Where Are They Now? Bride of Chucky...

Anyone else spot the resemblance:

<< Left: << Bride of Chucky, last seen in 1998 film of same name having it off with another doll (yes, really) and generally killing humans. Allegedly scary. Hmmm.

>> Right >> Daniella Westbrook, aka Sam Mitchell from EastEnders, aka former coke head / former nose owner who was that off her face she even went out with Brian Harvey from 90s pop group East17 (see also: Seed of Chucky). Couldn't act if her new nose depended on it. Last seen in EastEnders last night 'fleeing' Walford yet again (like, yawno), leaving the strangely attractive Ricky (even though you wouldn't) and Bianca to have it off. Finally. Phew.

WONGA MAN MUST DIE!!!!

Apparently there's a thin line between love and hate, but one thing that really makes me feel murderous is the advert for a company calling themselves Envirofone.

As a business concept, the cynic in me doesn't quite get it. Apparently, they expect people to post them their knackered old phones in return for a load of money. Simple. Or is it? Is it just me, or does it seem a bit too much of a leap of faith, mailing off your unused dog and bones to faceless people who will somehow save the earth with your old mobile after signing your cheque? Maybe my advancing years are embittering me. The thing is though, even if I didn't think it was too good to be true (which I do, so my old phones can just stay in my drawer full of crap until sufficient time has passed where I can just throw them away), the commerical has singled handedly ruined my non-existent relationship with Envirofone before it has even begun.

The cast is made up of a load of terrible actors, ranging from a Welsh bird who looks like she needs a bath, a slag who looks too pleased with herself for my liking, a camp punk with bad teeth and... And... And a morbidly obese bastard who inspires PURE EVIL. Watch the advert and you'll see what I mean: he is the pavement-cracking porker with a collection of moist (ie. sweaty) chins who looks like he's having a stroke as he exclaims, 'WONGA!'

I can't bear it. Truly, I can't. I'll be having a lovely evening watching the box when chubarama Wonga man will suddenly crawl out in the break, thus making me feel neuseaus and repugnant. I will find myself momentarily frozen as I drink his image in, hear his vile voice and then spend the rest of the night having terrible, dark thoughts for many hours afterwards.

Wonga? Fucking WONGA?! Aaaaaaaaagh!

God Hates Fags, apparently...

The doorbell rang just as I was cramming a (whole) Milky Bar into my mouth. I opened the door whilst chewing frantically and trying to mime the phrase, Sorry, am having a glorious fat lad moment. I raised my eyebrows repeatedly to show that I was a jolly old soul and shrugged before throwing in a cheeky wink, just for good measure. In front of me stood a chap I vaguely recognised, but couldn’t quite place. ‘Hello there, John,’ he chirped happily. ‘After our lovely discussion the other week, I thought I’d bring my friend round to meet you.’ As I swallowed the hastily chewed kids treat with a slight cough, the penny dropped. The chap in front me – also called John – was a Jehovah’s Witness, who’d knocked on my door a couple of weeks ago.

When he originally came round, armed with his well-thumbed Bible and some hilariously illustrated leaflets (that he eventually left with me), I indulged him. A long discussion on the merits of religion transpired. We exchanged opinions, seemed receptive and respectful of each other’s viewpoint and said goodbye with a handshake. But it seemed that I’d been earmarked as a potential God Squad convert and now he was back. With backup.

He remembered our conversation with remarkable accuracy and launched straight into his mission statement: ‘Last time we spoke, you told me that you thought that religion was flawed, didn’t you?’ I nodded, only half listening. I was still trying to finish off swallowing my sneaky treat and I was suddenly aware that the day-old yoghurt stain on my trackie bottoms probably made it look as though I’d been furiously masturbating before they came a-knocking. And I’d not done my hair, but what can you do? ‘So, remind me, if you’d be so kind… Why on Earth do you think that?’

