Sunday, 22 August 2010

Ad Nauseam

Something troubling has occurred to me recently and I feel the need to share it with you. I understand this may come across as a theory born out of paranoia, but I think, no, I know, we’re all being brainwashed.

In the offices of advertising agencies all over the world, hoards of successful young people, with suits and  gelled hair and blackberries and such, are gathering around water coolers and PrĂȘt a Manger sandwiches in order to come up with subliminal messages, fabricated scientific facts and a seemingly never-ending amount of waimageys to pray on our insecurities in order to alter the way we think. They have the capacity to choose our underwear, our breakfast cereal and mouthwash; a power that in the wrong hands could prove fatal, or at the very least, slightly irritating. If they really wanted to, these people could alter our perception of anything from the meaning of life to the value of an orthopaedic shoe. Thankfully it’s not religious ideology these guys and girls are peddling, it’s most often a razor, or a weird bacterial yoghurt, or a sanitary towel that will allow you to menstruate without interfering with your plans to spend the weekend participating in extreme sports, as we are led to believe all women do three weeks out of the month.

The impact these people have on our day-to-day lives is incredible. For example, Apple® products are now so popular that people camp outside of retail stores so they can be the first to get their hands on the latest gadgets, imitating scenes that haven’t been seen since the last Harry Potter book was released. Steve Jobs is in fact now so ‘on-the-pulse’ he could probably market his own faecal matter as an i-Turd and have people cuing round the corner for it within seconds of its arrival. It’s not that I think Steve Jobs does particularly good poos, this is just an example of the power of good branding. So how are we made to believe that such things are necessary to our happiness? Well, it’s quite simple really. To every trade their are a few essential tricks, and here are the tricks of advertising.


Slogans, as with jingles, are the quickest way to plant a simple idea into the minds of a simple society. As a person, I can testify that I like things I don’t have to put any effort into understanding. A few words highlighting the best feature of a product are enough for me to make a snap judgment as to whether or not I want it in or around my person. For example, Pringles are famous for their slogan “Once you pop, you can’t stop!” What this tells us is that Pringles are tasty and slightly addictive. If we look closely however, this Slogan can work equally as well as warning. What it really says is “There is a chance you will become addicted to our high-fat snack and die obese, lonely and gassy in your castle made of Pringle tubes, keeping only the company of a stray cat who has been unable to find the exit despite the fact you spent hours building that drawer-bridge and think you did a pretty good job.” Tasty, or deadly? You be the judge.

The point is that anything, with the help of right slogan, can be made to seem appealing. As an example let’s take another highly addictive substance, everyone’s favourite Class A narcotic, heroin. Look at this ad and tell me you’re not tempted to give it a whirl.
Of course you are. I only made that ad a few minutes ago and already have a belt around my arm and am asking immediate members of my family for spare change.

The key then, to avoiding being suckered in by an advertising slogan, is to read between the lines. Allow me to show you some examples with my slogan translator:

British Army“Join the professionals.” Translates to:  British Army – “Get shot in the face.”
British Rail“We’re getting there.” Translates to:  British Rail – “We’re late again, stop tutting.”
Budweiser“When you say Budweiser, you’ve said it all.” Translates to:  Budweiser - “Get too drunk to talk.”
Burger King“It takes two hands to hold a whopper.” Translates to: Burger King - “Did you like our joke about cocks? Eat a burger.”
Co-op (1950’s) - “You can always get it at the co-op.” Translates to:  Co-op - “Our cashiers will probably shag you.”

Pray on insecurities

If sex sells then the opposite of sex sells equally as well. I’m not entirely sure what the opposite of sex is, although if I’d bothered to keep a diary during my teenage years I might be able to tell you. What I mean by this is that sex sells so well that if we think we’re at any point being unsexy, we are compelled to immediately run out and by a can of Lynx©, convinced that it will bring ladies flocking and not, as is the unfortunate truth, leave us smelling like the inside of a community college changing room. Advertising agents aren’t stupid, with the exception of the people behind the Halifax ads, but I’m all for equal opportunities employment so i won’t grumble. The majority of them are all too aware that we the public are essentially walking, talking, sinewy bundles of insecurity that expend an incredible amount of effort  keeping a smile plastered to our faces, that almost definitely aren’t as good at being faces as everyone else’s faces are because we’re just so bloody crap at things. Bearing this in mind, how many ads have you seen that start like this?

“Is trapped wind getting you down?”
“Do you have an embarrassing undercarriage?”
“Is acne ruining your life and blackmailing your family?”
“Does everyone hate your tits?”

