I fucking LOVE the Mr Men. Iconic pop art done with felts from Woolies costing about 20p the whole pack. Unpretentious stereotypes that NAILED the human condition. Aesthetically engaging hand-sized books which predated the joy of CD inlay cards. And a spin-off TV series with the best theme tune ever (after The Sweeney) and the droll, avuncular and dulcet voice - like a melted Worther’s Original - of Arthur Lowe. Fucking love them.
But some of them were bastards.
Like Neil Young, Roger Hargreaves was at his best in the first half of the 1970s, releasing the first 13 masterpieces in ‘71-2: Tickle, Greedy, Happy, Nosey, Sneeze, Bump, Snow, Messy, Topsy-Turvey, Silly, Uppity, Small, and Daydream. He built on this success and in 1976 alone he doubled his body of work, adding the likes of Strong, Impossible, Dizzy, Muddle, Jelly and Funny. At this point, he and Neil Young got a bit stuck for ideas and put out more of the same, only not as good. And then came the 80s. As Neil Young experimented with a vocoder and released albums on which he sounded like Metal Mickey going down on Dolly Parton, Roger Hargreaves pissed on his own legacy by writing the Little Miss books.
That aside, you should be allowed to do a fucking DEGREE in the Mr Men. It’ll be well worth 9 grand a year. Your dissertation could be titled, “How far do the Mr Men embody the post-revolutionary social dystopia of the 1970’s through a combination of pathos and bastardness?”
You’d have to start with the worst bastard of the lot, Mr Uppity. Clearly a Eton-educated, Bullingdon Club, Far Right Tory aristocrat with unbridled disdain for anyone who hasn’t made his school fag let him snort cavier and cocaine out of his arse-crack with a hundred-guinea note. Hargreaves was too astute to state this explicitly in the story and I daresay that I may have become a little upset by it at such a young age, but it’s there all right , IN THE SUB-TEXT!
Mr Tickle was a prophetic premonition of that 1980’s thoughtless and galling desire to piss people off by playing practical jokes on unsuspecting members of the public. Clearly, Jeremy Beadle and Timmy Mallet had that Tickle gene. In real-life, that story would have ended with someone kicking the shit out of Mr Tickle.
He’s not the only one. Mr Nosey got his come-uppance by having his nose either painted or pinched with a clothes peg. This would not have resolved his anti-social behaviour. Instead, he would’ve become a police officer’s snout, a pathetic low-life criminal who grassed on the big fish and eventually found himself with a breeze-block tied to his schnozz at the bottom of a canal.
Mr Fussy was easily the most mealy-mouthed, self-righteous prick of the lot. Not wanting to nail his political colours to the mast, Hargreaves neglects to tell us that Mr Fussy was an avid Daily Mail reader, who masturbated over Mary Whitehouse’s letters and had such a bad case of OCD that he claimed to have CDO because he wanted to keep all of his conditions in the right alphabetical order.
Back in the 70s, though, no one had a “condition.” There were no learning difficulties or special needs. Mr Dizzy would never have been statemented at school – he’d just be called THICKO and stuck in the remedial class alongside the dyslexic Mr Topsy-Turvey and dyspraxic Mr Bump.
But for every obvious bastard, like some of these mentioned and Mr Mean and Mr Greedy (nasty cunts), Hargreaves was able to step back and let his audience judge for themselves sometimes. Mr Happy? What fucking drugs was he on? He needed a right old slap. Spending his time smoking shit with Mr Daydream and unpicking the pseudo-Victorian gothic horror-come-olde-English faery-tale nonsense of Genesis’s “Nursery Cryme” album. Wasters.
The Mr Men were my role models. I’m off now to eat 30 fried eggs and beat someone up.
Thursday 18 August 2011
Monday 8 August 2011
Bitesize Bastards #4 Pointless E-Petitioners
Until recently I was unaware of the laudable extension of democracy by means of the government’s e-petitions website, which enables every one of us to create a petition which can become eligible for debate by MP’s if it attracts 100,000 or more signatories. It was only when the news reported strong support for “abolishing the ban on capital punishment” (a wonderful double negative) that I found myself engaging with politics through this website. (For the record, I signed a counter petition, to retain the ban, because much as I would happily smirk in triumph to hear of the untimely and distressing death of any paedophile, serial killer or rapist, that emotional response is not one that a society’s legislation should ever be based on.)
