (its nonsense, before you complain. Utter nonsense.) and Donnie Darko. So here you go, to quote the magnificent John Lydon: “Anger is an energy.”

1. Beyonce Knowles.

I hate Jessie J. I utterly loathe her and all she stands for and given half a chance I would drop her, Fargo-style, into a wood-chipper and feed her pulverized carcass to stray animals in the inner cities. But in five years time, no-one will remember her, because she is that worthless, and in ten years time she will be dead, having been spat out the bottom of the porn industry with a needle in her arm. Beyonce, however, is genuinely revered by a lot of people. I am absolutely mystified by this, as it seems to me that she is the most disingenuous, hypocritical “artist” in history.

This is what the suffragettes fought for.

This is what the suffragettes fought for.

She is supposed to encourage feminism, being an “independent woman,” and writes songs about not being objectified by men. If she looked like Susan Boyle, or even someone average-looking like Polly Harvey or Lauryn Hill, she’d have sold about fifteen records. Her songs have now taken the place of Aretha Franklin’s R.E.S.P.E.C.T. and Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive as the songs that are played loudly in cars by lonely women who pretend they don’t even want a boyfriend and paint themselves orange on a night out. That Destiny’s Child song “Independent Woman.” For crying out loud. I actually think that proper feminists would feel offended or at the very least patronised upon hearing it. Someone needs to sit down with Beyonce and explain to her that, in 2013, and actually, for quite some time before that, it is in fact commonplace for women to have their own jobs, own dwellings, and not be reliant on men to fund them. It is their right, and there is no real need to show off about it.

And “All The Single Ladies.” Yeah! Beyonce leads the charge of all those single ladies all together, all the single ladies, all the single ladies… Yeah! Only… you’re not single are you Beyonce? You’re married to a man who for much of the millennium has been one of the most powerful men in music, and whose often openly misogynistic songs should really be the polar opposite of everything that Ms Knowles claims to stand for. One can only imagine the scenes around the Carter household when he’s practicing his raps for a forthcoming tour.

Beyonce: Shawn darling, I was wondering if I could suggest a few changes to your lyrics?

Jay-Z: (Looks up with absolute distain)

Beyonce: I was wondering if instead of “bitch,” you could say “I got 99 problems but an Independent Woman ain’t one?”

Jay-Z: No.

Beyonce: Ok, well maybe rather than using the word “Ho,” perhaps you could say “Make a mill’ off a sorry Single Lady, then sit back and peep my scenario.”

Jay-Z: No

Beyonce: Ok… Erm…

Jay-Z: Go and make me a sandwich.

Beyonce: Yes, dear.

Piss off Beyonce. Just piss off.

2. Any Customer Service Facility For A U.K-based Company.

Four years ago, I went to Newcastle for my stag do. Quite late on, we added an extra member to the party, therefore we required an extra room at the hotel, or an extra bed in one of our rooms. I can’t remember which hotel chain we were booked with, but it was a major one, possibly the Ibis. I approached the girl at the reception desk and explained the situation and the following conversation took place.

Me: So would you be able to do us another room for tonight please?

Receptionist: I don’t know.

Me: Well…

Receptionist: I don’t know if we’ve got any available.

Me: Well, would you be able to find out for us please?

Receptionist: I can’t do it from here. You’ll have to ring the booking office in Leicester, the direct line is over there. (Indicates red phone in some sort of booth.)

Me: But I want a room in this hotel, can’t you just tell us if there’s one available? Haven’t you got it on your computer?

Receptionist: No, you have to ring the booking line or do it online.

At this point my friends and I look with complete bewilderment at each other and walk over to the booking line. I pick up the phone and get put through to a man who was evidently speaking verbatim from a script, and had a very loose grip on the English language.

Me: Hello, I’d like to book a room at your Newcastle branch for tonight please.

Imbecile: Yes at Newcastle, Uk?

Me: Yes please.

Imbecile: What is your address please?

Me: Why?

Imbecile: What is your address please?

With a vein throbbing in my temple, I proceeded to give this man my address, and card number, as I was told I couldn’t pay over the counter. This took quite some time, as the guy certainly wasn’t from Leicester. Eventually, after a spate of bleeding from my eyeballs, I walked back over to the desk.

Me: Right, I have reserved a room over the phone. My name is Miles.

Receptionist: Miles, Miles, Miles…. yes, here you are Sir, you’re in Room 104.


