Ian McShane

It was love at first sight. I'd just turned away from the bar with a glass of wine in each hand when I bumped into Ian McShane (that's Lovejoy to you oiks), from the way he licked his lips and smoothed back his wavy hair while surreptitiously (not) looking down my top, I knew he'd fallen for my 'charms'. It was a Friday night at the Packhorse and Talbot on Chiswick High Road and I was there with a mate from work. Ian was there with a pack of hangers-on, one or two looked slightly familiar but I couldn't place them.

McShane was clearly three quarters pissed, as I could tell when he stopped at our table on the way back from the bar. He had another two glasses of wine and he placed them over-carefully on our table before inviting himself to sit down. Now, I have to admit that I was a bit of a fan in those days and also single. To cut a long, rambling story short we ended up back at my place (the kids were with their father that weekend). Ian spotted a bottle of scotch and helped himself, while I slipped into something more comfy (and a little less grey and frayed).

So, why do I hate him? Well, he broke off a deep meaningful kiss for a huge burp then wondered why I didn't want to resume. Sighing, he then loosened his trousers, released the beast and bid me: "Get on with it love." Not wishing to disappoint, I took him in my mouth and gave him my best effort - and I have it on good authority that it is good. Half way through he gave me an encouraging "Oh yes, that's good. But can you get your tits out love?". Once more I obliged, and resumed work, this time with the Lovejoy mits all over my boobs. I managed to carry on when he started pinching my nipples and I didn't complain when he pushed me off just as he started to cum and got it all over my neck and tits. I didn't say anything as he slumped back on the sofa without a word of thanks, burped again, asked where the toilet was, disappeared, threw up in the toilet and didn't flush.

"Bye love!" he shouted as he opened the front door and stumbled down the steps, looking around for a taxi.

I rushed to the door but realised just in time that I was topless and covered in spunk, I opened the door a crack and shouted through the gap,

"McShane you bastard, come back and fuck me"

"Sorry love, I'm on a promise."

That's why I hate him.

Still, I did have series One of Lovejoy on video, so I stuck it on and frigged myself silly to it while rubbing his cum all over my chest.
(K.W.A. Knickers With Attitude, Mon 8 Feb 2010, 16:27, 7 replies)

Golden Arches and Coulrophobia
Famous People I hate? Instead of giving you a list of people which are already on here 1,000 times I’ll do something different and take you back to the late 80’s when a wee me was only interested in one famous person… Ronald McDonald.

As it was swingin’ 1989 my sister was very much into Jason Donovan and Kylie, I was still a little too young to care, my thoughts were more linked to my stomach, specifically the mascot of the best place to eat in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD! We were never really taken to Maccy D’s when we were little, my mother didn’t really approve of fast food, so my only chance to go would be if one of my lucky friends had a birthday party there. Well one wonderful weekend I received an invitation for a McParty and my heart did somersaults, not only was I going to be able to get a Happy Meal but I was also going to be able to meet Ronald Mc-Bloody-Donald!

Restless nights lead up to the party and finally when the big day arrived I was giddy with sheer unadulterated excitement. My mum dropped me off in my little frock and I tentatively placed my foot over the threshold of the Golden Arches… I… was… in. Much screaming and merriment ensued and once we had all suitably stuffed our faces with burgers and cake we were racing around burning off the energy playing hide and seek. Madly giggling with the birthday girl we had discovered a perfect hiding place underneath a table and awaiting being found… all of a sudden a big pair of yellow gloves appeared and pulled me out from under the table. I was lifted up, past the stripy socks, past the yellow suit to… the scariest face I had ever seen in my life! I recoiled instantly, bringing my hands up to my face. This wasn’t right, he wasn’t the jolly, small Ronald McDonald I knew from the cartoon pictures on my Happy Meal box, this was a big man with blood red lips and yellow teeth, right in my face - he was horrifying. I screamed and struggled as he guffawed and chucked ‘found you, found you’ and waved his arms in my face, he smelt of stale cigarettes and sweat, this was not my beloved Ronald. I looked over for help but the mums were busying themselves chatting and eating the remaining cake, they couldn’t give a crap that they had left the kids with this… monster. He started bouncing me up and down asking where the birthday girl was and I knew at that moment I was either going to cry or lash out, I chose the latter. I squeaked ‘put me down’ but he didn’t seem to hear or care, so I did the only other thing I could think of and kicked him.

As a child you don’t know much about testicles but now I’m older and I like to think a little wiser, I can categorically say that I’m 100% sure I kicked him square in his McNuggets. He dropped to the floor and exhaled painfully and I darted across the restaurant like a demented squirrel to the mums. ‘I don’t like it, I don’t like it’ I howled and pointed at poor Ronald who was now attempting to compose himself for the other children. He staggered over and tried to find out what was the matter with me, but it was too late, the damage had been done. I was petrified and only wanted to go home. My mum was called and I was taken early and I’ve never felt the same way about clowns as I did before that day.

