Ashton Kuntcher

2day the world lost a little piece of sunshine. My deepest condolences go out 2 Brittany’s family, her husband, & her amazing mother Sharon.
12:00 PM Dec 20th from Brizzly

see you on the other side kid.
12:03 PM Dec 20th from Brizzly

If I died tomorrow, then I would be truly honoured if my death provoked the calibre of Tweets that Brittany Murphy's passing did. Ashton Kuntcher's Twittered eulogy, both eloquent and profound, perfectly articulated the tragedy that accompanies the premature death of a loved one.

Because I don't trust any of you mongs to match Ashton's sterling work, I've prepared my own Tweeted Eulogy which I expect you all to use. Just cut and paste, then get your grieve on.

"OMG. I CNT BLVE HES GON! HRE 2DAY GON 2MRW. ITS SO TRU DAT DA GD ONES DIE YNG. VRY SAD! OH WELL AT LEAST HE DIED IN HIS SLEEP. LOL. NEWAY WHAT R PEOPLE SAYING 2NIGHT? IM GOING NANDOS. YUM!"

I have a £50 tab at the Catford Nando's, which is to be enjoyed by my loved ones in the event of my death. Have a wing on me!

Bait faces

Today I realised I could no longer use work as an excuse for not updating the blog. After just 2 hours at my desk I found myself checking Wikipedia as part of an investigation into career trajectories of the cast of That 70's Show . FYI, most of the gang are doing fine, apart from Hyde and the tall ginger bird. Hyde is now a balding Scientologist who DJs under the moniker 'DJ Mom Jeans', while TGB was last seen appearing on How I Met Your Mother as Karen, Ted's old high school and college girlfriend. SHIT.

Anyway, I'm going ease my way back into the cut and thrust world of blogging with a nice and lazy post. Below are a list of people with annoying faces, or as I call them: BAIT FACES. Welcome to bait faces.

Chris Tarrant. Some people have unfortunate faces which bear no relation their actual personalities. For example, I have an acquaintance whose natural smile makes him resemble a smirking date-rapist. To the best of my knowledge, my friend isn't a rapist. But his face tells a different, far more traumatic story.

Unlike my sleazy-faced acquaintance, Tarrant's coupon sums him up perfectly. It encapsulates the self-regard of the successful, fleshy middle-aged man who is currently enjoying the unsavoury pleasures associated with a full-blown mid-life crisis. Look into eyes, it's all flash cars and young women who have given up on love.

The picture above was used to promote the seriously unappealing Tarrant vehicle Tarrant Lets the Kids Loose. The only appealing Tarrant vehicle I can conceive of would never get commissioned, although I reckon the ultra violent Tarrant gets Maimed would actually be a hit.


Russell Howard. Look at the picture above, annoying isn't it? You may be tempted to give Russell (shit name) the benefit of the doubt:

"I'm sure the photographer asked him to pose like that. They probably took loads of normal pictures but ended up choosing one that made him look like a bit of a wally."

Sorry love, you're wrong. Russell Howard always stands like that. He is one of those guys who just loves to rock a jaunty pose. Be it with a wall/climbing frame/giant log, it's how he lives his life. Sadly, due to the success he has experienced at a young age, he won't see reason to stop. He will be dicking about in a similar vein well into his forties. At least we will all be able to enjoy the inevitable media backlash that this ballbag will face. If you thought the Barrymore saga was bad...

Louis Walsh has a big bubble-head, and always seems to be on the verge of tears. Not an appealing combination. He is the uncle you hope isn't invited around for Christmas.


CJ de Mooi = The worst man.

Celebrity Come Dine with Me (The Remake)

After enjoying Sunday's Celebrity Come Dine with Me so much, I've decided to stage a remake of this special episode in my own home. I have approached the 4 celebrity participants, and so far only Roy Walker has agreed to attend the event to be hosted in New Cross. Les Battersby felt that my last blog entry was derogatory and has refused to attend the meal. Your loss Les, I was cooking fish, and we all know how much you like fish...

ANYWAY, I'm not going to let one selfish soap actor scupper the ultimate dinner party, so I've decided to rope in a replacement. After scouring the web for Les Battersby lookalikes, I've managed to find two relatively plausible options:

LES 1

LES 2

While Les 2 is clearly the closest to 'real' Les in terms of appearance, I feel that Les 1 some how manages to capture an abstract essence of 'real' Les that transcends mere aesthetic similarities. Also the combination of Les 1's shoddy webcam promotional picture and complete lack shared physical traits with his supposed lookalike, suggest that he may be short on work. Rendering him the cheaper option of the two.

