Boyle-ing Over/On The Boyle/Boyled Egg etc...

Given the title of this blog, it would be remiss of me to let the latest 'celebrity' outburst pass without comment. That's right, I'm talking about furious virgin crooner Susan Boyle (left), who has blown her Scottish top about something or other.

The only problem here is that when it came time to do any research for this piece, I immediately lost interest and started thinking about something else. I was reading about the story in the turgid freebie London Lite on the way home, and I decided that I should keep it so that I could refer to it later. But moments later, through a combination of force-of-habit and sheer subconscious good sense, I discovered that I had thrown it in the bin.

Then when I arrived home and started to read about the story on the interweb (now despised by my colleague Fred) a similar thing happened. Without realising it, and within seconds of starting to cast my eyes across the article, I had timeslipped into another marathon innings on time-wasting classic Little Master Cricket Game.

Can anyone really be surprised by the news of this lady going a bit mental? Some of the most rational, reasonable and hitherto composed people have been driven to distraction by media manipulation and/or circumstances beyond their control (Sir Isaac Newton, Phil Brown and Jesus Christ to name but three). And, let's face it Susan Boyle is at the very least one bollock short of the full scrotum (although, in fairness, that has not interfered with Lance Armstrong's inalienable right to 'tweet'). Let the woman get pissed-up and go mental. Just don't start moralizing about it, or being any more patronizing than you already are.

With any luck, Boyle will go the full nine-yards and get axe-murderous on our asses, starting with the repulsive, Les Dennis-jilting vacuum Amanda Holden, moving onto chinless muppet Piers Morgan, carving a chunk or two out of profesional c*nt Craig 'Revel' Horwood and finishing off with a countrywide massacre of all the morons who have talked down to this woman, tried to manipulate her appearance and lifestyle and made her a commodity when she is so obviously ill-equipped to cope

Jesus, I do care after all... AC

How the internet makes everything that is amazing, really terrible eventually

I love you internets. But I also hate you. Why? I have come to realise that every moment of brilliant comedy gold that you feed me is invariably tainted by the fact that it will evolve into some kind of nightmarishly popular and unavoidedly ubiquitus internet meme that will proceed to infiltrate almost every aspect of my life, until the original humour has been so distilled, that instead of making me laugh, it will knock another dent into my decreasing faith in humanity, slowly accelerating my progress towards a point where I am forced to launch a pathetic failed suicide bid, which David Hasselhoff may or may not find hilarious. That's why.

Look what you've done to poor Rick Astley:



You've turned his whole life into a joke. Rick Rolling went too far. Look at him barging that stooge kid, who is likely getting paid the same as him, out of the way so that he can sing and get the hell out of there. Look at the the pained, forced smile on his face, concealing the emotions of a man thinking 'was it worth it? Keeping the same haircut for twenty-two years. All for this?' If you look carefully at his eyes I'm pretty sure he's crying.

Another nadir was reached when internet users voted him 'Best Act Ever' at the MTV awards. The sight of a matching tweed trouser and tie wearing Perez Hilton announcing that 'Rick Ass-ley" had won but wasn't there to collect the award was devastating. Especially as we all knew that, as Perez spoke, Rick was backstage, sitting in a locked toilet cubicle, almost passed out from embarrassment, with a shotgun in his mouth daring himself to use his big toe to pull the trigger.

It's the same with everything that starts out good online. And I almost exclusively blame this on the rise of real grown-ups learning how to use the internet. The following pictures will show that I use the term grown up with no reference to age:


The FMyLife and Texts From Last Night websites were pretty funny. But then they were taken over by people whose sense of humour has been so dulled by the exigencies of working 9 to 5 in some corporate hell hole, that they have no idea when to let a good joke die. Look at this post:

Today, I went to the Verizon because my phone was broken. It hadn't rang or received a text in 3 weeks. So, I got to the store they check out my phone. There was nothing wrong with it. No one had called me in 3 weeks. Then they charged me $30. FML

That's not funny. It's just plain boring. It's also a lie. Thankfully, the web has had the grace to throw up a delightful parody site in the form of MyLifeIsAverage. But God damn you internets you're going to make that rubbish soon aren't you. I hate you. FC

ps. Love you really

A few pointers for the general public on the bus.

