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

Classics of Yesteryear Part 2: "Is that Ray Liotta?"

I'm pretty sure we haven't posted this before, but i'm not sorry if i'm mistaken. In a show of unabashed stream-of-consciousness lunacy, a Virgin Atlantic customer has created one of the classic personal letters in the history of the english language. The seamless seguing from rage, to childhood disappointment, reluctant professional respect, referencing of morbid gifts, and personal insults is quite extraordinary. Hugh Hefner's aformentioned confused admirer has real competition for the accolade of 'Hottest Rant of the Noughties'. If anyone would like to help arrange a ceremony for this and collect all these maniacs together (perhaps a BBQ in Fred's garden) then drop us a line.

Tasty morsels:

"Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in?"

"I’ll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard."

"More mustard than any man could consume in a month."

"I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point."

"When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese."

Note the consistent intimacy with which said anonymous Giles Coren-alike refers to the megalomaniac 'All-bran' Branson. Remember how say they the majority of murder victims know their killer? Or maybe it's rape victims. It doesn't really matter either way, Richard is doubtless a broken man after this. TH

The hottest rant of the year to date...

It would be severely remiss of us here at Hot Rant to let a truly epochal moment in the grand history of ranting pass without celebration.

In a nutshell: deeply crazy woman who believes she is a hat files a $3bn lawsuit against Hugh Hefner in the form of an unbelievably long, incoherent letter. Which you can attempt to read... here.

Despite your best intentions, however, there is not a cat in hell's chance that you will be able to make it all the way through to the end in one sitting, but highlights are bounteous and there is more than enough to keep you coming back for more. AC

Hot Rant hit the cycle track

This morning me and Tom got up at 8 am to go cycling at the Herne Hill Velodrome. In a rather un-Hot Rant fashion we actually found it amazingly fun. The sign up man was a small British cycling version of Mr Miyagi; that is if Mr Miyagi was an incredibly belligerent, child hating official. Some choice moments included him asking a kid to "get away from me" for having the nerve to ask how he could sign up for cycling and screaming at a child to stop touching a fence post as a fellow instructor attempted to go over crucial safety points. Nevertheless good times were had by all (except most of the, frankly terrified, children). Cycling around with no gears or brakes in a big circle is surprisingly entertaining, as a result me and Tom decided to start a track cycling team. Like most interns, Owain has proved a massive disappointment. He still puts at least four too many drops of milk in my latte and has yet to realise that we have no desire to help him develop as a an office worker or a person: we just can't afford a proper coffee maker. Due to this endemic level of poor performance we have decided to recruit him to do most of the grunt work for the newly named 'Wolfpack' cycling team. He claims to be bad at riding a bike so he'll have to contend with a steep learning curve (a gradient of 13% on the track to be exact) but will hopefully make me and Tom look like pros. Our kind job offer and an introduction explaining the origins of the team name 'Wolfpack' cand be found in the video below:


FC

Baldur's Gate II

Baldur's Gate II. What do these words mean to you? Careful it may reveal more than you'd like. Nope it's not an obscure late 70s action film, nor is it one of those weird military operation names. The correct definition is of course one of the most singularly addictive nerd fests of an RPG ever created. You take control of a merry band of adventurers in a mythical land and attempt to rescue a childhood friend from the evil grasp of a wizard called Irenicus who is actually trying to trap you into fighting him because you are the son of Bhaal. Or something like that. More importantly I believe it to be as chemically addictive as crack cocaine or even Championship Manager. Last night, in a desperate bid for freedom, I had to delete it from my computer. While I stoically resisted the urge to shove a remote control up my ass, I had ample time to think about the toll it had taken on my life.


I only started playing it a couple of weeks ago, in a pique of nostalgia for my thirteen year-old self. Since then many lows have been reached. Particularly bad was informing my girlfriend that "there's a female elf and mage in my party who I think both have the hots for me, but I've got to play it cool because love will only get in the way of the mission." Love getting in the way of the mission became a recurring theme between me and my girlfriend for the duration of the gaming experience. Our relationship deteriorated into sitting in the same room, in silence, while I just finished "clearing out one last orc's nest before saving'. This was no way to live. Or so she told me. A choice had to be made and Baldur's Gate II was wiped.