Damn you Ronald McDonald, you are entirely responsible my crippling fear of clowns, you ruddy plum. P.S I'm sorry I kicked you in your 'special parts'.
(Flim-Flam the Magnificent "You is talking loco and I like it!", Fri 5 Feb 2010, 13:54, 16 replies)

You know who I hate?
Anyone more successful than me, who managed to get there with less talent than a drunken five year-old..

Like David Walliams and Matt Lucas. I could have come up with some stupid catchphrases and one-dimensional characters, and re-recorded pretty much identical sketches, and made a fortune. Easily. Like a camp homosexual McDonalds worker, who would leer whenever he said, "Do you want me to make it a large one?" in a vaguely threatening homosexual manner. Or a mental-health office receptionist, who was herself (stereotypically) 'mental', and who constantly did 'hilarious' things like trying to answer a banana, or mistake a visitor for a hatstand. See? That's at least as good as anything they came up with for 'Little Britain,' that steaming pile of televisual horseshit.

Or any kind of sports commentator. All they do is tell you what's happening (in front of your very eyes), and, occasionally, spout the kind of useless facts Rainman himself would have found too boring to bother with.

Footballers, and any other sportsman who is obscenely overpaid. You get paid more than most doctors and nurses - they save lives, while you chase each other about a field and occasionally rape and kill a stripper. How is that fucking fair?

Or Bono, who blatantly sees himself as the Second Coming of Christ and attaches his name to any charity event going, while hoarding vast millions and swimming in a vault full of change like Scrooge McDuck (in my imagination). "Oh, you want to save Africa, Bono? You need loads of money to do it? Why don't you use the millions you amassed selling your boring faux-rock to idiots, then? You smug, hypocritical cunt."

And Stephen Hawking, for not electing to wear a full Dalek outfit and have his electrical voice match the Daleks'. Because that would have been awesome.

And, lastly, I hate Samuel L Jackson. Simply because he is easily cooler than I will ever be. And when I say, "Motherfucker," it sounds nothing like the way he says it. And that makes me sad
(Godwin's Lawyer is more evil than Hitler, Mon 8 Feb 2010, 4:48, 14 replies)

Fucking Jade Goody
I wish she'd just fuck off and die.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 4 Feb 2010, 13:55, 7 replies)

Not a person, but an organisation.
But
Help for Heroes.

My brother and sister-in-law are in the forces, and they have HfH car stickers, dishcloths and Christ-knows-what-else. They do fundraising for them.

This makes me a little peeved.

There is nothing heroic about being in the forces. It's a job, and a job for which you get paid. You don't have to join, and if you're surprised that, on occasion, you might be in a dangerous or life-threatening situation having joined the forces, then you're clearly not clever enough. You should perhaps consider a carreer as a Police Community Support Officer.

So the heroism can't be merely a measure of being in the forces. By that token, you, I, and everyone else who has signed a contract of employment for a job the demands of which were perfectly clear and from which we've managed not to get sacked is a hero.

Maybe the heroism has to do with being injured. But, again, if I fall down the stairs, or even get a work-related injury (granted, it's hard to see how someone like me who sits all day in a dingy office could suffer such a thing, but you get the picture), then that'd make me a hero. And I don't think I am a hero; nothing personal, but I doubt you are, either.

"Hero" used to indicate someone who had done something truly outstanding. Getting injured while doing your job doesn't strike me as outstanding. And by calling every such person a hero, HfH thereby devalues genuine heroism. Meanwhile, for those who do display genuine heroism, there are medals, promotions and honours. They don't need HfH.

Besides: if a member of the forces gets injured, they're entitled to claim all the benefits that someone born disabled or injured in everyday life can claim. They aren't any worse off than the civvies. If the beef is that disability benefits generally aren't high enough, then that's fine - I'll sign up to that. But it rather takes the military heroism away, doesn't it?

Something similar goes for the public grief junkie tabloid fodder halfwits who line the streets of Wootton Bassett every time someone so much as says the word "coffin". Idiots. Show some self-respect.

OK: I'll get into my fox-hole now. You can start the flaming.
(Star Wars Starwarsy McStarwars Face, Thu 4 Feb 2010, 14:12, 35 replies)

B3ta
That Rob Manu

Mod edit: Shut the fuck up or your account goes in the bin.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 15:18, 8 replies)

Piers Morgan
Personally I don't mind him, however Jeremy Clarkson once punched him - which makes Clarkson go up in my estimation and Stephen Fry once coined the fabulous phrase -

Countryside : the definition of killing Piers Morgan
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Thu 4 Feb 2010, 12:52, 10 replies)

Vic Reeves
You know how your perception of famous (or even slightly well-known) people changes if you ever meet them? No? Well, it does. Anyway, I loved absolutely everything that came from the imagination of Mr Vic Reeves (or, if you prefer, Jim Moir) up until 2001, when things were rather soured for me.