1) When the electronic display (handily placed both upstairs and downstairs so that everybody on the bus can see it) bears the legend: 'bus stopping', this means that the bus is now (or will soon be) stopping. You need not, therefore, repeatedly push the bell once you see the display read 'bus stopping', for the simple reason that the bus cannot be any more stopping than it already is.

2) When you have a conversation on your mobile phone, you need not broadcast the contents of said call to everybody else on the bus. Believe it or not, they might not actually be interested! Furthermore, you need not subscribe to the unwritten rule that the volume of your voice increases exponentially with the inanity of the conversation.

3) In the morning, when you are seated on the top deck of the bus at the back, and you have already flown in the face of traditional notions of personal sound concealant (= headphones), why not try blasting out something relaxing or light-hearted instead of your more outre confection of gabba, bashment, reggaeton or auto-tune daddy Akon? Perhaps Jordy, who is fast becoming a Hot Rant staple.

4) Popular deodorant brands include Sure, Lynx and Right Guard. They can be purchased in all good chemists, supermarkets and even cornershops. The application of said deodorant prior to a bus journey ensures a happier time all round.

5) Not everybody is psychic. If you require the person sitting on your outside to move to allow you to get out, why not ask them nicely! Not everybody interprets a grunting noise and a death-scowl to the back of the head as a request to slide over.

Any top tips on how not to behave on the bus that I have missed are covered in the following seven-minute epic - the 'Stairway to Heaven' of African men arguing on the bus, if you will...



AC

Metro Station

I just can't believe it. When I think about how some bands get international recognition from perpetrating these kind of audio visual crimes, it just cuts me up. Metro Station are just horrible. Ugly, ugly teenagers peddling lazy dancey pop-punk with no sign of shame or referential knowing to anything that is right or good in popular music anymore. At least Jordy had integrity and sang with a true passion and insight for the trials he was living through. It's no surprise the French banned that kind of hardline truth-telling.
That Metro Station's video for Shake It (oh god, just the name makes me want to die) was the worst thing I saw on 100 channels of Egyptian and American cable television drivel on a recent family holiday to the Middle East speaks volumes. This is a country (delightful in so many ways save ludicrous swine flu contingency plans and, you know, human rights discrepancies) where every single damn music video is of a man in sunglasses and a white suit, covered in hair gel, moaning dross over early 90's quality keyboard string banks. EVERY SINGLE DAMN VIDEO.

The sheer number of cringeworthy facets of the song is hard to believe:
- The inital call to arms of 'LETS DROP' seguing into the most underwhelming excuse for a hybrid indie / dance beat imagineable.
- The senseless, banal lyrics about ugly teenagers touching each other and 'shaking it'. Seriously, the chorus is so pointless and awful that the lyrics genuinely lose any understandable meaning by the end of the song, like when you say a word out loud until it doesn't mean anything anymore.
- The singer's ghastly, terrifying autotuned sex offender-priest sigh-singing, gloriously backed up by the other chap's atonal nasal blurts.
- The damn breakdancing nerds.
- The 'singing' at the camera. So, so, so smug.
- The gangly fellow's diseased looking pierced face. And his name's Chase. Lordy!
- Just everything. The horrible guitars, boring drumming, Pro-Tools'ed everything.

It makes New Found Glory sound like Springsteen.

You stupid kids want good new music?: http://www.myspace.com/dinosaurjr.

There. God. TH

The concentrated insanity of Japanese cultural taste

I use the word 'insanity' in the above title because 'Balls-to-the-wall one-small-step-for-man cat-on-a-hot-tin-tin-roof slap-me-round-the-face-and-call-me-Tina unbelievable-awesomeness' was probably a bit too long.

While our culture mandates that the majority of adverts must be safe, inoffensive dross, with across-the board appeal, the Japanese are busy creating some of the best minute-and-a-half moments of beauty ever to grace a TV screen. Take for example computer game adverts. Something we have a history of doing very badly (see Morcambe and Wise and Trevor Brooking trying to sell the Atari). Over here, the Nintendo DS launched with one of the most yawn-worthy and stale moments of boyfriend-girlfriend flirty interaction ever seen. Meanwhile, in Japan, a Wii game is launched with the following campaign:


We get: a smug Lee Ryan lookalike cooing 'that's definitely a keeper' as his overly hot girlfriend digitally alters a photograph so that their skin looks blue. Blue I tell you! Oh how we laughed.