I don't know what makes these games so damn addictive. Maybe I'm just a huge nerd and wandering round a magical land full of dwarfs, elves, magicians and monsters whilst casting spells and slaying dragons is just too much to resist. I realise many people (seemingly especially female people) will view this in a less than favourable light. Well, tough. While I'm at it I might as well admit that I spent a a large chunk of my pre-adolescent childhood playing Warhammer and building Airfix planes. It was great. But even those solitary and frankly (girl) friend alienating activities never quite engendered a computer game level of obsessiveness. Those of you who play Champ Man may well understand. The (hopefully) true story of a friend of a friend who dressed up in a suit when he made the Champions League Final on the game springs to mind. Equally embarrassing was me and Ashley playing out this scene a deux in my room on a Friday night when other right minded youths were out partying and meeting members of the opposite sex.

As all the evidence so far points to me being very easily addicted to computer games I've wiped the game from my computer and instructed my girlfriend never to let me install another one. I think this is the best course of action until I find an environment as suitably supportive as the one in the following video:



Even in this (I assume mythical) gamers' paradise, there is an obvious bias towards one of the sexes. I believe I did manage to spot one person with long hair but seeing as they had their head in their hands as a result of a Street Fighter match I'm going to hazard a guess that they were just a ponytailed, male nerd. Look at those sad men fist pumping as if they had actually achieved something beyond controlling some pixels into a pre-programmed sequence... Who am I kidding. Where do I sign up? FC

From Ice Cream To Cage.... The Heat is On

Today we introduce a new contributor - Matt 'Albert' Kerly - who has some choice words for the state of British weather, draws Nic Cage into the Hot Rant fold once again and forwards some troubling thoughts about the mysteries behind the departure of a much-loved superstar.

Hot Rant! Couldn’t be more apt! It’s hot, I’m hot, i’m ranting about being hot. Slap me in the eye with an irony spoon!

Whether we get any or not- heat plays a great part of the British ‘summer’. If there’s none between May and September the nation complains. If the heat does arrive between May and September, a whole other set of factors comes into play, giving some, not all, but many, more to complain about! Buses are ovens on wheels, trains become microwaves on rails, shops- powder kegs of potential violence, MJ’s coffin, a miniature tub of playdough. (brace) And Jo Whiley is a dick (she’s onscreen so it must be Summer).

If I feel brave enough to wander about in this heat, (let’s face it, that intense daylight is somewhat alluring) I’m instantly looking for two things- Ice cream and Air Con! One, an incredibly expensive outlay for potentially little usage per year, and don’t even get me started on the price of Air Con! (At this juncture, I’d like to clarify - I am referring to the atmospheric temperature control system ‘Air. Con’ and not Nic Cage’s’s stolen plane, put-the-bunny-back-in-the-box, action movie ‘Con Air’. However- Remember. That. Face). The other, ice cream.

The big problem with ice cream is that they get more expensive year on year… a ‘99’ was named so, because back in 1978, they cost 99p! NINETY-NINE PENCE! Imagine that! What’s worse- the darn things seem to get smaller every year too! Whoever markets the ‘Feast’ needs to have a serious rethink! I’m suggesting ‘Morsel’, ‘Nibble’ or ‘Tidbit’… no, I’ve got it ‘Pisstake’. “Mint or chocolate flavour ice cream, with a yummy chocolate flavour centre, all covered in a crisp, chocolate flavour coating with crunchy biscuit pieces. Mmm, ‘Pisstake’- what a treat!”

And trying to find an air con system that works in the summer, y’know- when it’s actually needed- is like trying to find the Holy Grail… filled with Slush Puppy! Talking to various friends and family, it appears nobodies’ air con works. M&S and the Odeon amongst others but the best one I’ve been told has got to be Madame. Tussauds’. A tourist attraction that relies on accurate wax replicas to well… attract tourists! Imagine the meltdown… Sylvester Stallone’s mouth level, Boris Johnson’s fringe even, Michael Jacks- (snip! - Ed.)

Actually, on a serious note, amongst the many conspiracy theories surrounding the sad death of MJ, I believe I am the first to raise the following- check this - “June 09 - The new (Michael Jackson) figure recreates the classic Jackson pose of the new tour poster…. …To be unveiled in July 2009, the Madame Tussauds team have been creating the figure for 4 months.” Could this be the ultimate publicity stunt? Are they to unveil this new ‘figure’ only for it to burst to life after a few minutes? (he was fucking good at standing still for ages) …unlikely. But more sinisterly- could have Tussaud’s engineered this whole thing in an evil attempt to cut corners on their new MJ figure? Sounds unrealistic right? Not if you have a certain A-list actor on your side.

Look at this covert footage and tell me something untoward isn’t going on. Complete the trail of thought… Michael Jackson – Lisa Marie Presley and... bingo!