Highlighting your insecurities in a bid to get you to change is exactly the kind of technique empty-eyed, flannel-shirt-wearing cultists use to recruit members. Most often found hanging out at bus stops, they will strike up a conversation with a line like, “Are you unhappy? God you look unhappy. Why are you so unhappy? Do you want to come back to my house, which by the way is made entirely of hemp, and let me tell you everything that’s wrong with you?” And then you end up drinking Kool Aid and dying. 

I think I may have digressed a little here, but what I’m trying to say is don’t believe a word of it. your undercarriage is no more embarrassing than anyone else’s. Probably.


A lot of advertising is about the way in which we perceive a product’s use. For instance, think about stairs. You thinking about them? Good, boring aren’t they? But, by looking at them in a slightly different way we can make your average staircase appeal to every teenage girl who’s spent their weekend getting drunk in a park with her boyfriend and using mars bar wrappers as a makeshift contraceptives.


Obviously there are numerous people this product could be marketed at; Trophy wives sick of the limited effects of pushing their aged husbands over in a bungalow; Dr Who fans living in fear of Daleks, or possibly even people looking to travel between the upper and lower levels of their abode. The slant, you will find, is key. 

Here comes the science bit

I have no proof that acia berries aren’t good for my hair. I also have no proof that not having any legs would make me a worse dancer, but I have a suspicion both of these things are true. The bullshit science monologue is most often included about half-way through an advert for a hair product that claims to have the world’s best scientist working on a way to make you look like Jennifer Aniston. Reassuring isn’t it? If the world’s greatest scientific minds are to be put to use doing anything, then making hair shiny is exactly what i want them doing. Some people may think that a cancer cure or aids research would be a priority, but no one listens to these people. You know why? That’s right, because they have greasy hair.

“Does your hair not shine as if it’s been lit by a dozen stage lights and then highlighted using Adobe After Effects? What the hell is wrong with you? You should try our shampoo for men, Manpoo. Our secret formula, containing Crapodiaxochewbackerlaquer, will allow you to play Frisbee on the beach with lots of other attractive people whilst smiling cheekily for the camera. Also, extracts taken from the bonsai tree featured briefly in The Karate kid 2 will make you hair so awesome that other people will want to be your friend. You do want friends don’t you?

Here’s a diagram that explains nothing about our product but will nevertheless be impressive and look great in HD.”



“We buy any car. We buy any car. We by any car…ad nauseam.”

It’s long been proven by scientist and unruly four year olds alike, that repetition is not only incredibly annoying but also a good way to get something stuck in your head, and in advertising this is half the battle.
Bearing this in mind I would like to spend the next paragraph sending a personal message to Chris Martin of Coldplay:

Stop recording songs. Stop recording songs. Stop recording songs. Stop recording songs. Stop recording songs. Stop recording songs. Stop recording songs. Stop recording songs. Stop recording songs. Stop recording songs. Stop recording songs. Stop recording songs. Stop recording songs. Stop recording songs. Stop recording songs. Stop recording songs.

The narrative advert

Those of you old enough to wish you were younger may remember the ads for Nescafe’s Gold Blend, featuring national institution Anthony Head. Essentially a drawn-out soap opera, the minute long snippets showed Head quite unsubtly trying to get into the pants of his eager-yet-classy next door neighbour, who, luck would have it, happened to share his love for instant freeze-dried coffee. I can’t remember how the ads ended but let’s just assume they stayed up for four days straight banging away like a pair of over-caffeinated rabbits. These type of narrative ads manage to involve audiences in a way quite unlike any other, making them emotionally invested in the characters and therefore developing a subliminal kind of brand loyalty.

Recently BT have jumped on the narrative bandwagon with a series of adverts featuring Chris Marshall as a loveable rogue who finds himself cast as the stepdad in an oh-so-modern family. A fortnight or so ago a eureka moment in advertising led to the audience having an opportunity to alter the future of the leading couple. The people of Britain were given the chance to decide whether Chris’s squeeze should be pregnant or not via an internet vote, thus insuring their attachment to the story and quite possibly selling quite a lot of phone lines. Unfortunately the options were limited to, ‘yes – she’s preggers’ and ‘no – she was just rubbing her tummy because she had gas.’ This ruled out the two plot twists I spent the entirety of my weekend writing treatments for. So, seeing as BT aren’t interested, I’m going to pretend you are. The first involved Mrs BT giving birth to a Satan incarnate who spent the next few ads crawling on all fours nibbling through phone lines. Be a brilliant ad for wireless, no?

