Holiday Twat of the Week

Ricky Gervais, with standard conceited expression.

It was almost perfect. Almost.

Glorious Spanish sunshine. 35 degrees. A beautifully-appointed apartment with everything thought of, from iPod dock to Nespresso machine, and a peaceful pool - all far enough away from the Little Britain of Marbella for me to forget I was on the Costa Del Sol.

We even managed to get through the mandatory sales pitch (a requirement for the stupidly-cheap short break we'd wangled) without the rep suffering serious or long-term injuries.

It was, quite simply, glorious.

Even our return seemed blessed - instead of the expected Sleazyjet transport, where comfort is not on the options list, we were treated to the leather upholstery and vast legroom of a chartered TitanAir 757. All was looking good. Until they started the in-flight movie.

It was Ricky Gervais, 'starring' in 'The Invention of Lying'.

Thankfully, I couldn't hear it (I wasn't going to pay £3 for a set of earphones to hear his whiny, adenoidal Estuary-speak). It was bad enough enduring two hours of his face on-screen every time I looked up from my book.

Ricky Gervais brings out in me an immediate and irrational rage normally reserved solely for Labour politicians. I find it nigh-on impossible to discern why this lumpen cretin with his stupid piggy eyes and his stupid pointy teeth and his stupid permanently conceited expression should be such a darling of TV and movies, both here and in Hollywood. The only reasoning would seem to be his unutterable arrogance - he seems to expect that he should be a star, and somehow his simple expectation has been sufficient to make him so despite his being about as attractive as bowel disease and as talented as a sedated halibut.

There's only one film I would like to be made starring Ricky Gervais. It's the home movie where he's nailed to a chair and then beaten repeatedly in the face with a sharpened spade. And then set on fire.

If anyone would like a full synopsis or the DVD rights, let me know.

Ricky Gervais. Twat.

Barry Sheerman MP. Twat.

Sheerman: Anti-bike Twat.

I haven't done a TOTW for a short while, as the runaway weekly winners have been Colostomy Brown and Eyebrows Darling, with absolutely no question.

But this week, surprisingly, it's someone different. Unsurprisingly, however, it's yet another Labour Member*.

Barry Sheerman MP has decided, apparently, that motorcyclists are the spawns of Satan and our choice of transportation is "disgraceful in a civilised society."

In a typically Labour attack of dishonesty, he tosses in a dash of inaccurate figures and, in a spasm of textual twattishness, describes those of us who use two wheels as 'widow-makers and orphan-makers'.

Hmmm. Really?

In 2007 there were 2946 deaths on British roads. 49% of those were in cars, 20% motorcyclists. So that's 1,444 deaths chalked up to four wheels and 589 to two. So the true widowmakers and orphan-makers are, by almost three to one, those who irresponsibly and with malice aforethought, drive cars.

in the same year, 646 pedestrians** were killed in road accidents. Therefore, the widowmakers and orphan-makers are those who dangerously, and without care and thought, walk on British streets.

Oh, and just as an additional point, he claims that 650 bikers die per year and that the number is rising, when in fact 589 lost their lives in 2007 and 493 in 2008 - which is a drop of almost 20 per cent. Labour's statistical massaging strikes again...

Actually, I would say the truest widowmakers and orphan-makers are those who voted, strongly, to send British troops into action in Iraq.

You know what's really disgraceful in a civilised society? Preaching, money-grubbing political sluts spouting their personal opinions, twisting facts to the point of surreality and dishonesty, and shoving their own personal agendas up our noses in a desperate and nauseating attempt to garner publicity and deprive the long-suffering population of their few remaining pleasures.

Barry Sheerman doesn't like bikes, and uses his Parliamentary pulpit to voice his distaste. Maybe his mum wouldn't let him have a moped when he was a kid - I really couldn't give a flying fuck.

I have both car and motorcycle, and I love both. Especially bikes. And, like every biker, when I get on two wheels my safety is MY responsibility, not Westminster's. And certainly not Mr Sheerman's.

