Tag Archives: bbc

Panorama? Nah. Head in sand is better for me right now.

I’ve not bothered watching that Panorama on gaming addiction today. After all the hype (in the gaming community, natch) and all the chatter about it (again, gaming community) I just couldn’t be bothered. I seem to have found myself entering a newly enlightened state where I transcend the messages sent out by those who still think this earth is all there is to it. Instead, I inhabit a place of true knowledge, serenity and total peace. I am at one with everything, and everything is at one with me.

Some people call this ‘wilful ignorance’, and I, on discovering it, am finding it quite the calming influence.

You see, the last few weeks have seen me attacked on a personal and professional level from a number of different parties, all via the internet, naturally. While doing the rounds this morning I stumbled upon a website’s editorial which was entirely based around slagging me off (not by name, but it was about me). The email in which I was called a “cunt” no less than five times, the constant commenter-battery and the general assault on my mental well-being has taken something of a toll*.

I’m not whining – at least not much – and I’m not about to run off crying. If anything, these idiots either make me laugh or give me back the spark I’ve been missing for so long, re-igniting the anger – the passion – that makes me who I am. So to those numbskulls I would like to say: thanks. You’re a bunch of inbred, subnormal prannocks with all the congeniality of a scabby anus and the personality to match. But you’re making me care about things again. So thanks for that.

But yeah, it had got a bit much recently. Choosing to watch a show that would definitely infuriate me even more was something I was not going to do today.

*Don’t get me wrong – I’ve been writing on the internet for just under a decade now. I’ve had all the insults, snide remarks, patronising idiots and death threats (genuinely) before. It can still have an effect though.

(As an aside: I’ve also had more compliments in the last few weeks than I’ve ever had, from a number of different people and for a number of different reasons. It’s just the Dransfield Standard (and I’d assume that of many others) to focus on the negative feedback. SOZ.)

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Fear and confusion from a hotel room

Apologies I missed yesterday – this was written then, but I wasn’t about to pay twenty fucking quid for internet access. I haven’t read it since yesterday, so it may well be awful and half-baked.

Where were you when the world ended? I was sat in a hotel room across the road from Gloucester Street (or Road, I can’t be bothered looking out of the window) tube station. I had just eaten a hearty, healthy meal of a chicken and mushroom slice and a scotch egg (26% of your daily saturates? NOM), with dessert of a double Double Decker waiting for me and a freshly-made coffee on the side. When the world ended, I was surrounded by deliciosity.

Even so, it didn’t manage to soften the blow that David Cameron was set to become our next Emperor. What is it the kids say? Oh yeah: FML.

I’m not as angry or full of despair as I was the other day – and I realise I’m going back on what I said about no more political posts, but hush down. I am still worried though, but more than anything I’m angry: at that yellow bastard for talking me into voting for his stupid, pointless party. These may well be words I eat as it comes out that it’s the most perfect unison of governmental parties in the history of the universe, but right now I’m as clued-up as the news, which is “not very much”. So baseless speculation it is:

Nick Clegg will be nothing more than a voiceless face sat next to Plumboy McToff, waiting silently until his party is dismantled from within by wheelings and dealings of Tory rats. The country will be into a financial spiral of Death and Destruction for those of us with little-to-no money and the Liberal Democrats – partners in this – will have no say on the matter. Blah blah other negativity – you get the picture.

It’s just a speculative fiction. I’m not placing any bets right now.

On a lighter side, it is funny to watch this on BBC’s rolling coverage. They have no idea what’s going on, and they’re even talking about how Brown was just caught in traffic as if that’s actually some kind of news. Le sigh.

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Bottom is on, let’s talk about Bottom

Bottom is on the channel Dave as I write this. Bottom is fantastic, and anyone who doesn’t think so can immediately leave life: you are not wanted. For those unfamiliar, Bottom is the story of two down and out losers, living together in a horrible flat in Hammersmith and generally… well, existing. They’re Richard Richard – a horrible, pathetic little pervert of a man with middle class delusions – and Edward Hitler – a psychopathic, horrible, pathetic man (with added mild perversion) and general delusions. They are nobodies and are of no worth whatsoever. They fight a lot. They absolutely hate each other. They’re weird. And mental. It’s classic BBC comedy.

