Saturday, 20 February 2010

There's a New Boy

His name is Yuri and I like his hair. There's something loveably rough about him.
Slowly but surely, the world is getting bored of Stymest, Beech and Mohr.
Rock and Roll is dead.
Rock and Russian reigns.

The Bubble

The premise of this inane BBC semi-reality television show is simple: Three celebutards are locked up in a house without Twitter or Eastenders for a week. After their seven days are up, they're brought back down from the second floor of a bungalow with a bang, straight into a television studio to meet David Mitchell. They're then forced to guess which news stories are real and which are fake. Exciting television, i'm sure you'll agree...

Series One (hopefully of one), Episode One (Hopefully of few)
Here's the synopsis.

Comedy news quiz hosted by David Mitchell which plays on the fact that some news stories are so hard to believe you'd think they'd been made up. In this show some of them have.
Bang. David Mitchell regrets the day he signed up. Noted by the fact that Frank Skinner is funnier than him throughout.
Three celebrity contestants - a mixture of comedians, smart celebrities and wildcard bookings - are locked away in a media-free zone - 'the bubble' - for four days.
Four days. Not even a half-term holiday.
Wildcard bookings. Ie, a non-entity.
Such as Victoria Coren, a pokerjourno for G2.
Oh, and presenter of a BBC4 quiz show.
Oh, and an oxbridge graduate.
Oh, and obviously a tit.
No phones, no television, no internet access. When they are brought out into the studio, they are shown a series of news reports, headlines and images from TV, newspapers and celebrity gossip magazines.
In four days, what can happen...? Nothing. Without tv, newspapers and magazines, they wouldn't know about a ghost sighting of Big Daddy in York.
They have to identify the true stories from the fakes, but because they have been away and out of touch - just like when you come back from a holiday - they will believe almost anything.
Ie, we send three people you might have heard of to a cottage in the Cotswolds and make them partake in an inane process, loosely based on other successful quiz formats. Blah blah blah Tax Payers' Money blah. Who goes on holiday and returns to believe that the moon has been painted red and that Katie Price has shaved her hair off?
Truth is so often stranger than anything they could possibly imagine.
This is true.
It's strange that Mitchell presents.
It's strange that this show is popular on the iplayer.
It's strange that I want to see more of this car crash.

Note to BBC.
Just because there are books in the background and the topics covered are loosely based upon 'the news', does not mean to say that your program is of any merit at all. Perhaps BBCnews refused to produce fake news stories for you because they heard the premise of your program and their toes curled.

I've paid for this screenshot. And it was worth it.

Tuesday, 9 February 2010

A note on pandering to the masses

I am no good at blogging.
I once thought i had ADHD because i couldn't keep my legs still at night.
Or pay attention to anything for more than five minutes.
Just one of those five minute thoughts,
the ones that come when you don't expect them
and they're gone
into the air

this is why i'm quite taken with Woolf.

"Why illness is sexy"... Or "Will the real Slimane please stand up"

Those that know me could tell you i like my models a paler shade of yellow, with long gangly limbs. Tattoos wouldn't go a miss.

And now, to make a tedious link, comes the idea of a male body image. Us gays know what looks better. Apparently. And It's either orange and muscular or painfully thin. None of this Plus-Size lark. Why hasn't rebellion come about by now against these unhuman figures that force this fictional, dreamlike images into reality? Is this how one should look?

Whilst women force their silhouettes down to sizes 8, 6 and 4, where are the men? What are they doing? Whareas the focus is on 'skinny' for women, men must be the Adonis. A dangerous path which a few stops at obsession.

But until social changes come about, i think i'm quite content. Because, at the very end of the long day, once your hangover has dried up, men simply can't be fat. They are commodities which are REQUIRED to be a certain way because of their line of work.
An actor who can't act.

This is a woman's world.
And sex sells.
No matter if the Slimane Slims or the Macho Models prevail within that bloody 'fashion' world, there is definitely something very queer afoot.

"I dare say you haven't had much practice. When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” -Queen

Monday, 1 February 2010

Westboro Baptist Church vs Twitter

Shirley Phelps vs Twitter
The GOD HATES FAGS went to Twitter, in sunny, sunny San Fran', home of everything and anything weird. Trust me, if there's a fetish you want to fulfil, go there.
Those beautiful Californians, with their speedy sign-making skills, were quick to retort back.

