The anti crapitalist

Madness is decending upon me....

Saturday, May 27, 2006

David fucking Blaine
I see they are running a TV programme about the life and challenges of the uber tosser himself this evening, and it struck me that he has to be one of the most annoying wankers in the world.

Why is this guy famous? Just hearing his whiney voice try and justify the stupefying pointless shit that he does makes me want to go and slit my wrists.
I see he had to go to Times Square for his last stunt after that farcical attempt he had in London a few years back to live in a glass box [whoop do doo] manifestly fell on its arse. He can’t do anything in Britain again because the British people basically took the piss out of him and threw eggs at the twat because trying to live in a glass box suspended in mid air was just such a fucking stupid idea.
If you want to watch some delirious, emaciated guy, shit in a box in full public view you only have to hang round outside Victoria Coach Station. Its hardly a spectacle is it?.
But America seems to love David Blaine and now he’s failed his challenge in New York no doubt he’ll be back with some other monumentally pointless stunt at some point in time.
I can just see it now.
Cue whiney voice
“Well what I really felt I had to do for my next challenge was to hang by my balls, blindfold, from a balloon suspended above Niagra Falls, whilst a family of otters colonised my anus for a month. And you know; on the very last day after not eating, talking, or shitting for a month I have to do a swan dive into the Falls in a full suit of 16th Century Armour and make my escape in a Submarine made entirely from my own internal organs.
Cue pointless American chat show host cooing “Oh David you’re just sooo brave. We love you David”
Wanker. You just can't escape that fact.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

As Big Brother will divert the attention of my family for weeks, I need to develop another pointless campaign to see me through the boredom of my self imposed isolation.
Having read the cringe worthy shite that McDonalds puts on its “blog spot” I have decided that its as good a target as any (actually I’ve hated this cruddy organisation for years and been waiting for an excuse).
You really should read the McDonalds blogspot -
This is a fucking cult not a business. McDonalds are the fucking moonies of the fast food industry. The pure bollocks spouted by the corporate automatons that they allow to blog is just incredible - here is just one example
“Last week I mentioned that I was at our biennial McDonald's Worldwide Convention in Orlando [whoop de fucking doo!] …. So you might be wondering. Did corporate social responsibility get any play at this event? Well, the answer is a "yes." CSR was definitely in the mix.”
Well Bob. I was wondering nothing of the fucking sort. I don’t lie awake at night wondering how CSR integrates with conventions. What I was wondering though was how does a 35 year old grown adult feel wearing a smock and red paper hat and speaking incomprehensible bollocks to employees who can’t even speak English all week?
I hate these wankers because they just fill the world with bullshit for no legitimate reason other than to sell saturated fatty food, to fat saturated people.
Plus it’s the whole bullshitty McDonalds language that gets me. You buy a burger and fries and then they ask you “Would you like a meal?”. Well of course I want a fucking meal. I’m here aren’t I? I didn’t come in because I thought this was a fucking bright red opticians. If you want sell me a Coke [sorry Pepsi they can get sued for even saying Coke when it isn't] to go with my food then sell me a fucking Coke. But don’t ask me if I want a fucking meal when I am here buying my lunch. In England having a coke with a burger and fries is not a fucking meal, its buying a drink to go with your fucking meal you fucking moron.

These twats really piss me off. Besides there was rumour “doing the rounds” in my area that some illegal immigrant got nabbed for putting his own “special sauce” in the Cheeseburgers so I decided that this prestigious purveyor of highly mediocre fare will be the target of my pointless activities over the next week or so.
I love the drive ins as you can seriously piss people off as the queue builds up behind you.
You go to the first booth and order your gear.
Then as you get to the second dispatch booth you just pretend that they’ve got the order completely wrong and get them to run around for ages whilst irate people start blowing their horns and getting really pissed off behind you.
Usually the people in both booths don’t speak English too well and are usually half asleep so its easy to get them confused, and because the system is purely order driven (American businesses don’t cater for mistakes) it throws them into total chaos to change.
Normally they ask you to pull forward so they can sort the problem out without affecting everyone else, but you refuse and sit there watching them run around clogging up the place for ages. Then after they’ve spent 5 minutes changing your order, they finally give you what you asked for the second time and you say “I’m sorry you must have misheard me, I asked for a milkshake not a Pepsi “ or whatever and the whole thing starts again.
Its fucking brilliant. But I think they already have my number on CCTV.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