My sister got married the previous year - nobody noteworthy turned up at the wedding, but later that year in conversation with my new brother-in-law he matter-of-factly informed me that he is in fact some kind of cousin to Vic Reeves (something might be removed somewhere along the line), and saw him socially a couple of times a year. Of course, I immediately started pestering him for an invitation, and after several months persuading my sister's husband that I wasn't a psycho, stalker or uberfan, one summer I ended up at a "do" at Mr Reeves' mansion in a secret location (well, not so much secret as now forgotten).

As it turns out, the BBC had decided to bring back Shooting Stars on BBC CHOICE in the New Year, so Vic was in the middle of designing some of those set-piece "games" inflicted on celebrities at the end of the programme. He asked if I'd be a "guinea pig" for once he was working on, so in my eagerness to impress I agreed, and that's how I came to be in the middle of his large entrance hallway with other guests curiously staring at me as somebody wheeled on what looked like a cricket sightscreen made up of little doors, like an advent calendar on wheels. Or a giant mobile game of Battleships, as letters were marked along the top and numbers down the side. "Roger Moore... pick a door!" trilled Vic, and I obliged. He then opened the one I'd chosen to reveal it was covering a small round window, which he invited me to walk over and peer into.

To this day I still have no idea what the point of the game was actually supposed to be, as I lost it at that point. The thing is, I'm actually scared shitless of all rodents. Especially when one unexpectedly appears right in front of your eyes, magnified by a slightly convex piece of glass. Regardless of whether said mouse is for some reason dressed in a foppish outfit with a feather in its hat.

Now I know I barged right through a few of his friends to get myself out of the front door and sprinting down the drive, but, instead of apologising, checking if I was OK, or downplaying the incident, Mr Reeves decided that my serious phobia gave him licence to pick on me for the rest of the night, and turned out to be a vicious prick about it all. I don't actually know if he ever knew my real name, but if he remembers me it'll be as "Ratboy". Tit.

My brother-in-law told me later that he'd seen the complete list of gags that had been used to make up the "game board" next to their door number, some of which were actually quite funny. Just my bloody luck to pick "Fey mouse peephole - I8".
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Wed 10 Feb 2010, 14:35, 5 replies)

I hatez thoze catz
They maik fun ov mai dyslexia.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 6 Feb 2010, 5:31, Reply)

Steve Fucking Jobs
I hate him. He's everything that's bad about uttlery disingenuous corporate figureheads. A smiley face and a "Hey, I'm just one of you geeky guys!" persona masking a ruthless, egocentric desire to rinse as much money as possible from the often unquestioning captive audience that worship his overpriced products.

A man who did nothing but marketing and shouting at people in the early days of Apple. Now he just shouts at people. Admittedly, that's behind the scenes, yet he pretends to be everyone's favourite geeky uncle in his public appearances. Like Disney and Nintendo's public image, Steve represents the very worst kind of consumer-exploiting capitalism.

He promotes ultra-locked-down 'appliances', that just happen to spew revenue directly into his pockets, as being what people 'actually' want, when really his approach just creates a population of dumb users who still have no clue about the potential of the machines they buy - because Steve tells them exactly what they 'should' use those machines for. He wants to promote goods for people that are scared of computers, yet he doesn't take away that fear. He just gives them dumbed-down devices, because according to his methodology 'it's what they need'. It's dictatorial. It's patronising. It makes Steve even richer.

Contrastingly, I love Bill Gates, even though Windows is still horrific. Why? Because Bill still reviewed code, even when he was running the richest company in the universe. He also pays for something 30% of global malaria research. He's just committed billions to vaccinations in the third world. IMO, whatever wrongs Bill did with MS, he's righted them all a thousandfold.

I doubt we'll ever see Steve doing the same. Mostly because he doesn't care as long as you PAY MORE MONEY and LOVE HIM.
(Tont Tont Tont, Fri 5 Feb 2010, 13:21, 7 replies)

Online, on digital....
I like Radio 2. I do. I was sad to lose Terry, but everyone has to retire, and actually Evans (who I would have fairly much put as the demigod of this QOTW a few years back) has turned his act around and does a decent job of the brekkie show. However, Radio 2 has two crowning piles of donkey smegma in their lineup.

First off the bat, Sarah Kennedy. This woman clearly has drinking problems, but these are not a patch on the fact that she has the humour and broadcasting abilities of a damp flannel, as well as the kind of casual right-wing biogtry that makes the BNP do a happy dance. The one saving grace about her is that she is on at stuipd-o-clock when very few people have to listen to her bilge.

However, I would happily listen to her 24 hours a day, 7 days a week compared to my next candidate.

Steve Fucking Wright

Never in the history of broadcasting has someone been on radio who is more fucking pleased with himself. There should be a health warning prior to his broadcasts that you may have the urge to rip off your own ears due to the inanely high levels of smug. And his cunting sidekicks? About as funny and as interesting as a colostomy. And I swear to God himself, if I ever meet either the Old Woman or Barry from Watford, I will kill them. To death, and beyond.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Thu 4 Feb 2010, 13:05, 18 replies)

Brian Fucking May
Now I realise that it's become quite the thing this week to insert the word "fucking" in someone's name, but I simply cannot say this man's name without my lip curling up and the f-word falling out.