His attitude seemed different this time. I don’t know if it was because he was training the young lad up who was with him, but the light hearted, Godly banter that prevailed last time had evaporated. In it’s place was a steely, decidely non-angelic, determination.
‘Well...’ I said, huffing, puffing and generally trying to conceal my suspiciously-stained trouser garments, ‘It’s just that ultimately, I think religion tries to define something that we, as humans, can’t really define. I believe in something, but I don’t know what it is.’
‘Jesus?’ John asked, hopefully.
‘Erm, not so much. Christianity holds short shrift with me – as I, erm, told you last time,’ I added awkwardly. John looked a bit crestfallen as I said this, which liberated a modicum of guilt on my behalf. I started backpeddling: ‘I did read the leaflet though,’ I lied. I'd put it straight into the recycling after chuckling at the sketch of a Panda and wholesome looking child playing chess.
John’s friend – also called John (would you Adam and Eve it! Like what I did there? No?) - stepped forward and pushed me further on my rejection of Christianity and all things Jesus 'n' Mary. ‘It just doesn’t work for me and as a gay man, I find the Biblical ramifications for my lifestyle both insulting and ridiculous.’ My revelation sent the pair of Johns reeling. John 1 took two steps back as he reached for his Bible.
‘You’re… gay?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Er, yeah.’ I replied. I almost invited him in to see my collection of Madge CDs to prove it. ‘And I’m aware of the general religious consensus on it, which I disagree with wholeheartedly…’ I went on to discuss the irrelevance of a person’s sexuality in the modern world and how, surely, it was their character that was important rather than who they fell in love with, but John wasn’t having any of it. He referred me to the tale of Sodom and Gommorah before telling me that ‘Gays, paedophiles and people who partake in bestiality will be punished by God.’

And that’s where it all got a bit nasty.

At first, I was utterly dumbfounded. I hadn’t heard such shameful vitriol since my Dad went on a particularly memorable rant one summer when I was back from university. I tried to remain calm, but to be compared to a paedophile or someone who shags pigeons and goats – and all on your own doorstep – isn’t acceptable. Funny how relgious people put you off religion, isn't it? I quoted him some facts, namely that 98% of convicted paedophiles identify themselves as being heterosexual and the remaining 2% includes women in addition to hell-bound homos.
‘And where did you find that out?’ John enquired, his eyes narrowing at me.
'National crime statistics,' I said matter-of-factly.
‘Aaah! But that’s not the Bible is it?’
'No,' I said, 'they are national crime statistics. Facts, in other words.'
‘But God says…’ and off he went again telling me that it’s okay, he can see that I’m a nice bloke, that I’ve been tricked into a life of poofery by the Devil himself no less, and all I need to do is to turn to Jesus, renounce all things cock-related and HEY PRESTO! Salvation. ‘Can you do that John?’ he asked, whilst reaching out to me. ‘Can you do that for Jesus? For yourself?’

Needless to say, I am still going to burn in hell (and the leaflet they left behind, happily titled, What Hope for the Dead? is already in the recycling bin.)

Confessions of a Hyperchondriac...

The worst thing about going to the doctors is the waiting room, especially when you throw in a healthy dose of boredom, OCD and paranoia. Case in point: this week. I took myself off to see my GP. Don’t worry, nothing was wrong, but as I’m unemployed and bored for most part of the day, you’d be surprised at the lengths you find yourself going to in order to avoid Jeremy ‘Chucky’ Kyle, Shit In The Attic (or whatever it’s called) and Angela Lansbury in her many horrific televisual offerings. Feel free to send flowers and Lucozade anyway… Where was I? Oh yes, so there I was in the waiting room, armed with a vat of industrial strength hand sanitiser whilst wearing oversized sunglasses - I once heard that germs often like to penetrate humans – snigger - via the eyes. Fancy that.

As waiting rooms go, it isn’t too bad, although it was chock-a-block with spluttering old people and children that cried AT A MILLION DECIBELS without managing to produce any tears. As a result, I couldn’t hear the television in the corner and I didn’t fancy flicking though the decade-old magazines slung haphazardly in the corner as: a) I also once heard that germs like to travel in paper (don’t ask me how and whatever you do, DON’T rub a magazine near your eye); b) these magazines are usually aimed at people with a transparently higher boredom threshold than I.