Big tosser

Well I gave in. I have been forced to watch that reality shit-fest that is Big Brother by my kids tonight, and I have to say that first thing in the morning I am suing the production company I mentioned in "Why is my reality not their reality?".
Why? One of the bastards actually has tourettes! (and most of the others look mentally ill). Well you read it here first on the 5th May, they officially stole my idea. They are just a bunch of robbing twats.
Plus who was that CUNT that fell down the stairs like Norman fucking Wisdom and thought it was hilarious. Christ. If falling down stairs is that funny going for a piss later is bound to be side splitting.
Hopefully the only side splitting experience he'll have in the future is with a fucking scythe.
And what's with the ugly Lilly Savage look-alike with tits like water mellons? I'm guessing that somewhere in the next couple of weeks there will be a "vote for the most unrealistic transvestite in the house" competition and we already know the winner.
How many weeks of this crud will I have to endure?
I feel another pointless campaign coming on.

Monday, May 15, 2006

I'm re-posting this because I now realise how much I fucking hate the call centre industry
It only costs 25 quid to sell your soul

On holiday last month - missed sending off a cheque to my credit card company by one day. Statement arrived today - twenty-five quid plus penalty interest, plus they got the cheque anyway a day late and cashed it. I add this robbery to all the other attempts at invading my pocket this month.

People are dying in Iraq in the name of democracy. This commoditized democracy will surely mean that in ten years from now some American bank gets the right to charge each and every one of them twenty five dollars for paying their debts a few hours late. I cry.

I called the call centre just because I was bored and guessed that the operators were bored to. Bored of taking calls from pissed off customers that their company had stolen money from. Bored of their crap pay, bored of their robotic lives. Battery hens crap where they stand, its rare to be forced to stand where somebody else craps for money.

It only costs twenty-five quid to sell your soul.

I wonder where the call centre guy is based.

The accent is non-specific and geography means nothing to me anymore. It could be Birmingham, it could be Bangalore. I ask myself if I care as I force him to explain, again, why they have charged me twenty-five quid and why they can’t rescind it.

I don’t (care).

There could be a civil war happening outside his electronic fortress; a bloody coup d’etat. History could be changing at the very perimeter of his carpark. And yet I still force him to explain to me, three times, why I have to pay the fee when they have already banked the money I owed.

We are not writing history anymore, we are wasting peoples time, creating crap, franchising fraud.I wasted twenty minutes of my life talking to call centre guy, and I guess I wasted twenty minutes of his life too. That’s forty minutes of wasted effort.

If I cared I could have asked him how he was, learned something about his culture, understood his geography, and religious beliefs. But twenty-five quid is twenty-five quid and that‘s all it takes to sell your soul.

Saturday, May 13, 2006

I'm not that bothered about taking over anything that's shiite.

I saw this headline on Yahoo today.*
I though why target anything that you know is shite?

I'm sure there are loads of shite shrines in Iraq. Those that are a bit scuffed around the edges, and a bit blackened from all that bombing. Why target one shite shrine over another?
Shite idea.

Friday, May 12, 2006

The cock-market

Been up since yesterday following the world markets; not that I'm interested (or have any money) but its a thing I do from time to time when interesting things start to happen. I like the psycology of markets. Particularly when fear creeps in.

Today it was great watching all those US brokers on CNN shitting their pants because the Dow and the Dollar have gone into free fall, when no ordinary people anywhere else in the world actually give a fuck whether stocks have fallen or whether the Dollar is falling, rising, or (as with the last 48 hours) plummeting. They say things like "This is terrible news for investors" or "This is bad news for ordinary peoples' pensions" as if anyone is actually sat home is sat crapping their pants that their lives will be dramatically affected by all of this bullshit.
Its as if they have to get us to buy into their paranoia so that we experience the fear that they have that their whole lives will be torn apart by events which are largely outside of their control.
Their basic fear is "Will I have to hand the Bentley back" or "Will the kids have to come out of private school" or "Will we have to move out of the stockbroker belt?" Those are their fears. Not "Can I eat tomorrow" or "Where can I get clean water" or even "Will my kids die of AIDS before I do". Real fears that affect ordinary people in countries across the world. Countries that have been either plundered or ignored in the global quest for extreme personal wealth.
These people are scum. Executive pond-life skating on the stinking crust of a global sewer. Don't give them air-time.
I love America, and yet at the same time these people expose its double standards [a sweeping generalisation I know] and watching such pond-life TV brings it home to you how detatched this "executive" world is from everyone elses.
Lack of money and status appears to be the only social impediment to life across the Atlantic. Not lack of morals,lack of decency, or lack of compassion. Forget ethics. These people are about money and status first and foremost, and the biggest shame to them is ending up with neither. They would rather die than be poor.
They would sell their soul to drive a bigger SUV than anyone else, or to have that latest Porsche. They would stab anyone and everyone to get that one rung on the ladder higher than they are already.
So when I see the price of gold rising, the Dollar falling, and cash rich economies like China and Asia putting pressure on a US market mired with debt run up by one of the most inept world leaders ever to take executive office, I can't help looking at some of these smug, hyper-active, MBA educated, twats and thinking "Well fuck you. There's a window over there. Fucking well use it".

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

"Go" is a two-letter word

I don't normally "do" politics but watching that twat Blair on the TV tonight brought on a whole wave of anger I have not experienced for quite some time.

Like Berlusconi this guy now seems to inhabit his own "reality bubble" where he interprets the words "Go you wanker" as "You're doing a great job Tony" at every opportunity. It just shows the shocking ignorance, and arrogance of these people and their desparate need to hold onto to power for the last possible second they can.
All this in the same day that George Bush backs his brother as a Presidential candidate - I doubt that even the average American is that eager to re-visit the scene of a global car-crash.
By the time of the elections there will be huge Americans riding round on tiny mopeds like downtown Beijing whilst the gas guzzling Presidential cavalcade sweeps them into the gutter. This is the only guy in living history that can invade an oil state to secure supply and create a f**king oil crisis.
The world is fucked up and heading South fast.
New labour - what a total bunch of arseholes and misfits
Its like being drunk in a pub and deciding which one of the bastards you want to punch first, before picking up a chair so you can do some damage to all of them simultaniously.
My pet hate is that frigging Ruth Kelly. I'm truly sick of seeing her face on the telly. The only upside to me is that we are exactly the same age and at least I don't look like that bastard child of Captain Scarlett and Wee Jimmy Krannie so at least life has dealt me with something.
For clarity: "Go" means "Go"

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Four by f**kers

My nihlistic driving tendancies came out on my way home from work yesterday, leaving some four by four driving ponce and his pseudo footballers-wife with a very big bill.
Don't you just hate those arseholes with their blacked-out windowed, chrome wheeled, twat-mobiles that think they own the road? There just mobile pond life, in Gap clothes.
Well I could see Mr Big Bollocks "Look at me my cars so huge" at the roundabout and something just pissed me off about him driving around like he's David Fucking Beckham with his dumb chav-scum wife on her flip up mobile phone. I had the right of way but Mr Ponce decides that because he's got bullbars, and because his car is so big and threatening he can just force me to stop.
Here's a quick lesson in driving ettiquite - I drive a 20 year old Merc that weighs 2 tons and its so battle scarred that I don't give a shit where it ends up. You on the other hand own a brand new ponce-mobile that cost fifty grand and does not look good with the side hanging out of it.
I almost saw him cry as I grated down the side of it. I reckon I got every panel on the passenger side before he stopped.
Had a great argument afterwards to. He went totally fucking ballistic. It was great.
Called me a fucking moron, and my car a piece of shit [it is], and then I guessed I could get him a bit more angry so I walked up and down surveying the damage before saying calmly "What a shame, it was a lovely paint job".
He called the cops.
After more arguing they agreed I had the right of way and noted it on the accident report so it looks like his insurers are going to pay to fix my car up.
What a result.
What a twat.

Friday, May 05, 2006

Why is my reality not their reality?

I’ve stopped drinking and its driving me mad - I’m now having to fill all the time I am usually pissed with doing stuff, and my mind just goes all evil after half an hour. The things that race through my head are unbelievable, and the mind numbing tedium of the crud I watch on the box keeps bringing me back to reality show ideas. People are making tens of millions of pounds out of some of the shittest ideas ever conceived - “Celebrity Twat Island” or “Fat bastard makeover - bikini edition” or “Please make my pig-ugly wife better”.