The Japanese get: constellations in the shape of muscles; near naked body builders running through walls; a startling array of rainbows, sheep, aliens, rhinoceroses and penguins; a polar bear in speedos; and a digital representation of Hulk Hogan when he's eighty doing the wanker sign as an over excited man shouts "NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY, NICE MUSCLES' over the top. All soundtracked by some lovely female sung Japanese pop.

HOW IS THIS FAIR?

This horrible mismatch continues in every field of advertising and entertainment. We have Duffy advertising Coke. The Japanese have Arnold Schwartzenneger advertising something that may or may not be a drink. In the west, our game shows all now seem to involve an array of talentless buffoons listening to odd members of society cry and sing opera. In the east all their game shows seem to involve members of the public being submitted to humiliating and terrifically painful ordeals, all the while maintaining their good humour:



So who's up for moving to Tokyo with me? FC

A little context, please?

Yesterday I picked up my Oxford English Dictionary to search for the definition of the word 'inexplicable'. The entry instructed me to walk to my laptop, load up YouTube, and type in the following words:

Richard Littlejohn + Garth Crooks + niggas.

This was the result:



AC

Micro-rant

Stolen from the Guardian. Keeping the jolly sentiments of Franco alive through the medium of football.

"Forget fair play: the only thing that ever mattered to Carlos Bilardo was winning – as he showed when his Sevilla side played Deportivo La Coruña. His physio, a man by the name of Domingo, had run on to the pitch to treat Diego Maradona but, seeing that there was nothing wrong with the Argentine, turned his attention to the bleeding face of the Deportivo defender Ribera. Most thought it a lovely gesture; Bilardo thought it all wrong and leapt from the bench screaming. "Domingo, our players are the ones in red! In red! Jesus Christ I feel like dying!" he shouted, head almost exploding. "You don't even give water to your opponents. All you do to opponents is stamp on them. Stamp on them! Stamp on them!" TH

The auction of the century

In case you didn't know, Michael Jackson has been auctioning off the contents of his Neverland Ranch. I had just about reconciled myself to the fact that I was going to miss out on the sale of the millennium, until I saw this painting:


I can only describe the above as perhaps one of the finest works of art ever to grace human eyes. I am reconciled no more. George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Albert Einstein, the Mona Lisa, Michael Jackson and E.T. What on earth do these six figures have in common? Are they MJ's main sources of inspiration? Is he still planning an extra-terrestrial sci-fi thriller concept album, where space time curvature combines with beautiful art and good government to save the world? Is Michael trying to suggest through some frankly crass imagery that, in direct opposition to the linear passing of time, all of these figures were actually inspired by him? Maybe that they share some kind of creative, righteous, heroic and alien heritage? Or is this based on the hitherto undiscovered historic fact that all of them had a secret penchant for sunglasses and gloves? I'm not sure we'll ever know, but like all good art this asks the difficult questions.

On a side note, we all know that everyone's favorite accused pederast is innocent, yesterday, today and forever. But seriously Michael, sometimes you REALLY. DON'T. HELP. YOURSELF. FC

More photos can be found HERE. (Link found via Fazed)

The Concentrated Idiocy of French Cultural Taste

Now, I immediately apologise for the overly general sentiment expressed by the title of this post. I think the cultural nous of those handsome romantics over in Gaul is, largely, impeccable. The New Wave movement, half of Stereolab, Eva Green, the Impressionist collection at the Museé d'Orsay, the accent Peter Sarstedt sings with in 'Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)', Calvados, and soft rock revivalists Phoenix. All totally brilliant. What has today, an idyllic, sunshine filled pre-Summers day, revealed itself by the miraculous powers of the YouTube network, is a video which almost changed all this hard earned appreciation. The following, a song sung by a four year old knave called Jordy, entitled It's Tough To Be Baby, was number 1 in France for FOURTEEN WEEKS. The words escape me.