In order to kill time, I found myself reading the notice boards and posters around the room. And this, dear reader, was WHERE I WENT WRONG. Because now I am DOOMED. I looked at one poster. ‘Pain in the abdomen?’ It asked. Well, yes, I thought, although it usually passes when I fart, but that’s by the by. ‘Bloated?’ Yes, I thought, I have been accused of being a bloater once or twice in my life… Fuck and bugger. It turns out, that I have knackered ovaries and not very long to live. Like, gulp. My eyes scoured the wall further only to maximise my stress levels. Everywhere I looked I was smacked round the chops with horrible words like CONTAMINATED and FUNGUS and BACTERIA and STOOLS and VERRUCA. It didn’t end there, the information-fest was just beginning. It turns out that I haven’t got bags under my eyes at all. Oh no, I need kidney dialysis and possibly a transplant. The wall then told me that there aren’t enough donors out there, which I took as a hint that they really wanted me to end it all so they could have my one fully functional eye and my spleen. As I took all this in, I found myself breaking out into a cold sweat whilst suppressing a slight cough. This could've been caused by terror-inspired blind panic but according to the wall of bastard doom, it’s probably SWINE FLU, which, given my underlying medical conditions, probably means that I’m about to slip of life’s crappy dish. And if that wasn’t bad enough, it seems that I’m possibly autistic too, which probably serves me right for laughing my way through Rain Man when I was fifteen.

I tell you, going to the doctors is seriously bad for your health.

So how have you been?

Dear Bloglet,

I can call you that can’t I? See, I’m trying to be affectionate after neglecting you over the months that laboured under the misapprehension of Summer. Pah. Anyway, lo siento and all that jazz for my relative quietness… It’s not as though I haven’t had the time – what with being a resting actor (sounds better than unemployed, no?) for the last month, you’d have thought that rattling out a few words would be easy peasy lemon squeezy. Apparently not.

Firstly, and as you’re well aware, my propensity towards obesity, (mobid or plain old regular) has been stalking me again. Yup, I got fat. Okay then, fatter. You know those resolutions that I wrote about over Chrimble? Well, in terms of quitting smoking, I’ve been rather triumphant. I’ve not smoked since December and nor do I want to. I woke up one day with the lung capacity of a dwarf fly with pleurisy and thought, ‘Okay, am done with that…’ Like, hurrah. Anyway, as my lung power increased a thousand-fold, so did my waistline. Oh and no, etc.

I got on my scales t’other week and almost suffered a coronary as I took in the information blinking back at me from the screen. Apparently, I was 120 stones. 120 stones! Can you believe it? As the shooting pains in my left arm eagerly spread to my chest and my face turned a rather delicious (but slightly alarming) shade of purple, I realised that I’d accidentally flicked the switch from stones to kilos. I hastily switched it back, only to find the real-money equivalent equally horrifying. I mean, I knew that the cheeky bottles of wine and Tesco Finest chocolate brownie dessert thingies were inconducive to good health, but come on…

Later that same day, I was in the shower, trying to avoid my reflection in the mirror – which was quite hard, given my ballast – anyway, there I was, scrubbing away, when I went to cleanse my bot-bot, only for my love handle to get in the way. I couldn’t believe it. I was so depressed, I almost popped my head in the oven, but it’s electric. Fan assisted, though, whatever that means. So there we are, am currently fat, round and bounce on the ground. Fuck and bugger, etc.

What else is new? Well, I’ve had the misfortune to sign on a few times as and it’s about as much fun as headbutting glass that a tramp with VD has pissed on. I mean, I’ve never been out of work. Ever since I was a nipper, I’d babysit for a few quid before going on to work at the now defunct Kwiksave for £2.80 an hour. Fancy! At first, it was quite nice not having to get up in the mornings, especially as it meant that I didn’t have to complete a hideous commute only to spend the whole day doing possibly the world’s most boring job in an office with an atmosphere that could rival a morgue for it’s thrills. However, the novelty of a leisurely start has long worn off. As I’m keeping busy, even if I do find myself scraping through the bottom of the barrel. For instance, if I take my diary and look up, say, August 21st, my ‘to do’ list is a bit... well, desperate. The first 'action' instructs me to ‘unplug the video.’ You see, we never use the video, yet it remains plugged in, happily drinking an unlimited source of electricity which will no doubt cause the destruction of the Northern Hemisphere, if not the whole world. Every day I look at its flashing clock and think, ‘such a waste, must turn that off,’ yet never get round to doing it. But how absurd to remind self to disconnect it, when it would be quicker just to lean over and effing well do it. I wouldn’t mind, but it tragically remains plugged in as we speak. I failed on August 21st, didn't I?