I can't stand him. Reasons include:

1. His hair. The poodle look might have been great in 1973, but not today. Or yesterday. It appears he and his squeeze, Anita Dobson, have interchangeable heads, a bit like Worzel fucking Gummidge.

2. He wears wooden clogs. What a bell-end, if you are lanky streak of piss, you don't need to wear clogs to give you some lift. (Perhaps Anita was complaining he needed a few more inches and he misunderstood)

3. He's an astronomer. The only heavenly bodies a rock musician should know about are the legions of groupies he's fucked. Which obviously, Brian hasn't. Rockers should only know about the stars they see when they are trying out exotic dangerous narcotics on my behalf in seedy fleshpots around the globe. Do you think Brian has ever lived up to his responsibilities as a Rock Star, to risk his life through excessive partying? No, nor me.

I can imagine him knocking on the dressing room wall about the noise when he's trying to watch "Sky at Night" as Freddie bums a midget who's been carrying a tray of Coke around. There has to be a Uranus gag in here somewhere, but frankly, I can't be arsed.( Wha-hey! That'll do)

I like my Rock Stars to be illiterate drug addled alcoholic burglars from Birmingham, not posh twats who WENT BACK to finish their degree after they became successful. Just "for something to fall back on if it all ends tomorrow", no doubt.


4. Playing a guitar made out of bits of fireplace and old pushbike. OK, so his Dad and him made it themselves, but he's a cunt for not retiring it quietly as soon as he could buy a REAL guitar, ie. thirty seconds after he got into a real band.
I refuse to believe him and his pa are better luthiers than Kalamazoo's finest, I'm sure the old boy wouldn't have been offended if Bri had used it to get started then ditched it, there was no need to cart it round the world for years on tour. I bet his guitar tech hates the fucking thing, he knows if anything falls off it, he's going to get the blame, and where will he find a replacement 1938 pushbike saddle?

5. He doesn't use a plectrum, he uses a coin, a sixpence. Not a 10p piece, no, a fucking sixpence, a coin out of circulation for 40 years. Cunt. Billy Gibbons uses a silver peso coin to get that scratchy squealy string attack, but why would Mr May use one? Because he is a pretentious cunt, that's why.

6. His guitar playing. This is the root of it all, my hatred for this man.
It's shit. He may have written and performed multi-million selling records for years, but he is not worthy of any praise as a guitarist. I'm sorry, but when he appeared onstage at the Guitar Legends gig in Seville in 91, alongside some REAL guitarists, he shit his pants, he knew he was bluffing. Steve Vai played a solo, Satriani stepped up and played one, Joe Walsh, Nuno Bettencourt, all wailing away, now it's Brian's turn. Oh, hang on a mo, Brian need to adjust his amplifier. Damn, and now he's missed his turn, how convenient. When he did manage to play anything it sounded like he was taking the piss, appalling, just a load of elephant noises.
He isn't fit to tune those others' guitars, let alone play alongside them. Fair enough, he has bluffed his way through life, but to think he could stand up there with true masters of the guitar, what a tosser.

I'm sure if I locked my Mum in a studio for 6 months with a guitar and told her to put some guitar tracks down or she isn't coming out, she could come up with something to equal anything Mr May has done, anyone could. A good studio can disguise all evidence of a lack of talent. I bet there's not many spontaneous takes on any of his records, apart from maybe the abysmal solo on the end of "We Will Rock You". It sounds like Stephen Hawking falling down stairs with a guitar on his lap, I can't believe it was a planned piece, more like the engineer saying:
"Listen, Brian, we've been here for 9 months, I'm tired, the LP is due out in 2 days time, just play ANY FUCKING THING, you've got 30 seconds and then I'm locking up".

7. He proved to me God doesn't exist. If He did, God would have listened to my prayers, no one has prayed like I did, but NOTHING happened. Even though I prayed and prayed, Brian fucking May stood on the roof of Buckingham Palace and played the National Anthem and didn't get struck by lightning. That, ladies and gentlemen, was when I realised we are alone, there is no God.

I really really don't like Brian May.
And yes, I am jealous of his fame and money.
(Rsoles, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 20:29, 11 replies)

Daniel Corbett
He's not that famous and I don't hate him really, but anyway.

Some of you may recognise him from the weather bulletins on the BBC news. I've only seen him on the 6 o'clock ones but I'm sure he's on others. The reason for my dislike? He's terrifying. He looks like he's plotting to eat the news readers flesh. And that grin...if it got any wider it'd cause his head to hinge in a very alarming fashion.

I'm half convinced that one day, when I'm watching the weather, he'll break off and talk directly to me via the camera. "In the south-west, there will be mild precipitation and I'm watching you James. I can see you. I'm coming to get you. But with a dry night, overall."



That's him. I'm sure he's a nice chap, really. But he scares me.
(jamesthegill opens new tabs with his scroll wheel, Sun 7 Feb 2010, 10:46, 11 replies)

Fred Phelps
You poisonous little man.