DEVIL BABY crawls around the house looking for a wire to chew. Chris Marshall stands with his hands on his hips, looking smug. He’s just turned the whole house WIRELESS!
CHRIS: Ha, what are you going to eat now, Devil Baby?
Oh, my heart? God, I wish I was still on My Family.”
The second idea was that Mrs BT breaks up with Chris because he never stops talking about his bloody broadband. The boring sod.
And there you have it. You’re now fully equipped to pursue a career in advertising. I will be taking 10% of your income as standard. Now stop staring at me and get to work.

Tuesday, 15 June 2010

Nuts About Nuts.

Featuring image  magazine – Where thoughts go to die

Ah the Lad’s mag; Britain’s cultural defecation. Lad’s mags are as much a part of British society as binge drinking, football hooliganism and uneducated rants about immigration.  They have been a part of our life since the early C16th when, according to a historian I didn’t speak to and who might well not exist, Henry VIII commissioned local artists to chisel images of breasts into pieces of slate. Which is a bit weird really, seeing as quite a lot of rather good painters were around at the time.  Then again, I guess slate is wipe-clean so maybe he knew best.  image

For those of  you who don’t know, the lower end of these magazines essentially provide those incapable of reading or unwilling to read full articles with a heady combination of tits, football, mildly offensive jokes, more tits, more football and occasionally tits playing football, although that probably says more about the English Premier League than it does the publications in question. The effect of this is an overall assurance that we’re all allowed to resort to the most basic stereotype of our genders without offending society, i.e women will walk around with their tits out and men will kick footballs at them…or something.

As is the case with pretty much everything, there are some lad’s mags that are considerably worse than others, or indeed better depending on how capable you are of rudimentary thought. If you had to look up the word rudimentary then but got distracted Googling nudy pics, it’s probably best that you keep staring at them. There is nothing for you here.

By a complete freak of circumstance today, my phone decided to redirect me to a mobile version of Nuts magazine (essentially a brightly coloured children’s book with naked women). Nuts Mobile, if you can believe it, is a stripped down version of the popular magazine, designed to enable men to be thoughtless, one-track-minded spunk hoses whilst ‘on the go’. What I found, after idly staring at half naked women for a few minutes (sorry, not helping myself here) was a collection of ‘articles’ aimed so firmly at a cave-dwelling, serial-masturbating male society that at first I thought it was maybe a joke; a divine parody illustrating the flaws of stereotyping. If you’re not sure what I’m talking about,  allow me to show you. Here are some of the ‘best’ bits of Nuts Mobile, and whilst we’re on the subject, does anyone know how to nominate something for a Pulitzer?

Assess my Breasts

The rhyming title of this feature is by far and away the best part of it, and considering how shit it is that should tell you a lot. Assess my Breasts is entirely as pointless as it sounds. Essentially, a picture of some breasts – most often a pair of them – appears on the screen and you get to give them a mark out of five, one being for especially good tits and five being for very, very bad tits. Not only is this a purposefully misogynistic exercise in objectifying women but it doesn’t even have the gumption to objectify a whole one, nope, just the tits. I can only assume the reason for this is that tits on their own are less likely to kick up a fuss about it. This theory is backed up by OFCOM statistics that confirm that not one complaint has been made by a pair of breasts since the organisation’s inception.


The one positive of this feature comes in the form of a guide to social acceptance, making sure that the readers of Nuts don’t stray too far into the deep waters of independent thought. Once you have assessed a breast, marked a mammary, testified to your liking of a tit etc, you get to see exactly what everyone else graded them, thus making sure that your taste in teats is in keeping with every other moron with nothing better to do and an internet connection too slow to stream real porn.


“Oi, Wayne, what did you think of those ones?”

“Four mate.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

Quite what it is that’s supposed to be titillating about this process is beyond me. From what I saw (breasts 1 through 6) the majority of the photographs featured two lifeless, dismembered (in purely photographic terms) boobs, that look like they’ve been snapped during break time in the local morgue. The process is in fact so much more similar to flicking through a serial killer’s scrap book than actually seeing a woman naked that I fear I may have stumbled upon something rather gross and quite possibly highly illegal.

Moving on…

Pub Ammo

Yeah, pubs! Because we’re men and when we’re not looking at breasts we’re almost certainly in the pub, sat around with our mates in our football shirts talking about them. But, what about when breasts will no longer suffice in terms of conversation? Well luckily Nuts’ Pub Ammo will provide you with interesting tit-bits (I know, I’m brilliant) with which to amaze your friends. Want an example? You’ve got it, but be warned that you are about to find me absolutely fucking fascinating. image

“The average smell weighs 760 nanograms.” I know, right! 