For the purpose of your humour today, however, I have decided to share with you some of the more idiotic, self-righteous and pointless e-petitions which members of the grunting British public have started. Obviously, some people are consciously trying to be funny on there, but it’s the more earnest efforts that cause me to roll on the floor laughing my fucking arse off (as you youngsters say with your acrostic cyber-speak.) I’ll include the link to the site at the end, should you wish to support the intellectually retarded causes of these misguided boneheads.
So that you can appreciate them all the more, each petition consists of a main statement followed (when you click “view”) by a synopsis of exactly what is being proposed. This adds to the unintentional wit, because some people just have the most wonderful turn of phrase. For instance, the person who started this petition:
“Relax somewhat TV political correctness rules.”
The details are as follows:
"I think that it is important to, only slightly, relax the rules regarding political correctness in British television. Although i belive this is important i think that it is equaly, if not more important, to remain un-bigoted. I think British television could remain fair,open minded and inclusive, without going 'over the top' as it evidently has in recent years."
Clearly, his notion of law-making is as sharp as his spelling ability. How the fuck do you relax the laws “only slightly” or “somewhat”? How do you word that in law? So far, no one else has signed this petition.
Some people clearly misunderstand the role of government in law-making. Mr Bettles, I respect your opinion about the quality of programmes on BBC3, but I really don’t feel that the government should be empowered to ban a TV channel, not even for the help that this act might give to the “tough financial climate” by saving license-payers’ money.
In the wake of the London riots, it was distressing to read about problems in other areas of the UK. Mr Sleight, proposing that “Mobility scooters should require a license” outlined the ordeals his community have gone through:
He explains: “Currently, in the streets of Bridlington (just one example) people are encouraged to ride mobility scooters whether they need them or not. Resulting in hazardous footpaths, congested shops, blocked roads and general nuisances.”
Yeah, we all know that only the fat and very lazy use those scooters. Perhaps his petition should have read “Make it legal to tip over a mobility scooter if the person driving it is eating take-away food at the same time.”
In a similar vein, there is a call for the “UK to drive on the right hand side of the road” with all cars to be made left-hand drive, in order to avoid accidents caused by foreign drivers. Currently 23 people agree with this. Presumably these same people do things like using a kitchen knife to peel off all their skin to treat eczema or excavate their whole garden to a depth of 10 feet whilst weeding.
I’d hoped to learn something from the petition to stop commercial banks creating money and only allow the Bank of England to do so. I didn’t know much about this, so I looked at the details and was intrigued by the argument until the proposer justified himself with this historical analogy:
“Ghenghis Khan did it! He just printed money and said, ‘In my land THIS IS MONEY and if you owe me money, this is the currency you have to pay me in.’ and people accepted it.”
And I love the naive way in which some people believe that a small and hilariously mundane change will have such far-reaching effects:
“Sort out Pelican crossings
The Prime Minister should make an announcement saying that there are no cameras on any pelican crossings in the country. Then, tell everyone that if the light is on red, and there is nobody on the crossing, just GO! This would save Billions of pounds to the economy, increase our standard of life and reduce carbon footprint.”
Inevitably, the joy of giving everyone a voice means that we have to listen to (or read in this case) the demands of our sizeable minority of bigots, racists and common-garden cunts. Such as Mr Pitt whose petition is a call to “Abolish Islam in the UK” because he feels that the religion is being “forced onto British people.” Hmmm. Love to see the evidence for that Mr Pitt.
Prick.
The site obviously appeals to that increasing number of people in society with a 10-second concentration span who just like doing things on computers, evident by the fact that these arses start up petitions which are exactly the same as existing ones, thus taking support away from a cause and handicapping its chances of reaching 100,000 and going to debate. DOH!
Anyway, see for yourself when you’re bored enough. Or anytime something pisses you off, you too can vent your frustration with a banal and pointless e-petition of your own:
http://epetitions.direct.gov.uk/
For the purpose of your humour today, however, I have decided to share with you some of the more idiotic, self-righteous and pointless e-petitions which members of the grunting British public have started. Obviously, some people are consciously trying to be funny on there, but it’s the more earnest efforts that cause me to roll on the floor laughing my fucking arse off (as you youngsters say with your acrostic cyber-speak.) I’ll include the link to the site at the end, should you wish to support the intellectually retarded causes of these misguided boneheads.