Many people don’t like Bottom. They find it puerile, pointless and humourless. These people are not your friends, and are actually people incapable of appreciating comedy. It’s a simple formula and involves very few ingredients: incredible levels of ridiculous violence (being thrown down the stairs, electrocuted, attacked with cricket bats and cattle prods and – of course – having your legs sawn off with a chainsaw, for example); incredibly simple, obvious humour; and relentless double-entendres (“have you got the Union Jack sandwiches?” “No, it’s just the way my trousers are hanging”). It’s slapstick, and there isn’t enough slapstick around now. Slapstick is great.

This is the kind of television you would never see being made anymore: relentlessly unlikeable characters who have absolutely no redeeming characteristics whatsoever. That just wouldn’t work with focus-group lead programming. That’s not to say you don’t love the characters, mind you: they’re twats, but they’re your twats.

Bottom is great. I’m going to stop writing and carry on watching it now.

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I really, genuinely hate Clive Tyldesley, Peter Drury and Mark Lawrenson

As I’m in the land of Sky Sports – that is, my girlfriend’s place – I am in a strange and wonderful land. A land of Andy Gray, Martin Tyler, Geoff Stelling, Jamie Redknapp, some of the other ones who aren’t that bad and Paul Merson. It is, frankly, a wonderful place. It isn’t wonderful because of the most incisive, cutting and downright smart commentary – no, Tyler seems to be getting worse in his old age and Redknapp went from being the Great White Hope of punditry into just being a dim goit who advertises holidays with his ageless beauty of a wife.

You had so much potential, Jamie. You argued with Andy. Why have you gone boring again?

Anyway, this world of football pundits, commentators and all the other ones inbetween isn’t special because of their quality – it’s special because of their lack of lack of quality. It wouldn’t be this way were it not for the fact that Clive Tyldesley, Peter Drury and Mark Lawrenson exist. No, really – they do. Look it up. They’re even backed up by Graeme Le Saux, David Pleat and that bloke who used to do F1 and who still looks out of place. If these piles of human-shaped excrement didn’t exist then the Sky lot wouldn’t be that special. They’d be poor-to-adequate at best. Bar Gray, who despite the doubters is still one of the best pundits and commentators on tellyvee.

But no, ITV exists and brings with it Tyldesley and his awful, awful, awful twat-speak. That nasal whine. The constant references to anything Man Utd have ever done and his seeming inability to stop supporting both them and Liverpool. The fact that he once said “dare he?” in reference to Thierry Henry running with the ball back in his Arsenal days. The man isn’t even a stain on society, because at least you could get rid of that with some industrial-strength chemicals and a bit of effort. This scrotal wound, it would seem, cannot be eradicated. We are all poorer as a race for his continuing existence. Though this lightens my day, every day.

He’s the worst though, at least. The others are shit bastards, but none can even come close to Tyldesley. Not even professional Tyldesley impersonator Peter Drury, who sounds like an autistic with a speech impediment trying (and failing) to do an impression of Clive the Shit. I mean, there’s Mark Lawrenson over on BBC who did remark that Alan Smith’s leg had been broken in the FA Cup semi final a few years ago “by the power of the shot”. Yes Mark. Of course that was it. We all know John Arne Riise could kick a ball really hard. That was his only talent, god rest his soul*. But he couldn’t kick it hard enough to break your leg. I’m not sure, but I would guess it’s near-impossible to do that without using some form of machinery. Or bursting the ball. You utter, utter fool.

Pleat? Fuck me. Pleat. Written down, this man comes across as reasonably intelligent. Knowledgable, even. But he should not be allowed to speak on anything that broadcasts his voice to the nation as a whole. Any man who forgets a player’s name (Petter Rudi) then, when being reminded of it, goes on to say “PetterRudiRudiPetter” on real-life television should not be allowed to be on real-life television. That’s not forgetting the time he claimed to be responsible for a Spurs goal, as he had signed both the players involved in it (Paul Robinson and Jermain Defoe). Or his frankly incomprehensible outburst about Tomas Rosicky. Or the fact he’s a kerb-crawler. I know he’s not even on ITV anymore, but it still hurts that he ever was.

Anyway, this could go on for another year or so, such is my hatred for so many football pundits. I could do a better job, and I’m shit on camera. Sack everyone and start again. Don’t just hire people because they used to be players. That can go wrong. Consider yourselves told.

*He’s not dead, he’s just shit.

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