Regardless of whether or not I agreed with the Invasion of Iraq, I would never even consider making the lives of those that have died even harder. "Ooh, quick, several dead soldiers are being buried in the next state. Let's go protest there, and make the worst day of these peoples lives even worse." You cunt.

The man is so bad that the US government actually passed a law to prevent him and his cult from continuing their 'crusade'.

It seems I am one of many who feel this man and his family 'church' is worth nothing but disdain. This group are superb, as they simply block Phelps et al from the funeral, and make sure no-one can hear their message of hate by revving their bikes every time they say anything. Stunning.

I've still not stopped laughing at this either

Phelps. You're a cunt, your daughter is a cunt, you have brainwashed 3 generations of your family, and I hope that when you die, you're given a Muslim burial, just to really piss you off.
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Thu 4 Feb 2010, 14:03, 9 replies)

Beyonce Knowles
but specifically...'If I Were A boy'.

Up until recently, this was just another shit song on the radio by some soundalike popstrel but I found myself killing time in a bar where the radio was on too loud and I got to hear it in all its' glory and every soppy poorly-read-lyricist word.

It's Beyonce Knowles - you know the self-obsessed one with teeth like placards and huge, goggly, thoughtless eyes (could be any of them, I know) but this one appears to have been dipped in cappucino ice cream and had a perpetual motion spring fitted at the bottom of her spine so she bounces back and forth whenever you set it off? Yeah, her.

So she starts off talking about how it would be cool to be a dude for a day and I think to
myself,

"Yes, it would be cool, Beyonce. I can assure you of this cos I am a dude every day and it is cool".

She makes it through two verses talking about drinking beer and hanging out and not taking forever to get dressed and you're thinking,

"Yeah, it is cool to be a dude - nice one! Shame you're only a stupid, rubbish, silly girl!"

But then it all goes wrong - she starts banging on about women and her feelings and listening to the missus problems and how she would try to be a better man. Her voice goes all shouty and whiny and she seems to be in pain. (I suspect the discomfort of having two consecutive sex changes might be the cause).

She bangs on a bit more getting progressively more shouty and I'm thinking,

"You wanna go back to being a boy, love. You can throw on some comfortable clobber. I'll get the beers in and we can have a bit of a chinwag - maybe watch the match or something. All this shouting is getting us nowhere and you're just getting yourself upset".

In short, you're not going to become a better man if you keep carrying on like a woman!

It's a shame really - a terrible waste of what could have been an interesting song about being a lad penned from the POV of a lady but she blew it! She made the fatal flaw of thinking like a lady and bringing lady feelings into it. Next thing you know she's off on a tirade about lads carrying on and not caring about womens’ feelings.

Well, this is the thing, Beyonce love! If you were a boy, you wouldn't waste your time
thinking about peoples feelings, would you? You'd just get on with things and try to make the best of it.

Then you would be able to stay focused and on-topic and write coherent songs about cool stuff like girls and beer.

To be fair, you came close when you mentioned 'beer' but instead of talking about girls, you talked LIKE a girl which is really the beginning of the end, pet.

See, girls are awesome in some ways and if you were a boy, you would know those ways but (BIG BUTT) you're not a boy, are you? Thus you ruined a potentially cool thing by carrying on and shouting and getting stupid feelings involved.

So do you see the difference, Beyonce?

Am I being clear enough for you?

If you were a boy, you would be awesome and cool and fun and not a banshee-shouty whinging twat obsessed with your own stupid feelings.

rafter
baz
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Wed 10 Feb 2010, 13:09, 11 replies)

Mrs Thatcher

I could go on a rant of, "How much do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.." but I've done that in the past on QOTW and, to be honest, that gets a bit tedious and it's had me kicked out of the local Conservative Club too many times to be funny anymore.

So I make a solemn vow.

I don't care if I'm arrested, charged and do time for it but it WILL happen.

When she dies, and wherever they bury the bitch, I'm going to breach the security and dance on her fucking grave. To The Birdie Song.

"With a little bit of this and a little bit of that and shake your arse" - A fitting send off......



Oh! And Gordan - you wall-eyed porridge-wog? Given the chance I'd douse you in petrol and set you on fire. Then I wouldn't piss on you.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 4 Feb 2010, 13:01, 45 replies)

Sir Jimmy of Saville
Not really my story, more my mum's, but there is a twisted resentment of the man somewhere in her maternal psyche. You see, it's not even the obvious things which make her detest him. Yes, he's northern, a prolific smoker, not particularly amusing, and single-handedly legitimised the combination of sportswear and inactive lifestyles. My mum takes all that in her stride.

What fucks her off is his charity work.

'Charity work?' you ask yourselves in confusion. Yes, charity work.