3. Abbreviations.

As used in the first instance by Sixth Form College tutors. English Lit, English Lang, or for those of you who did the combined course, Lang-Lit. These people did not give a fuck how they butchered this wonderful language of ours. One of them even used to refer to Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice as Pride and Pred. For God’s sake, it’s a terrible book in the first place don’t make it worse.

The latest one is “App.” Which is an abbreviation of Application, if you didn’t know, which brings me on to the latest form of abbreviations, fucking text speak. I realised that this was becoming a genuine threat to society when my father, bless him, attempted to use this cool new language and texted me the phrase “DAT’S GREA8T,” presumably trying to say “That’s great.” And failing catastrophically.

My mate Robbie Lawson has repeatedly attempted to tell me that stylistic progressions such as text language can be traced back through the ages and are neccessary for language to develop, but I repeatedly dismiss his arguments as “shite.” I can’t bear to see our mother tongue reduced to a minimal dirge of consonants and numbers. I will not, therefore, LOL, nor will I ROFL, or even PMSL, due to the fact that I am far too upset that the language that I have spent thirty-one years studying and attempting to master has become yet another tool that the world is using to fuck me over.

4. People With Trendy Opinions About Music

I’m going to have to divide this into a few sub-catagories…

A) Liking Things Ironically: Popular among students and arty types are things such as buying The Best Of Steps because “It’s so bad it’s good.” No its not, its shite. Easy Lover by Phil Collins is not a “chooooon,” its shite. And so on…

B) Proclaiming Stars Who Have Clearly Lost It “Legends.” For example, when people see footage of popular singers way past their prime and still proclaim them “cool.” Tom Jones, Barry White, James Brown and 70’s Elvis are/were all preposterous figures and should be openly ridiculed for not packing it in when they had their last shred of dignity left.

Brown: I feel like being a Sex Machine. Every Woman He Meets: I'm calling the police.

Brown: I feel like being a Sex Machine.
Every Woman He Meets: I’m calling the police.

C) Wearing T-Shirts Of Bands You Have No Knowledge Of In The Hope It Will Give You Credibility: Especially Ramones T-Shirts. For further reference I’ll relay the following conversation my friend Dunham once had in Welly.

18 Year-old Kid in Rolling Stones T-Shirt: Alright mate can I buy a cig off you?

Dunham: I’ll give you this cigarette for nothing if you can name five Rolling Stones songs.

Kid: Erm… Satisfaction… Brown Sugar…. erm… oh just let me buy a cig!

Dunham: Fuck Off.

D) Declaring Bands “Shit” Who Clearly Aren’t:
It does not make you the next Jo Whiley to loudly tell everybody that popular bands are “soooooo overrated.” It’s perfectly alright to say that U2, REM, Oasis, Bruce Springsteen or The Beatles aren’t your cup of tea, but to say that they were crap is clearly idiocy and your opinion is utterly worthless. Actually, it probably does make you the next Jo Whiley, she’s a fucking mental defective as well.

E) “Guilty Pleasures:”
Apparently the least credible artist that I’m a fan of is Robbie Williams. I do not feel guilty about this at all; he’s a brilliant showman, a great singer and a completely overlooked lyricist who has made some brilliant records and put on some fantastic concerts. I will argue that he is great, in a completely unashamed way, until I slip off the hook. If you feel guilty about enjoying the likes of Crowded House or Simply Red, imagine how guilty you’ll feel in a few years time when you’re stealing small change from your social worker. Prat.

5. Everything To Do With The Writing Industry

I’ll be honest, my book didn’t sell very many copies. But that’s fine, I didn’t expect it to; it’s bleak and disturbing and it was never going to appeal to the “holiday reader” market. However, I did sign a publishing deal with a real publishing house and it was judged my somebody other than myself to be worthy of public consumption. That entitles me to call myself a writer, right? WRONG. I work for the NHS in an operating theatre, I will never call myself a writer until I earn a living wage from writing, which will probably never happen. Yet I have met, through multiple writers’ sites on Facebook and Twitter, so many people who are so utterly deluded about the way they perceive themselves and their contribution to the literary world that I’m not sure I can do for much longer.

Still available folks...