Come Dine with Me

Anyone see celebrity Come Dine with Me yesterday? If not, you missed a classic. The celebs were Yvette Fielding, Roy Walker, Les Battersby and Natasha Hamilton (the surprisingly fit one from Atomic Kitten). The producers pulled a master stroke in booking Walker, Battersby and their attendent alcoholism for the show. Apart from some unsavoury ogling of the Atomic Kitten, this alarmingly red-faced pair of codgers were great value. Highlights of the show include:

1. Roy Walker repeatedly lunging at the camera with a spatula as if he was holding a foil. He must of done this at least 8 times whilst preparing the meal. It was the kind of behaviour you would expect from an attention seeking homeless man if Channel 4 decided to film a documentary in his local park/home. Yvette Fielding cackled like a nutter in the background every time Roy Walker embarked on this comic routine.

2. Les Battersby completely misjudging the tone of Celebrity CDWM. He got inappropriately emotional after being served fish during Roy Walker's piss up. Apparently, before embarking on his CDWM adventure Les wasn't a big fish fan. But after enjoying Roy's trademark mackerel dish, Les got all tearful and started rueing all of the wonderful fish suppers he has missed out on. Les Battersby had gone into Celebrity Wife Swap mode and was visibly invigorated by all the life changes he was going to make. Les had obviously forgotten about the life changes he said he would make when he actually did appear on Celebrity Wife Swap. He got all tearful then, and promised Sinitta that he would cut down on the sauce. This has clearly not happened.

3. Yvette Fielding getting randy during Roy Walker's meal. She kissed Les Battersby (with tongue) despite the fact he was still in a tearful state of post-fish reflection and had a mouth full of black pudding. Yvette also said she fancied Roy Walker and started rolling on his bed, cackling like a nutter after making her sexy confession.

4. Unfortunately, I missed Les Battersby's meal. But I'm sure it was a highlight. The worst case scenario would be Les getting tearful (AGAIN) and verbally abusing the Atomic Kitten for attempting to conceal a lukewarm Rustler's BBQ Rib burger in her handbag. The best case scenario is that he orders in a curry and no one gets E coli.

Pet Peeve #10

Unconvincing Swearing

Yesterday, an otherwise upset-free trip to Sainsbury's was tainted by some textbook unconvincing swearing. I can be a pretty big fan of swearing; but only when it's employed by someone who knows what they're playing at. Unfortunately, it was amateur's night in the biscuit aisle of New Cross Sainsbury's yesterday evening. Whilst contemplating the delicious Taste the Difference range of cookies on offer, my decision making process was abruptly curtailed by a Peruvian hat wearing Goldsmith's student :

"Come on Guy, we can't afford Hobnobs. Lets just get a fuck off box of Basics cereal. It will last us for ages."

Woah! Did she just drop the F-Bomb? This crude attempt to pass off being a tight arse as rock n roll had thrown me. It is going to take more than an inappropriate 'fuck' to generate enthusiasm for the of joyless thrift that forbids the purchase of Hobnobs. Not that I had much sympathy with young 'Guy' either. He crumbled immediately, and like a freshly walloped 4-year old, promptly placed the Hobnobs back on the shelf. I'm sure the rest of their shop was littered with similar exchanges:

"Fuck Andrex! You can get a fuckload of the cheap stuff for half the price!"

"Why are you getting Heinz you dick. Check out the cracked-out prices on the own brand shit."

"Oh my cunt. You can buy toothpaste for 10p!"

The unnecessary "fuck" generated in me the same emotions as when I encounter a guitar playing Christian. I once saw a scruffy haired, open-collared vicar/ponce type do an acoustic cover of Kool and the Gang's 'Get down on it'. This number was part of an impromptu 'set' that formed an integral part of the service at a now estranged cousin's wedding. That day I realised that guitars had no place inside a church, even if the church in question was a recently converted Plumbase.

Here's how it should be done:

Eggs Bruv

Apologies for the lack of updates over the last few weeks, but as mentioned in one my previous posts, a spike in my workload and the introduction of a new desk mate in the shape of 'Alp', have severely limited my opportunities to post. Fortunately my workload is beginning to tail off, and Alp has enrolled for a stint in the Cypriot national service. What a guy! Sturdy, reliable Alp has been a revelation since his arrival. His seemingly infinite line of dad jokes, whilst resolutely unfunny, are still mysteriously comforting. The only downside of his presence is the distinct possibility that my hairline will begin to synchronise with that of follically challenged Alp (LIKE PERIODS). If this happens and I end up bald, then I will be modelling myself on everyone's favourite celebrity slaphead: Richard O'Brien. Both nimble and highly intelligent - he wears his baldness like a medal of honour.