Not impressed? How about this…

“The average length of an alarm clock’s snooze button is nine minutes.”

Now, I don’t pretend to know every group of friends in the country, but I’m fairly sure if I brought these facts up completely out of context within my circle of amigos (remind me never to say that again, it makes us sound like Spanish pagans) it would be met with one of the following reactions.

  • “Whatever, i heard your penis weighs 760 nanograms.”
  • *prolonged blank stare*
  • “Who brought Rain Man to the pub?”


  • “I never did like you much.”

And I’d fucking deserve it as well.

Street Strip

Ah, now this is more like it. Gone are the days of staring at individual body parts. Let’s not just focus on the tits, lets judge an entire girl on her physical appearance. What’s that, she’s only 18? That’s alright, let’s’ave a look.


Oh, bit disappointing. But wait, there’s a fact at the bottom.

Leah, 18 “likes to walk around in her underwear most of the time.”

I’m not sure what kind of response this is supposed to provoke but I’m going to hazard a guess at:

Ah that’s actually quite nice, I feel a bit like I know Leah now. I can imagine her walking around the flat in her underwear, doing the ironing and bringing my mates beers when we’re watching the footy. I bet she’s lovely and I bet nobody would find it socially awkward at all. After all, if she does it most of the time people must be used to it.  I bet she’s clever too. I wonder if there’s a picture of her with her bra off.

Is anyone really this lonely? Shut up. I’m not.

Literally everything else on the mobile web version of Nuts is an extension of the naked-girl theme. Which is fine, if not a little confusing seeing as quite a lot of the internet is devoted to naked girls, the majority of whom probably don’t spend their weekends drinking cider on a park bench in Rotherham. In order to illustrate the extent of Nuts’ bollocks however, I had a quick peek at the web version to see what else the geniuses behind this stunning publication think men should be interested in.

The initial results are shown in the form of a pie chart. Because everybody loves pie charts and if you don’t YOU MUST BE SOME KIND OF PUFF OR SUMMIT, WAAAY PUFTAAA, SOMEONE GIVE ME A BEER. Buuuurp.

Contents of Nuts online (warning: results are drawn from extensive yet entirely fabricated research)


So there you have it. This pie chart, according to Nuts magazine, also doubles as a brain map of the average man’s interests. And to be fair, in some cases it’s probably fairly accurate. I love football, female nudity in the right context and chips, and I have on occasion been known to make the odd shit joke (that wasn’t an invitation to scroll up and count, stop it). But what I, and most other fully functioning male members of society don’t like, is asinine trivia about the weight of smells, rating boobs out of 5 (a 1-10 scale is obviously preferable) and Danny fucking Dyer.

Despite this, Nuts sells, and so several questions still remain: who is buying this? Are there really men out there capable only of such basic thought that this is enough mental stimulation to suffice, or are the readers of Nuts just turning to their favourite magazine as a breather between chapters of The Grapes of Wrath? And what keeps the readers coming back? Is it the tits? Then why not buy porn? Is it a more socially acceptable version of porn which you can buy over the counter without embarrassment? Then why not pull the curtains closed and buy broadband? The mind truly boggles. Although clearly not in some cases.

* Photos are the property of Nuts, apart from the one of Henry VIII and the one of the surprised looking lad with the phone. I don’t know who they belong to in all honesty, but I’ve come to the conclusion that I can’t be bothered to check.
NB: I’d like to apologise for the amount of times I’ve used the words tit or tits or any of its other derivatives in this blog. We all know that swearing is awesome and the more you do it the cooler you get, but I think in this case either my vocabulary or the lack of synonyms our humble language has for said tits has let me, and more importantly you, down. Therefore I apologise on both behalf of myself and the limitations of the English language for the abundance of what could be misconstrued as booby bashing in the above text.

Sunday, 11 April 2010

Customer Reviews

Brought to you by                                          image

1. ED hardy – clothing for a**holes.



2.Twilight action figure – because no-one is sick of brooding teens yet.



3. The misery memoir - “I’m not saying I was abused as a child and I’m not saying I wasn’t, but I should definitely get a book deal, right?”



Monday, 15 March 2010

Your Rejection Has Been Rejected

Here’s what your Careers Adviser in school never got around to telling you: don’t take ‘no’ for an answer.