I’ve blown this wide open…

…and only slightly over the word limit. M.A Kerly

Unpaid Internships

I wish I could honestly say that unpaid internships were for suckers, but it’s not true. The basic fact of post-graduate life is that if you want to enter a profession that doesn’t drain every iota of enthusiasm and love for the daylight hours of Monday to Friday from your soul, you’re pretty much 90% going to have to be an office bitch on expenses for six months at some point in your early twenties. The privilege of the moneyed classes, interning for a substantial amount of time is free for those who can afford it, incredibly expensive for those who can’t. Take [REDACTED], our resident Hot Rant whipping boy and all round charming gringo. He’s enthused , dapper, and a pro with the franker but is he going to get a job if he works less than the mandatory year tenure on daily receipts of €10? In the esteemed words of Baudelaire: “NON.”

But why, one may ask, has this all of a sudden become a bone of contention? "Hey Tommy," you ponder, "didn’t you intern at Full Time Hobby for six months during second year? And then at Matador in the third?” Why yes friend I did. But like a child encountering a pederast on the fringes of a copse, I never got my sweets. An internship with some faint glimmer of a salaried position at its culmination is perfectly acceptable, should even (you'd think) be expected. Fattening up ones CV is a necessary tool in the quest for meaningful employment. But the shameful truth seems to be that if you want to work, like I did/do, at a record label or subversive fringe-culture oriented periodical, it’s a case of being in the right place at the right time, preferably after being on the dole for the amount of time ittakes your average starter to hit the 10k mark. To return to my point; this is all spurred on by two facts. Firstly, the company I work for (an internationally esteemed publisher of illustrated non-fiction books. Only minutes ago was I reading about ‘His Top 5 Handjobs’. It’s pretty enthralling stuff) is being restructured and, as a lowly temporary editorial assistant, I’m pretty much a dead cert to be chopped from the ranks like a deliciously stuff-able flower from a courgette. Secondly, I have an interview at Vice magazine (all tying up, no?). For an internship. Somebody wants to talk to me about not paying me a single cent for three whole months of full time effort. I don’t know what is wrong with me. If I do it and stay there then brilliant. I’ll have dragged myself up out of the quagmirious pit of humanities graduates, moaning pitifully like a hoard of lepers about ‘wanting to do something creative’ to a job envied by nearly every asymmetrically-quiffed jackass in a 2-mile radius of Dalston Kingsland. If not, I’ll have self-inflicted a metaphorical employment form of violent, unrestrained congress upon myself which will leave me out of pocket for the next eighteen months and back applying for jobs in publishing recruitment. I’ll probably take it. TH

BNP babes, Barrymore and Barnes

What should we do about Lenny Henry? Find out here, and consequently weep with anger, hilarity, rage, shame and confusion.

Credit where its due - I found out about this remarkable piece of entertainment/horror through broon44, a poster on the great music/culture forum Drowned In Sound.

Sitting back and branding the BNP and its various associates and acolytes as thick, ignorant, pathetic, laughable etc... is almost as passe these days as it is easy, but when you see something like this, it is simply a natural reflex for anybody of sound mind.

To elaborate on recent themes, here is an almost unbelievable audio-visual treat that similarly combines the name Michael, unfunny British comedy and disgusting racism (see above). Join me in celebrating the 25th anniversary of Michael Barrymore impersonating John Barnes. Live on BBC.



Winner of the outraged YouTube comment award goes to GreaserLeo;

Tonight, Michael Barrymore IS Anal Rape Murderer.
How can he still be on television. He refuses to comment on the night of the anal murder.
Disgusting.

Ranting at its absolute finest. AC

Michael Fucking McIntyre

It's fair to say that my Granddad and I have a different take on the state of modern comedy. Recently driving past a billboard featuring the looming visage of Russell Brand, he remarked without irony, "That man exudes evil". He visibly purples at the very mention of Jonathan Ross. And recently, as I tried my hardest not to laugh, he recounted, in a state of solemn exasperation, a TV stand-up's routine which apparently consisted of the comic saying the word "masturbating" over and over again. I feebly suggested that there may be have been some context that he had missed, he was steadfast in his disappointment with not only the state of comedy today, but clearly, the world we now live in. "Masturbating", he repeated softly, ashen-faced, head shaking slowly, eyes fixed to the floor.

But it turns out we do have something in comedy common after all. When I heard him bemoaning the act of "a Chinese fella who kept laughing at his own jokes before he'd finished, or often, started them", I knew he could only be referring to one man...


That's right - its Britain's new comedy hero, Michael Fucking McIntyre, who is in fact

• Not Chinese
• very, very irritating
• displacing Peter Kay as the doughy-faced poster boy for unfunny British comedy
  

Ubiquitous to the point of making me physically angry, McIntyre began spreading himself remarkably thin across every panel show going a couple of years ago, and has since graduated to the lofty heights of hosting his own BBC Comedy Roadshow. According to The Daily Telegraph, McIntyre is "quite simply top-to-toe hilarious". Above and beyond the obvious crapness of that review line (are anyone's toes, even Eddie Murphy or Dave Chapelle's, hilarious?), it is woefully inaccurate.

In fact, McIntyre's act seems to consist of giggling a lot, talkingreallyquicklyasthoughwewon'tnoticethatwhathe'ssayingisn'tactuallyfunnyatall and making 100% certain that every sentence he utters goes up in a questiony way at the end like a Californian schoolgirl?

Of McIntyre, one fan had this to say - an inane snippet of drivel which perfectly encapsulates what I despise about the man's comedy.

"He was on “Have I Got News for You”; he was funnier than Paul Merton. In fact, Paul didn’t get a word in. Not often that someone can get the better of him.’"

If your idea of being funnier than someone is talking so much that they actually get a word in edgeways, then your idea of comedy is very different from mine. I don't hate this guy as much as I hate the inexplicably overpraised Catherine Tate, but I do wish he'd give it a bloody rest. AC

Geezers

Guesting today is Jack Collins, a globe travelling, fast talking, Somerfield party food eating, skinny jeans wearing, geezer humour victim. Catch up with his travel blog at digitalpostcards.blogspot.com.

Just to clarify - a geezer is not a volcanic, water-spurty thing from Iceland. A geezer is someone who uses the phrases: "facking mastard!", or "You mappet!". The geezer's interests are: 1) birds, 2) tinnies, 3) Kasabian, 4) being a cunt. The geezer can be identified by his: A) awful tattoos, B) geezer mullet, C) A tendency to end every single sentence with: "yeah?"


Interaction with such fellows is unavoidable. However, I have personally had the misfortune of working in recruitment, a profession which is as packed full with geezers as the sun is packed full of burny bits. My colleagues had all of the standard attributes, but additionally possessed a brain-achingly twattish arrogance about them. Strutting around the office with their fat ties, and smug grins, believing they were "facking mastard" humans, because they had gotten the most IT professionals hired that day. Erm, wait a second Lock Stock! You haven't actually done anything. The candidate has done all the work, attended the interview and answered the questions to get the job, which incidentally is far more interesting than your profession. You have pushed a few buttons, and opened your cockney gob, yeah?

Recruitment is a geezer minefield. However, some of my most infuriating geezer encounters have occurred elsewhere. Once, a particularly burly arse-cheese actually stopped mid phone conversation (presumably when discussing "tits and arse and Millwall FC") and aggressively asked me: "How tight are your jeans mate, yeah?" Erm, very tight sir, thanks for asking and showing an active interest. What are you doing? At no point, repeat at no point, should you approach a stranger and make any kind of comment, positive or negative, in regards to their clothing. I would never approach a south-london rude boy to politely inform him that unfortunately the price tag is still attached to his baseball cap and that he looks like "a mappet". And by all accounts, I would never consider walking up to you, you gravy dribbling, white-collar-on-a-blue-shirt wearing, prize-winning turd of a primate; and tell you that your replica football jersey is particularly tight when stretched across your ever-burgeoning beer-belly, yeah?

Another geezer favourite which should be dispatched to oblivion is the following exchange-

Geezer: "Lookout mate, you've got something on the back of your heel."

Me: Oh, really (turning around, bending my leg slightly, and looking at my heel)

Geezer: Ay, ay sailor! Waaay! Hahaha etc.

What the fuck is that? That is not a joke. Oh right I get it: sailor = homosexual (your favourite object of derision). But how is bending your leg a sign of homosexuality? Just stop it. And please do not combine your violent geezer-laugh (an apocalyptic combination of both coughing and guffawing) with a heavy-handed slap on my belly. Don't touch me with your greasy, fake-tanned hands. My shirt, unlike yours, is actually all one colour: white. Hands off you fucking gorilla, yeah?

Annoying isn't it? Yeah. Jack Collins

Attack Cardio wth Vinnie Jones

Attack Cardio with Vinnie Jones from Vinnie Jones

Harsh Comment of the Week Award goes to:

Vettethrils:
I liked this skit better the first time i saw it. when it was on SNL 10 years ago as a personal trainer commercial parady. jones plays a great tough guy, usually, but in this skit hes just an unoriginal bastard.

