10 Bad Things About The Noughties

1. Claude Makélélé – How to turn a game about scoring goals, into one that isn’t. Since the emergence of Claude as every pundit and journalist’s favourite man about whom to write a ‘tactical’ article, each team has splashed millions on purchasing players with an unhealthy desire to pass sideways. Remember remember Djemba-Djemba? Of course you do – because he was an awful ‘Makélélé role’ purchase that viewed his purpose in life to spoil the games he played in not only for the opposition, but for his own team and for the people watching.

2. MP’s Expenses – In the 1890s when people were pissed off with politics, they threw a bomb at a prince. In the 1980s when people were pissed off they rioted and organised dissent. In 2009, when we discovered that our MPs had been systematically raping the public purse, we all bought the Daily Telegraph and came to the conclusion that they probably weren’t paid enough.

3. Jo Whiley – Simply for praising everything you would find on a HMV Recommends list. (Pigeon Detectives, Arctic Monkeys, Kasabian, Now That’s What I Call Vacuous! Vol. 26.).

4. Tesco – A dangerously bigger and more abstract version of Whiley, Tesco has enjoyed a fine decade of promoting bland taste. Ever flicked through Tesco’s top ten books? All you will learn is that Dan Brown has some very stupid opinions about Jesus, and that Katie Price is a stupid opinion. Ever listened to Tesco’s top ten albums? All you will learn is that Mark Ronson makes incomprehensibly shit songs even worse, and that Johnny Borrell can’t possibly have listened to his own ‘voice of a generation’. As well as this, Tesco’s Finest seems to enjoy a sterling reputation – why? It might be the best in Tesco, but that doesn’t mean it is worthy of praise. I mean, ‘Definitely Maybe’ is the finest Oasis has to offer….

5. Deal Or No Deal? – Everybody hates this crap. You don’t even have to comprehend Noel Edmonds to hate it. It represents the worst kind of spirituality to be found in people. The “£20,000 for a box is a good deal, but you do what is true in your heart” kind of speak. It is a show packed with literally the worst advice in the world. If something is true, then it is true. It can’t be true in my heart and not yours. It is either true or not true. Stop feeding into the hands of the producers (sorry, the nasty ‘Mr. Banker’) and all deal as soon as you get offered such badass sums of money. If I came up to you in the street and asked you if you would like £20,000 for not walking into a room, and also told you there was a tiny chance that in the room there was more money, you would definitely take my £20,000 and walk away from me and my bizarre generosity. If you didn’t you would be unhealthily stupid, and as such I would ensure that the room didn’t contain more money, but simply Josef Fritzl. A year for every grand you could’ve had – this is what Austrians call ‘justice’.

6. Being Patriotic About Soldiers – At the turn of the decade, the dominant opinion with regards to Britain’s foreign activities is “it doesn’t matter if we should be there or not, what matters is that we give the troops out full support”. Actually, it really does matter; it matters an awful lot to the people in the country. If I came home to find soldiers firing guns at my dad and detonating my grandmother, I would probably want a good explanation. And why oh why must I give support to the army exactly? I care so little about it, and anyway it was their choice to take a job shooting at people. So given a choice as to where to spend public money, I am going to promote the NHS for a massive increase in funding; definitely after having seen adverts for some soldiers who have released an album upon returning from Afghanistan. If this is what tax money produces, then I want nothing to do with it. Having said that, a full scale cover of Edwin Starr’s ‘War’ complete with outfits could change my opinion entirely.

7. 50 Cent – An odious little prick if ever I saw one. This man is the most overexposed tool in the music industry – constantly playing up to the negative themes and stereotypes that hip-hop was born to rid us of. Afrika Bambaataa told us about renegades of funk, Public Enemy had a nation of millions trying to hold them back, and 50 Cent has a gun in one hand whilst driving an expensive dick-substitute rapping about pricey piss-sweet alcohol. Cretin.

8. Ironic Genre Adoption – When The Clash got involved in burgeoning New York hip-hop and disco scenes, as well as the super good dub of the late 70s, do you think it was done with a smug wink to postmodern theory? No, because Joe Strummer wasn’t a penis. And he never once thought about how being retro (see also, ‘nu’) was such a wonderful way to play with culture and the metanarrative of time. And he didn’t make a throwback 80s synth album because all of his music scene mates were. He wrote ‘Radio Clash’ instead.

9. T4 – Constant irreverent humour, constant crap sarcasm, constant bad music, constant bad programmes – constant thorn in my side. The people who present this show are basically breathing Topshop mannequins, but with poorer conversational skills than their inanimate predecessors. They are the kind of people who think that the Ricky Gervais style of humour is the funniest thing of all time (as well as THE most intelligent form of wit), and that Extras was a genuinely high-quality show. They often end up on comedy quiz panel shows, during which they will speak roughly once – and it is always painfully unfunny, or an inane comment that leads to a gag from a second rate comedian. I do hope you read this Alex Zane; for God’s sake man, you are the comedic bitch of Michael McIntyre.

10. Hollywood Re-Hash – This past decade has witnessed horrendous examples of systematic abuse. It was a period that gave us a real strong effort from the US army, who forced suspected terrorists into dressing like Slipknot fans and engaging in what I can only assume were nude games of stuck-in-the-mud (the photos don’t lie). The torture was endemic, but conveniently palmed off as a matter of semantics. And when you think about it the neo-Cons were right; how can we be expected to act morally when words have such slippery meanings? I propose some kind of ‘convention’ in which we lay out these meanings. Maybe Geneva could host it? A mere thought. We also saw the Catholic Church in Ireland really open up to contemporary liberal Christianity – but not in the way we expected. Rather than re-examine it’s stance on abortion, or homosexuality, or contraception, the church decided to re-examine the role of child abuse. Having adopted a thoroughly modern approach to exegesis, the church determined that God wasn’t totally black and white with regards to the issue, so set about methodically abusing as many kids as possible. Both of these episodes pale in insignificance however when compared with Hollywood’s systematic abuse of movie icons over the last 10 years. Remember how great ‘Star Wars’ seemed? Remember how much you loved ‘Indiana Jones’? Remember thinking that ‘The Pink Panther’ was as good as Sellers could give? Hollywood clearly doesn’t. For fuck’s sake, even the captivating ‘King Kong’ wasn’t sacred. “Oh, no, it wasn't the airplanes. It was Beauty killed the Beast” concludes Denham in the final lines of the 1933 masterpiece; but having seen Hollywood’s new offer, I think Peter Jackson had a hand in it.

Richard Duffy

Travelling: The Pressure to Grow a Beard

Hot Rant kicks off the week with a livid tirade straight from the heart of contributor Jack Collins. Woe betide any poor soul who crosses paths with this angry young man in a foreign country while sporting ill-conceived facial hair...