Did he write it? The subtle, informed comments on the tumultuous life of an infant leaving the 1980's - "My name is Jordy, and I am very small" being a particularly choice translated example, would have us assume so.

"Studio conjurey!" one might exclaim. But then we see this:



Note how quietly fuming Prince seems around the 15 second mark. Incredulity at the state of the contemporary popular music industry? Or rage at the tangible fact that a toddler of a similar stature has had a worldwide dance megasmash as relatively successful as any of his compositions?
And who the hell is the man he kisses?
Unsurprisingly, Jordy was banned from appearing on television and radio in 1994.
TH

"It's time to go to war. That's the reality."

Convinced of the superiority of their craft and the notion that nobody else understands what it means to cook something on time, male celebrity chefs seem to have become trapped in an alternate reality whereby their job is the only one on the face of the earth that involves stress and working to deadlines. A number of them have taken this mistaken ideal as an excuse to act like a complete twat, maybe hoping that their macho posturing will somehow cause the general public to forget that they actually share a career with Delia Smith.

Leading the f-bomb filled charge is of course Gordon Ramsey, but a figure equally deserving of ridicule is Marco Pierre White. With his bandanna tied around his head, he stalks the kitchen, dressed as some type of ninja-Rambo, dealing out pearls of wisdom like an insane Mr Miyagi:


"It's time to go to war. That's the reality. If you're going to lead the troops you've got to lead them from the front. You've got to look like that warrior" - I haven't seen many armies wearing a uniform consisting of a Palestinian scarves and chef's jackets but maybe I'm missing something. The only military figure that Marco even comes close to looking like is a Kamikazee pilot, which mean that the only thing he's leading his men to is suicide. Equally I must have skipped the part of being a bingo caller that involved crucifixion.

How I would love to see Marco in a real combat situation. I can imagine the man going over the top, dressed in his kamikazee chef get-up, screaming commands ineffectually: "Tim you're saying yes but NOTHING IS HAPPENING." "Tim's DEAD Marco." And then inevitably, pinned down in a shell crater, offering his men some final words of consolation: "Worry not sweet shepherds. The bingo caller died for our sins EVERY NIGHT."

Unsurprisingly no one seems to be buying his military madness (except this perceptive drunk lady sitting next to Fern Britton). Instead he is left to offer his poor assistant Nick baffling pieces of advice and to embarrass him in front of the camera. His reaction to Nick's joke below is priceless:


So Marco is likely insane but seriously, when are these chefs going to realise that they're not re-inventing the wheel or actually getting shot at, they don't have peoples lives in their hands. They are just cooking some food, albeit nicely. Calm down. FC

Arthur Fowler having a hot breakdown

The noise he makes at 0:08 is remarkable.

Sitton duck

"All I'm saying is, when it pops out, you've gotta be crafty..." - what does this mean? Is it the sage advice doled out from a master baby thief to his young apprentice? No - rather, its one of many gnomic pronouncements from Prince-lookalike ex-Leyton Orient manager John Sitton, who garnered fame for his manic half-time outburst (below) captured on film in Channel 4's 1995 documentary Orient: Club For A Fiver


It is difficult to pick a favourite moment here, with so many ludicrous examples of a man singularly failing to deal with the pressure of his job packed in to such a short space of time. There's his doomed attempt at calm, manifested in the low quaver of his opening words which resemble nothing so much as a trembling baby building up to a monster tantrum on the bus.

Then there is Sitton the philosopher: "What'd I say to you about good players? They wanna be good players all the time. Don't you know how profound that is? Have you not examined the fucking words?". By the time he's expelled this wisdom, Sitton, close to tears, has already sacked a player on the spot.

Sitton's least explicable moment surely comes when, arcing from his mouth and leaping above his extravagant sports polo-neck, the following words drop like nonsense bombs:
"You, you little cunt, when I tell you to do something and you, you fucking big cunt, when I tell you to do something, do it. Cos if you come back at me, we'll have a right sort out in here, alright? And you can pair up if you like, and you can bring someone else to help you out, and you can bring your fucking dinner. Cos by the time I'm finished with you, you'll fucking need it".

The first bit I get: it's common-or-garden football aggression. But bring your fucking dinner? John, you've lost me. With the most generous associative logic applied to an analysis of his words, one might suggest that he was trying to say something along the lines of, "You'll be eating hospital food when I'm finished with you".