The picture above is an example of British Rail's recent campaign to get the youth of the day excited about rail travel. A series of adverts based on film posters have cropped up in train stations around London. Getting on the 8.08 to South Norwood is pretty much the antithesis of starring in a Hollywood blockbuster, so rather than encouraging the uptake of Young Person Railcards, they just exacerbate the persistent malaise that accompanies the daily commute. As you can see, the posters are jarringly shoddy approximations of real films. I think the poster above is meant to allude to the Terminator movies, but I don't remember Arnold Schwarzenegger portraying the disgruntled, goggle-wearing mechanic from Basingstoke who is depicted here.

By far the worst offender of these adverts is the "Dude where's your Railcard" number featuring some berk with an emo hardrock haircut shouting "Dude, where's your railcard?" whilst giving it the 'Big L'. I'm starting to resent being called a loser every morning by this prick:

"Dude, Where's your railcard?"

"I don't have one. Does that make me a loser? I know I never planned to go into admin on a full-time basis. BUT IT PAYS THE BILLS."

"Forget the job buddy, only squares work 9 to 5. Me and Brad are going surfing, why don't you come with."

"It's not that simple, I can't just drop everything mate, I have a job. Also, why do I need a railcard. Can't I just ride with you guys in the camper van?"

"Sorry, not enough room."

"But there's loads of room."

This conversation continues until I am forcibly moved on by a burly member of the Southeastern workforce.

The railcard campaign is one of the more patronising, ill-advised youth targeted advertising campaigns in recent times. But it's not a patch on the Lion eggs campaign from a few years back, which attempted to convince the world that hip hop loving teens get mad hyped over eggs. There was a TV advert where an ethnically diverse group of lads burst into the kitchen, flick on Kiss FM and start debating what they are going to have for lunch. It is never explained what they have been doing to build up such an appetite (presumably something suitably urban, such as breakdancing or gangrape). I have been unable to find a video of this advert online, but below is a paraphrased transcript of the discussion that leads to the group decision to lunch on eggs:

Boy 1: " This is a tune mate!"

Boy 2: "Get me, I'm hungry though, still."

Boy 3: "You reading my mind bruv! You got any ham up in this bitch?"

Boy 1: "Ham? Are you gay?

Boy 2: "Get me! Ham is a dickhead munch."

Boy 3: "I'm sorry."

Boy 1 reaches into cupboard and excitedly discovers a 6 pack of eggs.

Boy 2: Braaapp Braaapp! Eggs in da house!

Boy 3 mimes a whisking motion (presumably to denote the omelette-making process)

Advert ends.

If anyone can get hold of this footage then you will receive a truly spectacular egg-related prize.

Youth orientated advertising wasn't always this ill-advised. See below for an example of how it should be done:

Random punter

"i want a blowjob from coleen nolan"

According to Analytics, some joker Googled this obscure sexual request and ended up on givingitbigballs. You're in a bad place when you enter into a dialogue with an online search engine in order to obtain a celebrity blowjob. Not only does it suggest that our sexy surfer has a tenuous grasp on reality (Coleen Nolan blowjobs don't just grow on trees mate), but it also demonstrates a complete ignorance of how Google works. 'Ask Jeeves' is this way pal.

This chap would do himself a lot of favours if he assumed a less wimpy tone when making his blowjob enquiries. At the moment his plea is so defeated and listless, he can't even be bothered to press Caps Lock on his keyboard.

"i want a blowjob from coleen nolan"

Sorry bossman, you're never going to get a blowjob like that. Only assertive go-getters get the kind kind of celebrity sex action that you're looking for. Where's your sense of entitlement? Where's your indignant sexual desire? If you're reading mate, next time you turn to an internet search engine (preferably Ask Jeeves) to facilitate your ill-advised quest for blowjobs, be proud and unafraid. Seize your keyboard and bellow:

"WHEN AM I GETTING MY COLEEN NOLAN BLOWJOB!?"

Funhouse

As you may have noticed, I have been pretty slack recently in regards to posting on the blog. There are two main reasons for this, both of which are work-related:

1. An unwelcome spike in my workload.

2. An even more unwelcome change in office seating arrangements.

For several months I have enjoyed the freedom that comes with sitting next to a tolerant colleague, or even better, an empty chair. Yet now I am being flanked by two new members of staff, which means that playtime is effectively over.

My new deskmate is a solid looking chap named 'Alp'. He seems pleasant enough, but our conversational topics have so far been limited to football and the temperamental data entry system that we both have to use. While he didn't seem to disapprove when I called a computer program a 'cunt', I still don't trust him enough to reveal how little work I am actually capable of doing. I generally don't use real names in posts, unless I am comfortable with the individual in question reading the blog. Alp can be the exception to this rule (congratulations Alp).