Hello fellow ranters. Firstly, I must stress that this rant is being written in a particularly mind-fuckingly-annoying-gappy-shit-muncher-hostel in Bolivia, so perhaps my perception of the world around me is particularly warped right now. Nevertheless, the fact remains: just because you dick around the world does not mean you have to grow some disease-ridden joke of a facial-hair-stain on your ra-ra, meathead, Quagmire-esque chin.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against beards. Some of the world's finest have sported the face-rug:

1) Dumbledore.


2) Your Mum.


3) David Bellamy.


4) Annie Jones.

Some of my closest friends have beards. I am not anti-beard. I have even allowed myself to grow a fairly decent face-covering from time-to-time. But amongst the travelling folk of South America in 2009 it is verging on the epidemic. Why the necessity? Why do people feel that as soon as they leave the confines of Britain that they should instantly commence the cultivation of little wispy bits? It is probably a mindless attempt to identify themselves as a traveller. The beard completes the look: the jumper emblazoned with a llama, the rainbow-patchwork pyjama bottoms, the beads around the neck. It is not needed you fucking sheep. Everyone knows you are travelling. You stick out like a sore thumb in Bolivia and Peru. You are white for fuck's sake, and the locals are not! They also like to sport little bowler hats and carry around llamas or babies.

There is no chance of you being mistaken for a local peasant, if that is what you are so worried about you twat.

Sorry, my outburst may seem a little rash. Indeed, I don't blame you Mr Travelling Douche-Face. I too have fallen foul to the pressure! The horrible, just horrible pressure which you have experienced from your far less hirsute friends. You know the type: the ones who didn't have pubic hairs until they were 19, and only need to shave once a month. The kind of chap who says the following phrase: "Oh yeah, you should blatantly grow a beard! I defo would if I could, but I can't". To be perfectly honest, when it comes down to it I like to be clean shaven. I relish the fact that after I have given myself the twice over with my trusty Mach 3, that my face is smoother than your girlfriend's bottom. So please do not try to egg me on, and advise me to grow a moustache. Sure, if i do grow some kind of upper-lip extravaganza, I will start to look like a winning combination of my own father and Freddie Mercury.

But I would prefer to not blend into the mass of dickweeds who surround me everyday. Let me stay nice and smooth, or i may be forced to find another use for my razor and slit your throat. Thank you. Jack Collins

Micro-rant of the day...

...from Mike Leigh's harrowing, yet still very funny 1993 classic Naked. Here, Johnny (David Thewlis) subjects a hapless security guard to an apocalyptic tirade of epic proportions. Brilliant. AC

I. HATE. ESTATE.

An exciting new contributor to Hot Rant this week. A contributor who, being a fair lady, has finally smashed this site's existing sausage stranglehold. Time for council-house hating Claire Geddie to talk estate agents...

Estate agents are muppets. Not the furry, well-meaning, yellow and blue friends of our childhood. Rather, they are bumbling buffoons, idiot guardians of the hallowed halls of London real estate. Gatekeepers of the garrett, keymasters of the corrupt. Their levels of ineptitude are positively Dickensian, and all is made worse by a degree of avarice that would make Scrooge blush with the sheer cheek of it.

I prefer to have little to no association with this breed. For nearly 5 years I have lived in a building which is part of a family run network of properties, with an office next door. While far from perfect, it's more Fawlty Towers than Amityville Horror. And because I know there are alternatives to your classic agency/highway-robbery-by-bank-transfer, I fear my tolerance for their antics has declined.



Fast forward to 2009. Faced with an onslaught of family moving to London, I am awarded the task of screening flats in advance of their arrival, and not just flats, but the holy grail of the London property search - the immaculate and reasonably priced 2 bedroom in Central London.

With 8 years of London living under my belt and the weight of 5 previous property searches under my belt I am embarking again on this Titanic Ship of Fools. And true to form I am met with pain and suffering at every turn.

Your honour, if it please the court:

Exhibit A.
A two bedroom property on King's Cross Road. I am on my lunch break, it's a scorcher. And garbage day. There is nowhere for me to stand but beside a festering can of refuse. At the 15 minute estate-agent wait mark I ring, I am told "5 minutes off". 10 minutes later I am on the verge of leaving, when she arrives, apology-free. Fine, fine. After a tour, I am discussing the finer points of the related transactions with her (The finders fee, the Holding Fee, the Inventory fee, the 6 pints of blood, 4 phoenix feathers, and 6 weeks deposit).

Before long however, she takes a call, seemingly from a love interest, and starts discussing her date plans for that evening. 5 long minutes go by while I stand beside her like a lemon. Finally I hand her a notebook and WHILST ON THE PHONE she scribbles down the final financial points. I depart silently as she sets the scene for whatever naff estate agents do on dates.

FAIL.

Exhibit B.
At 9:15 I am outside the flat in question when I get a call asking if I am still on for my 9:15 appointment. Why yes, yes I am. In fact I'm here, which you would know if YOU were here. 5 minutes later he arrives, only to find that he can't open the door. I leave.

FAIL.

Exhibit C.
A two bedroom, moderately (yet still extortionately) priced flat is on the agenda. I have specified not ex-council please because traditionally (my prejudice) I don't like the cut of their jib. So we arrive - red brick building, lovely - enter the front hall - and it's 100% clear that we have a council situation. I ask for some explanation - "Council? You didn't want ex council? I thought you meant ex-counSEL. Like counsellors. Yeah. 'And you cheat, you lie, you make me wanna cry..... (Thanks Godley and Creme).

FAIL.

I wish there was a happy ending to this tale of one city. I fear it will all end with compromise and paying through the nose into a jackasses pocket. But I live in hope. Claire Geddie

With the new football season underway...

...and Newcastle United no closer to escaping their laughing stock status, it's high time to revisit one of last season's finest football rants. Joe Kinnear, a man addicted to heart attacks and not afraid, in the presence of children, to brand short-lived female Premier League assistant referee Wendy Toms "a fucking slag, a cunt" to her face, lets rip.

"Which one of you is Simon Bird?"
"Me."
"You're a cunt."


Listen again to the infamous press conference here, and if that doesn't do it for you, here is the same dialogue as read by a computer. It's a stone fact that Radiohead's 'OK Computer' becomes at least twice the album if this is inserted in place of 'Fitter Happier'.

