YORKSHIRE CHOIR LEADER
has been jailed today, for trying to get his choir to sing too loud.
George Nephilim attempted to fit each boy with a volume control, so
he could 'scare the shit out of them with their own voices, the little
cunts,' North Yorkshire police reported today.
faces three charges of aural abortion and six completely-related charges
of insulting the sisters of four town council officials.
is reckoned by those in the substantial know that Hague was virtually
out as gay when he first started at tory central supermarket in
the eighties and this half-open, half-closed status persisted until
the 92 election. Ffion, Sophie and Sarah the link is not
just marriage to men in positions where their homosexuality is unpalatable,
but the PR jobs they all hold (and companies they own in some cases)
defines their particular brand of mutuality.
got into a groove, sang like a virgin and declared herself a material
whore about 15 years ago. Then, with her career slowly fading away
a few years ago, she decided to put herself out to pasture in England.
The last pop rites were but a failed album away.
suddenly, certain scions of the UK media, aware that what happens
in the Met Bar may actually be of no interest at all, realised that
a bona fide pop legend was on our turf, so decided to milk
her presence for all its worth. "Madonnas move to the
UK proves the vibrancy and relevance of our Brit-popular culture,"
was the gist of these mastories, and The Face (whose editor
Jonny Davis is a scummy little tosser, making a previously-good
magazine unbuyable), the Big Issue and other mags were all
as guilty as the obvious tabloid showbiz columns and OK/Hello
fairness, the ageing pop tart is probably loving every story she
sees as she tucks into her porridge. "Gee, theyre so
accommodating, arent they." Her gift for self-publicity
(the Sex book) was always well known, but she scarcely needs
to do any promoting anymore, as an awe-struck media fawns over her
the media berzircus went into overdrive at the end of the last year
as she not only <<<<WOW>>> had her kids
christening in Scotland, but also <<<GASP>> married
that posh twat Guy Ritchie, whose pitful output so far isnt
even worth a mention. By me. See below. ITN and BBC News carrying
leader items about the pistening/bed-wetting was the fucking limit.
There was no escape from the spent yank tart. PLEASE REALISE THAT
ENDLESSLY IONISING HAS-BEENS FROM TWO DECADES AGO ACTUALLY ISNT
GOING TO DO OUR ALREADY-TERMINAL POP CULTURE ANY GOOD AT ALL.
shes also responsible for those 70s-style t-shirt craze that
showbiz whores of any profession wear, sporting the name of a icon
in their field: Thus, Madonna wore a Kylie Minogue at
Brixton Academy, Nigella My hubby dies why I sup wine
Lawson wore a Delia Smith and Zoe Ballshit wore a Dave
Lee Travis: the last one may not be true, but Id forgotten
my last one as evidence of this execrable media in-joke wank fest.
Madonna, please return to courting trendy NYC producers like Junior
Vazquez. I realise you probably have an inherent psychological weakness
that stipulates you must constantly generate attention, but just
fuck off and dont give our pisspoor media any more excuses
to do so.
Guy Ritchie: Absolute fraud. Neither cockney nor talented. Through
the charlatans absorption into cockney/crafty/crappy/crook
culture, he clearly subscribes to the casual fascism that characterises
tossers of the calibre of Vinnie heart of gold Jones
and a million other cretins hitching a ride on the strangely authentic
coat tails of Mr. Shropshire 1987.
laughable films illustrate his complete lack of originality. Hot,
Cock and Two Smoking Arseholes managed to make drinking games
look like a mildly amusing distraction, rather than a tiresome exploit.
Wow. Oh yes, and ripping off the outstanding formulaic practitioner
in modern film makes the prick parasitic to these rheumy eyes. If
Tarantino owes a debt to several film directors, then Shitie owes
him his life, wife and addiction to Extra chewing gum.
When a soundtrack is touted with equal gusto as the film itself,
its not likely to do anything other than irritate the viewer.
Of course, there will be millions waiting to laud the pseudo-laird
every time he releases his adverts for himself, sorry, films. But
the desire for escapism has long since overridden any concern about
content, so people are actually putting their already embattled
sub-consciousnesses in the hands of this self-serving fuckhead,
who has exploited the basic English prejudices of the pikey/gypo/muncher
for cheap laughs and to gain access to the incredibly kudos-bursting
briefs of Bald Clit, sorry, Brian Pitt. "Did you see how amazing
Brad Pitt was in Snatch?" Nope. All I saw was an American
wanker taking advantage of a prejudice that receives no attention
in this country as it is so implicitly ingrained in the culture,
to show that he could give good accent.
The cunts films look like a series of adverts featuring the
same characters in different bars (to over emphasise the pub would
be to alienate the All Bra Bum crew). All designed to illustrate
the directors ability to hawk products stylishly, smoothly
and succinctly. If its possible for the direction in a film
to convey the unction of the director himself (still a 95% male
occupied job), then this class voyeur/parasite has surely achieved
is the logical progression of the Loaded mentality: middle-class
twat loses interest in the House Rules after the clamour
for assimilation withers around the age of 15; feeling resentful,
hes attracted to working class culture and its call-a-spade-a-spade
morality (as the class tourists see it); has a fight with a stranger
hes never played rugger against; alters his vocal cadence
and hes off into the self-imprisoning world of self, social
and sexual abuse that is the pained chase of some working
class lives masquerading as insouciance. Except that the tourist
can always return home at any time, taking away the selective elements
that appeal: honesty (only with the lads, never with your missus),
cynicism, advanced ability to ridicule anything and having
complacent and self-interested shitehawks like cunty-bollocks Ritchie
end up shutting off another avenue of legitimate dissent, with their
duality of commercial primacy and tunnel vision. Ken Loach gets
sacked by the BBC, while Ritchie continues to walk the streets with
his collection of nuttahs from villains museums
in the East End.