Still available folks…

My friend and mentor Darren recently told me a story, as he shook his head with incredulity over a pint, of an author who will remain nameless who has proclaimed loudly on many forums that his book is being made into a Hollywood movie that is commanding a $30 million budget. This is a complete lie, in order to provoke interest. Pathetic. When 18 Days was first released, I tentatively sent an extremely polite message to several people who claimed to be writers on their Facebook pages that I’d been put in touch with through the writer’s groups, explaining that I’d just had my first book published and I was a bit of a rookie at this game, and asking for advice on how to about getting a bit of publicity. The response I got from about 90% of the messages I’d sent was “I don’t know, I’ve never been published.”

I read an interview a bit back in The Observer Review segment about an author whose name I can’t remember, but who made a big performance about making sure everyone knew that he did his writing in an abandoned tube carriage. Why did he feel the need to hammer this fact home? To appear quirky, in order to sell books was it? I bought his book for my Kindle out of curiosity and deleted it after twenty pages. It was awful.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve met lots of great people through writing, if only online. Gill Hoffs and Vic Watson have both written for this site and are fantastic people. Darren Sant and Nick Quantrill have taken time out of their lives to sit with me and explain why I should carry on writing when I throw my silly tantrums (like this one,) and many others have interviewed me, given me fantastic reviews and helped me get a bit of exposure for my work. The rest of them though, are largely self-righteous frauds with gargantuan egos. I’ve seen their likes down Princes Ave, sat in Pave in the middle of the day with their laptops out, loudly shouting into their mobiles “I’m just working on my novel,” as they glance out of the corner of their eye to make sure that everyone can hear them.

So in closing, sod the writing industry, it’s full of scum.

Burnt my fucking bridges there, haven’t I?


profile b and wAllen Miles is 31 years old and lives in Hull. He is married and has a 2 year-old daughter who is into Queens Of The Stone Age. He is a staunch supporter of Sheffield Wednesday FC and drinks far too much wine. He spends most of his spare time watching old football videos on youtube and watching 1940s film noir. He is the author of 18 Days, which is widely recognized to be the best book ever written. It is available here.

Paul Featherstone is in The Sitting Room

You have to appreciate Dear Reader, this could go on for infinity. I hate everything.

