Thursday 27 August 2009

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!?"

Wednesday 26 August 2009

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.

Monday 17 August 2009

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!?

Monday 10 August 2009

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.

Monday 3 August 2009

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.