While I am not enamoured with the prospect of Alp following this blog, he does not strike me as the type of character who 'blogs' or even knows what a blog is (this is in no way a jibe). I don't believe that Alp would even think to Google search his own name. Even if he did, I imagine that he would soon become disheartened, as the search results would be dominated by the mountain range with which he shares his name, as well as the Australian Labor Party.

The other staff member who is now happily encroaching into my workspace is none other than the PA for my head of department (BIG SHOT). She has been positioned on a right angle to myself, and I often catch a glimpse of her staring blankly at the side of my head. I'm pretty sure that she's just zoning out rather than losing herself in an erotic moment, but it's still disconcerting. She is a broadly agreeable woman in her mid-thirties who laughs at EVERYTHING that I say. At first her enthusiastic responses to my 'funnies' were greatly appreciated; my thirst for approval never having been so effectively satiated in the workplace. However it soon became apparent that my colleagues laughter was pretty cheap, and that virtually anything, if said with an appropriate tone of voice, could provoke her extreme mirth.

Obviously this has cheapened her chuckle, and every time I hear it (which is all the time) a mild sense of resentment swells inside me. I have yet to ascertain whether her seemingly indiscriminate bouts of laughter are a consequence of a genuine lust for life, or merely symptomatic of a dependence on prescribed anti-depressants. Either way, she's having a hoot.

Below is a bonus snap of Andi Peters that I found whilst Google image searching Pat Sharp.

Paradise with Barry

I've really got to stop buying the Observer. For the £2 I waste on this rag every Sunday I could instead invest my funds in any of the following selection:

- 2 Toblerones from Poundland
- 6 Wings and chips
- 70% of a 10 pack of B+H Silvers
- A Gregg's Chicken and Mango Sandwich
- A King's of Leon ringtone (SEX ON FIRE)

The main supplement seems to consist of nothing but wafty features on green issues and numerous pictures of tearful third world matriarchs. This week the the main piece focused on celebrities and "their very personal al fresco spaces" (gardens). Below is a picture of Barry from Eastenders having a relaxing Sunday ruined by an inflatable dolphin:


Check out the OTT description of Barry's garden/Secret Kingdom:

"Walk through the garage door and you enter Shaun's Secret Kingdom, where honeybees feast from abundant blooms, apple and quince trees ready their branches for fruit and hens cluck around in dappled sunlight...

..."Peonies, magnolias and camellias", shouts his wife, Mel, from behind a fence. It's capable Mel who really gets her hands dirty around here, and Shaun who jumps in the pool with children Sophie, 11, and Joseph, 8."

Observer knobhead Cath Rapley is really going to town with the descriptive language here. Anyone who has ever been to Sevenoaks will tell you that it's not that interesting, yet Cath Rapley is going on like Barry and his obnoxious wife Mel have cultivated a contemporary Eden. Thankfully Barry isn't nude, and an inflatable porpoise has usurped the gobby serpent as tormentor-in-chief.

Another source of beef is sultry agony aunt Mariella Frostrup, and her continued refusal to respond to my repeated pleas for help. I have sent her dozens of letters regarding my 'night terrors', yet not one of them has made it on to the problem page. Every week it's yet another thirtysomething whining about how they're not sure whether they are in the right relationship. What about my night terrors Mariella!?

On road with Derek Acorah part 3

We pick up where we left off. Derek Acorah out on the town, knee deep in gash. His relentless pursuit of casual sex seems to know no bounds. These two aren't even Acorah fans, he found them in the smoking area outside the Rochdale Wetherspoons. He convinced them to come and sit with us and ordered them several rounds double Gin and Tonics. All the while he was malevolently sipping his iced water. What a pro.

In the last entry on the tour diary I mentioned an unsavoury incident that took place at a leisure centre on the outskirts of Walsall. Well, despite my best efforts the incident has made it to court. After the amount of allegations Derek has had to fend off, court is almost like a second home. Here he is chilling with one of his more unhinged supporters. Unfortunately I'm also facing charges, apparently incinerating pair of soiled Speedos, then paying off a pool attendant/witness constitutes 'perverting the course of justice' these days.

Here's Derek giving it the 'Big W'. Ever since he saw the OTT camp fella from Will and Grace do it, he's hasn't looked back. In my opinion the joke is starting to wear a bit thin. This particular 'Big W' was Derek's response to me asking him whether 'he would like something to drink'. I'm not sure he even knows what the 'Big W' actually means.