People Who Can’t Tell The Difference Between Your And You’re, Where, Were and We’re etc-
There’s become this new trend, mainly started on the likes of Facebook and Twitter, that grammar and spelling don’t really count. If you pick people up for it, you’re the Grammar Police. Look, no-one is perfect. Even I wince at my pieces because I’ve been too lazy to thoroughly check them at times, but fuck me, don’t get something wrong you should have learned at 7 years old. Even Alan Sugar, the archetypal “village idiot done good” is on Twitter telling everyone to shut up because he can’t spell “that” or something. Then he has the gall to tell someone with a PHD on his show that they are a half-wit. Then people go on about foreigners taking our jobs. Jobs we can’t bothered to learn to spell or speak our own language for, when they have learned a foreign tongue. I’m sorry, I was taught at school, learn to spell to a decent standard or you’ll be thrown out of a job interview? Now it’s alright to be unapologetic in your breaking of the rules of the English language. This has replaced Punk as rebellion. Because John Lydon was a thicko, who accomplished nothing against the system with a mighty grasp of the power of the written and spoken word wasn’t he? It’s not alright, your children will grow up with a shit attitude to learning and the English language. Then someone who bothered will take their job, probably from the EU, and you will die knowing they failed in their ability to pay taxes that help you have anything that resembles a decent state pension. Well done. You make my fucking blood boil. It’s called an apostrophe. Just don’t use one if you have such a poor attitude to the function it performs.THERE IS WHERE SOMETHING IS! THEY’RE IS THEY ARE!! ITS EASIER THAN OPERATING THE COMPUTER YOU ARE TYPING IT INTO!!!
Shit, Popular, Mainstream Comedians
Write this on my gravestone- Not Once Did Michael McIntyre Make Him Laugh. That will be enough. My life will be just. Him. Miranda Hart. John Bishop. Just pointing out things that happen every day. That is not observational. It’s a ten year old laughing at his first hard-on. It is not witty. Telling stories about things that happened to you that were a bit embarrassing, to people who don’t know you, is not funny. Millions of people can do that, that’s why comedy is hard. People wonder why I get so mad? Maybe it’s because I’m paying their wages via the licence fee? Wages that make me want to throw a safety shoe through my TV screen then urinate on the memory of McIntyre’s figure on the expired screen. I know it’s very cool to hate the likes of McIntyre, he’s the kid EVERYONE filled in at school but Christ, he really is this generation’s Russ Abbott, why can’t anyone see this?! Maybe I’m just mad at the idea of someone on a Friday night at 9pm, drinking a half bottle of wine, eating ethically sourced nuts, laughing their moronic heads off at him talking about funny things him and his missus encounter in their soulless, vapid, sexless marriage? I’ve got blood in my throat now.
A Lack Of Bins In The Street
Why are there no bins anymore? I guarantee that you have had to walk for at least the length of a full main road with a Coke can in your hand, under the threat of a fine if you litter, as though there is a SS sniper waiting on a rooftop because you have no papers. It’s madness. It may be the biggest ever First World Problem but I don’t care. I could understand it during the spectre of an IRA bomb being put in one, but is their hollow victory that we are consigned to a life of Walkers crisp packets floating around like a depressing, kitchen sink drama version of that scene in American Beauty? If there aren’t any bins it just encourages the idiots of society to just throw things on the floor. It’s their get out clause. They are the sane ones, not walking for 700 yards in minus five temperatures with their hands out of their pockets because they can’t dispose of a coffee cup. The hard work of that coffee cup is being wasted from the very extremity that delivered it. I think I’ve shaved six weeks from my lifespan by wandering the streets getting angry about this.
Those “1 Like” Things On Facebook
I know Facebook has been covered at length on this site, but the thought of this is genuinely making me want to snap my laptop in half, I cannot let it pass. Who in heavenly fuck came up with this cultural phenomenon? I would like to hunt them down and pull their toe nails out. Honestly, if I don’t like this photo I’m a paedophile or something?! Like this photo for the war dead Paul, it’s far more useful than the £10 a month you donate from your paycheck to the Royal British Legion. I can’t wait for the day someone is at the pearly gates and they get asked why they never prayed for the souls of the world, only to reply “Oh no, I hit “like” on Facebook and 1 Like = 1 Prayer”. Aren’t religious people supposed to follow the example of Jesus or something? Did he just sit on his fat arse hitting like on matters of global concern? It’s like going on my computer and being aggressively picketed by those weird Christians in suits you see in City Centre’s, except they’ve had a full frontal lobotomy. This is what society in general has become, encapsulated in one simple click of a computer.
I don’t even know where to start with this. The poor music, that people appear to have been suckered into believing is some of the greatest ever written? She doesn’t even write half of it! She wrote the Skyfall lyrics in the back of a taxi on her way round to the studio, whilst some other poor sap has recorded the music, which, by the way is mainly just the Bond theme tune. It shows she did this. Give her an Oscar! Fuck Live And Let Die, ignore that!!! The My Fair Lady act that reinforces the idea in America that we are all Cockney chimney sweeps who eat jellied eels? She went to the Brit’s School, I don’t know how you get in there but I’m going out on the limb it’s not via Watford job centre? “Oh, she’s just like us, that’s how I’d be!” No you wouldn’t, in fact, if you saw her down the pub behaving that way you’d avoid her, and by the 8th pint ask for her to be kicked out. Fame hasn’t changed her you know, that’s why she lives in a massive £8 million mansion and has gone all weird about her baby and people knowing it’s name? Because Michael Jackson did that, and he was just your normal lad who loved going to watch Fulham so much, they built a statue of him at the ground. I don’t know how this happened, whether it was the talent vacuum that exists, that allowed someone who can sing a bit to become so huge, but don’t sell her to me as the saviour of British music. That Someone Like You is generic, break-up, heart-string pulling, ho-hum that even Coldplay would be ashamed to pump out. The very idea of James Corden introducing it at the Brits, as though it was Let It Be getting it’s first airing, makes me want to vomit and slam my head in a safe. Don’t accuse me of sexism either, she’s setting women back, writing songs begging for men to love them. At least Beyonce writes about being independent, even if it is on every single fucking song. Is it too late to emigrate?
Just missing the list- Cameron and Osbourne, People Who Moan About the NHS, James Fucking Corden, Footballers Who Pretend To Be Injured, The General Public.
Paul FeatherstonePaul Featherstone is 31 years old and lives in Hull. Most people call him “Fev.” He has an encyclopaedic knowledge of football and music and uses the word “c*nt” far too much in everyday conversation. He spends a lot of his time blagging his way into celebrity parties. He is to be commended for once meeting Jo Whiley and refraining from beating her to death with a big stick. You can read more of his vitirolic comments on