Two For The Price Of One – The Cheeky Girls

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , on July 11, 2009 by MrsMinxington
"I'm sure there was two apples!" "Hang on a sec..."

"I'm sure there was two apples!" "Hang on a sec..."

 I’m a large Abba fan. I may have mentioned this before, but if I haven’t suffice to say that they have always formed a large part to the background theme music of my life. A fair proportion of their songs were and still are classic songs. Very few people will flick on to VH1, when they are having a “Let’s Play All The Abba Songs Special Day” and not instantly recognise the song that they hear, and more often and not know most if not all of the words. “Take A Chance On Me”, “Chiquitita”, “Winner Takes It All” , “Waterloo”, familiar to all of us above a certain age and once again in the minds and play lists of the young thanks to the success of “Mamma Mia”. 

There are, I suspect, very few of us, who in a nightclub full of grannies gagging to be, well, lets not go there, but you can imagine, you know the sort, usually frequent  sixties and seventies nights where there’s always guaranteed to be a group of extremely drunk men out on a stag night who have a secret bet on as to who can pull the ugliest/oldest slapper there.  

Anyway, there are very few of us, faced with that situation, would not hear the opening bars of “Dancing Queen” and be ON that dancefloor, instantly transported back to when we were 17 and thought we could actually dance, even though our handbags kept interfering with our elaborate steps, shouting our way through the chorus and believing ourselves to be Dancing Queens.

“What the HELL are you going on about now, you silly tart?” I hear you cry.  Either that or it’s the sound of wistfully nodding heads hitting ample busoms repeatedly in quick succession.

Well, anyway, there was ONE particularly dreadful Abba song. Dreadful for several reasons – one, because Bjorn sang it, and he was my least favourite, because he looked like one of those lucky troll dolls you could get from tourist shops, they had different costumes (I always wanted the ones in wedding costumes), which was fine and lovely if you were a doll, but not so appealing on a pop icon.  Secondly, because it is lyrically outrageous.

However, for the purposes of this article, I shall attempt to recreate, in textual form, my own version of the song – and hopefully the Cheeky Girls will come along, read it, and do a cover version. Fuck “Touch My Bum” – this is a pop classic in it’s own right.

Two For The Price Of One – The Cheeky Girls Version

He had what you might call a trivial occupation
He used to be the Lib Dem Spokesman for Education
He had Sian Lloyd in his life

He didn’t want her for a wife.

He read the matrimonial advertising pages
The cries for help from different people, different ages
But they had nothing to say
At least not until the day
When something cheeky he read

This is what it said:

If you dream of the girl for you
Then call us and get two for the price of one
We’re the answer if you feel blue
So call us and get two for the price of one
If you dream of the girl for you
(If you are dreaming of someone who might just touch your bum)
Then call us and get two for the price of one
(Why don’t you call us and we’ll touch it till it goes all numb)
We’re the answer if you feel blue
(We may be the answers to your problem, a chance with we two)
So call us and get two for the price of one
(Why don’t you call us and you’ll get two for the price of one)

He called the number and a voice said, “Gabriella”
The voice was husky and it sounded like a fella
He was amazed at his luck
That he might maybe get a fuck.
He said, I read your ad, it sounded rather thrilling
I think a meeting could be mutually fulfilling
Why don’t we meet for a chat
And you could show me your twat

I can’t forget what I read

I’ve got a twisty head

If you dream of the girl for you
Then call us and get two for the price of one
We’re the answer if you feel blue
So call us and get two for the price of one
If you dream of the girl for you
(If you are dreaming of someone who might just touch your bum)
Then call us and get two for the price of one
(Why don’t you call us and we’ll touch it till it goes all numb)
We’re the answer if you feel blue
(We may be the answers to your problem, a chance with we two)
So call us and get two
(Why don’t you call us and you’ll get two)
For the price of one…

She said, I’m sure we must be perfect for each other
And if you doubt it you’ll be certain when you meet my mother (She writes all our songs, you know)


All rights reserved for the Cheeky Girls. The right to make your ears bleed, the right to make cheesy eurotrash popshite that would embarrass even Samantha Fox, the right to pose in what we believe to be provocative but the wider world believe to be QUITE FUCKING WRONG photographs, and hopefully at some point, the right to remain FUCKING SILENT.

Bugger off, Cheeky Girls. JUST BUGGER OFF!





Tom Cruise

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , , , on July 11, 2009 by MrsMinxington
"Katie, baby, can we have thetan two veg for dinner tonight? Can we, can we, pleeeeeease?

"Katie, baby, can we have thetan two veg for dinner tonight? Can we, can we, pleeeeeease?"


Once upon a time, in yesteryore, many teenage girls swooned and drooled big puddles of drool because this hot new actor Tom Cruise had become a huge star due to appearing in lots of lovely Hollywood movies. Even the teenage boys liked him a bit, because Top Gun was a manly GRRR of a film where Tom flew big scary aeroplanes and was a hero, totally nonplussed by the presence of bogies at four o’clock.

Personally, I get pretty plussed by the prescence of bogies at any o’clock and have to blow or wipe, but maybe I’m just faddy like that. In BabyMinx’s case, a bogie at any o’clock is just a delightful minature snack, in the same way that bathwater is the most refreshing beverage in the whole world, but I am sure (or at least hope) she will grow out of that particular way of thinking.