And don't forget - Dennis Wise was never in the Crazy Gang. AC

Muzik 4 Gymz

When you step into a gym, you are inevitably entering an aural netherworld vibrant with music made exclusively by retards for retards. While thick-necked goons preen in front of full-length mirrors, the speakers emit a pounding, repetitive onslaught of violent toilet shat out by the likes of Scooter and Basshunter, as well as countless reworkings of songs that were rubbish when they came out thirty years ago, and are no better when re-recorded by some no-mark session warbler and stapled to a thudding Casio keyboard demo.

None of this, however, explains the unaccountable occasional curveball hurled in my direction by the ‘selecter’ at my local Virgin Active in Streatham. Today, for example, I was struggling as usual on the cross-trainer when I heard a pan pipe version of Eric Clapton’s ‘Tears In Heaven’. No sane person would think twice about listening to this song in any other situation than sobbing curled up in a foetal position on a cold wooden floor but Virgin’s music man somehow came to the conclusion that it was the appropriate score to gut-busting (for me) exercise. (Incidentally, of Clapton, the genuinely insane and rant-prone Anton Newcombe once said “People talk about Eric Clapton. What has he ever done except throw his baby off a fuckin' ledge and write a song about it?” - more Newcombe gold here)

It shouldn’t ever come to this (please Mr Selecter never do the pan pipes again), but it doesn’t have to be the other way either. There’s plenty of decent music that gyms could blast out that would tick the requisite boxes of upbeat and motivational, but would also be good. In 2006 James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem released the brilliant 45:33, which was actually a rather odd tie-in with Nike and trailed as a work-out soundtrack. The paunchy Murphy humorously and unsurprisingly admitted to not being a gym bunny himself. Failing that, hows about the sweaty, thrusting funk of James Brown or something equally priapic like Rick James as his crackpipe-toting best? Or perhaps something outrageously homoerotic like this, which would perfectly capture the groaning, burgeoning love-in atmosphere of the weights room.

You may (if you’re still reading) be wondering why I don’t just play my own music. The thing is, although I do have an iPod, no matter how loud I crank up the volume through my decrepit headphones, I’m consistently unable to drown out the sound of Lou Bega going “AAAAAAIGGGGGHHHHHHTTTTTTT!!!” or Eiffel 65 crying about how they’re blue and in need of a guy, abadabeebowbudai they’re in need a guy. I simply can't win unless music man sorts it out and ups his game.

A few weeks ago, a middle-aged woman let loose a voracious fart on the treadmill next to me. Any sense of perpetrative mystery or furtive second-guessing was entirely precluded by the fact that there was only two of us in the whole room. Her subsequent thousand-yard stare straight into the mirror suggested that a) she was unaware of the devilish crime she has committed against my nostrils or b) she was fiercely proud of it. That this unpleasant episode was soundtracked by a particularly vile remix of Duke Ellington's 'It Don't Mean A Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing) by some technocunts called Gabin was both strangely fitting and utterly depressing. The worst smell in history and the worst song in history combining with lethal, unforgiving force to create an enduring microcosm of the worst that gyms have to offer. Sort it the fuck out guys. At least put something decent in my ears, especially when I've got something evil in my nose. AC

The Decline of the Comedy Duo

Hot Rant welcomes a new contributor today - the wonderfully named Steve Boniface (of Les Valentine fame). And let me tell you, he's not happy about the state of British Comedy duos...

Does anyone remember when British Comedy duos were funny? Morcambe and Wise (OK I don’t remember them per se but we see their 486 brilliant Christmas specials rolled out annually). Reeves and Mortimer. The Two Ronnies. Cannon and Ball (erm…scratch that one).

The United Kingdom of the Great British Isles has a comedy pedigree that is arguably unsurpassed by any other country (the USA is out because they don’t understand irony), and that includes the great tradition of the comedy duo. Typically a magical combination of ‘the stupid one’ and ‘the exasperated clever one’, these pairs have entertained us through generations and we have gratefully thanked them.

But today? The youth of Britain are stuck with the mediocre likes of Mitchell & Webb and Horne & Corden, two duos rammed down the public’s throat just because they happened to break through into mainstream in television shows written by other, more talented people.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I give you ‘Peep Show’ and ‘Gavin and Stacey’. Both extremely popular, clever and genuinely funny televisual treats that happen to star a pair of actors who share an undisputable chemistry with the material and each other.

Problem is, as soon as a show like this hits, the great and the good in the world of comedy production smell a cash cow. No sooner can you say ‘David Mitchell isn’t as funny or clever as his character in Peep show’ than you start seeing these pairs EVERYWHERE!

Mitchell shows up on every comedy panel show going (except for ‘Argumental’ on Dave – the producers have good taste) and proves just how hilarious he isn’t. Horne & Corden are called in to do a dire segment at the Royal Variety performance. Both pairs are slung into hit and miss sketch shows on the BBC who should learn that the odd titter from the audience does not count as a success.

What does this prove? It all goes South when these people are required to stand on their own two feet and actually be funny.

And then? The inevitable feature length film.

First came Mitchell & Webbs ‘Magicians’, in which Mitchell hilariously cuts off his wife’s head on stage because she’s shagging Webb. But it’s all OK in the end because the pair make up, forget about her and become successful again.

Then there’s Lesbian Vampire Killers…has there been a more over-hyped British film in recent history? When it came out in the cinema you couldn’t walk 50 yards without seeing Horne & Corden’s smug faces glaring at you from a phone box, magazine cover or billboard. Panned by critics on release, the film was a flop – no doubt in part due to the fact that everyone was sick of the sight of them. At least for the DVD release the marketing people saw sense. The cover sees the two ‘stars’ crammed into a tiny section at the bottom, playing second fiddle to a large pair of breasts. What a pair of tits. Steve Boniface

The not so Belle side of France

Hello friends and enemies. I'm back from a brief sojourn in Paris which led to a regrettable lack of posting action. Good times were had as I experienced the over-priced, obstinately rude, yet wonderfully art and monument laden hospitality of the French nation. However, the thing that has played on my mind most consistently throughout and after my trip has been a simple question: How have our Gallic friends managed to create some of the most amazing art and historical monuments known to man; produced a selection of the world's finest food and wine (notwithstanding the chips I was served in Montmartre which seemed to have been cooked, then plunged in a bucket of water before serving); and yet collectively failed to educate themselves in the not particularly challenging art of using a toilet correctly?

Somewhere in the cultural development of the French nation this particular skill seems to have been omitted. To the extent where they seemingly have no idea quite how a public toilet should be used or kept. It doesn't seem to matter how many free public toilets there are nearby, upon exiting any metro station in Paris you are forced to traverse a force field comprised solely of the pungent smell of human urine. The Frenchman (or woman), always eager to break convention, likes nothing more than to exercise his or her liberty to piss wherever the hell they want. Especially if the area is an absolutely necessary and unavoidable daily thoroughfare for thousands of people. Vive la revolution.