I could go on and on and on about the mundanities of my existence even further, but bearing the above sorry tale, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I do however, hope that I’ve elicited sufficient sympathy that you will forgive my neglect. I am more sorry than a sorry thing in sorrysville and I promise that I won’t do it again. Cross my heart and hope to die. Probably of an obesity related illness, but hey ho.

Love you longtime,

Johnny Red Pants xxx

Fabulous Weight Loss Tip of the Day…

Who is in agreement that women's magazines are infinitely more interesting than their male counterparts? They are, it can be argued, the ultimate in guilty pleasures you never own up to, rivalled only by the Hollyoaks omnibus, cold macaroni cheese (inhaled directly from the tin), and Westlife's Greatest Hits. Oh.

My favourite part of these female weeklies aren't the excitable titles that always finish with an exclaimation mark (eg. Chat! Frig! Knickers!, etc), nor is it the life affirming reader stories or the knitting patterns. Oh no. The best part are the Readers Top Tips, where people write in with their own personal nuggets of convenience, in the hope that by sharing, it will illuminate the lives of others. They're not wrong.

Up until this morning, I thought that the best one ever was the following:

Worried that your teeth will be stained after a heavy night drinking red I wine? Drink a bottle of white wine before going to bed, to remove the stains.

But no, as I frantically fingered the pages of a discarded weekly at work this morning, I came across a tip that has, in a heartbeat, revolutionised my life. Oh yes. Apparently, a ‘GOOD SMILE’ (and I must admit, I choked on my lard-infused Krispy Kreme when I read the next bit), can take ‘A WHOLE TWO STONES OFF YOU.’

Really? REALLY??? I’ve got a toothy beam! I can lick my pearly whites and say, ‘Wow!’ My grin could be sponsored by Crackerbarrel! Ooh, I feel thinner already!

*Beams in manner of drunk loon having marvellous Acid trip*

That’s my weight target SMASHED then…

Who’s for a Big Mac-lyrca fest?

Say CHEESE!

Alternative Career #5: Rapper...

PROS: Seeing as though my erm, singing voice, isn’t what it was (think: sound of a newborn being hacked to death in an acid bath), becoming a rapper is like being a pop star by the back door, isn’t it? Isn’t it? It all seems relatively easy either way. Look at Eminem: all formulaic if you ask me: get a nursery rhyme-esque tune and put some daft rhyme about hating your Mam on top of it. ‘Hey Mam, you big fat cow / Make me a cup of tea now / And some cake / Don’t make a single crumb / Otherwise I’ll kick you up the bum… Bo!’ It’s not rocket science is it? The rest of it seems text book too: I can flail my arms about and repeatedly point at floor for no apparent reason and I’m good at swearing, which seems like a staple of the rapper community. Baps, shit and fanny, etc.

CONS: Rappers seem to take themselves quite seriously, which could be a problem for me. Also, the clothes are ridiculous. I refuse to wear my jeans halfway down my legs. I mean, what’s the point? I’d only end up tripping over myself and screaming ‘motherfucker, bo!’ as I landed in yet another dignity-free heap on the floor. I don't do hats or baseball caps either. I’ve simply not got the right shaped head. I’d look simple. And what would I call myself? Feminem? MC Snot Gobbler? Bogroll? I couldn’t. I just COULDN’T. Besides, isn’t there something slightly ridiculous about being a rapper and being over 30?

CHANCES: Despite the lyrical genius that I have demonstrated above, I doubt that the record companies would be keen to recognise my talent. And whatever way you look at it, I’m not street enough, issit? Or to put it another way: I ain’t got no guns, no war, no disco / record exec is my foe / I once had a manky toe / It smelt of motherfuckers! Bo! Mam! Stop being a twat / Get back in the kitchen and put the kettle on. White no sugar. And some biccies. Oh.