But he didn't say that. He advised two men to bring their dinners to a fight, and told them that they'd need them afterwards. It's a fantastic image - two bloodied, battered footballers crawling over to a plate of steak and chips following a good kicking from Mr. Sitton - but, alas, Sitton was never around long enough to bring his vision to life.

Like a first year undergraduate essay, the last word must belong to Wikipedia:

John Sitton is a former professional footballer, manager of Leyton Orient and
black cab driver ... Alongside his career in transport, Sitton also works for the FA
Coaching Education scheme

Once you have digested the terrifying possibilities of

a) Hailing a cab and discovering that this lunatic is your driver
or
b) Enrolling in a course at the FA and discovering that this lunatic is your teacher,

you can take solace in the fact that he has given you 14 years fair warning. If you turn up without your fucking dinner, you've only got yourself to blame. AC

The life and times of Nicolas Cage

Coincidence?

I think not.

In the beginning, when it was just Nic Cage, his twin brother and a precocious dream of stardom, no-one could have predicted the level of success that he would go on to achieve. Especially not in the early days when the 'Jessica-Parker-Cage' four-tet could be found pedaling their extreme form of performance art in various parks around Chicago. However, after a particularly vicious argument between the Cage twins, the handsomer and more virile Richard went missing. Never to be seen again. Under the stress of this "disappearance' the crew broke up, with Nic's girlfriend Sarah accusing him of the murder of the much loved Richard.

Sarah Jessica-Parker moved to New York, to the city, to get what Nic could not give her. Sarah's sister was rumoured to have appeared in a straight to video B-movie where the level of her performance got her struck out of the Actor's Guild.

Meanwhile Nic began to carve out a niche for himself in Hollywood. His style was at first uncompromising. He recently confessed in an interview:

“I welcomed the idea of bad reviews because that would mean I was doing something that challenged the critics. I thought I could change acting, which isn’t really my goal anymore. But at that time I was headstrong.”

Despite this repentant tone, evidence suggests that Cage's hunger for bad reviews has yet to subside. Who would have guessed that this man had won an Oscar:



His career reached a nadir in 2008 with Bangkok Dangerous. Re-making a critically acclaimed Thai movie but changing the central character (and therefore the whole plot really), from a deaf mute to a man who could speak and hear, because he wanted some lines. The man has won an Oscar don't you know.

After Bangkok Dangerous bombed he was faced with the daunting reality that no-one was going to fund any more Asian influenced action movies in which he was the star. Undeterred, Cage hatched a radical plan to build a time machine to take him back to a more innocent time, when overweight white men with greasy hair could conceivably be highly paid action movie stars. In the year 2017 he finally succeeded, sending his longer haired and chunkier self back to 1988 under the pseudonym 'Steven Seagal'.

Finally he was free to make as many films dangerously free of any plot or semblance of the craft of acting as he cared. And cared he did. His finest hour was in 'On Deadly Ground' when he beat up a septuagenarian and reformed a racist through a game of extreme slaps, all in the same scene.

Here's the link to the entire scene. Words cannot describe.

Now that both present and future Nic Cage's careers are drying up at the same time we can only hope that 'Steven' will reintroduce himself to his past self and that they can combine to cross that final frontier and make an album of immeasurable beauty.

Basically what I am saying is that Nic Cage needs to stop pretending he cares about cinematography, put on some weight, grow a ponytail, buy a leather jacket and make some abysmally good action films. Just never re-make 'The Wicker Man' again. FC (Bees video courtesy of AC)

Now THIS is bad parenting

Forget 911 lady. We have a winner. A very brief but thoroughly comprehensive manual on how to ruin your kids' lives is included below. I pray this photo never reached their school friends. Also can we please all now agree that living in the seventies (video becomes amazing around the 1:49 mark) would definitely have sucked.


I also came across the best photograph ever while researching this post:


Followed by the best comment ever from Stephanie who says:

"Look it’s Sarah Jessica Park and Nic Cage! Look it’s Sarah Jessica Parker and Nic Cage!"