Here is Derek moments before he realises he has inadvertently agreed to perform at a BNP psychic convention. Apparently this band of racist mediums mistook Derek's renowned eurosceptic leanings and belief in the imposition of a 22% flat tax rate as indicative of race hate. Derek is many things but racist and ageist he is not. His spirit guide/best mate Sam is a 2000 year old Ethiopian for fuck's sake.

Being the pro that he is Derek powered through. Although he felt uncomfortable performing to a room full of racist psychics, there was a free buffet and £500 cash in hand on the table. The show was essentially hitch free, although an elderly bigot called 'Bob' attempted to incite a race war within the spirit world. He tried to claim that his spirit guide was Heinrich Himmler. According to Derek, Sam gave Himmler slaps.

Derek having one of his 'erotic moments' at a cocktail party in Dover. The party was hosted by the Kent cell of his UK fan club. As you can imagine Derek gets a lot of female attention at these events, and rarely goes home empty handed. I wish I could say that Derek was 'empty handed' when this picture was taken.

Can you turn a Suit into a Style Icon?

Evidently the answer is no.

The Max Hastings makeover is reasonably inoffensive. He just looks like a mildly senile/daft grandad whose grandchildren have taken him on a humorous shopping trip to Topman.

Things start to take a slightly sinister turn when we get to Ken Livingstone. With his undone tie and open-legged stance, Ken is giving off a massive pre-coital vibe. All that's missing from this picture is a Rophynol laden Gin and Tonic for Ken's ladyguest. If she has any wits about her she will have already booked her minicab home.

Something about Jeremy Vine's facial expression is rubbing me up the wrong way, making me want to smash his house up. He's been dressed as a Graphic Designer residing in Dalston, but has completely missed the point and is gurning like a cartoon skinhead.

This is my favourite, as John Torode just looks proper mental. It's remarkable how they have managed to achieve such a litany of hideous mistakes on one man:

- The baffling 'blissed-out nonce' facial expression that Torode is pulling. It looks like he has spent the shoot getting smashed on Ken's addled Gin and Tonics.
- He is wearing 2 watches. One of which isn't even a real watch.
- His Finger nails are painted black, thus accentuating the powerful nonce vibes that this picture emits.
- He is nonchalantly balancing a guitar on his knee; looking like he's ready to break into a 45-minute Suzanne Vega medley.
- Men with womanly hips freak me out, and Torode is sporting a pair of rolled up brown slacks that reveal a vintage lady bum.
- Disgusting Orange suede loafers/pixie shoes sans socks.

Someone at Observer Woman obviously hates paunchy middle-aged men, and has gone to great pains to make them look like proper cunts. Mission accomplished.

Loose Women

It’s Monday afternoon and I’m reclining on a slightly shabby, yet highly comfortable Chaise longue. I’m wallowing in mild self-loathing because rather than taking advantage of a Monday booked off work to go outside and enjoy the sterling weather, I am instead watching a group of middle-aged women have a contrived conversation about fuck all.

Today’s guest is Coronation Street actress Dearbhla Molloy (shrugs shoulders), and she is relaying a predictably dull Coronation Street related anecdote. The stories that are told on Loose Women tend to be either grossly exaggerated yarns, or more frequently, outright lies. Coleen Nolan is the most prolific offender, and she specialises in far-fetched tales of domestic woe. From what I gather, her home-life consists in her braving a never-ending cycle of psychological abuse at the hands of her evil spouse ‘Ray’. If I was Ray, I would have serious words. Imagine going into work and having to be greeted by a gallery of unwarranted scowls from all of your female colleagues:

Ray: “Hi Doreen, you Okay?”

Doreen: “Piss off Ray; I heard what you said to Coleen when you went to Thorpe Park the other week.”

Ray: “Eh?”

Doreen: “You told her she wouldn’t be allowed on the log flume because she exceeded the weight limit. You then slapped a packet of Doritos out of her hand and called her ‘fat slag’.”

Presumably, Ray must then leave the staff room, and have to suffer the indignity of eating his Greggs Steak Bake huddled in a toilet cubicle like some kind of famished cottager. On one occasion, Coleen relayed a festive anecdote which detailed how during their first Christmas together, Ray took offence to the lumpy gravy she had served him with his roast dinner. Ray threw his toys out of the pram big time, and ended up forcing Coleen into eating her lacklustre supper off the carpet. Coleen had only gone and passed off a harrowing Eastenders Christmas special as her own personal experience! Yet rather than following Little Mo’s lead in bludgeoning her spouse with an iron, Coleen opted to share her woes with the Loose Women panel.