Scathing stuff. Personally I love the "I'm taking your picture!" bit. FC

The Guardian

Being a fairly open minded but at times righteous, middle-class liberal I should literally love the Guardian. It should be my bible; leading me to some kind of organic food filled, climate change ending, equality centric mecca where everyone is unfailingly polite to each other. Instead it's starting to really piss me off.

The G2 section is the worst offender. I think it is purposely being turned into an horrific caricature of liberal views. Like a reverse Daily Mail where, instead of calling for the murder of all pedophiles and the deportation of anyone 'a bit funny looking', it campaigns for human rights for all free-range farm animals and the compulsory return to stone age technologies in order to avert the imminent global warming doomsday. It almost as if it's just a massive conspiracy, created to make all liberals look like the wussy, cotton headed cowards which right wingers so desire as targets. How else do you describe a front page headline which read "How do I tell my children about climate change?" The article was seriously about breaking the news about global warming to your children without giving them psychological damage. Seriously.

Secondly, G2 is also regularly filled with some of the most vapid pieces of writing ever. A recent article was entitled: 'Geoff Dyer: My secret life of crime' It continued: "There are three episodes in his life that Geoff Dyer prefers not to remember. He could have ended up in jail - but thankfully didn't. So did he just get lucky?" What were these terrible episodes? He threw a milk bottle at a window (but missed), almost crashed into another car (but didn't) and (finally something vaguely dangerous) accidentally smuggled a small bit of weed into the Bahamas. He seems to think that all of these episodes would have led to life in prison and the end of his life as he knew it, if he had been caught and if, in the case of the milk bottle and car crash, they had actually happened. Those are some big ifs. He carries on: "I would estimate that it was about 99% certain that I would pay the price for my actions. But I didn't. I got away with all three of them, scot-free, without a scratch." How on earth did this man come to the figure of 99%? Not by scientific means I imagine; two thirds of his crimes didn't actually happen. As if reading the tedious confessions of a man who has done nothing wrong wasn't bad enough, he ends his piece with a torturously awful simile, even by Hot Rant's standards:

I had a certain amount of random, unprotected heterosexual sex in the 1980s and 90s, but the chances of getting Aids was minimal compared with the chances of facing the consequences of these actions. Put it this way: given the limited extent of my sexual adventures I would have been extremely unlucky to have contracted HIV. These three incidents, on the other hand, would be the equivalent of having unprotected sex with a promiscuous homosexual IV drug-user.

No. They are the equivalent of going to a gay bar which contained one promiscuous homosexual IV drug-user, but not having unprotected sex with him due to you not being gay and only having gone to the bar to accompany a friend. About that risky. Or if you want a made up figure: 3.2%. FC

Micro-rant of the day

One of the greatest breakdowns in TV history - once again from the magisterial The Thick Of It, hopefully soon to return to our screens.



All together now... "I AM A MAN!" AC

Lewis Carroll's 'Darius in Wonderland'

I hate the transfer window - the churning, torpid, yearly funeral procession characterised last year by the numbing ball-ache of Gareth 'I'm not half the player Xabi Alonso is' Barry's coquetteish skirt-lifting in the general direction of Rafael Benitez. The transfer window is traditionally the time when agents get hot under the collar and take centre stage, when Sky Sports news becomes even more inane and repetitive than usual, and the time when football fans have to cruelly delude themselves into believing that they care about whether Bolton really will go through with their (free) swoop for Sean Davis (a surefire addition to the canon of players that mutate from young and promising into hardened stalwart seemingly without the bit in the middle - c.f. Danny Cadamarteri, Francis Jeffers)

This year's transfer window has been lent a certain edge by Real Madrid's manic, Brewster's Millions-esque spending spree and the tragi-comic publishing (in the Daily Heil) of Michael Owen's debut novel, 'I'm Not Actually Dead'. But generally speaking: so far, so glum...

... until today. Something has happened that has utterly defied expectation, sense, logic and, frankly, belief. I can't decide whether its a Frank Capra fairytale or a David Lynch nightmare made flesh. Either way, we have travelled, as a nation, at the speed of lightning, through the looking glass.

The pictures will tell their own story;





Ladies and Gentlemen, your eyes do not deceive you. This sequence of pictures really does document a vast number of people associated with Turkish football club AnkaraGucu beside themselves with joy at the capture of Darius Vassell. That's Darius Vassell. Darius. Vassell. A thoroughly OK striker with a pretty poor goals to games ratio, and no discernible star quality.

To be honest there is nothing I can add to the pictures. I'm mystified. Clearly, Darius (if the slogan above is to be believed) is more than a player. I just don't know what.

I'll leave you now to try and figure out this in your own sweet time. I'll be doing the same. E-mail any responses or comments to hotrant@gmail.com
AC