(Both photos from awkwardfamilyphotos.com)

Politicians making music

Is bad. Very, very bad. Exhibit A:



Why a man with the personality of a wet blanket decided to appropriate the braggadocio world of rap as the most appropriate medium to get his message across is unclear. It just ends up making me side with Bashy on this one: "Put Prescott in a headlock / then piss in his eggnog." Indeed. When you're getting out-dueled with those types of lyrics it's time to give it up.

Equally I think we all know how wrong it is for Gordon Brown or David Cameron to go on about their favorite bands. Shut the hell up. You're not meant to be cool and like music. Just get on with doing boring things like setting VAT rates and making policy about pensions. Politicians and music is like sex and your parents. Two separate things that should never ever collide.

The only time this rule can be broken is when politicians are unwittingly made to make music. (This exception to the rule does not apply in the case of sex and parents.)



Quite how long this auto-tune gimmick will last before it becomes totally played out and just not funny any more is debatable. But a conservative answer is probably two to three weeks. As such I better get this gem in:



Ok so he's not a politician. Just a prostitute beating pervert. Still funny though.

I'm about to kill this little bitch.

One of the main reasons for starting this blog was a general love of rage and how brilliantly funny it is. The more impotent the rage the better really. And shouting threats at someone over the phone is surely one of the best manifestations of said impotency. (Ash - you might know more about this than your average man on the street)

So here's some of the best cases of SEX RAGE OVER THE PHONE

I'll kick off with an old one but a good one. The brilliant rage of a man who hates cold calling. I particularly love the way he answers the phone with "what the hell do you want?" This man is a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. GET THE FUCK OFF MY PHONE LINE.

The next example is a persistent old lady, who is trying to claim some car insurance. There's a long build up kind of ruined by some douche bag-y radio hosts but the payoff is worth it. Link here

However, none of these videos come anywhere close to this:


"he's not coming home from school, he's just now getting in, he's supposed to be doing volunteer work at the Boys and Girls Club."

I disagree strongly with people who say this lady is a bad mother. This is a textbook 'instilling some discipline' move which should be taught to all mothers. Didn't say thanks for dinner? Haven't tidied your room? Well BAM you get confronted with your mother threatening to kill you with a hammer while simultaneously pleading with the emergency services about the need to send round someone to stop her. You're not going to make that mistake again.

This rant also contains the finest turn of phrase ever used by a mother about her own son, which I have duly used as the title of the post. "I'M ABOUT TO KILL THIS LITTLE BITCH" You get back to the Boys and Girls Club little man.

Micro-rant of the day from Morrissey

Coldplay

Coldplay have just released a free to download live album "as a thank you" to their fans. Yay! songs that you already own but in a shitty live recording. FOR FREE! The album cover is on the left where I have included a hidden subliminal message. I'll provide the link here on the proviso that none of you actually click it:

http://lrlrl.coldplay.com/leftright.html

Anyway, this little nugget of news got me thinking about just how much I really dislike Coldplay. And reminded me of the glee I felt when all those music stealing allegations emerged. Here and Here. (I love Cat Stevens getting in on the act).

LET'S DO THE MUSIC THEORY! (If you don't like nerds, don't click this link). The allegations seem a bit far fetched but I'm tempted to side with the youtube comment of a man who goes by the name of sjulianp:

Acabalos Satch!!! Putos Ingleses copiones.

I'm going to assume that a translation is not needed. It also reminded me of a quite brilliant rant from way back when in 2002 entitled: Let’s hunt and kill that guy out of Coldplay. I strongly reccomend you give it a read.

Micro-rant of the day from a film nobody has ever seen.

Not even Harvey Keitel.

Swine Flu

So Swine Flu has erupted pretty much at the bottom of my road and like every other two-bit blogger I'm going to write about it. I'm probably a good couple weeks behind the curve on this one, I mean we've had The London Paper ("IT'S IN THE CITY") casting it's usual level headed and balanced eye over the matter. But even they seem to have given up trying to convince us of our imminent death and have reverted back to the more serious matter of documenting Amy Winehouse, Lindsay Lohan and Lady Gaga's unofficial race towards contracting AIDS.

Coverage on the internet, populated as it is by immature nerds (I should know), has, for the most part, been in it for the LULZ. I say 'for the most part' because it would be crazy to ignore this man who is taking it very, very seriously indeed:



Seriously. "Securedeboadersandvacationindiscuntry".