Monday, 8 March 2010

I’d Like to Thank The Academy

Yesterday the Hollywood elite got groomed and  gowned and gathered at the world-famous Kodak Theatre in order to attend the image82nd annual Academy Awards.  The hours following this saw countless bloggers stuck to their keyboards reporting on the ceremony as if you couldn’t read the highlights on a million websites already. For some it was exciting, for others it was life-changing, for most it was rather tedious.

Personally I had made a decision not to write anything about the Oscars® because I didn’t want to stay up till 4am listening to celebrities cry into a microphone. My position on this was resolute until a rather amusing snippet of Quentin Tarantino surfaced on another website, making me want to put it on mine and causing me to  to write this utterly boring intro just so I can make a cheap innuendo-filled joke in a couple of paragraph's time.

First though, whilst I’m here, how about a bit of background.

THE MADE-UP HIstory of the oscars®

The Oscars® were the brain-child of much celebrated actor and part-time homeless drug addict Oscar The Grouch, who after a successful acting career went on to play a parody of himself in hit children’s show Sesame Street. The first official awards took place on the 16th May 1929 (coincidentally my –54th birthday) when Oscar persuaded a group of imagephotographers from the L.A Times to take photographs of him handing a small gold figurine to good friend Big Bird, for his performance in underground hit ‘Big Birds, Big Loads’.

The ceremony was taken more seriously in later years and many more figurines were made to hand to other  actors who played parts in films that weren’t pornographic. Early winners included Sandra Bullock for her role as Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell in ‘Top Gun’, Pee Wee Herman for his moving portrayal of Al Capone in Steven Spielberg’s ‘E.T.’ and Meryl Streep for everything she has ever been in, ever.

Winners of the Oscars® are voted for by a large group of unknowns who feature prominently in the Hollywood community. Around 90% of these people are assumed to be Scientologists whilst the other 10% are the many incarnations of George Lucas, who were invited to join the committee after one of them cast an Oscar® figurine as a camp robot in his much revered Star Wars trilogy.

The modern-day Oscar® ceremony is normally hosted by Billy Crystal, Whoopi Goldberg or Steve Martin. It is rumoured that sometimes the three dress as each other so it is impossible to tell who is genuinely presenting the show each year. In 1998 Billy Crystal dressed as Whoopi Goldberg whilst Steve Martin broke tradition and dressed as Danger Mouse, causing the real Danger Mouse to Dress and Whoopi Goldberg also. This tore a hole in the space-time continuum and caused Billy Crystal to stop existing between February and March of that year.
imageBilly Crystal, Whoopi Goldberg or Steve Martin. Your guess is as good as mine.

5 made-up oscar® Facts

  1. During WWI, President of the USA, Woodrow Wilson, banned the entirety of the United States from watching the Oscars® because they didn’t exist yet.  He went on to say that he wouldn’t discuss the mater further because none of this scenario makes any sense.
  2. Some people who have never won an Oscar® include Tom Cruise, Sir Edmund Hillary, Patrick Moore, Bobby Moore, and Myself.
  3. In 1999 a petition was formed to convince Tomy® to make the Oscar® statuettes anatomically correct. Tomy® declined because they play no part in the production of the awards whatsoever. Sources close to the company say those involved were perplexed as to why they received the petition in the first place.
  4. An Oscar® statuette can weigh anywhere between .05Oz and 115lbs. The dramatic weight difference is designed to embarrass actors when they go to receive their award. In 2000 winner of the ‘Best Moustache’ Oscar®, Julia Roberts, slipped a disc in her back when carrying her award from the stage. She was quoted as saying, “Ow, Jesus fucking Christ, ow!” and then later, “Yeah, that was actually pretty funny! You guys! I’ll get you next year.” Julia was banned from the 2001 event as she was caught smuggling a rifle into the Kodak Theatre.
  5. No-one with a beard has ever won more than thirteen Oscars®.

This years highlights in pictures

Quite a lot of the fuss surrounding the Oscars® is focused on dresses. Here three women wear one…each.
Here Quentin Tarantino subtly gives a hand job to a gentleman just out of shot, much to the delight of the only warlock invited to the ceremony. (courtesy of

Jeff Bridges, the coolest man alive, spots Tarantino post-money-shot and Sandra Bullock takes home an award, surprising anyone who doubted the artistic merit of ‘Miss Congeniality 3’.
“Steve Martin tells Whoopi Goldberg her Billy Crystal costume is below par.”

The 2010 winners

So, in case you haven’t read this somewhere else, which could only really happen if your browser had frozen on my website, here are the winners courtesy of .