Despite being from Leeds, Sir Jim pledges a lot of time to an establishment down south called Stoke Mandeville Hospital, of which my mum previously worked as a nurse. The directors love him there. New spinal ward open? Get a handshake with Jimmy as a pulls a drag on a cigar. Front page stuff for the local rag. Need someone to cheer the patients up? Send in Jimmy to do his radio dj stuff.

While it's all in good fun, think of the implications. You're assisting a heart surgery - delicate operation in a sterile room - when all of a sudden an 80 year old in polyester bursts through the door screaming 'Righto righto!' with a couple of cameramen on his heels. He's smoking too. Smoking around oxygen tanks and over a man's exposed heart. 4 hours of work undone by cigar ash.

The only tarnish on my mum's medical record is laying into a retired radio dj and expelling him from operating rooms for continually endangering patients and staff. 7 times.

Every time you see him on tv, she launches into a full on tirade of obscenities that would make a sailor blush. Makes me so proud to be her offspring.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Fri 5 Feb 2010, 9:01, 10 replies)

Reassessing my opinion of Kerry Katona
For a number of years I've enjoyed loving to hate Kerry Katona. Not really paying much attention to the vapid nicotine addicted bint but keeping my eye firmly enough on the cover of the celebrity magazines (and buying the occasional one) to know the latest drugs / drink / cosmetic surgery / bankruptcy / relationship breakdown she was presently courting the press with.

My biggest source of incredulous exasperated hatred was the claimed bi-polar disorder from which she suffered. Drunkenly slurring her way through her This Morning interview to cocaine induced twitching limbs and swinging jaw on her MTV programme and blaming it on bi-polar medication.

A couple of evenings ago I was playing with our new BT Vision box and going through the TV On Demand stuff when I found a series of Kerry Katona : What's the problem and put it on in the background while I was surfing the interwebz. I didn't pay it much attention until one episode where she was reunited with her Mother who was a dead ringer for Jabba the Hut. When I saw how her Mother spoke to her, comparing her to Damien from the Omen, slapping her and generally acting like a disgusting obese alcoholic bitch who clearly had no regard for her daughter's feelings something completely unexpected happened. I felt really sorry for Kerry and realised what a fucking dire upbringing she had had.

Not sure how it'd escaped my attention up until that point that her erratic behaviour, crash diets, drink and drug problems stemmed from her childhood and I was overwhelmed by a sense of sadness. A sense of sadness that she was allowing herself to be exploited (and admittedly paid handsomely) to feed the baying mob of the public, that shamefully included me, who were ready to watch her have a cardiac arrest or emotional breakdown on television.

"SO WHAT?!" I hear you cry. "She's brought on herself and she's the one signing the contracts with MTV and she's getting paid shedloads of wonga for doing it!"

But isn't it sad? Isn't it sad that there is a large audience of people who want to watch a mentally ill person dangerously close the edge trying to exist in a pressure cooker celebrity environment for their own amusement?

I suddenly felt horribly guilty. I was one of those people. I wanted to watch her coke addled and chain smoking and laugh at her trying to pass it off as bi-polar. But it's horrible really, this mentality that it's acceptable to aggravate people and push them nearer and nearer to meltdown to sell papers and boost ratings. I almost want to say inhumane but realise that I've already strayed far enough to have lost most of you.



Apologies for the lack of teh funnehs.
(Fireyfox is prepared to change, Wed 10 Feb 2010, 21:59, 3 replies)

Celebrity endorsed charities
really piss me off.
I really do feel sorry for the people in this world who suffer, but when somebody with more money than I could ever imagine tells me to empty my pockets I start foaming at the mouth.
If every celebrity, sportsman, (w/b)anker, tycoon (great word), toff, and mogul gave a couple of months salary every year to a fighting fund for major disasters there would be enough in the pot to sort out problems like the recent Haiti earthquake.
Please bear in mind, us ordinary working folk give a substantial proportion of our wage directly to the government (who waste in many wonderful ways), everything we buy is taxed, not just at the point of sale but at every stage of production. Are you a motorist ? If so you are taxed when you buy a car, when you buy parts for it, when you have it serviced, fuel (obviously), then tax for the privilege of owning said car. This is before you even try to park the damn thing. How much of EVERYTHING we buy is at an inflated price due to excessive taxes.
You could argue that the taxes a necessary, but if that were true then why is the government able to waste truly massive amounts of money.
So when fucking bono tells me I'm a cunt for not putting my hand in my already well lightened pocket I just want to rape him and all his twatty friends with the business end of pitchfork, right before I insert the pinapple.
My holiday this year will consist of seeing how far I can ride my bicycle in a weekend, not flying MY OWN FUCKING PLANE to a country hit by some natural disaster for some great P.R. and then asking me to pay for it.
I'm so angry I think I've just shat.
(danceswithferrets is leaking sanity, Sun 7 Feb 2010, 12:11, 7 replies)

Carol Vorderman
Don't hate her per se - never having met her, she may be a lovely human being.

But how fucking DARE YOU, a multi-millionairess, tell me to borrow money at a ruinous rate of APR, or consolidate my debt so I now owe a new company even more than I did in the first place.