Ignoring the utter impracticality of his suggestions (because the economic effects of not allowing anyone to enter or leave America just in case there is flu pandemic would really be offset by making everyone vacation within the US) shouting at a video camera and then uploading the results on youtube with all the other luminaries of our time, seems an unlikely way to get this turned into official government policy.

Of course various other crackpots, religious and otherwise, couldn't help chipping in with their views on the subject, key highlight include:

"Swine Flu a Pestilence of the End Times Christian Living"
"Swine Flu Genocide: Part 1 (Satans Homeland Minions Exposed)"
and "You fucked up huh, you know your ass is doomed" (Ok so not really, but it could be about anything)

I'd take these a little more seriously if they actually made any sense. What the fuck is 'End Times Christian Living' anyway? Meanwhile if you're really going to expose 'Satan's homeland minions' you probably shouldn't put that shit in brackets. It sounds like it might be important. Oh and before you ask I haven't watch part 2, mainly because Part 1, not content with being full of excretable lies, is also very, very boring.

The next video, I consider second favorite only to Mr Securedeboadersandvacationindiscuntry.

"Swine flu... is Christianity to blame?"

Now maybe Youtube has a policy that prevents a simple ten minute display of the word 'No'. That would explain the insanity that follows in this video which can be neatly summarised as stuff and zany rituals that make no sense and are a waste of time.

Unbelievably Mr Whatsnext?Illtellyouwhatsnext actually has the last laugh and maybe we should end with his pearl of wisdom: "HELLOO. YOU DON'T GET SWINE FLU FROM FREAKIN PORK. PUTTING A BAN ON PORK IS LIKE LINDSAY LOHAN REFUSING TO GO IN THE OCEAN BECAUSE THE DOCTOR TOLD HER SHE HAD FREAKING CRABS." Nice metaphor...

What does Joey Barton have to do to get kicked out of the game for good?

Following Monsieur Barton's latest charming contribution to the 'beautiful' game - a wild, dangerous lunge at Liverpool's exquisite, composed midfielder Xabi Alonso - I began to wonder what exactly this man will have to do to find himself excluded once and for all from the sport. A 93rd minute decapitation? Dugout rape? Centre-circle bestiality?

Barton's rap sheet to date, even excluding his own irreverent spin on the art of the tackle, is startling. Of his numerous misdemeanours, a few are worthy of special attention. In December 2004, at the Manchester City F.C. Christmas party, Barton made a clean break from the traditional dispensatory powers of an ashtray, preferring instead to extinguish a cigar in the eye of a youth team player. Continuing his own special brand of 'youth work', the following summer Barton could be found assaualting a 15-year-old Everton fan, presumably because he looked at him the wrong way - a luxury sadly no longer afforded to his previous victim. Happiness is a cigar called...

Later, in 2007, Barton clashed with his City team-mate Ousmane Dabo in training, leaving him looking like he'd gone twelve rounds (OK, a round and a bit) with Manny Pacquiao. Admitting the charges (what a guy!), Barton soon went on to add to his reputation with a Happy Meal-tastic battering of a man outside a Liverpool McDonalds. His 77-day prison term presumably provided him ample time to carefully plan his next ankle-smashing blockuster.

It is fair, therefore, to say that we are not dealing with our common-or-garden petulant pantomime dame; a Robbie Savage, or a Danny Mills, if you will. Rather, Barton is a dangerous, spiteful, unrepentant villain with a disgusting track record. Barton's frequent "I'm a changed man"-style interviews only serve to make his consistent unpleasantness stick in the throat more.

In a perfect world, English football's governing bodies, or even his employers at club level, would tell him to sling his hook. But, alas, that would almost certainly prove a step too far for the morally skewed, money-powered version of football that constitutes the sport at its top level today. He is a 5.8 million pound investment, and it would thus be unthinkable to dispense with him on a business level. However, when Barton ends someone's career (or life - hey! this is a rant, OK?) one day with one of his trademark assaults, his apologists will not be able to say that they have not been warned. Football needs to amend its moral code, and act quickly to ensure that Barton can inflict no more damage...