Coleen was mercifully absent from Monday's instalment of Loose Women (maybe Ray had locked her in the shed again) and I was being treated to a dull, but probably truthful anecdote courtesy of Dearbhla Molloy (fuck knows). If you have a life and missed this televisual gem, I have broken down the anecdote into three parts:

PART 1: Coronation Street airs 4 times a week, so it has a very quick turnover of episodes. This means that the actors do not have long to learn their lines.

PART 2: To save time Dearbhla would only read the pages from the script that contained her dialogue. She even went as far as ripping these particular pages from the script, and throwing the rest of script away. This sounds a bit extreme, but whatever.

PART 3: The consequence of this erratic behaviour was that she would tune into an episode of Corrie in which she starred, only to be taken surprise by what she saw on screen.

Now this anecdote is in itself harmless, it's very boring, but harmless. The streak of evil that runs through ITV's Loose Women only becomes manifest in the reaction of the regular panellists to such an innocuous anecdote. First to stick her oar in is today's host Jackie Brambles, who bellows: “You should have given Jane a call!" To understand this seemingly random interjection, you need to know that fellow panellist and former cruise ship warbler Jane McDonald is a big fan of Coronation Street. Brambles is giving the rest of the panel the green light to kick off; because when one of this lot goes, they all do. It's like being in the bottom set for GCSE Maths at a Lewisham comprehensive.

After Brambles battle cry of “You should have given Jane a call!” Jane herself decides to get involved. She simply shouts "SPEED DIAL".

Dearbhla Molloy's anecdote has managed to provoke a flurry of banter amongst the panellists which has become both increasingly abstract and louder with each contribution. Dearbhla became perplexed to point of physical distress at what the banshees from Loose Women had done to her original story. While it may have been boring, at least it was delivered at an appropriate volume and had a coherent narrative.

Frisbee

I hate frisbee, and everything that it stands for:

Frisbee and skiing at the same time? Come on mate, you can have one or the other, not both. Time to man up and choose a preferred cuntish hobby.

This guy probably reckons that he is some sort of frisbee hardman. The Chopper Read of the frisbee world if you will. Obviously no one has had the heart to tell him that there is no such thing as a 'frisbee hardman'.

Oops, my bad. I forgot about this fella. Wouldn't want to run into this guy in a dark alley! (Or anywhere else).

"Hey Clive, fancy coming to the park with me to spend the afternoon trying to throw a frisbee into my bum."

"Shit Jonni, you read my mind."

Two hands? Go and sit down on the big blanket with all the other girls.

WHAT? Why is that woman so fucking small? I can't believe what I'm see... Oh bullocks. A frisbee has been employed in order to cleverly manipulate perspective. You've made me look like a complete cunt.

Frisbee 1 - 0 Jack

On road with Derek Acorah part 2

UK Living agreed to replace Derek's Toyota minivan with a top of the range tour bus. Unfortunately, I have been prohibited from riding with Derek after I declined to take advantage of Acorah's offer of 'sloppy seconds' with a recently widowed thirtysomething. She had been cherry picked from the audience at his show at the Yeovil Octagon.

A Derek Acorah Self-portrait. Derek was especially proud of his rendition of the 'Ghost Town' font. When I asked him where the 's' was, he called me an 'ungrateful little queer.' As you have probably gathered our relationship is becoming increasingly strained.

Lovely moment when Derek clocks the 'Pool is Unsupervised' sign at this Haven Holiday Park in Hopton. He was concerned that some campsite jobsworth would stop him going for a refreshing nude swim in the family pool. Derek generally prefers to cover up, but 2 days previously I was ordered to incinerate his swimming trunks after an unsavoury incident at a leisure centre on the outskirts of Walsall.

Taken in the Men's room at 40 Degreez, Aldershot. Here Derek is looking well and truly peeved due to the persistent goading from a group of off-duty servicemen. After having his amorous ambitions thwarted for the umpteenth time that evening, Derek slammed a clenched fist into the defective contraceptive machine and croaked: "If that cunt shouts 'BOO' one more time I will cut his fucking ears off."

Derek filming some dodgy celeb reality show, he claims he only does these gigs for the money, yet he seems to revel in the company of minor television personalities. Derek seemed genuinely starstruck by June Sarpong, and I even overheard him gushing over the 'halcyon days of T4'. Being the Silver-tongued fox that he is, Derek managed to talk Nancy Dell'olio into spending the night on the Ghost Towns passion wagon. In a move uncharacteristic of Delboy, he also granted her request to ride with us for the remaining dates on his UK Tour. Inevitably, his infamously short attention span claimed yet another heart, and Derek's once intense cravings for Nancy quickly waned. I sensed Derek was up to something when he told our driver (Ken) to park up outside a service station on the edge of Cleethorpes. He asked Nancy to fetch him "20 Pall Mall and a bag of Murray Mints" and gave her a friendly tap on the bum. Nancy obliged and scampered enthusiastically into the Shell garage. Once she was inside Derek barked at Ken to "Put the metal to peddle" following up this order with the exclamation that "This bitch is deadwood." Nancy never did make it to Grimsby.