The famous liberté, egalité, fraternité motto may well have been coined to express the inalienable right of everyone French to relieve themselves anywhere in a brotherly manner. And how fitting then that they should exercise this right to the nth degree in the most opulent symbol of the ancien regime: Versailles. The men's toilets in Versailles were literally flooded with liquid expressions of French freedom, to the point where a Spanish lady emerged from the women's, almost in tears due to the unfortunate meeting of flip-flops and baggy trousers with the unstoppable invading force of the neighbouring men's overflowing urinals. Only in France could you be standing in a beautiful, listed, historic building, being told not to use the flash on your camera, while inch deep in piss.

None of this compared to the experience in Gallery Laffayette however. Having sauntered through one of the most upmarket shopping malls in Paris I thought myself assured of a reasonable toilet experience. How wrong could I have been. As I turned a corner, having just wandered past a series of €7,000 Versace dresses, I was hit by a wall of stench so powerful that I can only describe it as like having been directly hit by a salvo of explosive diarrhea straight from the arse of a particularly Camembert fond Gaul. Merde. Immediately my eyes began to water as my nasal hairs spontaneously combusted. This was awful. With no urinals I waited an age for a cubicle and finally got in one as it was vacated by a very smug looking old man. By the look of the floor, it seemed that he had used the toilet for the sole purpose of pissing himself with a modicum of privacy. As the heavy, sweet stench that only old man piss can produce entered my recently depilated nostrils I realised that his smugness had probably been due to the warm trickle of urine comfortingly making its way down into his shoes and the knowledge that he was about to olfactorily stick it to an Anglais. Touché.

Some attempt has to be made to clean all of this mess up and with a depressingly unflinching continuity this always seems to be the unfortunate job of a poor black woman. They look at you with the dead eyes of a person whose job it is to make some frankly token attempts to clean these cess pits, trapped by a system of institutional racism. Next time you witness the indomitable cheeriness of the (similarly racially profiled) toilet attendants found in English clubs, know that they are happily singing the 'freshen-up song' due to an uncontrollable joy gained from not being in France. Most often these poor ladies simply chuck buckets of soapy water at the floor while numerous Frenchmen continue to nonchalantly piss up the walls and shit in the sinks with a laissez faire attitude that only they know how to pull off. How hard is it to actually shit in the bowl, one wonders. The French so loathe to look like they are trying hard at anything that I imagine they simply drop their drawers, and with a Gallic shrug and an audible "Bah" simply hope that whatever their body produces does not go on their clothes. Quite how they arrived at this way of doing things, I'm not sure anybody knows; perhaps they were too busy cooking or painting or going on strike. However this came to be, there's a lot to be said for the good old British way of actually depositing bodily excretions in a porcelain bowl and doing this thing called flushing. Apart from that Paris was pretty cool. FC

Micro-rant of the day...

...from a truly brilliant film that not nearly enough people have seen.


Living In Oblivion (1992; dir. Tom DiCillo)

AC

Bad Lieutenant. Brilliant Idea.

It is safe to say that Nicolas Cage - now less an actor than an anthropomorphized side of livid ham - is a favourite of Hot Rant. So it is with great joy that we bring news of a collaboration that threatens to undermine the foundations of cinema, and rational thought, as we know it.

It has been announced that Cage will star in an upcoming remake of 'Driller Killer' director Abel Ferrara's 1992 sleaze and rant-fest 'Bad Lieutenant', helmed by famed nutter Werner Herzog. And if that wasn't enough, there's an appearance by twat-of-the-90s Val Kilmer. (Trailer below - even that screenshot is enough to get you worried...). Ladies and gents, this could well end up being the most over-the-top film in the history of over-the-top films.



The original Bad Lieutenant featured an extraordinarily ripe performance from notorious scenery-chewer Harvey Keitel, and included graphic scenes of drug abuse, rape, public self-abasement and nude whimpering. All of this allied with Nicolas Cage's frightening inability to control his facial expressions means the possibilities are endless.

Brilliantly, if somewhat predictably, this melange of warped egos has inspired some very public mud-slinging, with Herzog claiming never to have seen the original, nor to have heard of Ferrara.

I, for one, can't wait. AC

Portrait of the intern as a young man: Day 1

As I feared, the day has arrived. I am interning again. I have finally felt the aching swell of the Broonite economic crisis, losing my job as the lynchpin of the lucrative sex-business arm of multi-national non-fiction behemoth Dorling Kindersley, and returning to the depressing pursuit of sitting on the internet with nothing to do and not even having to pretend i'm working as i'm getting exactly zero pounds-per-hour for my efforts. Sure, i could have tried to get another interim job before my career as publishing magnate/professional country-punk guitarist finally drags itself into fruition, but the temptation to be subtley proactive and improve my cv instead of contemplating suicide at the mercy of Office Angels seemed all too sensible.

To coincide with this new development in my post-graduate life, i have decided to show the initiative Owain (who, incidentally, has reached the end of his antibiotics and thus should be infection and scab free by now) never did and start a diary of my experiences. Yes it will be banal. It may be unreadable in it monotone lack of events. But it will, to all purposes, be the most pure example of immersionist journalism ever to ooze from the fingers of a son of the Isle of Wight.

Day 1:

In attempt to look entirely ubiquitous around the office, i have worn the finest threads messrs Carnaby and Neal have to offer and ridden my single speed in. It has worked perfectly. As expected, the Vice stronghold is open plan, stripped brick and wood panelled. As also assumed, i have nigh on zero to do. the few tasks I have been deemed qualified enough to attempt luckily draw straight (potentially plagiaristically) from these very pages; i am researching to write blog pieces on a wave of Stalinist giant crabs desecrating the northern scandinavian shellfish populations, and on the american obsession with creating terrifying robotic animals for use in military and intelligence operations. Great. And that is about it. The potentially exciting caffeine headache i have developed from drinking too much Diet Coke is currently being soothed / exacerbated by the repeat playing of Sunn0)))'s new record, whilst my eyes are aching from staring meaninglessly at an antiquated computer screen. I am almost longing to be sent flyering around Brick Lane, and considering leaving early despite the fact that i have been here for little over 5 hours. Compared to being told i was 'Prince Charming' by a hoard of pubescent schoolgirls at the prep-school i worked in last summer, i feeling a definite lack of gratification for my trade skills. But worry not, readers, i will Indesign the fuck out of these reprobates yet. TH

Hot addendum: Robert Kilroy-Silk video special...

As a valuable supplementary piece to Edward Mantle's disembowelment of Leicester's finest racist orange fox, Hot Rant presents a mini-compendium of Kilroytastic moments.