The adverts were targetted squarely at daytime TV users, so primarily the unemployed, or part-time workers - i.e. those in *precisely* the worst position to pay back usurious rates of interest.

She can't have needed the money that badly - her salary from Countdown was pretty decent, plus her earnings from her maths books. She was just trading on her status as someone 'good with maths' to persuade people to take out loans they couldn't afford.

Grasping bitch.
(Leo Sasquatch hates being the grown-up, Sat 6 Feb 2010, 23:14, 8 replies)

The fat girl on babestation
Every time I come home from a night out and I feel like killing a million she's always there thrashing about like an injured seal.

It's never as good and I feel that much dirtier in the morning
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Fri 5 Feb 2010, 10:43, 5 replies)

The Pope
Just to put the cat among the pigeons, like...

- Doing nothing to move forward the daft outlook on contraception which is ultimately responsible for a huge amount of death and misery in the world
- Telling Catholics to defend marriage in the face of increased Gay rights in the Western World (as if giving gays rights makes yours a bit less special)
- Claiming to be the direct representative of God
- Looking like the Emperor from Star Wars
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 4 Feb 2010, 12:29, 1 reply)

Hulk Hogan
For knocking down the twin-towers, and making a big show of it, the monstrous walrus-tached cunt.

I know it was him, I've seen the photo evidence.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Wed 10 Feb 2010, 13:11, 1 reply)

I can't think of anyone to hate
So I'm going to write a post on how awesome Kevin McCloud is.

1. He loves architecture. Despite the formulaic nature of Grand Designs, he really *likes* a lot of what is produced.

2. He puts his money where his mouth is too: he's invested in something called the HAB housing project which is about building sustainable housing at an affordable price.

3. He's a master of both the arty/fun side of life and the gears and cogs end of things too: he's not afraid of a little maths.

3. The man who, without a huge interest or any experience in race driving, just humbly walks onto Top Gear and gets *second* in the Star in the Reasonably Priced Car slot. Above all those up-themselves petrolheads. And from this episode airing, my boyfriend now watches Grand Designs with me. I know that means little to you lovely b3tans but I can *finally* watch some trashy tv with him. This is beyond priceless for me.

4. He speaks French and Italian fluently. And doesn't make a big deal out of it.

5. The documentary he did about "slumming it" was amazing viewing, and was seen as great by natives (well, at least the ones on my twitter feed) because they felt it portrayed the problem there and could provoke the local government to actually do something about it.

6. He had a real job before ending up on tv doing light installations. And if you google about the light installations he worked on, they're all so pretty... (although to be fair, Jade Goody was a dental nurse before appearing on Big Brother, so that's a real job too ^_^)

7. He keeps his kids away from the camera. (This I can credit Jo Brand for too.)

Click "I like this" Let me know if you want me to do another one about Robert Llewellyn. That said, you may have been nauseated by my gushing. I don't agree on McCloud's WWF work, but he's still awesome...

Edit: Removed what now looks like midnight-whoring.
(mmmm curry doesn't really understand this sig lark, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 0:17, 7 replies)

I’ve seen Chris Moyles mentioned here alot..
My own personal hatred of him is based purely on the fact that when he speaks on the radio I imagine him lying there, writhing in his own bodily secretions like a big fat slug, inhaling pies, cakes and faeces whilst simultaneously regurgitating into a microphone covered in his own spunk all the while surrounded by Salacious Crumb-like cronies who’s only purpose is to help the fat git choke to death on his own ego.


That feels better.
(catbrain likes the hairy scratchings bestest, Mon 8 Feb 2010, 11:07, 5 replies)

Before the QOTW implodes...
Have a happy kitten.


(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Fri 5 Feb 2010, 13:03, 5 replies)

Piers Morgan, you say?
Ode To Piers Morgan

Whilst I agree celebrities that compromise their privacy
by selling sordid stories to the news
in profiting from written words they live and die both by the sword
and ought to pay the piper for their ruse

But sending out your henchmen to exact your petty vengeance
on people who do not deserve your ire
when you harass and terrorise and rifle through their private lives
you stoke in me a righteous type of fire

When you profit from the misery of others, I think you'll agree
that makes you a malignant parasite
and your hiccough with Hislop and your arsekicking from Clarkson
proves your ill-equipped to win in a fair fight

So Mr Morgan (ne: O'Meara), take your venal bid for stardom
and hawk it to your rich and famous friends
There is a special place in hell for those who deal in kiss-and-tell
They'll hold the front page when you meet your grisly end.

rafter
baz
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Thu 4 Feb 2010, 12:45, 3 replies)

Stephanie from Lazytown
Six years I have been sending her pictures of my cock and not so much as a thank you.

Stuck up bitch.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Wed 10 Feb 2010, 15:13, 6 replies)

I went to the same school as Jordan.
She was a lot nicer when she was just plain "The Hashemite Kingdom of".
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 14:55, 3 replies)

It was a bit of a shock.
But I discovered, aged five, that my dad was the High Priest of a weird West Midlands-based cult with a total membership of one person; my dad...

