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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
After the dust has settled and people have just recovered from their superbowl hangovers, I came to a grim realisation about America’s favourite sporting event, as well as the sport altogether.
I watched Superbowl 46 and immediately switched it off when I noticed I’d been watching it for around 50 minutes and they hadn’t even gotten through the first quarter due to advertisements.
Something that probably makes me want to eat a plate of tacks for breakfast more than anything is how people can actually look forward to the Superbowl for the adverts. Adverts are not meant to be enjoyed they are meant to brainwash you like mindless vegetables to buy their product through the sheer motivation of greed.
People who watch the NFL hold a brilliant level of passion which is certainly commendable but I also believe their ignorance is worthy of them getting a Tim Tebow kick to the face.
Football is a sport that exists purely to make MONEY. Any game that requires the players on the pitch and the audience in the stands to wait for an NBC commercial break should be banished, strung up, tortured, raped and eaten with a garnish of loneliness and humiliation.
Don’t get me wrong. I am aware that all professional sports need to make money as this is how businesses work, even in Soccer (Through gritted teeth I use the horrific term ‘soccer’ to avoid confusion). But the initial core and purpose of Soccer is not to make money but to provide a service for its fans to celebrate their passion for their favourite teams, un-interrupted by the money-driven motivations of television networks or advertising sponsors.
If every fifteen minutes of every live Soccer match was interrupted because the television network it was being broadcast on needed to go to a commercial break there would be blood. Fans would realise their passion was being turned into a rolling money making machine. Unfortunately though signs are starting to crop up as the ticket prices to even see some lower division soccer teams is absurd as well as player wages and big team transfer budgets are reaching astronomical heights. Thankfully though it’s not quite at the same stage as the NFL, although as a passionate British soccer fan we all hope this isn’t just going to be a matter of time.