Ungrateful Admission...

I have a poorly throat.

My colleague has kindly given me some throat sweets to relieve my agony and all round near-death suffering.

They taste of wee.

I do not like them.

I am feeling sorry for self. Boo, hoo and sob, etc.

Sympathy on a postcard, pretty please...

*croaks*

Twat Speak...

Picture the scene: I am in a mind numbing, ultimately pointless meeting staring at a piece of paper where the word 'agenda' should actually read: BOLLOCKS WE WILL CHEW OVER BEFORE COMING TO NO CLEAR CONCLUSION. In order to relieve the boredom, I have a few cunning distraction techniques up my sleeve. Normally I make lists: food shopping, things I need to do, such as check my car oil and tyre pressure (this never happens, but I feel better for reminding myself to do it), and so on and so forth. When things get really bad and I’m all listed-out, I’ve been known to decorate my note pad with stars or even practice alternative signatures as though I’m fifteen years old.

Today’s list was altogether different. Due to the alarming amount of office speak that was being used throughout, I found myself compiling a list of what I think should be done to the speakers of this utterly irritating twat-language. Sadly, I never got past point 1: Kill them. Now.

I work in a place (admittedly not for much longer), where we are encouraged to LIVE THE VALUES of the company… I kid you not, but every employee has to justify their commercial existence year on year by explaining how they are IRREPRESSIBLE, EFFERVESCENT and (because they’re a broadcast company) how TUNED IN they are. Tuned in. Do you see what they did there? Fist-eatingly bad.

These days, we don’t send emails, we FIRE THEM OFF as though they’re some sort of incendiary device. If this isn't terrifying enough, we don’t tip people off or give them advance warning that a communicative firework is heading their way, we give them a baffling HEADS UP. Then there are the managers who tell us not to REINVENT THE WHEEL, but to THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX instead. What’s wrong with the phrases, think laterally or please don’t be so fucking obvious? Apparently, THINKING OUTSIDE THE BOX is the most overused ‘business cliché’ – ironic then, that proponents of the term couldn’t think outside of their own bleeding boxes enough to come up with a fresh, brand new phrase. The gimps REINVENTED THEIR OWN WHEEL. What they ought to do is BRAINSTORM some ideas. No, wait – brainstorming is a bit too 80s. These days, we have IDEA SHOWERS. Oh yes we do. (Actually I don’t, I am busy collating lists of goods that I need to procure from Tescos or making my signature more superstar-friendly, remember...) When having these ridiculously-titled collaborative exercises, we are urged to employ BLUE SKY THINKING. I mean, what the frig is that supposed to mean? It transpires that Tony Blair is responsible for such a wanky term. So if the Iraq war wasn’t enough to get him lynched, maybe talking like a pretentious, maddening prick is.

As the meeting went on, my mood got blacker – particularly when we were confronted with a CHALLENGE – a seemingly innocent word that disguised the term, ‘HUGE FUCK-OFF PROBLEM’… It wasn’t all that bad though! Apparently, certain action would result in QUICK WINS. This was also referred to as LOW HANGING FRUIT – at which point I nearly fainted. Reports were produced, which we weren’t supposed to read. Oh no, we were invited to do a DEEP DIVE and then DRILL DOWN. People hastily scribbled notes, presumably entitled, how did my life come to this?

After an eternity, the chair wound up the meeting, but rather than ask us if we had sufficient time before the deadline to complete our actions, we were instead quizzed to see if we HAD THE BANDWITH. Upon hearing this, I had to resist stabbing myself in the eye, but as we left the room with an instruction to HIT THE GROUND RUNNING, I found that the only thing I really wanted to hit was the bottle.

Amusing Spam Message of the Day...

Lovingly titled, 'Bang her hard! Make her scream and suck your hard golden cock!'

Apparently all I have to do is buy some tablets from Nigeria (after sending my bank details) and I'll, erm, soon be banging away with my oddly coloured rhythm stick. Do you get free ear plugs I wonder?

Other thoughts:
1. Jaundiced pee-wee?
2. Is this entirely consensual?
3. Goodbye, last remaining thread of heterosexuality...