This is only one of a myriad of signs.
Go here to see the rest, my flying monkies.

That is all.

Love Hate Relationship

A wonderful new age is upon us. For a few months this year, when the planets align and the moon is at its fullest, there will be a time when Topman won't just be stocking photocopied basics, only bothering to alter the colour settings, avoiding what has fast became crasswalk rather than catwalk.

With the opening of a lovely new Topman in a lovely (!) new part of Eldon Square, this means a wider range of clothes than the cooker of a Topman with the annoying stairs which we already have at our disposal.

This is the iten to which my main lust is focussed. I doubt i'd wear it anywhere other than the beach, but still. I rarely go to the beach, but still. I'll look like a rookie superhero, but still.

This hot mess of a jacket is perfect. Because sometimes, I like to pretend i'm James Dean. Or just someone cooler than myself.

Ever since i was a young warthog, i've been obsessed with tying my shoe laces. Sometimes, i do it several times a day. In Primary school, i used to sit behind the girls with the longest hair and braid it for them. I was one of the early metro-sexuals, a founding member of the County Durham Pre-Metsexualite Movement. I was not gay. I longed for my mother to have the courage to send me into a den of pedophiles so i could learn how to tie knots like only the best scout leader could.
I wear clothes. Everyday.
Sometimes, i even wear two layers.
So, with me clearly in mind, Topman/Lens have paired my two hobbies together, clothes and knots, in this fantiestic blend of the two.

I don't know if i rate this checked mess very much. But i have a shirt and a scarf in the same pattern which i think would look pretty god damn fucking fly, motherheffers. I'd be an optical illusion even Escher would be jealous of, i'm sure.

The biggest challenge of this decade has been the feminine connotations with a jumpsuit. I've tried to hurdle them myself, but ended up looking like a failed, flailing drag queen at best. But now, a new age is upon us. Sir Philip has commissioned the answer.
And the answer is 'The Boiler Suit'.
(I really want to comment on how baggy, shapeless and messy it all looks. But i'm going to refrain because i'd quite like one)

Some Videos Which May Cause Death By Dangerous Eff, You and Enn-ing:

There's this new film coming out. Are you following this? In which Michael Cera seems to spend most of it semi-dressed, playing an awkward teen. I know you're following now. There's this program in America where the stars are usually semi-dressed, living out their Jersey Shore dreams. You don't have to follow the last bit. But i'd rather you did, d-bags.
Jersey Shore meets Michael Cera:

Some Pictures of a Boy That May Replace Ash Stymest as the apple of my eye will follow...

Sunday, 31 January 2010

Car Boot

Every Sunday morning, somewhere near Stanley, in the deathly cold county of Durham, there happens a car boot sale of epic proportions. Obviously, the apocalyptic weather that has plagued us of recent has had a negative effect on the quality of this here gathering of bargain hunters. Although not the best location in which i've CBd in (for that award goes to the Hexham CB sale, which sprawled through an indoor cattle market), it's the size of three and a half football pitches and it the only thing i'll ever be able to wake up before ten o'clock for and happy about it. I wake up knowing that Paul Smith had me in mind when he wrote 'Our Velocity'.

On the way out, me and @ministrats like to buy a plastic bag for a mere pound and fill it with whatever little junken gems we find. Today's gem of the day was a book called 'The Universal Home Guide', published just after the Second World War.
After reading the extract that follows, I realised that I have never grown out of my awkward teen phase:

And this towering building is the factory itself:

A man whose dead wife had a scissor fetish was trying to make a quick buck:

Since her death, he has noone to fulfil his fetish, so he'd brought his sexual paraphernalia along too:

I buy books i never read
In preparation for my library.
But when the going rate is fifty pence for a fistful, I simply can't say no. Even if they double the time it takes for me to get home.
What may look like an early attempt to produce Mills And Boon's men's range is not actually a dirty book at all.

-Some Videos to Fellate Your Eyes:

The gayest duet since Elton John and George Michael:

The moment Snookums a la Jersey Shore's career gets a head start (actual punch):

Patti Smith covers Smells Like Teen Spirit: