Closing Ceremony? Great! What Else is On?

Hey whoah the Olympics is over. We can now resume our normal tele watching routines.

What’s that? There’s nothing good on tele in Britain? Oh what an almighty shame. Because if you travel to the US there’s always something on the box, and by something I mean repetitive reality TV. Its the golden chalice of entertainment. It’s the peaches to my cream. It’s so good it’ll make you want to take off your trousers and helicopter.

My potentially obvious sarcasm stems from an advertisement for a brand new reality television show I saw advertised recently. It’s called ‘Tanked’ and features a couple of middle aged blokes making fish tanks for rich people.
After watching this commercial I travelled to the local fishing lake and caught myself a 5lb catfish. I then drove to the nearest pet shop and repeatedly threw said catfish at the stores biggest, most extravagant fish tank, causing deafening vibrations to the clearly petrified creatures inside, and making the tank look like a disgusting bloody mess. I proceeded in savagely eating the dismembered catfish raw in front of the shops horrified visiting children and their parents.

I wonder where the days went when reality TV actually had an interesting draw. Something attractive about the show that set it apart from the other dribble we witness everyday. Of course gems such as ‘The Amazing Race’, ‘Survivor’ and ‘The Apprentice’ are still around, but these programmes are now feeling a little dated as the years have gone by, and are drown out by poisons that are ‘Orange County Housewives’, ‘Jersey Housewives’, ‘Housewives of Atlanta’ and ‘The Real Housewives of Baghdad’. The only shining light I’ve seen recently is TNTs new series ‘The Great Escape’ – a show where three teams of two must escape from famous facilities or locations of the world. Although the illusion is somewhat lost when contestants are caught by guards and must start from the beginning, as by this point it starts to feel more like an elaborate game of hide and seek with puzzles that have a difficulty level of nursery at best.

However, I can still find solace in my true love that is Hell’s Kitchen which is nearing its climax. There’s something strangely relaxing about watching Gordon Ramsey belittle and embarrass bungling chefs while they argue with each other about whose less crap at cooking.

I think I’m just happy I don’t have to watch Waterpolo on NBC anymore. I was getting horribly fed up of hearing about the Olympics and I’m glad they’re over. Oh, the Paralympics starts in a couple of weeks?

Big Problems

I think I’m losing my faith in mankind. The other day I was in one of America’s massive superstores and I noticed a bloke get into one of them motorised shopping carts that disabled people use to get round the shop better. Except this guy wasn’t disabled at all, as he so nonchalantly displayed to us when he waddled in through the automatic doors. He just had a rather generous roll of blubbery lard hugging his torso. Of course he really may be disabled, and I’m aware genuinely disabled people use these machines to get around, but I can’t help but instantly pass judgement on this man as this is a trend I’m starting to see quite a lot while doing a shop. Every time I see someone whizzing around in one of these they happen to have kankles the size of basketballs. Maybe these fatties wouldn’t have this nagging mobility problem if they stopped driving around in fatty mobiles. It seems a lot of the citizens of this country can’t get out of this vicious cycle of laziness and double stuffed Oreos.

I’ve got a feeling the Americans are either in serious denial about their obesity problem or they simply just don’t care. Never have I seen a country so readily encourage disordered eating as they do. Sure, mcdonalds may have introduced a new “under 400 calorie” menu, but in the same breath you’ll see them advertising prizes you can win if Americans Olympians do well at London 2012. That’s you winning burgers if other people more athletic than you are achieve great things at the Olympics.

I know you simply cannot take away fatty mobiles, but maybe a different approach is needed. If Twinkies were offered as reward for victors of the dreaded gauntlet that is Super Target the USA might have a new set of Olympians on their hands. Maybe they could redesign the fatty mobiles and have them require a deposit of two jumbo iced honey buns as payment for using the fatty mobile service.

Although I may have just had a stroke of genius. They’re clearly trying to emulate the workings of 34 stone Ricardo Blas Jr. of the Judo event. This case is closed.

You Need to Score More Goals Man!

Went to a soccer match the other night. This one had a twist though, it was in the USA.

Floridian third division side Orlando City played Stoke of the premier league in what must have been the worst match anyone has ever witnessed ever. Despite this disgusting pile of footballing fecal matter we were watching, the atmosphere the Americans were generating was commendable to say the least. However, there were some things we witnessed that were nothing short of tragic.

The national anthems played before the game, with my sibling and I happily humming along to ‘God Save the Queen’ in half hearted fashion, as we’re clearly too cool for patriotism. Expectedly though when the American national anthem played, people put their hands to their hearts and sang, everyone. What I didn’t expect though was the streamers, confetti and balloons being released when “the land of the free, and the home of the brave” was belted out. By this point I was instantly a Stoke fan, and for the rest of the night I could only picture the Orlando City fans with colourful face paint, honking a horn and driving a tiny car while the children run away in terror.

The game kicked off and was played in typical boring Stoke city fashion, so the vast majority of our entertainment came from the sheer stupidity and cringe worthy quotes coming from the fans sat around us. For example, every time Thomas Sorensen took a goal kick, screams of “you fat bastard” in Britain we’re replaced by “you suck, asshole”. Which frankly sounds like a back handed 9 year old insult you throw at someone when they nick your juice box.

Other nuggets of joy we couldn’t help but overhear from anonymous fans while we were eavesdropping include:

“You need to score more goals man!” – when Orlando went 1-0 down.
“Whoever came up with that is a genius.” – referring to the “you suck, asshole” chant.
“America is the best country in the world.” – a drunk college students comment which was greeted with a high five from a hairy man in the row in front.
“Why is there 4 minutes injury time? There wasn’t even any goals. This is rediculous.” – a man clearly not grasping the concept of ‘injury time’.

The fans were by far the most interesting part of this game. I guess it was kind of nice to hear fans applaud players for trying their best in contrast to English football supporters, who basically tell the players how awful they are as they themselves eat a pasty and drink two pints at half time.

But even so I’d rather see the players get waves of abuse than staff squirming to clean up confetti thrown by overly patriotic Yanks.

Stupid Fish

Fishing is overrated. Maybe that’s just because I can’t catch anything. I get one of them weird feelings while I’m fishing where I keep thinking they’re plotting against me.

They keep suggestively splashing in the water, reminding me that they’re actually there, taunting me. They’ll eat algae off the bottom of small ponds but they’ll not touch my bait, I mean who doesn’t like reduced fat turkey hot dogs?

I read somewhere that fish don’t feel pain. I can’t help but think that’s just an excuse so fisherman don’t feel bad about themselves. If I had been granted three wishes I’d make it so fish can vent their physical and psychological anguish to their captors, then hopefully they’d need some heavy counselling.  That would be after I’d wished for an unlimited supply of spicy tacos and a talking pet chimp.

Maybe I’m just doing it wrong. Those guys on “Hillbilly Hand Fishing” make it look so easy. Just reach in and pull ’em out. When I tried that I got nothing but an old bike tire. Eventually the boredom sets in and the stench of failure invades the air, what the hell is their problem?

I know, I’ll try worms. I pierce the hook through the worm, and submerge it into the swampy depth. After another age of disappointment passes by, the worm looks bored.

I’m boring the bait.

At this point I’m packing in, I’m not letting a worm make a mockery of my pride. I can’t handle the humiliation, I can feel the fish laughing and sniggering at me. I feel bullied and lonely and retreat back to the dock, if I could catch anything I’d release a swarm of small tiger sharks into the pond for instant revenge. That would teach them to play with peoples emotions. Jerks.

What Seems to be the Problem Officer?

Got pulled over yesterday. I’m on holiday and it was the type of pullover that would make any inexperienced, hormonal, pasty, post – teenage driver stain his undergarments.

I only noticed her in my rear view mirror after I had not completely stopped at a stop sign. At this point I thought my life was over. I was overreacting about as bad as a women’s football coach would after being beaten on penalties at the world cup final, it’s alright, nobody cares anyway.

She didn’t pull me over though, not yet. She decided to stick herself so far up my backside for the next 3 miles I had to just leave her there until it didn’t hurt anymore. The flashing lights then turned on, I pulled over fearing I’d done 65 1/4 in a 65 zone.

She casually walked over to the car. I had a moment of clarity and thought to myself “it’s alright, I got this.”

“What seems to be the problem officer?” I slyly enquired as I lifted my shades.

“License and registration please.” She stated with authority.

She was playing hardball.

“Certainly mam.” This was like an episode of COPS. I must admit I was loving every minute of it despite the growing urine patch on my shorts. She took away my license and I had this horrifying image of myself being thrown onto the car bonnet and being violently searched. At least it was a woman and not the kind of hairy trucker looking man that would eye me up in the prison shower.

“Here you go”, she said as she casually handed my license back to me after faffing about in her police-car mobile. Then she just drove off and left me. No explanation.

I felt like I’d been stood up on a date. I didnt even get to first base. Not even a hug. Is this how Americans usually get treat while driving?

I think I’ll get a job at KFC and serve a police officer. While they’re stepping out I might just stop them and ask:

“Do you like fried chicken?”

When they answer I’ll just walk off with a side order of righteous swagger.

Euro 2012: Forward Thinking

I don’t want anyone to win Euro 2012. In a way I genuinely hope Germans, the Italians and now Spain all get done for match fixing. And while we’re at it I hope Sepp Blatter suffers multiple kidney stones.

I seem to despise any country that’s successful and isn’t English, much like most England fans to be fair, except I’m the only one that admits it. The Spanish side are constantly diving, Italy are cheaters and Germany are well… Germany. The disappointment of England bombing out of Euro 2012 was on par with hearing the BBC were going to cover the rest of the games – devestating news.

Alan Hansen actually has a lever on the back of his head that needs rewinding after each piece of coverage, as BBC viewers apparently can’t get enough of hearing his recycled verbal garbage that holds about as much originality as ITV2’s overwhelmingly terrible reality series ‘Mark Wrights Hollywood Nights’.

Despite commentators constantly drooling over Spain’s flowing,  beautiful but frequently boring style of play as well as practically ever other European side bar England, noone has been wonderful at Euro 2012. Germany had a decent quarter final but let’s not forget they were playing a Greek side about as interested as David Cameron is in his daughter while he’s at the pub.

Hodgson after Ashley Youngs penalty miss.

That being said England were embarrassing.  I’ve never known a team try so hard to ignore Andrea Pirlo and not get beat. Apparently his stench was so great England needed to stay at least seven yards away to avoid shriveling up and passing out.

But being the positive, forward thinking and optimistic man that I am I do believe Englands solid defensive displays are definitely something to build on in the future. The back four looked extremely organised and will hopefully prove to be a tough nut to crack in future tournaments. If we manage this, teach Ashley Young how to pass and ditch the overrated ogre that is Wayne Rooney we may have a chance at the world cup in 2014.

We just need to avoid Sweden, Italy, Germany, Portugal and probably Spain.

Taken Should Not be a Good Film.

Taken 2 Poster

Upon hearing the well documented news that there is to be a sequel to the 2008 action flick ‘Taken’, I feel this is the perfect time to express my opinion on the semi – heroic death machine that is Bryan Mills and his quite stunning ability to dodge the police or in-fact any form of consequence for his downright disgusting treatment of the Albanian mafia.

The film features a retired CIA field operative that might as well have been given 96 hours to hunt Osama Bin Laden based on his ability to find entirely anonymous kidnappers purely from them uttering two words on a mobile phone. But not only does this man not miss a shot, he also has the uncanny ability to board commercial airlines back to the USA after practically diminishing the Albanian population and scaring Paris sh*tless.

People shouldn’t remember a movie with such cliche’d action sequences and plot about as complicated as a new episode of Mickey Mouse’s Clubhouse, but they do, and this may be the reason it’s so popular. People enjoy watching the screen like stale vegetables gazing at an ageing man with a seemingly endless arsenal of cool one-liners. There is no thought or effort in this. Just shiny explosions and middle eastern bad guys getting shot by a man who also happens to be Zeus and that bloke from Star Wars: The Phantom Menace (the crap one).

Mills hunting those ever problematic Albanians. Is that racist?

However, after all the obvious flaws with this film I can’t help but be excited for the sequel. When I heard they had plans for a “Taken 2” I was dreading a story similar to what the Hangover did, basically take the same film and put it in a different country without adding to the formula at all because “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it”. But the trailer has actually given us a reason to want more from the Neesonater, and to see what those pesky Albanians are up to this time. It’s also made me curious to see what his seemingly useless daughter will add to Brian “Rambo” Mills ploy, and also whether she’s still a virgin or not. These questions need answering.

Slightly off topic but I can’t help but wonder that if put to the task, would he be able to find this guy?

Just a thought.

Sky-rimmed.

I have not a clue how it’s happened.

A few months ago if you told someone you were into a video game which happens to include dragons, magic spells, elves and other mythical beings you’d be instantly condemned to humiliation and immediate sexual rejection and stigma.

 

You kept it secret for many years, keeping it in your closet to conceal your erection for all things dungeons and dragons that was so painfully visible to the world and annoyingly rubbing on your comfort pants that you’ve now worn far too many times without washing.

But now it’s over. A game has been spawned that has saved your social life and granted you the confidence and right of passage to speak to those creatures you know so little about, those you have always known of, but also always feared. Girls.

They are now forced to at least look at your confidence drained, pimple populated and scarily lonely figure instead of looking straight through you at the kind’ve guy who thinks its cool to take pictures of himself in the mirror and post them on facebook.

Before, you avoided girls just like you did the mighty dragons at level 5. But now you destroy their walls of intimidation and absorb the lessons they teach you when they awkwardly ask who you are as you randomly approach them on Valentines Day or grudgingly inquire if it’s in yet.

It’s safe to say though now girls are much less of an issue. And rather surprisingly, so are the haters as the small minority of people who make fun of others for playing Skyrim are now severely outnumbered and are quickly banished to social Oblivion (sorry).

But Skyrim has pretty much made its way into video game folklore over the last couple of months. It’s probably the most addictive video game since Kratos from God of War got so hot and heavy in the bedroom he decided to incorporate his romps into a kid friendly mini-adventure involving a waiting blonde and a whole lot of player guilt for getting so excited about it.

I’m sure so many male gamers have searched for something like this in Skyrim. Not me though. Definitely not.

Awful in-blog video game references increased to 85.

Exaggeration increased to 100.

Diary of a Disgruntled Flyer

I wonder if anyone actually enjoys flying.

I would like to meet that person. Perhaps take them on a date and get to know them better. They must be truly remarkable.

Upon suffering multiple long distance flights in a short space of time I’ve discovered flying does not get the slightest bit more enjoyable despite the impressive array of playing cards and paperback novels you’ve brought with you.

As for in-flight entertainment frankly I’d rather catch up on The Teletubbies than the latest romantic comedy starring Matthew McConaughey and another robotic one-dimensional “actor”. And even if it is a film you were looking forward to it’ll be instantly underwhelmed by the 8 inch fuzzy, discoloured screen positioned uncomfortably close to your face because the gentleman in the seat in front decided to put his chair so far back he might as well have just rested his head in your lap listening to whale noises while you cradle him to sleep.