In fact having watched someone on that show with the annoyingly stroppy Scottish bird actually sit there whilst shit was sucked out of their arse live on TV, and then spend three whole minutes discussing why their shit was totally the wrong sort of shit I decided that things could not possibly get worse.
Well I’ve got news for you Gillian McKeith - watching some chav moon-pig from Scunthorrpe crap into a Tupperware box is a metaphor for your contribution to family entertainment.
The sheer volume of utter crud out there defies belief, and its unbelievably CRUEL in the extreme. Particularly that American one where the child abandoned at birth has to guess which is her “real dad” from a panel of seven contestants.
Not having had much luck with my “Celebrity Duck Shoot” game show format [see previous post], last week I decided to annoy the arse out of the same production company by mailing them with my latest attempt at money and notoriety:-
In my letter I outlined three distinct reality formats aimed at three distinct TV markets:-
Ant and Dec’s Celebrity Spaz Farm
Gay for a Week
Smack Island
I thought that they were all “dead certs”
Ant and Dec’s Celebrity Spaz Farm
What you get is thirty days of “Big Brother” style entertainment hosted by the cheeky Geordie twats from a hill farm in Wales, where ten carefully chosen celebrities participate for a fifty grand prize that will go to a charity.
At outset nobody knows what charity will win, and on arrival each celebrity receives two sealed envelopes; one contains a secret affliction, and the other list of traits that are connected to that affliction.
It’s a bit complicated. I needed to provide an illustration here.
Take Jodie Marsh. Say she had a card that had “Tourettes” written on it. It would then be her challenge to spend 30 days mimicking all the symptoms of tourettes. Somebody else, say that fat bird Abby Titmuss, she‘d have a totally different affliction, perhaps nymphomania, and she would have to spend thirty days mimicking that [on reflection it might not be too hard that one].
So you have ten different celebrities on a farm with Ant and Dec, mimicking ten different afflictions hence “Celebrity Spaz Farm” [its on a farm that is about the only farm connection I could think of].
Hilarity would ensue.
But .. and this is the good bit .. you don‘t tell the viewers what card each celeb has been given, and every couple of days someone is nominated and the public phone in to guess what is wrong with them.
If they get it right that celebrity has to leave.

Throughout Ant and Dec can only give away cheeky subtle clues to the ailment of a particular celeb [such as “Christ she’s spent all week hiding under her bed, do you think she's telling us something Ant?" or "Blimey, he's fallen over again!"].
Again hilarity would ensue.
At the end the mystery charity cops the fifty grand, so everyone’s a winner.
Not impressed?
Well my second idea was Gay for a Week
Here you take four celebrity married couples, and pair the male of one couple off with the male of another couple, and the female of that couple off with the female of the other couple; the challenge of course is to be “Gay for a Week”.
Once paired off each new couple is shipped to a specially constructed cottage in Hove and has to experience all aspects of life as a homosexual couple, via a series of hilarious challenges whilst being filmed 24 hours a day for a week.
Individual couples would be coached in the art of “Rug Munching” or “Pillow biting” by a team of celebrity homosexuals, and challenges such as the “Double-ended dildo race” would add a competitive edge.
The winners are the ones who after a week look and act most like a genuine gay couple, as voted by the panel of celebrity homosexuals.

I suggested that perhaps Des O’Connor and Melanie Sykes might be the most appropriate show hosts. [Des "Sit down and tell us all about it, that's if you can! Titter, titter"]
I really liked this but perhaps its a bit alternative?
My final idea was Smack Island.
This is a mixture of gritty real life shows like “Airport” and more competitive reality formats such as “The Games”
This show involves getting celebrity anti-drug campaigners to spend a week travelling between Kingston, Jamaicia and Gatwick via a series of budget airlines, cheap mini-cab companies, and people traffickers van’s whilst concealing copious quantities of smack up their arses and undertaking a variety of drug-mule centric challenges.
They would be coached by real “Yardies” on concealment techniques, and how to avoid customs, or bribe transport Police.
Challenges such as the “Don’t plop, smack drop” would test their metal by seeing how many condoms filled with pure Heroin they can retrieve from their anal cavities whilst utilising one hand to use their mobile phone in an NCP Carpark toilet at South Terminal.
To appeal to the kids there would also be “Sniffy” the drugs dog, who would be used to track down our celebrity mules as the competition progressed.
If detected at any time they are off the show for good.
At the end of the contest Michael Barrymore, and a panel of rappers would pick the celebrity most suited to being a drugs courier, and donate fifty grand to a drugs related charity of the winners choice.
I liked this, and it would create a better awareness of the seedy side of the international drugs trade.
Those were the formats that I decided deserved to make me rich and famous and as I sent the package off to them last week, I decided to call the chap I addressed the package to ask why they had not been back to me to snap up these ideas before “Someone else ran with them”
I called several times. Leaving my number on each occasion.
On the final attempt his secretary informed me that “He does not want to talk to you. He thinks this is a wind up. Please don’t contact us again”
Well fuck you Mr Choosy!
Next time I see some piss-poor, crapfest-of-crud, celebrity shit-box of a programme featuring people I never even knew were “famous” I’ll remember those words.