Clearly it didn't take Derek long to get over Nancy. Here he is intoxicated by lust, getting some serious groping in before the end of his tour.

Liar, liar my pants are on fire!

Recently, I have been making a concerted effort to reduce the amount of lies that I tell on a day to day basis. About a year ago I had a minor epiphany while contemplating the harrowing dissolution of a long-term relationship. I came to conclusion (was told) that I am a bit of a deceitful turd. After realising that the claim being made was pretty legitimate, I decided to stop being a gargantuan pussy, and adopted a policy of embracing confrontation when appropriate. Obviously I still avoid conflict when it embodies potential physical risk. My name's Jack Scragg not Jackie Chan! (My name's not Jack Scragg either).

I have so far been relatively successful in this endeavour, and am generally no longer telling pointless lies to friends or ladyfolk. For example, if a pal calls me up and asks if I 'fancy heading to the Heath to play some Frisbee', rather than making up some bullshit excuse like: "Sorry Josh, I can't, I'm visiting my Senile Aunt." I will just tell the truth: "Sorry Josh, I'm not up for that, as I HATE Frisbee." Simple. This innovative approach to social relations has totally enhanced my quality life. Being continually entangled in an ever expanding, self-created web of lies is both exhausting, and a constant source of anxiety. My name's Jack Scragg (lie) not the Itsy Bitsy Spider.

Inevitably there have been some rocky moments on the this path of truth. I have been punched in the face by one girl, had a Nokia launched into my eyeball (same girl, different incident) and have provoked numerous quizzical eyebrows. Of course, when abandoning a habit of a lifetime there will be the occasional lapse, and my true nature will emerge. Here's just three examples of cowardly and/or deceitful behaviour that have been exhibited by myself in the last month alone:

1. Me and the girl that sits next to me at work have recently taken to using a secret jar of nice coffee to do our hot drink round with. This is because the communal coffee we used to endure is some fair trade shit that tastes like canned fish. To avoid having our costly, but far tastier coffee being depleted too quickly, we keep 'the special stuff' in my neighbour's draw. When it's time to do a tea round we have smuggle the jar in and out of the staff kitchen like Alan Partridge and his giant plate.

Humiliatingly, I was caught out on Tuesday whilst making a batch of hot drinks with our special jar of cafe noir, and when confronted about it I betrayed my colleague without hesitation: "Yeah, this is Elizabeth's special coffee, she doesn't seem to like the fair trade stuff." I shook my head and then gave a resigned 'What's she like?' roll of the eyes as I trotted off with my tray of beverages. Sorry Liz.

2. One Saturday afternoon I was recovering in my local watching a nondescript football match, I had managed to work myself into a pretty pleasant state of hungover reverie which was then ruined by an irritatingly jaunty phone call from my Father. His attempts to arrange a rendezvous for the next day held no appeal, so rather than telling him that I wouldn't be up to the job of entertaining him that Sunday morning, I instead cited an invented wedding in Guildford. The following weekend I met my dad and had to fabricate an entire wedding ceremony plus garden party. I even told him that I pulled a bird with a big hat. This was a textbook example of the multilayered lie; the three-tiered wedding cake of the lie world. Sorry Dad.

3. I told a girl that I once threatened to headbutt the hat-wearing guitarist from 'The Kooks'. Must have been in a bad place when I came out with this one. I think this dubious boast was meant to convey an image of myself as a 'hardman with indie credentials'. Needless to say I went home alone on this occasion. Sorry semi-attractive girl and hat-wearing guitarist from 'The Kooks'.

Sports Day

Yes everybody, my Interdepartmental Sports Day is upon us. The second most important social event on the corporate calendar is taking place this Wednesday, and quite frankly, I am BRIMMING with excitement. Last week the rigorous team selection process took place, a process which consists in allocating any willing woman, homosexual or man over 40 a place onto one of the massive, amorphous departmental rounders teams. Non-obese men between the age of 18 and 40 (plus the occasional lesbian) are then drafted into the 6-a-side teams. It's a bit like World War 2, but marginally less fun.