Yes, some people may crash. That may even be me at some point. Yes, some people may die. Again, that may even be me. But it is my choice to take and to manage that risk, and to take the precautions I deem appropriate to mitigate that risk.

So, Mr Sheerman, please do feel free to keep your personal opinions to yourself, lest you find yourself being used as a paddock stand. And subsequently set on fire. Go back to what you're really good at - which would appear to be troughing taxpayers money - and keep your socialist snout out of people's personal choice of transportation and pleasure.

Twat.


* A complete member.

** 646 pedestrians. 646 MPs. Sadly, the two aren't connected.

Words Fail Me

My thesaurus is going to get a serious workout here.

Cynical. Loathsome. Detestable. Vile. Despicable. Disgraceful. Nauseating. Abhorrent. Reprehensible.

I haven't really been angry about the political machinations of 'Colostomy' Brown for a while - there's a General Election coming and I've sustained myself with the dream that this incompetent buffoon will be ejected from the office he doesn't deserve and cast into the political wasteland he so richly does.

But this...this...THIS repellent display has brought the rage back in glorious Technicolor.

Firstly, allow me to quote something:

Some people have been asking why I haven't served my children up for spreads in the papers. And my answer is simple. My children aren't props; they're people.

Clearly after his lachrymose performance with the almost-as-odious Piers Morgan, the above only applies if the child in question is alive.

To lose a child is a heart-rending tragedy that I wouldn't wish on any person, no matter what colour their rosette or how contemptible a human they are.

To USE that loss, though, in a carefully-timed and packaged interview in the run-up to a General Election - the sort of person who would do such a thing is not even contemptible. And not even human. To decide and agree to do such an interview proves that Gordon Brown has only one interest - to retain his grip on power, by any means, by any method.

You cannot tell me that this wasn't carefully prepared. There is no way that the Cabinet Office and Brown's spin-doctorate wouldn't have gone through the questions list with a fine-tooth comb, ensuring that it portrayed Colostomy Brown in a sympathetic light. You cannot convince me that this wasn't exquisitely planned, timed and leaked for a bounce in the opinion polls.

You will not convince the rest of the Electorate, either.

This is one of the most sickening, revolting pieces of political posturing I have ever, ever seen. I simply can't find the words to express just how repugnant this is, and how contemptible a 'man' Brown has become in his desperate scrabble to maintain his position.

There's only one word left that I can use.

Twat.

McVities. Twats.

NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION
This post contains:

0% Wholegrain
4.3 Cholesterols
140% RDA Annoyance
2000% RDA Vitriol
200% RDA Swearing
13mg Tar
2000g Caffeine

So I was heartened* to discover, during the commercials last night, that a McVities Digestive apparently contains wholegrain and their lowest ever levels of saturated fat.

Well, actually I wasn't heartened. Quite the opposite, in fact. I can honestly say that if I want to eat a biscuit, I couldn't care less how healthy it is. Baked goods are hardly part of a nutritious breakfast - so why, in the name of all that's holy, does the nutritional content of a biscuit matter at all?

There are some times when the content of one's food matters. I'd prefer it if my Diet Coke didn't contain radioactive slurry, for example. And obviously I would be a touch irked to discover that my QUarter Pounder contained lean flank and forequarter rat**. But in the case of a McVities biscuit, it is most assuredly not one of those times.

It's a biscuit, for fuck's sake, not a fucking multivitamin. Have you ever tried dunking a fucking vitamin tablet in your tea? It's not pleasant. And on top of that, I've never managed to find a multivit that is best when it's coated in plain chocolate. God knows I've tried.

But McVities, while deserving winners of this week's Twats Of The Week, are merely the first target for this morning's barrage. Because it's fucking hard to savour my morning coffee and Sky News when the commercial breaks are jammed to the gills with irrelevant bollocks telling me the interesting and novel ways my diet is going to kill me.