Children screaming and kicking chairs while you eat your chicken pasta which you masterfully chose instead of the roast cardboard and vegetables. But suddenly your beaming smile and new found sense of self appreciation for making the right choice crash lands when you notice your 5 star cuisine looks suspiciously like the child’s vomit sat in the row next to you. And probably tastes like it too.

I can’t help but feel excitement though when the lady with the cart comes over to feed us like cattle and pass us little boxes like there’s a spellbinding surprise inside that we can’t wait to unwrap like a child with an early christmas present. This atmosphere of anticipation is soon replaced with disappointment and humiliation as we all try so desperately to utilise the 4 inches of space we have to try and butter the minuscule piece of wholewheat bread like elephant seals packed into shoe-boxes. Cursing our gullible naivety because the butter is still frozen and we’ve already destroyed the last morsel of food we’re rationed until landing.

But I suppose the satisfaction of landing makes the journey more worthwhile. The noise of the wheels crashing against the runway being greeted by applause marks the end of a horrific ordeal like a woman giving birth or the end of the Academy Awards.

The Little Italian That Could

2007. The Messiah had arrived. The man who could turn water into wine had graced our country with his managerial grace and stylish spectacles. Fabio Capello had the doors to his football factory open and England had the golden ticket. Excitement lined the streets. People desperate for a shake of the hand from the guy whose touch could turn anything to platinum.

He can’t speak English? Not important.

The anticipation was in every England fans eyes. This was it, “40 years of hurt” was about to get an appointment with the most prestigious doctor in football. This guy was the boss among bosses.

Guaranteed stricter than your parents, as an England player you weren’t allowed phones at the dinner table. If you wanted to go out with a girl he needed to meet her first. And her parents. And you had to be in by dark and in bed by the end of Corrie.

But this was about the approach more than football. Gone were the days of booze and coke-fueled nights out featuring the cream-of-the-crop in foreign prostitutes.

Mr. Wolly with the Brolly himself looked like Winnie-the-Pooh compared to the stern face italian stallion who, at the same time wouldn’t look out of place with a shell on his back at Seaworld.

But this was it. This was the era. We would be bigger than the big sides like Spain and Brazil. Except not as agile, skillful,  entertaining, dominating, determined or good looking as them.

2009. We were on the way to the golden chalice. The Holy Grail that is the World Cup is surely ours. The qualifiers probably could’ve been played by any Royal Oak Sunday side. Capello nearly offered to manage one of the teams playing against England to give them a fighting chance. Because that’s the man he is, always thoughtful and willing to help others, and never for money. Ever.

2010. This was the year of celebration, we all knew it. We expected it. The World Cup is just the start. The next step is world domination. Our greatness would eclipse our competitors to such an extent we would eventually only need 5 players on the pitch. And even then it would be 5 too many as the fear-striking England name would be enough to make the opposition curl into a ball and weep until we took their lunch money and made them say “uncle”. Earth would then be re-named “England” with Capello walking on water.

Hold on. One step at a time.

We arrive at the World Cup. We scrape through the group stage in what is a shaky start to our breakthrough campaign. Doubters start to surface and are immediately greeted by hostility and disgust by the Capello faithful, the Messiah will get us through this.

But get through we didn’t. The Capello empire crumbled and collapsed upon the mans very eyes as the demonic and evil force that is Germany rip through and destroy England like a child rips the wings off a squirming fly for their own twisted amusement.

Fabio is exiled. Statues depicting his greatness are torn down, burned, laughed at, then urinated on for effect. Fabio Capello was not the King anymore, he was the jester who’d taken everyone in England around for a cheap laugh.

2012. Fabio Capello resigns. The-little-italian-that-could went from hero to zero while practically achieving nothing but wasting everyones time and making us feel foolish in the process, as we probably all should’ve realised he made next to no progression in learning the English language in over four years.

Capello is now homeless and lives somewhere in Lancashire with his dog Rex whom he bought in return for a 6 pack of Carlsberg and 9 expired banana flavoured condoms.

Forty years of hurt and England fans are still awaiting the remedy.