Actually, on second thoughts, I’m not going to write them all out because it would take ages and I’m very lazy. I’m not even going to copy and paste them. So there. Just click the link why don’t you.

Thanks go to and for pointing out and hosting the Tarantino clip, along with some others that are worth checking out.

Tuesday, 23 February 2010

It’s a Conspiracy

Those of you familiar with the internet will be aware that a large percentage of the content where people wear clothes is comprised of conspiracy theories.

For those of you not familiar with the internet; hello, you are on the internet.

These theories range from the absurd to the, well, the more absurd, and are mostly constructed by groups of men and women (although let’s be fair, mostly men) living in their parents’ basements, taking short breaks from Star Trek marathons in order to speculate over whether or not it was the Government who was behind the disappearance of Tab (Mountain Dew to us English Folk).

Live Conspiracy Theorising
They are the kinds of men who have very few life skills and exactly no social skills but can most likely do incredible things with a computer and could, if they so chose, probably communicate with you entirely through binary. They are also rather handy when it comes to making tin-foil hats (as pictured right). This may seem like a blatant attempt to stereotype a much maligned sub-society, but as the old saying goes, 011 000 001 100 01 001. So you can’t accuse me of being overly judgmental.

Anyhow, I fancied taking the time out of my busy schedule to refute a few of these theories, so without any further ado, or any further use of the term further ado, here are a few of my favourite conspiracy theories, and the reasons why they are utterly ridiculous.

Hitler is alive

This one has been touted around for ages, no doubt since the end of WWII. Rumour has it that Adolf has been in hiding somewhere for the last however-many-years, presumably playing the world’s longest game of Risk and being racist under his breath. Some theories claim he is in Argentina, others suggest he is now living as a woman, and my personal favourite points out that he could quite possibly be running a Caribbean cocktail bar with Elvis. “Hey bartender, know how to make a Red Eye?”, “Nein.”

The truth

I could probably spend quite a bit of time highlighting reasons why Hitler is very much not alive right now. However, time is short (as was the man in question) and I feel that one reason is good enough: Adolph Hitler was born in 1889, that means, if he were alive today, HE WOULD BE ONE HUNDRED AND TEWENTY-ONE YEARS OLD! If that’s not enough to convince you, it may be worth mentioning that he shot himself in the head whilst chewing on a cyanide capsule, an action which according to most doctors would end in death, or at the very least a severe headache and poorly tummy.

This seemingly irrefutable proof does not stop ‘I’ve seen Hitler’ photographs from emerging every so often however.
imageimage image image
Similar rumours have been circulated regarding Elvis, Tupac Shakur, M.J. and pretty much anyone else that ever died. As far as I am aware, there has been no change regarding their state of deadness. Yes, deadness.


Remember when people thought the world was going to end in 1998? And then again in the year 2000? Well, it’s pretty much that, again.

Tireless research has led me to believe that this has something to do with a calendar created by the ancient Mayans which runs out in the year 2012. You can probably find more in-depth info on this somewhere else, but it would more than likely be a waste of your time, so don’t. Apparently this whatever-it-is is going to cause numerous natural disasters ranging from volcanoes and earthquakes to another Jason Mraz album, resulting in us all dying a terrifying and painful death. Thanks a lot, Mraz, you prick. If anyone survives, I am led to believe that it will be probably be John Cusack.

The truth

There’s so much information on this that I was forced to give up after reading one paragraph. I say forced, I mean through choice I stopped reading and had a quick search for the above Hitler pictures. I do, however, after only reading a little snippet of info, have a counter-theory:

The Mayan’s lived from around 300AD to 900AD. Now, even my maths is good enough to figure out that was exactly… (counts fingers) a really long time ago. Presumably one man, let’s call him Brian, was responsible for constructing this calendar, a job that would no doubt be incredibly dull and have no sway with the ladies whatsoever. Here’s what I think happened:
The scene is a Mayan bar. Our hero, BRIAN, sits at a table drinking a beer, he is joined by KEITH (a typical Mayan name).
Keith - Hi Bri’, how’s the calendar coming?
Brian – Yeah, good thanks, I’ve got as far as 2012.
Keith – Ha…you’re kidding right?
Brian – No, 2012. Why?
Keith – Dude, it’s 306AD! How long are you going to keep going for?
Brain – Well I can’t just stop. What about when it runs out?
Keith – Who cares, you’ll be really, really dead. Our life expectancy is, like, 15 years!
Brian – Yeah, but Mayan Hitler lived until he was 121.
Keith – Oh, Jesus, who I haven’t really heard much about yet. Not this again. Look, the calendar’s retarded, no-one needs it, we’re all going to die young and unhappy next time we anger The Sun God. Just relax.
Brian – Shit, you’re right.
Want to get really drunk? I don’t have to be at work until someone invents a clock. 