He pulled me away from my glorious game of drowning worms in the garden, sat me down in the living room, and tried his hardest to ingratiate me into his weird sect. And I was having none of it.

“Well, whaddya think?” my dad asked after what seemed like an eternity to my worm-obsessed young mind.

“Ummm.... can I go back outside now?” I replied. And my dad, going into one of his famous moods, shrugged his shoulders and muttered something in Italian. And I was free to go.

Score: Me: One. High Priest: Nil.

And from that moment on if my mum dragged me out of bed early on a weekend, chucked me in the bath, then dressed me in my ‘best’ cloths, I knew I’d be subjected to...

... it.

The car journeys visiting relatives were a nightmare until I reached an age when all I’d tend to do was ogle my cousin Gemma’s magnificent budding rack and my presence at family get togethers was deemed surplus to requirements. I’d sit in the backseat of my dad’s battered old Opel Cadet and he’d put one of his tapes on.

And I’d be forced to listen as we trundled down the motorway in the slow lane. If I could’ve poured molten mercury in my ears, I would’ve. If I could’ve ripped my own ears off and lobbed them out the window, I would’ve. If I could’ve laid my hands on a cyanide capsule I’d have gladly ended my suffering there and then in a frothy backseat orgy of spit, piss, and puke – all the time accompanied by one of my dad’s God-awful fucking tapes.

And near the start of this period, 1980 I think, I was woken one morning by my mum telling me my dad was very upset. Someone near to him had died... Keeerrrr-CHING!!! I thought. INHERITENCE PAYOUT TIME!!! I raced downstairs, found my dad sobbing over the paper.

“He’s dead!” he whimpered. “Somebody’s only gone and shot him!”
Deflated, I felt like saying: “Well, thank fuck for that! It’s the eighties, dad. The golden age of music.” But instead I sulked off to see what free gift they had in the new box of Corn Flakes instead.

And the dead bastard haunted me for years. His voice... Jesus, his voice... And then my dad started playing his solo stuff ad infinitum. God, this stuff was even worse! It was smug, self serving, and above all absolutely bloody awful. Who the fuck did this bloke think he was? I swear, if this short sighted living demon was still alive, I’d have gladly flown over to his gaff and beat the bastard to death with the blunt end of one of his guitars after I’d stuffed the lyrics to some of his middle-of-the-road pretentious crap up his arse for good measure.

Then, when I was about fourteen, I started having mates round on a regular basis. My dad – doing his High Priest duties – started putting some music on in the background. And he actually managed to get a few of my mates to question: “Wassthis? It’s good!”
And my dad would make them mix tapes to take home with them, complete with linear notes and interesting little ‘tit-bits’ of info.

Score: Me: One. High Priest: One.

A little while after this I started bringing girlfriends back for an aimless fumble in my bedroom. One time I had my hand down Amy Johnson’s knickers (the front this time, not the back, fuck knows what I was planning to do there), and Amy whispered to me: “Go on... flick it... flick my clit...”

Perplexed and incredibly turned on, not really understanding what a clit was and absolutely fucked if I knew where to find it, I wound up my index finger and did a general carpet bombing flickage of the entire vag area with all the skill and subtlety someone would use when flicking a Subuteo player. Amy screamed, slapped me and stalked off home in a huff.

Lying on my bed, staring down at the aching bulge in my pants and wondering who the fuck was I going to get to suck it now, I hear a knock on my door. My dad. He was out in the garden when he saw Amy leave in a hurry. “Women troubles?” he said. “Do you know who wrote a good song about women? “ And then he scuttled off to find the record, put it on, and shouted up from the living room: “THIS IS GREAT, EHHHH?”

It was a living HELL...

Score: Me: One. High Priest: Two.

Fast-forward a couple of months. It’s my sisters Holy Communion (for those non-Catholics, it’s a time a girl gets to put on a nice white dress and walk round aimlessly being all holy-like). The extended family has gathered in our small semi, aunts, uncles, cousins (including Gemma who’s knockers have definitely come on a storm since I last saw her), are fighting for space on the sofa, sitting on the floor, picking at the cocktail sausages and cubes of cheese like a band of hungry jackals.

Part way through my dad – knowing a captive audience when he sees one – goes over to the stero. Picks up an album, puts it on. And it starts... The dirge. The complete and utter aural garbage. I’ve had enough. I crack. I race over to the stereo, lift the arm of the record player abruptly, turn to my dad and say: “JOHN LENNON IS SHIT!!! WHY CAN’T YOU GET IT INTO YOUR THICK HEAD??? HE’S ABSOLUTELY SHIT!!!”

Stunned silence.

I start crying and leg it upstairs.

As I'm sat at the top of the stairs, sobbing and rocking, I hear my Auntie Maria say to my mum: “You really should take that boy to the doctors, you know... Doesn’t take a lot to set him off, does it?”

Score: Me: One. High Priest: Three.

Fuck.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 13:30, 13 replies)