In the space of one ad-break, I've had Gloria Fucking Hunniford telling me that I need to switch from (tasty) butter to a vile chemical slurry masquerading as margarine in order to bring my cholesterol down to 4.3***. Nestle have lectured me about wholegrain in my cereal, Birds Eye on Omega 3. I've had the Goonvernment and their Nanny cohorts cautioning that if I have anything more than one wine gum a month my skin will become transparent and I'll die a horrible painful death (or something), and it now appears that smoking causes chronic umbrella dysfunction. At least, I think that's what the ad was saying. My elevated fucking blood pressure was affecting my vision by that point.

It would appear that by their insistence on preaching at me about my health, and forcing all food manufacturers to follow suit and laud the health-giving characteristics of their products rather than important things like flavour and quality, the Healthists are going to give me a fucking coronary out of simple rage. Stop, stop, just fucking STOP preaching.

This is LIFE. You'll only get one of them, so rather than worrying that a chocolate Hob-Nob will cause cancer, how about just enjoying it?

Because if you listen to, worry about and slavishly follow all the 'eat this, don't eat that' edicts and pronouncements in case you die early, then you're simply eking out a joyless, pointless existence in the pursuit of longevity. And longevity, dear Reader, is not the same as life.

So. Advertisers, food manufacturers and Government - please, stop. Stop. Stop fucking preaching, warning, cajoling and cautioning. Most of us don't care, and don't want you foisting your lifestyle decisions upon us. Leave us alone, let us enjoy our food and our lives. And please, do us all a favour and set yourselves on fire - though I doubt there's sufficient fat in your wholegrain-fed carcases actually to burn.

Twats.


*No pun intended.

**Note that I said 'to discover'. I'm not saying it doesn't contain rat, just that I don't know about it. And I'm fine with that.

***4.3? What does that MEAN? 4.3 out of what? 10? 1000? 4.3 globules of cholesterol per pint of blood? 4.3 homicidal episodes if I ever see that stupid fucking advert ever again? 4.3 advertising executives and Quangoists I'll set on fire if they don't stop fucking preaching?

Twats of the Week: Mercedes-Benz

C-Class clearly refers to quality of service.

I wasn't expecting to do a TOTW this week. After all, it's Christmas - the time of cheer, comfort and joy, peace on Earth and goodwill to all men.

That goodwill does not, as of today, extend unto Mercedes-Benz UK.

The Darling G ordered her new company car - a C-Class estate with a few tweaks - back at the beginning of November. "There are a couple of parts on back-order", said the dealer. "But you'll be on the build list, so you should have it by the end of February. We'll keep you updated".

No updates were forthcoming, of course.

A call at the end of November intimated, but didn't confirm, that the delivery date might be pushed back to March 2010 - which is bad enough for a mass-produced fleet car, but still we kept our peace. Cue today's update call.

The dealer was advised on 5 December that the earliest delivery date for our New Shiny Car would be June. June! Eight months from the point of order to the point of delivery?

What form of fucking insanity is this? You're building a car, not painting the Sistine Fucking Chapel! You claim to be waiting for engine parts - quite frankly, you could hand-tool the parts from purest Unobtanium using nothing but stone-age flint tools in eight months, yet clearly you prefer to sit idly on your Germanic backsides expecting your buyers to show the patience of fucking Ghandi while they wait for you to get around to sticking another fucking order in for widgets.

Did I miss the memo? When was Mercedes-Benz taken over by fucking British Leyland? Are you waiting to rebuild Longbridge before building another fucking car? And don't even get me started on the laissez-faire attitude of a dealer network that thinks it's OK not to bother to keep customers informed of the delay to their order.

So, Mercedes-Benz? Stick your order where the sun shineth not - it's become painfully clear that the name C-Class defines your quality of service. You should be impaled on your own three-pointed star. And then set on fire, though it would probably take you eight months to wait for the matches.

Mercedes-Benz. Teutonic Twats.

Twats of the Week: CarData

For Sale - but NOT through Cardata, who are Twats.