You can hardly walk into a bar these days without hearing this one. That is if the bar you drink in happens to be full of morons, who talk a lot, specifically about the moon landing being faked.

Conspiracy theorist seem to have an idea that all that ‘people landing on the moon’ malarkey was just a big fabrication to fool the Russians into thinking they were shit at exploring space during the Cold War. That’s it, hit ‘em where it hurts America, ‘your rockets are shit’ *snigger*.image

Other theories probably, but not actually, extend to the moon itself being fake and being created by giants of the cheese trade ‘Cathedral City’, astronauts all being dickheads (that theory is mine) and spaceships being phallic in shape not because it increases aerodynamics, but because world leaders find it highly amusing (also mine).

Apparently all the fuss comes from some photographs where some people think some things just don’t add up, whereas other people, people who know about both photography and the moon, think the first set of people are bona fide idiots.
So was the moon landing filmed on a Hollywood sound stage?

The truth

No. No, it wasn’t. Here are some reasons why.

*Have you seen films from the 50’s? They couldn’t make earth look convincing, why would they try and pull off the moon?
*Surely a better way to show Russia who’s boss would be to bomb the shit out of it. Lot less effort, no?
*Where do people think these astronauts went? Real people, with real eyes, saw a space ship with real astronauts take off. Were they just flown to Palm Springs for a few weeks of gay sex and cocktails, doubtful.
*My Gran watched it on telly.
*Who cares? Looks boring there anyway.

George bush orchestrated September 11th

For those of you just waking from a coma I feel it’s only polite to fill you in on a couple of things. Firstly, America recently had a president who was retarded. Investigations are still going on as to how this was allowed to happen, but recent theories are blaming equal-opportunities employment legislation. Secondly, whilst George Bush was in the White House, some bad men flew some planes into some tall buildings killing lots of innocent people. Up to speed? Good.

Many conspiracy theorists seem to think that Bush himself orchestrated this entire event. There are countless documentaries and articles online that provide endless amounts of ‘evidence’ that El Presidente knew a little more than was let on. Close links with the Bin Laden family and immediate attempts to take over some parts of the world in order to steal oil under the guise of a ‘war on terrorism’ increased suspicion to the point that there were a lot more theorists being ignored than usual.

The truth

It’s not my place to say whether or not the U.S government had any hand in this attack on their own soil. personally, I doubt it, although let’s be fair there were some shady fuckers in that cabinet and I wouldn’t put much past them. What I will say is this, George Bush couldn’t orchestrate a fart without help. Have you seen how close together his eyes are? Have you heard the man speak? No, not our guy. The aptly named Dick Chaney however…

The swine flu vaccination is designed to control the population

So, swine flu eh, sucks if you have it, irrelevant if you don’t. As with all other people, conspiracy theorists tend to jump on to tabloid bandwagons at will. When the news of a swine flu vaccination hit the headlines it was only (probably) a matter of hours before someone came to the conclusion that the government-issued injections were designed to kill people in order to control our ever-increasing population. But is it true?

The truth

I don’t care if this is true or not, but if it is may I suggest that we vaccinate the following:
  • Simon Cowell – for crimes against waistlines
  • Mika – for crimes against my hearing
  • Bill O’Reilly – for crimes against journalism
  • Bono – for crimes against sunglasses
  • The Program Commissioner for BBC3 – for crimes against television
  • Jeremy Kyle – for crimes against chavs
  • Paul Walker – for crimes against acting
  • John McCririck – for everything
I could probably do this all day, you get the point though.

Wednesday, 10 February 2010

The Mayer of Idiotsville

John Mayer proves silence is golden if the alternative is hearing his thoughts.

If  ignorance is bliss then John Mayer must be on cloud 9, possibly masturbating furiously to pictures of Jessica Simpson and spunking napalm on unsuspecting white women. At least that’s what his recent interview with Playboy magazine would lead us to believe.