1)


2)


3) a clip from K-S's brilliantly mean spirited and short lived quiz show 'Shafted'


AC

The New Silk Route

Contributor Fish Stock returns with an assault on the very British disaster area Robert Kilroy-Silk.

Question:

Why is Robert Kilroy-Silk a twat?

Answer:

What do you mean you don’t know? Just look at his face. It’s really obvious...

In his defence I certainly don’t feel the same desire to puke on my cock every time I see/hear/read about him that I do when Morgan or Grylls are brought up. So think of this as less of a Hot Rant and more of a Warmed Tirade. But he is, as we shall see, a massive wanker.

One of my biggest gripes with him, apart from the colour of his skin [/racist], is his lack of any political stoicism. He was a university lecturer with somewhat respected and published work on socialism under his belt before becoming a labour MP, albeit an unpopular one with his backbenchers. I simply can’t understand how the man could manage to lose political direction so drastically in such a short space of time and go from this to this.

Seriously. UKIP. Really? The bizarre relationship that formed between Joan Collins, Kilroy-Silk and Gordon Brown look-a-like Roger Knapman made for brilliant headlines in the UK press at the time and provided no end of free publicity for the party – possibly why they managed to push the Conservatives into fourth place in Hartlepool prompting Kilroy-Silks calls for them to be “killed off”. Long and bland story short, it turns out that UKIP weren’t all he was hoping for so the silver-haired one defected to start his own party, Veritas, which he formed at that bastion of social equality – Hinckley Golf Club.

Obviously this couldn’t last and after leaving his role as a representative of “The Straight Talking Party” he began his current role which seems somewhat confused. Although he was elected to the European Parliament on the UKIP list and is still technically a member of Veritas he stood as an Independent MEP. His election campaign saw him quoted as saying he would spend little time at the European Parliament if elected. True to form he promptly buggered off to appear on Ant and Dicks I’m a celebrity... where he continued to receive his parliamentary wage while on the show.

However earlier this year it was announced that Kilroy-Silks name was not going to be on the list of candidates for election the EP meaning that as of 17th July when parliament reconvened he became technically unemployed. (I’m not sure if he was really very busy anyway, he hadn’t given any parliamentary speeches since 2005)

Not that he ever gets bored. If he’s not watching Everton at Goodison Park (a lifetime ticket holder - twat) he’s making ludicrously offensive comments... Discussing a rise in HIV infections in Britain in the Sunday Express he wrote “The indigenous population is not responsible.... It is the foreigners that we have to focus on.”

Not content on his berating “the foreigners” living in this country, KS finds it just as easy to criticise others around the world, specifically the Middle East:

Back in 1991 he wrote for the Daily Express that “The Muslims are backward and evil and if it is racist to say so... then racist I must be — and happy and proud, to be so.” This was just a sign of things to come as in 2004 the man published not once, but TWICE the same article, again in the Daily Express which contained the following, frankly mind-boggling, paragraph in which he discusses “the Arabs”:

“What do they think we feel about them? That we adore them for the way they murdered more than 3,000 civilians on 11 September 2001 and then danced in the hot, dusty streets to celebrate the murders? That we admire them for the cold-blooded killings in Mombasa, Yemen and elsewhere? That we admire them for being suicide bombers, limb-amputators, women repressors?”

Honestly. What was his brain doing when he typed those words? Was he having some sort of stroke? The man clearly has no desire for a quiet life. He even declared: "I don't do humble."

Actually, I think I take it back. I would like to puke on my cock after all. What a cunt. Fish Stock

Classic aggro from yesteryear...

...in which 90's funkateer and ex-Denise Van Outen's bit of rough Jay Kay (out of Jamiroquai) finds himself on the wrong end of a diminutive cab driver's thrusting pate, after acting like the world's biggest twat. COSMIC!

Please relax and soak in the joy of this remarkably little-seen clip. AC

Hot Rant Health Bulletin: Intern Down

I hate to be the bearer of upsetting news. Like Tom Hanks in Philadelphia, he probably doesn't want everyone to know it, but as of yesterday afternoon, i can confirm that Owain Rhys-Mumford, our beautiful, lazy, 'having-a-job-is-more-important-than-working-for-us-for-free" intern has contracted that most brutal of scabular ailments, IMPETIGO. Sounds jolly doesn't it? WRONG. The affliction most commonly referred to as 'student leprosy' is a vile, socially-imparing shitstorm of infectious stickiness and not, as it might sound expounded in a jovial fashion, a television magician's catchphrase.

We senior journalists here at Hot Rant must implore all our readers to help Owain help himself by avoiding any contact with the boy, even at a distance, and stop him putting any pressure on his immune system by exerting any energy through socialising. This means calling him, emailing him, or even acknowledging his existance if passing him in the street.
Wolfpack may have temporarily lost it's wind, but by Mumford we will return with a gale. Dr. TH

The Scandalous Adventures of Lord Byron - with Rupert Everett

I am currently watching the aforementioned program and will attempt to write a running commentary of lunacy that I am witnessing.

Everett begins by informing us that Byron was a bisexual pervert, who lost his virginity at nine. What is it with literary figures being colossal perverts? As my mind wanders, thinking about James Joyce's scatalogial fetish, I realise that Rupert is now talking to a prostitute in an Albanian restaurant.

Everett: "Who have the biggest penises?"
Hooker: "Probably Brazilians"
Everett: "HIGH FIVE!"

Ok, what the fuck has just happened? He has just high fived a prostitute about Brazilian men having the biggest penises. What does this have to do with Byron?

The show cuts to Everett riding a donkey covered in a massive bear skin. This seems more like it. He is accompanied by a similarly beclad 'Byron expert' and a lone Albanian donkey guide. They arrive at some kind of cottage and Rupert dresses up as Byron: "I look like a twat but I feel like a twat most of the time anyway" Finally some insightful analysis.

The scene cuts again and our two bear skin clad protagonists are surveying an Albanian castle. They walk by a coke machine and the 'expert' chimes in with a rare observation: "Obviously this is not exactly how the castle used to look." He's making his presence felt.

They walk under a decrepit gate covered in plastic bags full of rubbish. The 'expert' stays silent. maybe this is historically correct? Everett is entranced: "Listen you can hear the cattle bells! You could hear people coming for miles!" Presumably only if they are wearing cattle bells. But he's just getting started: "This is just like the Hollywood movies. This huge mammoth bisexual man with fingers covered in jewels fingering our poor lord Byron." He has officially lost me.

After some rather strange scenes, including Everett talking about Madonna on an Albanian chat show and discussing the merits of communism with some tracksuited kids, we find our host on a sail boat. He quotes Byron's quip that the British favor drinking and whoring whilst the Turks prefer sodomy and sherbet. "I'm quite looking forward to sodomy and sherbet. Sorry granny! sorry mum!" While you're at it Rupert you can apologise for the vest you're wearing as well.