TOTW is coming early this week, brought to you by the numbers:

020 8216 1550, 020 8216 1552, 020 8216 1560, 020 8216 1567, 020 8216 1575 and 020 8216 1588; and by the letters C A R D A T A.

This earnest and very determined company have called me at least twice a day, every single day, since we put The Silver Beast on the market. They tell me that they have many, many buyers for the car* and that for a small consideration of just £99.50, they will send me buyers. Guaranteed. Honest.

Oh, really?

So, Cardata, which is more likely? That you really do have hundreds of buyers who, on your say-so, will make their way en masse to Oxfordshire and stampede my house in their rabid clamour to hand over their money for a 2002 Saab estate - or that you're rather keen to divest me of MY cash for which, in return, I will receive almost precisely fuck-all except a few sleepless nights in fear of impending credit-card fraud?

If you were genuine, you would have happily accepted my offer of payment upon a successful sale, don't you think? But no. You demanded, quite rudely, for payment in advance and, when I refused and told you not to call again, you called again. And again. And again.

I've tried being reasonable, even amiable, in my requests for your calls to cease. Even telling you the car's been sold hasn't been enough to stop your incessant calls. You seem dead-set on disregarding my disinterest, ignoring my rejections, braving my warnings and continuing to call me. Daily. Well, fair enough. You've clearly been too stupid to listen to reason, so now it's time to face The Wrath Of Dungeekin instead.

By the time you read this**, your details will have been passed to the Nuisance Call departments of both O2 and BT, and a written letter of complaint sent to Trading Standards. That's on top of posts on scammer forums where you are already largely featured.

Your little ploy might work on someone who is a) desperate to sell, b) either unable or unwilling to use Google and c) the owner of a single-figure IQ, but it is unlikely to work on somebody with even the barest modicum of intellect or common sense. It simply beggars fucking belief that you cold-calling cretins can't conceive, after 15 increasingly-abrupt refusals from the same fucking person, that your pointless scam has been rumbled and your putative mark is not fucking interested.

Take me off your database. Now. I can no longer guarantee even the minimum of civility towards you when you call - the next time you disturb my reverie, you will be met with the sort of response I normally reserve for BNP members, followed by the sort of retribution that will leave you needing at least counselling, if not long-term medical care. And it'll fucking smart a bit when the A&E department remove your telephone headset, I can promise you. And then I'll set you on fire.

CarData. Twats.

*Said 'buyers' clearly being those people too stupid to read Autotrader and dial a telephone number.

**For values of 'read', obviously. If you're too fucking stupid to understand plain English, and my repeated requests to be left alone, it's unlikely your literacy skills extend much past the pack of lies you have passing for a sales pitch.

Twats of the Week: MoD Bureaucrats

There's only one winner for Twats of the Week this week. And it's pretty much the only accolade they deserve. Step forward for e-knobblement, Bureaucrats of the Ministry of Defence. I did the satire - now, Dear Reader, comes the Rant.

You see that rock over there? That's my contempt, that is. And right now, MoD Bureaushits are beneath it.

Back in 1994 I was involved with a NATO exercise, and I worked with a couple of USN reservists, both of whom had the Gulf Medal from 1991. I was impressed, and asked them about their experience.

"Oh no, we didn't go", they said. "We were in Basic Training, but everyone in the US Military got the medal". I can only assume it's because the colonials actually won a battle for pretty much the first time in their history.

The reservists in question were, understandably, mocked mercilessly for wearing a decoration to which they were not entitled.

Which brings me to civil servants. Specifically, those beancounters awarded the Operational Service Medal for their outstanding administration in the face of bureaucracy.

Money Quote:
To qualify for award of the medal with a clasp, personnel must have served in Afghanistan for either five, 21 or 30 days continuous service between various dates depending on the operation.

And how long does a deserving serviceman spend on a tour of duty in Hellmand Province to earn the same decoration? A hell of a lot longer than that.

