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

Andi Ware: On Refusing to ‘Tweet’

It was with great regret and a heavy heart that I learned of the death of Baroness Thatcher this week.  This was because I learned about this momentous occasion via the medium of Facebook. Yes, I first heard about the death of the last great truly despised figure of the Western word because someone I met during an evening class ten years ago made an ‘amusing’ comment on Facebook. Busy writing Lesson Plans and Schemes of Work I decided to take a break from my computer screen and skip over to the office kitchen to make a coffee. Whilst waiting for the kettle to boil I slipped my phone out of my pocket and browsed Facebook to find that a virtual friend had decided to share his wit with the rest of the world and in doing so ruin a sense of occasion that I was entitled to. The death of Margaret Thatcher is something that one should learn about on Radio 4 or in the pages of the Guardian. It is an occasion that deserves the commentary of a true professional skilled in the art of news delivery. Needless to say the individual who ruined my occasion is now dead to me. I immediately de-friended him and he now floats around in the deep, rich black void that is not being able to count me as one of his Facebook friends.

To prevent tragedies like this from ever happening again I urge all readers to think before you post. Due to the immediacy of the internet when you make a comment about something as huge as the death of Margaret Thatcher on Facebook or Twitter you could be relaying the news to someone for the very first time. That individual will never get that moment back. For example in twenty five years whenever I am asked where I was when I heard that Margaret Thatcher had died I will have to grimace and say that I was reading some comments on Facebook whilst waiting for a kettle to boil. Other people may have been on the toilet. If you are moved to comment on something like the death of Maggie then at least have the integrity to write it as thoroughly and eloquently as my fellow poster Paul Featherstone. I only wish that it was by reading a piece of writing such as this that I had learned of the death of Thatcher.

The trouble is that through Twitter and Facebook the idiot is almost validated. When their flippant and juvenile comments appear in printed text on our screens they become that much more concrete. This is augmented by the fact that we live in a culture that takes its Facebook and Twitter very seriously and with the invention of the Blackberry and tablet age Facebook and Twitter are very much part of us. Our hand sets are an extension of ourselves constantly in the palms of our hands. There are people for whom the world is the grey coloured border around the screen of their smart phones. There was once a simple and glorious time when there was a clear definition between our virtual activity and our cyber activity. However, due to our excessive use of the internet, especially Facebook and Twitter, the lines have been blurred.

Twitter is especially vulgar as it has created a world in which people comment on issues as varied as the crisis in Syria to the happenings on Geordie Shore all with a limit of 140 characters. To Tweet about an issue is to be value it and I would go as far as to say that Twitter is nothing more than a self-indulgent arena for the moron. That is, of course, not to say that all who Tweet are morons.

I am currently enjoying the new David Bowie album ‘The Next Day’. It is a truly unique record simply because its creator was not Tweeting about every bar of tambourine that was recorded. It was released without any prior announcement and this makes the music sound that little bit sweeter. Yes, Twitter has taken the mystery and magic out of popular culture (especially music). As an eighteen year old I can remember being obsessed with Radiohead. I would scour the pages of ‘Q’ magazine for any hints as to whether or not the band were in the studio, writing new material or planning further live dates. I stalked the band (not in the literal sense) like a hunter and it was absolutely exhilarating whenever a new album was released, a tour was announced or even when the tiniest nugget of information was discovered. But as I write this I know that I could log on to Twitter now and find out what Thom Yorke has eaten for breakfast. Twitter has taken the fun out of music for me through sheer over exposure.

So I shall not be Tweeting whenever I post something new on here. For those of you who are interested you will just have to exert the energy and find my posts on the site organically.

Xavier DwyerAndi Ware is 32 years-old and has a small dog called Oliver. He is a paid-up member of the Labour Party and used to play bass in semi-legendary Hull band Sal Paradise. In his spare time he makes his own wine and watches rugby league. He once claimed his favourite album was Electric Warrior by T.Rex, which was a complete lie. He holds a degree in Philosophy, but you’d already guessed that. You can find him at