Much talk of buggery shops and guys lap dancing follows, along with a genuinely funny quote from Byron which ends with him describing a naked bath attendant as a man who "never hesitates to lie on his back and entertain a man with his arsehole." Everett does not attempt this on camera.

Suddenly Rupert in the British embassy in Turkey. He literally charges straight towards the visitor's book, signs it frantically and then starts commenting on the size of the Queen's breasts. He wanders upstairs. "I think I'm going to have a bubble bath." I am now looking at Rupert Everett doing a strip tease down to his tighty whiteys, about to get in the bath. He's now in the bath. I am lost for words.

Freshly bathed Rupert goes to a diplomatic do and proceeds to tell the sodomy / sherbet anecdote again and again to incredibly lukewarm reactions from Turks and Brits alike.

After presumably being expelled from the embassy he turns his attention to swimming across the Bosphorus. "Better to die doing this than during a facelift." On balance I think he's probably right. He has roped in some poor Turkish boys into doing it with him. He is swimming in just his tighty whities. He gives up half way.

Undaunted by his failure Everett begins to wax lyrical about Byron's trip to Athens. "The idea of arriving in Athens, the centre of ancient Greece must have been like an acid trip." On balance I think this is complete bollocks. Suddenly we are witnessing a puppet show of a man getting raped by his own penis, engineered by genie. This is like a real life version of a film that Ashley wrote with a friend in year nine called Volcanus. I will let him elaborate in the comments if he wants.

Rupert's back on form. He's standing on a balcony, looking at a picturesque monastery. "I can't think of a nicer place for full intercourse to take place. it's absolutely lovely." This was presumably not what the architect had in mind. It must have been tough on the monks.

I think we're nearing the end. We're in an old mansion house with its owner and Everett is doing some investigative reporting.

R: "Do you have any of Byron's pubic hair?"
Owner: "One of my ancestors burnt it."

Safe grandad. I have so many questions now. But mainly THIS ONE.

This is definitely ending now. Rupert informs us that next week he will be "diving to the depths of pussy-hungry depravity." Tune in. I will. FC

Micro-rant of the day

Drugs are bad...but they're made much funnier with an ironically detached and amused Kiwi voiceover laid over the top.

Proper ranting here from Down Under. 0:30 for serious comedy gold. AC

Travelling: The Inevitable Conversation

Hot on the heels of Edward Mantle's second delivery of hot rage, Jack Collins returns to regale us with a story about how shit a time he is having traveling the world for six months. Or something like that.

I have now been traveling the globe for the past three months, and everyday for the past three months I have had the same fucking conversation at least ten times. It's inevitable. Nobody wants to have this conversation. It just happens. I do it myself; and every time I feel the words shitting out of my mouth, I get a little bit more pissed off that I sound fucking more like fucking Cilla Black. My life is a constant meet and greet, cut from the same mould as Blind Date. "What's your name and where do you come from?" To be honest, I don't care what the answer is. Within two seconds I will have forgotten it completely and your bearded, gappy face will have melted and merged with the other bearded, gappy faces I have already had the displeasure of encountering.



It has even got to the point where I hate the sound of my own travel plans. If I hear myself say the words, "I'm gonna drive up through California to Portland and then swing down to Colorado" again, I'm going to swing for the nearest person who has just asked me what I'm doing next. And what the fuck does "swing" even mean? Am I going to leap between the trees whilst hanging from vines like that "Show Me the Beef" kid did in the latest joke of an Indiana Jones movie? No. Just no.



Even once you have spent enough time with a person that you can move past the whos and wheres, the conversation will almost certainly descend into the abyss of travelers' verbal diahorrea that is- kids TV. Does anybody honestly remember that Knightmare was essentially just a very suspect man, inviting young children into his dungeon and asking them to play with his helmet?



The show was essentially just a shitter version of your favourite RPG on your Amiga, and it was also accompanied by the irksome soundtrack of little scrotes shouting out the lyrics to the latest dance-craze-party-song, "Sidestep left, walk forward, take a small step to your right, pick up the key".

The other day we finally had a heated/drunken debate with another girl about the implications of the potential assassination of Barack Obama. A wonderful occurrence, which also provided the opportunity for me to utter the words "Don't be a twat!" to the girl (who I'd known for just one afternoon) when she was essentially being a twat and trying her hand at being very patronising. Sweet relief. Please send me more douche-bags I can argue with and save me from the niceties. Jack Collins

Piers Morgan

Lock up your sub-editors! Our reliably vitriolic contributor Fish Stock returns today with an evisceration of a man with no morals, no class and no chin...

Question:

Why is Piers Morgan a wanker?

Answer:

First of all his name is actually Piers Stefan Pughe-Morgan. Surely anyone who has the audacity not to change their name more to something more responsible is a wanker…

It’s hard to know where to start when it comes to this truly risible figure. In my (obviously very worthy) opinion, he represents precisely 50% of what is wrong with British journalism over the past fifteen years. (The other 50% being found somewhere between here and here and definitely here)

Morgan edited the News Of The World for just one year before he undertook his decade long tenure at The Daily Mirror. During his time at both he was responsible for any number of fantastically offensive leaders. His front pages were iconic, but arguably for the wrong reasons: Sensationalist doesn’t begin to describe them.

His orchestration of the papers’ coverage was incessant and invasive; often dragging stories about the likes of Dunblane, Ian Huntley and Sarah Payne out over many months, continually harassing witnesses and the families involved for a sound bite under the guise of reclaiming Britain’s moral compass on behalf of the people.

Well here’s a soundbite for you Piers. Fuck off. If I ever need lessons in morality and ethics from an odious little creature who manages to package all the inhuman qualities you should so guiltily embellish on your CV into a physical form, then I’ll come straight to you. But you could be waiting a long time. If there’s one thing my parents taught me, it’s this: Don’t be a cunt.

Alas his papers sold and continued to do so. Even more so after he, in 2002, decided to do away with the Daily Mirror’s traditional ‘red top’ in favour of the high-brow black banner. It was an attempt to rebrand the Mirror as a serious paper, to take it above and beyond – to the next level. Of that period, he says “It was the great tabloid decade”.... Cunt.

One of my favourite “Morgan Moments” as they shall hereafter be known was his getting punched by the also dubious, albeit substantially less so, Jeremy Clarkson at the British Press Awards ceremony about 4 years ago. Clarkson didn’t stop at one punch, delivering three rather satisfying haymakers allegedly in revenge for The Mirror's coverage of his personal life.