So that you can appreciate them all the more, each petition consists of a main statement followed (when you click “view”) by a synopsis of exactly what is being proposed. This adds to the unintentional wit, because some people just have the most wonderful turn of phrase. For instance, the person who started this petition:
“Relax somewhat TV political correctness rules.”
The details are as follows:
"I think that it is important to, only slightly, relax the rules regarding political correctness in British television. Although i belive this is important i think that it is equaly, if not more important, to remain un-bigoted. I think British television could remain fair,open minded and inclusive, without going 'over the top' as it evidently has in recent years."
Clearly, his notion of law-making is as sharp as his spelling ability. How the fuck do you relax the laws “only slightly” or “somewhat”? How do you word that in law? So far, no one else has signed this petition.
Some people clearly misunderstand the role of government in law-making. Mr Bettles, I respect your opinion about the quality of programmes on BBC3, but I really don’t feel that the government should be empowered to ban a TV channel, not even for the help that this act might give to the “tough financial climate” by saving license-payers’ money.
In the wake of the London riots, it was distressing to read about problems in other areas of the UK. Mr Sleight, proposing that “Mobility scooters should require a license” outlined the ordeals his community have gone through:
He explains: “Currently, in the streets of Bridlington (just one example) people are encouraged to ride mobility scooters whether they need them or not. Resulting in hazardous footpaths, congested shops, blocked roads and general nuisances.”
Yeah, we all know that only the fat and very lazy use those scooters. Perhaps his petition should have read “Make it legal to tip over a mobility scooter if the person driving it is eating take-away food at the same time.”
In a similar vein, there is a call for the “UK to drive on the right hand side of the road” with all cars to be made left-hand drive, in order to avoid accidents caused by foreign drivers. Currently 23 people agree with this. Presumably these same people do things like using a kitchen knife to peel off all their skin to treat eczema or excavate their whole garden to a depth of 10 feet whilst weeding.
I’d hoped to learn something from the petition to stop commercial banks creating money and only allow the Bank of England to do so. I didn’t know much about this, so I looked at the details and was intrigued by the argument until the proposer justified himself with this historical analogy:
“Ghenghis Khan did it! He just printed money and said, ‘In my land THIS IS MONEY and if you owe me money, this is the currency you have to pay me in.’ and people accepted it.”
And I love the naive way in which some people believe that a small and hilariously mundane change will have such far-reaching effects:
“Sort out Pelican crossings
The Prime Minister should make an announcement saying that there are no cameras on any pelican crossings in the country. Then, tell everyone that if the light is on red, and there is nobody on the crossing, just GO! This would save Billions of pounds to the economy, increase our standard of life and reduce carbon footprint.”
Inevitably, the joy of giving everyone a voice means that we have to listen to (or read in this case) the demands of our sizeable minority of bigots, racists and common-garden cunts. Such as Mr Pitt whose petition is a call to “Abolish Islam in the UK” because he feels that the religion is being “forced onto British people.” Hmmm. Love to see the evidence for that Mr Pitt.
Prick.
The site obviously appeals to that increasing number of people in society with a 10-second concentration span who just like doing things on computers, evident by the fact that these arses start up petitions which are exactly the same as existing ones, thus taking support away from a cause and handicapping its chances of reaching 100,000 and going to debate. DOH!
Anyway, see for yourself when you’re bored enough. Or anytime something pisses you off, you too can vent your frustration with a banal and pointless e-petition of your own:
http://epetitions.direct.gov.uk/
Thursday 4 August 2011
Bitesize Bastards #3 Everything and Everybody in the Summer
I’m not one to moan. There are only two little things that I hate about the summer. Everything and everybody. Apart from that it’s a whole lot of hunky fucking dory.
For one thing, there are the insects. And all manner of flying shit-bugs and annoying buzzy flying bastards. Round about July, I dust away the cobwebs that hold the patio doors closed and venture OUTSIDE into the garden, with that sort of hammy trepidation that Star Trek crew have when they beam down onto a new planet, which is clearly just a TV set with crimson lighting and painted polystyrene blocks. And I think, fuck, look at all the weeds that have grown everywhere. And I have to spend hours over days pulling up all the weeds and anything else green that grows in between them, like flowers, bushes and plants and shit. And when I have watered the brown and arid lawn by broadcasting beads of sweat from my shaking brow, I sit back with a beer in a chair and savour the neat and tidiness of my OUTSIDE domain - For a few minutes at least, until some wasp tries to get my beer and I go back INSIDE for the rest of the summer.
However, the demons of the outside follow me in. I have the stark choice between keeping all the windows closed to keep out the flying things and thus turning my home into a greenhouse until I am baked like a miserable over-ripe tomato, or I let in the air and suffer the hostility of nature invading my home like an unwanted sales-call. “Hello, is that Mr Bastard? I’m ringing from Nature.co.uk to see if you’re interested in a conversion of all the dirty filth-carrying flying buzzy things from garden pests into household pets.”
My particular nemesis is that same small uncatchable little bastard fly that carves out geometric lines in the air just underneath the light in the lounge ceiling. What a pointless existence this creature has. He doesn’t even fuck off to find some food to eat or shit on. He disappears when you stand up to try and catch him and reappears when you sit back down with a petulant thump.
Then there are the moths. They know you have to leave the windows open at night and they wait in anticipation for that moment when you have to turn the toilet light on; and they fly in while you piss and flutter about in front of your face where you can’t shoo them off because you’re holding your willy and yet you engage in some kind of demented convulsions until you realise that you’ve now pissed everywhere in the bathroom apart from in the pan.
That’s when it’s hot.
And when it’s hot, everyone you meet tells you that its hot, just in case you didn’t notice and thought that the reason why your shirt and pants were sticking to you was because you’d been shot in the chest and arse by a passing sociopathic youth. And when it’s not hot, the same bastards moan about how we aren’t having a proper summer, oblivious for a few seconds to the fact that they live on an island in the northern hemisphere on the edge of the Atlantic ocean and not in fucking Greece.
It’s bad enough that the weather is the default conversation of British people the whole year round anyway, but in the summer people also ALWAYS ask, “Are you going away this year?” Nosey cunts! What do they want to do? Rob your house when you’re not in? More likely they want to tell you about when THEY’RE going away.
And when it’s hot, blokes with no fat on their torsos strip off to the waist, because it’s so much cooler doing that than wearing a t-shirt and not at all because they want to show off their fat-less torsos and look like wankers. Am I jealous? Yes. Would I do the same if I was fat-less in the whole torso region? No, I’m not a wanker.
Right, I’ve had a moan, I’m going up the pub. Not to sit OUTSIDE and watch wasps dive-bomb my beer or shove their pointy arses in my eye-line and make me look an idiot as I spaz about with flailing arms trying to dissuade them from their practice. No, I shall sit inside and nurse a tepid bitter and rub pork scratchings on my eyeballs until I feel better.
For one thing, there are the insects. And all manner of flying shit-bugs and annoying buzzy flying bastards. Round about July, I dust away the cobwebs that hold the patio doors closed and venture OUTSIDE into the garden, with that sort of hammy trepidation that Star Trek crew have when they beam down onto a new planet, which is clearly just a TV set with crimson lighting and painted polystyrene blocks. And I think, fuck, look at all the weeds that have grown everywhere. And I have to spend hours over days pulling up all the weeds and anything else green that grows in between them, like flowers, bushes and plants and shit. And when I have watered the brown and arid lawn by broadcasting beads of sweat from my shaking brow, I sit back with a beer in a chair and savour the neat and tidiness of my OUTSIDE domain - For a few minutes at least, until some wasp tries to get my beer and I go back INSIDE for the rest of the summer.
However, the demons of the outside follow me in. I have the stark choice between keeping all the windows closed to keep out the flying things and thus turning my home into a greenhouse until I am baked like a miserable over-ripe tomato, or I let in the air and suffer the hostility of nature invading my home like an unwanted sales-call. “Hello, is that Mr Bastard? I’m ringing from Nature.co.uk to see if you’re interested in a conversion of all the dirty filth-carrying flying buzzy things from garden pests into household pets.”
My particular nemesis is that same small uncatchable little bastard fly that carves out geometric lines in the air just underneath the light in the lounge ceiling. What a pointless existence this creature has. He doesn’t even fuck off to find some food to eat or shit on. He disappears when you stand up to try and catch him and reappears when you sit back down with a petulant thump.
Then there are the moths. They know you have to leave the windows open at night and they wait in anticipation for that moment when you have to turn the toilet light on; and they fly in while you piss and flutter about in front of your face where you can’t shoo them off because you’re holding your willy and yet you engage in some kind of demented convulsions until you realise that you’ve now pissed everywhere in the bathroom apart from in the pan.
That’s when it’s hot.
And when it’s hot, everyone you meet tells you that its hot, just in case you didn’t notice and thought that the reason why your shirt and pants were sticking to you was because you’d been shot in the chest and arse by a passing sociopathic youth. And when it’s not hot, the same bastards moan about how we aren’t having a proper summer, oblivious for a few seconds to the fact that they live on an island in the northern hemisphere on the edge of the Atlantic ocean and not in fucking Greece.
It’s bad enough that the weather is the default conversation of British people the whole year round anyway, but in the summer people also ALWAYS ask, “Are you going away this year?” Nosey cunts! What do they want to do? Rob your house when you’re not in? More likely they want to tell you about when THEY’RE going away.
And when it’s hot, blokes with no fat on their torsos strip off to the waist, because it’s so much cooler doing that than wearing a t-shirt and not at all because they want to show off their fat-less torsos and look like wankers. Am I jealous? Yes. Would I do the same if I was fat-less in the whole torso region? No, I’m not a wanker.
Right, I’ve had a moan, I’m going up the pub. Not to sit OUTSIDE and watch wasps dive-bomb my beer or shove their pointy arses in my eye-line and make me look an idiot as I spaz about with flailing arms trying to dissuade them from their practice. No, I shall sit inside and nurse a tepid bitter and rub pork scratchings on my eyeballs until I feel better.
Monday 1 August 2011
Bitesize Bastards #2 The Dead-Eyed Has-been Celebrity Sect
(Disclaimer: Originally, this post named 3 well-known celebrities, but for reasons outlined at the end, I have decided to conceal their identities.)
So, I’m flicking through the TV channels and chance upon a kids’ game show on BBC1 and its being presented by Celebrity A in a sparkling electric red lame suit. A number of thoughts go through my mind:
WHY THE FUCK IS HE STILL ON TELLY AFTER ALL THESE YEARS?
WHO THOUGHT TO PUT HIM ON A KIDS SHOW?
DOES HE HATE THIS AS MUCH AS HIS EYES WOULD SUGGEST?
Because what Celebrity A has is something a number of other has-been TV personalities have and that’s DEAD-LOOKING EYES. Eyes with no sparkle, no life. Barney Rubble eyes. Eyes that say, I used to do comedy in the 80’s, present prime-time telly in the 90’s and now I’d do anything for the money like a desperate fame-junkie. Eyes that would scare the shit out of kids and send them running to a parent, eager to escape the creepy-looking, dead-eyed man.
Celebrity B has those same eyes. Lifeless and hollow. When he made his name performing magic on stage, his eyes had that twinkle of mischief. But now he looks like the whole world has decided that magic is a top-hat full of saggy old bunny’s bollocks and consequently he has nothing more to offer. The only thing left to do is agree to be the subject of a Louis Theroux documentary, oblivious to how he’ll come across when Theroux shrewdly gives him all the rope he’ll need to hang himself with pitiful indignity.
But these men can’t help it. They need the work. And they need the attention. How awful it must be to fall from the dizzy heights of 80’s Prime Time TV and find yourself the butt of everyone’s disdain.
Self-promotion has never been easier for these ex-celebs. If they can’t get on I’M A CELEBRITY (or any show, like Celebrity Big Brother, which used to cruelly expose their rotting personalities) then they can always open a Twitter account. Celebrity A appears to have tried this, but ran out of anything remotely interesting to say 587 days ago after only 57 tweets, the most entertaining of which are:
WATCHING THE CRICKET
(I AM) BACK PEOPLE – SPREAD THE WORD
SORRY BEEN VERY BUSY
REALLY INTERESTING TV PROJECT IN THE PIPELINE
You lying bastard! Busy doing what? Quite often these people are “writing material” that I could produce without any more need for paper than a few squares to wipe myself with afterwards.
Celebrity C fares much better on Twitter with a following of 67,509. But he HAS TO follow 5,904 people (unheard of for a celeb, as most tend to follow only about 30 other celeb mates) because that’s where he gets all his jokes from. He recycles other people’s witty tweets without crediting them (you can re-tweet or quote others on Twitter, but he does neither.) This has earned him scorn and notoriety and therefore ATTENTION and attention is EVERYTHING to the Dead-eyed Has-been Celebrity, isn’t it?