There is also a tennis tournament involving a selection 'high flyers' from the organisation, as well as a token nutter who claims to be an ex-pro. His woeful performance last year indicates that his claims to sporting excellence are false; yet he has once again put his name forward for this year's event. Hopefully he has recovered from the 'ligament damage' that impeded his progress in last year's competition (this is unlikely, as 'ligament damage' is no more than a euphemism for being 'a pathological liar who is also shit at tennis.')

This year the build up to sports day has been given some extra spice, as all staff attending the event have been subject to a characteristically passive-aggressive series of emails courtesy of HR. Their inappropriate use of capital letters presumably serves to let everyone know that while sports Day is a meant to be 'a bit of a laugh', any behaviour that impinges upon the smooth operation of the event WILL NOT BE TOLERATED:

"The pick up time is 12noon so make sure you are on time for a prompt departure. Note that seats have been allocated ONLY to those that have REGISTERED."

It's worth baring in mind the sports ground is a 15 minute tube journey away. This isn't the Millenium stadium that we're talking about.

"All those who are participating in the sporting activities please do NOT leave any valuables (wallet, car keys, mobile phones) in the changing rooms whilst you are playing."

For someone who owns neither a car or a wallet, this attempt at clarifying the definition of 'valuables' is borderline insulting.

FUN GAME ALERT: See if you can spot me in the photo at top of this post, it was taken at last year's sports day! I'll give you a clue, I am neither a pre-pubescent blonde boy nor a member of an ethnic minority. Good luck!

Crotch based post

Have been very lazy with the blog recently, there's no particular reason for this, it's just 'where I'm at'. Hopefully I will start writing semi-coherent posts again, but for now you will just have to put up with this kind of nonsense. Despite the lack of activity on the blog I have still been checking my Google Analytics profile on a daily basis. The results have been predictably depressing, as it is STILL the case that a significant proportion of the visitors to this blog get here because they are Google searching 'Men with Big Balls' or even more disturbingly 'Big balls man'. Who is big balls man? I would love to find out, maybe I could post an interview with him on the blog (due to my distinct lack of ideas at the moment, I imagine that I will fabricate an interview with this fictional man in the near future). Bafflingly, 'Nick Moran Wanker' is also still drawing in a lot of punters to the blog. He is obviously some kind of Internet hate figure, a reverse Rick Astley if you will.

I have reluctantly decided to make some concessions for all you guys (and gals) out there who are clearly hankering for men with outsized testicles, or as I call 'em, "scrotum busters". So today givingitbigballs is bringing you the first, and last, CROTCHFEST. I know that I am letting myself in for a deluge of emails calling me a 'sellout' and a 'closet homosexual', but you guys can go and lick my big, salty balls. LET CROTCHFEST COMMENCE.

Also, before we start crotchfest I want to give a massive shout out to 'picman1108' and his groin-heavy photostream on Flickr. Without you this could never have happened brother. Peace and crotches.





Yup, you guessed it, I've only gone and left the best till last. Feast your fucking eyes on this swinging stud:


If this post is as popular as I predict it will be, then I will push on with my plans to produce a range of givingitbigballs erotic calendars. I haven't committed to a theme yet, but 'jam factory antics' is a strong favorite at the moment.

On road with Derek Acorah

This week I have just commenced a spell of work experience with Derek Acorah. After taking a serious look at where my life was going (nowhere) I decided to quit my boring old administration job, and have started pursuing my dream of becoming a medium (sorry mum). Derek has kindly decided to let me join him on the road, on the condition that I help facilitate his extensive sexual needs. First stop STOCKPORT.

Derek having a laugh while signing a giant picture of himself. The laughter soon stopped when an unkempt member of the audience deliberately popped his scrotum out of the fly of a soiled pair ASDA George jeans. Luckily security intercepted him before he could reach Derek. While he is a dab hand when it comes to shape shifters, Derek goes to bits when confronted by your common or garden cretinous pervert.

Somehow this 'character' got backstage after the Stockport show. This picture doesn't adequately convey how terribly awkward this whole scenario was. When Geller managed to warp Derek's special fromage frais spoon beyond all repair, the atmosphere was irreparably spoiled for the evening. Security really dropped the ball this time.

Seeing how much gash Derek gets on tour has been a real eye-opener. Apparently the bird in the pastel blue sports jacket is "a nasty piece of work in the sack."

Then again, Derek said the exact same thing about this guy. I think he says that about everyone.

Here's Derek enjoying a rare quiet moment in Little Chef. Apparently nothing helps keep 'the other side' at bay like scampi and chips.

This is the scene that greeted us as we pulled up outside the Bury Community College main hall. Before exiting our Toyota minivan Derek mopped the perspiration from his brow with the cuff of his jacket, smiled to himself, and muttered "playtime is over ladies, playtime is over."