These days Mayer is more famous for his celebrity relationships than for his music, which depending on who you ask is either genius or so middle-of-the-road it’s the auditory equivalent of a dotted white line or a small flattened mammal with tyre tracks on its back. Flings with Jennifer Aniston, Jennifer Love Hewitt, and most recently, Jessica Simpson have thrust the blues artist into the limelight in recent years, making him exactly the kind of person I find it incredibly easy not to write about. Until this week he was entirely ignorable; a blip on someone else’s radar if you will. That was before the world’s most famous gentleman’s magazine featured an interview  proving him to be twice the misguided idiot I ever would have imagined.image

Taking baby-steps towards offending a nation, Mayer warmed up by talking about a variety of subjects ranging from the completely uninteresting to the absurd.

He started by discussing his relationship with the press, stating that he prefers Twitter because it gives him a chance to share his real thoughts and not be misrepresented, “With Twitter I can share my real voice. Here’s me thinking about stuff: ‘Wouldn’t it be cool if you could download food.’

Yes, that is John Mayer’s real voice. How did we live without it? Maybe one day he’ll write a book, ‘Mayer’s Musings’, and we can all be privy to the innermost thoughts of the worlds hungriest dullard.

After his hunger pangs passed Mayer went on to talk about porn, stating that his dream job would be to write pornography and that there are days when he sees up to 300 hundred vaginas before he gets out of bed. It beats counting sheep I suppose but it does beg the question ‘how do you get out of bed when you are cemented to your sheets?’

He also goes on to inform an audience who are ever eager to learn about the masturbatory habits of the celebrity elite, that he’s actually a bit of a wanker, “I have the most unbelievable orgasms alone. They’re always the best. They always end the way I want them to end.” A long embrace and some pillow talk perhaps? Oh, right, jizz. How silly of me. It’s hard to say whether Mayer believes that he is alone in this ability to make himself climax, but he certainly seems proud of it, so why dampen his spirits?

All this is all well and good, and I’m not one to jump on the back of any musician who just happens to be particularly dull or talks about wanking a lot. It was statements  made in the latter parts of the interview that really lit a fire under the world of internet complainers. So much so that Playboy’s home page has been causing my computer to crash for the last two hours as thousands of people swamp the server in search of John Mayer, or possibly boobs. Hard to say.

Mayer, who since birth has missed the part of the brain that prevents people from saying utterly retarded things in front of journalists, went on to compare Jessica Simpson to “Sexual Napalm” (seriously John, if it’s burning see a doctor), call ex Jennifer Aniston a technophobe (Jennifer is yet to respond as she’s struggling to write an email on her toaster) and then, just to add icing to the cake,  went ahead and dropped the N bomb. No, not napalm this time. He said “nigger” in response to a question about why he is so popular with black people.


“Someone asked me the other day, “What does it feel like now to have a hood pass?” And by the way, it’s sort of a contradiction in terms, because if you really had a hood pass, you could call it a nigger pass. Why are you pulling a punch and calling it a hood pass if you really have a hood pass?”

After what I can only assume was a slightly awkward silence, Meyer went on to explain that he doesn’t sleep with black women because “My dick is sort of like a white supremacist.”

Something tells me Meyer’s “Hood Pass” may have just been revoked. I mean the other stuff is fair enough; maybe Aniston can’t work a computer and maybe Simpson does have highly corrosive bodily fluids (although I’m fairly sure that’s not what he meant), but at what point did he think he’d be able to get away with saying that? Luckily Meyer swiftly changed the subject with the following piece of nonsense:

“Here’s what I really want to do at 32: fuck a girl and then, as she’s sleeping in bed, make breakfast for her. So she’s like, ‘What? You gave me five vaginal orgasms last night, and you’re making me a spinach omelette? You are the shit!’ So she says, ‘I love this guy.’ I say, ‘I love this girl loving me…When I’m fucking you, I’m trying to fuck every man who’s ever fucked you, but in his ass, so you’ll say ‘No one’s ever done that to me in bed.’ ”

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight. You’ve got to admire the detail though. The fact that he’s actually thought about what he’s going to put in the omelette shows he has a caring side. Come to think of it, anybody hungry? Wouldn’t it be cool if you could download spinach omelettes?

Predictably, after delivering an interview that reads a little like an internet chat between a horny teenager and a journalist who accidentally got the wrong msn address, Mayer issued an apology. This is what is commonly referred to as damage control, or as Mayer would possibly call it, ‘public relations napalm’. The apology came in the form of a flurry of tweets (that way we know it’s John’s real voice, clever huh) although it’s yet to be made clear whether or not a few 140 character bursts of common sense will be enough to soothe the hurt of a word that reminds folk of hundreds of years of oppression, or the bigger hurt caused by so many people being forced to visualise John Mayer’s sex life. Probably though, eh.