Celebrity A has encouraged people, on HIS Twitter account, to be nice to Celebrity C who is “feeling down about getting bad tweets.” SO FUCKING WHAT? GET THE FUCK OFF OF TWITTER THEN! You’d think that people who are only interested in self-promotion should have worked out by now that the British public despise it and tend to take the piss out of anyone who desperately courts attention that is not commensurate with the amount of talent they don’t have.
I feel mean and nasty laying into these 3 men, but only because Twitter provides an opportunity for my words to eventually find themselves relayed to them, and they seem so paranoid and self-obsessed that they probably spend their lives reading everything about themselves on the internet. You know, wake up, turn on the PC and Google your own name. What are they saying about me today? Oh, I’m a TWAT? Boo hoo hoo!
For that reason, I have concealed their names. They are not really bastards. They look it, but they’ve gone beyond that to become the puppets of that evil tyrant, the bastard god Fame.
So, I’m flicking through the TV channels and chance upon a kids’ game show on BBC1 and its being presented by Celebrity A in a sparkling electric red lame suit. A number of thoughts go through my mind:
WHY THE FUCK IS HE STILL ON TELLY AFTER ALL THESE YEARS?
WHO THOUGHT TO PUT HIM ON A KIDS SHOW?
DOES HE HATE THIS AS MUCH AS HIS EYES WOULD SUGGEST?
Because what Celebrity A has is something a number of other has-been TV personalities have and that’s DEAD-LOOKING EYES. Eyes with no sparkle, no life. Barney Rubble eyes. Eyes that say, I used to do comedy in the 80’s, present prime-time telly in the 90’s and now I’d do anything for the money like a desperate fame-junkie. Eyes that would scare the shit out of kids and send them running to a parent, eager to escape the creepy-looking, dead-eyed man.
Celebrity B has those same eyes. Lifeless and hollow. When he made his name performing magic on stage, his eyes had that twinkle of mischief. But now he looks like the whole world has decided that magic is a top-hat full of saggy old bunny’s bollocks and consequently he has nothing more to offer. The only thing left to do is agree to be the subject of a Louis Theroux documentary, oblivious to how he’ll come across when Theroux shrewdly gives him all the rope he’ll need to hang himself with pitiful indignity.
But these men can’t help it. They need the work. And they need the attention. How awful it must be to fall from the dizzy heights of 80’s Prime Time TV and find yourself the butt of everyone’s disdain.
Self-promotion has never been easier for these ex-celebs. If they can’t get on I’M A CELEBRITY (or any show, like Celebrity Big Brother, which used to cruelly expose their rotting personalities) then they can always open a Twitter account. Celebrity A appears to have tried this, but ran out of anything remotely interesting to say 587 days ago after only 57 tweets, the most entertaining of which are:
WATCHING THE CRICKET
(I AM) BACK PEOPLE – SPREAD THE WORD
SORRY BEEN VERY BUSY
REALLY INTERESTING TV PROJECT IN THE PIPELINE
You lying bastard! Busy doing what? Quite often these people are “writing material” that I could produce without any more need for paper than a few squares to wipe myself with afterwards.
Celebrity C fares much better on Twitter with a following of 67,509. But he HAS TO follow 5,904 people (unheard of for a celeb, as most tend to follow only about 30 other celeb mates) because that’s where he gets all his jokes from. He recycles other people’s witty tweets without crediting them (you can re-tweet or quote others on Twitter, but he does neither.) This has earned him scorn and notoriety and therefore ATTENTION and attention is EVERYTHING to the Dead-eyed Has-been Celebrity, isn’t it?
Celebrity A has encouraged people, on HIS Twitter account, to be nice to Celebrity C who is “feeling down about getting bad tweets.” SO FUCKING WHAT? GET THE FUCK OFF OF TWITTER THEN! You’d think that people who are only interested in self-promotion should have worked out by now that the British public despise it and tend to take the piss out of anyone who desperately courts attention that is not commensurate with the amount of talent they don’t have.
I feel mean and nasty laying into these 3 men, but only because Twitter provides an opportunity for my words to eventually find themselves relayed to them, and they seem so paranoid and self-obsessed that they probably spend their lives reading everything about themselves on the internet. You know, wake up, turn on the PC and Google your own name. What are they saying about me today? Oh, I’m a TWAT? Boo hoo hoo!
For that reason, I have concealed their names. They are not really bastards. They look it, but they’ve gone beyond that to become the puppets of that evil tyrant, the bastard god Fame.
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