Medals are - at least, to date have always been - recognition of a HERO'S action in the face of the enemy. Bravery. Courage. Selflessness. Above and beyond the call of duty, in the face of gunfire and with the risk - often the result - of death in the line of duty.

They are NOT, I repeat NOT, some gaudy lapel decoration for some fucking REMF who exceeded his target of reducing bullet supply budgets to serving troops for the quarter preceding.

Those who wear their medal on a uniform deserve our respect and admiration. Those whose contribution has extended only to spending a few days conducting logistics surveys while trying to find a decent dry-cleaner in Kabul deserve nothing but our scorn.

Can you really, honestly, say you earned it? When was your life really at risk? You were in your air-conditioned environment, protected by the very uniformed personnel whose service you now dishonour with your wearing of a medal meant for them. You want to wear your medal? Go and wear it in Tidworth, or Aldershot, or on the streets of Wootton Bassett - places where they understand what valour means, when for you it's just a word you read in the despatches before you file your paperwork on another life lost. Go on, bureaushit - walk the streets of a garrison town with your undeserved decoration and see how long you last. I'll even wear a tie to the funeral.

You want to wear the OSM? Go and pick up a fucking rifle. I don't care if you sat on your fat, besuited arse in a hot climate for a couple of weeks, second-guessing the people who were facing the bullets. You haven't earned that decoration and you don't deserve it Get your pasty, bean-counting backside out onto the fucking front line and then we'll talk.

Twats.

Dr Evan 'Twat' Harris MP

WARNING - CONTENTS CONTAIN RANTING, VITRIOL AND SWEARING

Twat. And scruffy too.

You know, I've always thought that my Member of Parliament was OK. Obviously he's a Limp Dumb, and thus a complete nonentity, but other than that he seemed pretty inoffensive really.

Until today.

Dear Reader, please allow me to introduce Dr Evan Harris MP, who seems to have suffered an unfortunate Prioritiesectomy.

Amidst all the issues weighing heavy upon the people of this great Nation, what is the priority of Dr Harris MP?

Evan Harris, a Liberal Democrat MP, said: “All parties in the House had agreed that discrimination against princesses and Catholic spouses is not justified, and that the language in the Act of Settlement is offensive.*

“All Gordon Brown has to do is to consult Commonwealth Heads of Government so that we can get rid of this discriminatory symbol at the heart of our constitution. It’s hard to believe that countries like Canada and Australia would demand that discrimination against Catholics and women continues.”

Listen, you ineffective, incompetent imbecile. I am a taxpayer who pays YOUR £64,000 salary, expenses pot and mink-lined pension plan. I pay you to act as a fucking MP, not a documentary fucking historian.

It's hardly surprising that a document drafted in 1700 doesn't meet your Grauniad-reading needs for political correctness. There are probably a million things you could be doing to earn your Parliamentary salary, rather than wringing your recycled sandals in ineffectual outrage over the discriminatory language in a 300-year-old historical document which, to be brutally honest, nobody in this country could give a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut about. HM and Phil The Greek are pretty much there to stay anyway, and after that the succession's sorted for a good couple of generations. So unless Charles becomes a fucking Hindu or something, it's hardly an urgent priority for Parliamentary time, is it?

And I shouldn't think the 'Princesses and Catholics' really care about your right-on solicitude anyway, because even if they don't get the top job, Crown, Orb, Sceptre and all that, they still make a fucking good living off the Civil List, earning a great deal of money for not a great deal of work. Sort of like a Member of Parliament really, only less of a pointless parasite.

So, Mr Harris, get of your limp-wristed Limp-Dumb hobby-horse and try doing your fucking job. You're paid to represent your constituents - all of whom have bigger things to worry about than whether the next Consort's a left-footer - and to hold the Government to account. Given the current parlous state of the economy, a collapsing NHS, a rising death toll in Afghanistan and 2 million kids in failing schools, you've got plenty of choice actually to do something worthwhile.

Fucking hell, it's no wonder people have given up on politics.

Twat.

*emphasis mine.