Private Eye, of which HIGNFY captain, Ian Hislop is currently editor, routinely refers to Morgan as “Piers Moron”, sometimes extending him the courtesy of ‘Piers “Morgan” Moron’ and even more recently, “Rent a Gob”, in reference to his ever more frequent appearances on talentless shows like Poptards: The Remedials and America’s Next Top Cunt.

He sheepishly faced MPs' questions about the publication of photographs allegedly showing abuse of prisoners by British soldiers in Iraq. He cynically stood by the decision to send to print despite doubts over the pictures' authenticity, and refused to reveal his sources, even when the photographs proved to be fake citing reporters privilege.

Perhaps the series of stories he is most famed for are his “run-ins” with the royal family (and Paul Burrell), one of which spawned the masterful headline: "Harry's had an accident but we're not allowed to tell you." Which was printed over rumours Prince Harry had got a bit slicey slicey on his arms.

Of his apparently happy and stable childhood Morgan jokes: “I've tried to come up with some clouds, make one of those misery documentaries. I said to my dad, ‘Can't we come up with some beatings, say you stubbed out some cigarettes on me? We could make some money, shift half a million books’.” Hilarious you may think, but I truly doubt such self-serving cynicism is below him.

There was a fantastic albeit depressing comment about him, which I found a year ago on that last great bastion of free-speech, Youtube. It read: “He may be a wanker, but he wanks all the way to the bank". Too true. Fish Stock

Hot Guilt

I've been pretty unequivocal in the recent past regarding my distaste for the free newspapers which clog up any remaining space on London's public transport system. The reasons for my antipathy are legion: no actual news; reams of coverage of pointless twats and non-celebrities spilling out of sleazy nightclubs; vapid columns with titles such as 'City Boy on his Blackberry' and 'Gay bloke all over the shop'; sports writers with names like Kirk Blows (- he really does); their sheer relentless ubiquity forcing the now dignity-free Evening Standard into the most over-egged advertising campaign since... since... (*fails to think of single egg brand, aborts pun)

But today, as I picked up the Metro with the intention of tossing it disdainfully onto the floor to show it, if nobody else, that I cared not for it, I was stopped in my tracks by the cover story - the tragic tale of a man who had gone apeshit with jealousy, shot his girlfriend and murdered her Jehovah's Witness father. A bloody sad story I figured, and an unusual one to run on the front page in this climate of Ashes-Gate, Swine Flu-Gate and Michael Jackson is dead-Gate. A second look, however, and the mystery started to unravel...

The murderer's name? Jonathan Cock. *Cue voluble snigger, followed by unconvincing "that was a cough" cover up. The name of the family he went after? The Hustlers. *Cue full-on seal-howl, followed by the least convincing straight face in history.

Immediately, I felt a flush of guilt - what a bastard I'd been! But once I had gathered myself, I realised that maybe I wasn't so bad after all. These guys knew what they were doing when they placed Cock and the Hustlers front and centre of their paper. It wasn't the Metro's fault that Cock did what he did, but you could just visualise their staff giggling at the thought of people's grave faces splitting into creases of remorseful laughter. Actually, I applaud them for their naked disingenuousness.

The story reminded me of a similarly wretched tale I came across a couple of years back, also in the Metro, in which a man named Brahnie Scott was alleged to have hanged himself in a telephone box (!) because his girlfriend Julie Toddhunter (!!) had attempted to prevent him kissing her by deliberately eating some mustard (!!!). Turns out Scott really didn't like mustard. Again, there was death. Again, inevitably, there followed laughter.

As the comedian and actor Chris Addison points out in an interesting article in today's Grauniad, sometimes we need comedy to remove us from, and elevate us above the bleakness of certain situations. Michael Jackson's death is a recent example of a wave of crass (and frankly mostly unfunny) jokes helping to provide a more recognizably human context to what was a truly unexpected and unsettling event.

But this is Hot Rant, not Hot Cod Psychology (which sounds like either Steely Dan's fictional main jazz-funk rivals, or the most inexplicable Fish & Chip shop ever, depending on your preference). Maybe this is all beyond analysis, and it is simple - we can't help laughing at funny names and dead people. Or maybe I am just a total bastard. Yep, that sounds about right. In fact, I'll prove it by concluding with my favourite ever joke:

Q. What's the opposite of Christopher Reeve?
A. Christopher Walken.

(I'm going to hell.) AC

Animals there should be more of - Part 1

A series to run alongside Tom's famous 'Animals that should get extinct' serial. This will not focus on the merits of conservation efforts to save animals there actually should be more of (ie. lions, elephants, dodos etc.) but will rather be a more egotistically centered tirade aimed at animals that I think are cool, and more importantly animals that piss off or harm members of the human race that I do not like.


For example any species that attempts to harm Bear Grylls. Speaking of bears they probably top the list due to their good form in maiming idiots who climb into their enclosures, eating nutters who go and live with them and generally being 'bad ass mudas' who don't take no crap off of nobody. Honourable mentions go out to to tigers, primarily for the on stage mauling of Roy Horn. If you were forced to pose for this photo and had the power to openly savage one of the people involved how long before you cracked? He was asking for it. At least his reconstructive surgery was partially successful. Stingrays probably deserve a mention too. As much as I liked Steve Irwin, at least they went and put themselves on the map with that move. On the flip side, I fully agree with Tom that alligator snapping turtles deserve to go, if only for their inability to defeat a mentally retarded, American version of Steve Irwin.

A recent story to warm the hearts of those who thought that our animal friends had lost their edge was broken on Friday on the BBC. It seems a buzzard in Cornwall has taken a commendable dislike to joggers. At first one might have questioned the buzzards judicial judgment in attacking a man who was simply minding his own business having a run. We all dislike joggers and their smug ability to go running in circles for ages but was resorting to physical violence really necessary? Surely a warning swoop or a well-aimed defecation would have been enough of a warning. These questions seem pertinent until you delve deeper into the article and realise that the man was on holiday and had still gotten up at 9am to go running. The buzzard had indeed conducted a thorough threat assessment: this man is clearly a fanatic and drastic action was needed. Even now he has not been dissuaded from his insulting show of steely determination to engage in one of the boringest activities known to man. So determined is he to make all people who don't get up early every day to run back to where they started feel bad that he has vowed to continue. Thankfully he has admitted that "I decided not to take any chances and invested in a hat." I can't imagine this has done much to discourage the buzzard who must be licking its beak for round two.

In other news jumbo squid have invaded the shores of San Diego. Not only does this appeal to my irrational hatred of people who engage in water sports (ie. surfers) but further credence is added to the jumbo squid's case due to the fact that they seem to be acting like some kind of 1950s gang. Apparently swarms of them have been "roughing up" and "spooking" unsuspecting divers, which sort of makes them sound like some kind of underwater 'West Side Story' gang. They are also deemed to have a sensitive side, with one victim describing their "doleful, expressive eyes". Another witness said that their eyes looked "all-seeing, all-knowing", which raises the question of what the fuck squid can actually know? And, if indeed they are all-knowing, what fucking use does it does them, seeing as they only seem able to swim around pissing off divers. If indeed these all knowing squids have deemed this the meaning of life, then maybe I may become slightly more open towards the idea of religion and a God who is presumably as vindictive and petty as me. FC

Facebook Friends and High School Reunions

Hi people, sorry for the relative lack of action on the blog this week. Been a busy time. should be back to normal in the coming days. Just a stop gap post for now, something short, and again stolen from Fazed.org.


This link will take you to a hot rant from a self confessed geek, berating his former high school bullies for now trying to add him as a friend on facebook. The whole 'why do people who I'm not friends with add me on facebook' rant is rapidly becoming one of the most overplayed social conventions of our time, possibly set to rival talking about the weather as the most common conversation to have with people you don't know. Ironically, this type of inane chatter (which is usually along the lines of "are you on facebook?", "so am I, it's great but gets a bit much, doesn't it?", "Yeah people I haven't seen in years and didn't even like back then keep adding me as a friend. "Yeah! Me too, what is it with them") is usually conducted with a person you don't know / haven't seen in a while / certainly don't want to be actual friends with and culminates, more often than not, in you both going home and adding each other on said website.

That said the blog post is well worth a read. It's a very eloquent riposte to the insultingly hypocritical attempts by his bullies to be all matey a few years down the line (much like the rudeboys who would rob you and then immediately after say "safe" and try to give you a terrorist fist jab). That and it is positively simmering with barely repressed nerd rage, which is never a bad thing.

The comments are also worth reading. Number 34 is a particular favorite:

Wow. Your story makes me really glad that I went to a small private school where academic achievement was actually valued (by teachers and students both), and abuse of that sort was not tolerated. If I heard of someone getting their fingers intentionally broken by another student at my old HS, I would be shocked. And that student would certainly be "told on" by other students and "asked to withdraw" immediately. What you went through is fucked up, Mark, and for the sake of everyone else, I hope that is well outside the norm even in large public schools.
Posted by: Uncephalized

Ahh, private schools. I love the idea of being "asked to withdraw" for purposely breaking someone's finger:

Dear Johnny,

You have been caught making Swastikas out of fire and breaking little Mark's finger to see what it sounded like. While your inventiveness and curiosity is to be commended you have been thoroughly 'told on' by your fellow students. A full blown expulsion would be far too embarrassing for all concerned so we are kindly asking you to withdraw from our establishment. Lets hope this does not happen again, even in those filthy large public schools you will now be attending. Say hello to your father.

Yours sincerely,

The Headmaster.

FC

Are you retired?

Are you?

FC (via the excellent fazed.org)

John Terry - Ultimate Twat

What makes a man? Is it the power in his hands? Is it his quest for glory? These are all fascinating questions, for sure. But right now, I'm more interested in in a different question.

What makes a twat?

And you know what, when I stare long and hard at the jaundiced, hammer-featured, sloping criminal-foreheaded skull of inexplicable England captain John Terry (marks off immediately for falling into the selfish England international habit of having two first names), I get to the heart of the matter pretty quickly.


There are a number of key reasons why John Terry is the embodiment of the consummate modern urban twat.

Here are a few of them;

1) He's dishonest. 'Mr Chelsea' refuses to just come out and say he wants the money of uberc*nt Garry Cook and his legion of Arab investors at Man City. Consequently, he's inspiring dishonesty in the likes of the hitherto admired Mark Hughes, who is having to keep a straight face while cracking out lines such as, "It is not a question of finance, or money, it is about a different challenge, and John being at a different stage in his life and his career". PLEASE!

2) He has a total lack of class. Lacking the erudition of many of his contemporaries (translation - Graeme Le Saux), John Terry epitomises the bland face of cliche-ridden English professional football, spouting platitude after platitude about "the lads done this..." and "at the end of the day" on one hand, whilst on the other somehow getting away with being the Noughties face of post-Roy Keane referee-intimidation. And he pissed on a bar.

3) He's actually quite shit. Everyone knows that Rio Ferdinand is miles better on the ball, is a more natural footballer and has massively more curly lips. At club level, he has been carried by Ricardo Carvalho, whilst Alex is clearly much harder, much quicker and looks much more like Danny from Hear'say (forget the apostrophe at your peril). In fact, a Sky Sports stats breakdown the other day proved that in the last couple of seasons, Chelsea have a higher win ratio, and a better defensive record without Terry in the team. Sadly, the number that Millie Clode/Natalie Sawyer/the other one etc... gave to me in All Bar One the other day doesn't work, so I can't confirm those figures just yet.

4) He's the modern embodiment of this country's retrograde obsession with "passion" as a key component of success. But unlike the genuinely rabid Stuart Pearce, or the kind of man who exhibits the brand of "passion" that you simply wouldn't bother arguing with (fast forward to 1:57 and howl with laughter at his impassioned defence of his actions), Terry carries out his own version of passion in a softly-spoken, insidious, bloodless, corporate yet mechanically thuggish fashion.

And if ... if you were thinking that all this was just an excuse to post one of my favourite YouTube vids ever, then you'd be half right. But my God, is it worth it... AC

Micro-rant of the day (x2)

Those of you who have followed my career with interest (translation: those of you who may have once been friends with me on MySpace) may well have seen this before. Prior to Armando Iannucci's graduation to becoming the creator of the greatest British comedy of the decade (the rantabulous 'The Thick Of It') and more recently, Hollywood power-player ('In The Loop' - which had a fucking fantastic Saul Bass-inspired US-only poster), he was responsible for a vast array of the best comedy these shores have had to offer. These included, amongst others, The Day Today and I'm Alan Partridge (a touching scene which taught me, wrongly, that it's OK to play air-slap bass as long as you take it off and put it down afterwards).

From 'The Armando Iannucci Show', this is Alan Ford (star of 'Lock Stock and Two Remarkably Dated although still actually quite good Barrels' and the more aptly named 'Snatch') brilliantly satirising the portrayal of ridiculous 'ard-nut gangsters that Lord Sir Guy Augustus Ritchie II so desperately wanted to get into bed with. Revel in the comedic gold of someone getting it so completely wrong, with so much aggression...



and, still on the subject of ludicrous 'gangsters', here's another Lock, Stock-themed treat from the marvellous Fast Show, chock full of amazing ranting...



AC