Anyhoo. Those little girls, and boys, grew up. They grew and they grew. Unlike our hero, who had stopped growing when he was kneehigh to a grasshopper and probably would have needed paint can stilts or built up shoes to see over the top of the grasshopper at all. Our hero, was in fact, what the clansfolk of my paternal homeland would refer to as “wee”. Terribly handsome, but incredibly “wee”.

He never really floated my boat, it has to be said, mostly because I was already taller than him by the time I was 5 – but some of my school chums thought he was the bee’s knees – or at least was able to lick the bee’s knees, never quite sure of which. I went off Nik Kershaw when I was 11 for the same reason, when the Smash Hits Annual (or that other magazine that was a bit like Smash Hits but’s name escapes me – but not Look In) posted a celebrity height chart, with various celebrities in silhouette with their various heights in a police line up stylee, and poor old Nik Kershaw was languishing down the short end with Prince.

I would have probably married him up until that point but those dreams were cruelly and irrevocably shattered, and at CHRISTMAS of all times. Still, his greatest hits album still gets the occasional play for a quick trip down halcyon day memory lane. If anyone can explain to me what the feck he was going on about in “The Riddle” please do let me know, I’ve always wondered. It’s like Dali in 45rpm vinyl form.

Anyway, what we teens standing knee deep in lakes of our own friends saliva were unaware of at that time was just quite how barking Tiny Tom would end up appearing to become over time. Much as I would like to spend several paragraphs waxing lyrical about the whole Scientology thing, Im really not that versed in it, and I quite like my kneecaps and I cant afford any major court cases. Tom Thumb likes the lawsuits, it seems, so I do have to be careful to remain entirely factual (which of course stating that hes about 2 inches tall completely complies with.)

I would not DREAM of suggesting that the whole Scientology thing is an elitist cult where only the rich can reach the highest echalons of it’s dizzy peak of excellence. Although the thought of Tombo reaching the dizzy peak of ANYTHING without some very grippy shoes or without teetering on the shoulders of a tower made mainly of members of the LA Lakers is alien to me anyway (ha, alien, see what I did there?) But apparently, he’s pretty high up the whole Scientology – (I can’t think of the word that I need to accurately describe such a structure, and I am not sure they would find the words I am coming up with appropriate – Jelly, Compost Heap, Dung Pile,) but THING, anyway.

But I can say, that I found the whole nonsensical public displays of tiny bouncing with glee after pulling Katie “Joey” Holmes and getting her knocked up quite nauseating, hopefully without fear of being beamed up to a waiting space ship to have my entrails removed via my nose. There is nothing more lovely and beautiful than two people who have fallen in love, it is sweet, it is joyous, it is a thing of great treasure. And then there’s Tom Cruise bouncing around on Oprah’s sofa like a two year old that just discovered that if you put a kitten in the toilet, it makes this GREAT squeaking noise.

So, here he is. On the list. If I suddenly disappear, and then come back and start extolling the joys of Thetanism and telling you that Old Ron L Hubbard went to the cupboard to slip Poor Tommy a bone – firstly, have me shot, and secondly, know where I have been. If I don’t turn back up, you know who to blame.

Catherine Tate – Unfunny Dear? Me Dear? Yes Dear.

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , on July 9, 2009 by MrsMinxington
Does This Boot Look Bovvered?

Does This Boot Look Bovvered?

I don’t know if you ever happened to catch You’ve Been Framed when “professional-mate-of-Robbie-Williams Jonathan “Jonny” Wilkes was taking his turn at presenting it, sandwiched neatly between the services of Lisa Riley and Harry Hill. Every week, at the end of the show, for the two weeks he presented it (or something) he would say “Now remember, I don’t have a catchphrase!” – which was, well, you can kind of see what he was trying to do there, but it just didn’t work.

Which leads me nicely on to Catherine Tate.  To refresh myself for this episode of 1000 People More Annoying Than, I sat through about 45 minutes of various sketches that she did during The Catherine Tate Show / Comic Relief / Children In Need. To refresh your mind, she was the star of “The Catherine Tate Show” (the clue being in the title there) which was several series of the same not funny jokes being repeated in slightly altered settings. A bit like Little Britain, but in this case, the first series wasn’t any funnier than the successive ones.

I hope you appreciate the sacrifices I make for this blog.

When I woke up at the end of them, I cracked a smile. For the first time. During the whole 45 minute period. I was awake! I was alive! It was over!

The key, in my mind, to characterising “normal” people with extreme characteristics, is to identify aspects of those people that your audience can relate to, and thread that through the sketch in order to provide a familiar feeling to provide a contradicting aspect to the more extreme behaviour. The closest I found to achieving this in all the sketches I watched was the one where her sweary Granny character “Nan” was picked to appear on Deal or No Deal. The familiarity came from the sketch being set in the game show, and to all intents and purposes, ran exactly as the game show did.  

But even that didn’t give me anything really to connect with. My grandparents, on the whole, were polite people. They dressed tidily, my nan had her hair set religiously once a week, and told my grandad off if he said he was going to the “kharzi” instead of the toilet.  That said, she was more than slightly mortified to find out that the word “twat” did not mean the same as the word “twit” – having called her greengrocer friend a “silly twat”. The expression on her face when we explained this to her, was about a billion times funnier than any sketch I have seen involving Catherine Tate. But she bore no comparison to “Nan”.

When doing a little Wikipedia research, I was not THAT surprised to find that her first tv appearance was as “Son’s Girlfriend” in an appearance in that sidesplitting (or do I mean wristslashing?) sitcom, Surgical Spirit. ITV never really did master the art of the sitcom, did they…  But it’s clearly an ominous sign in it’s own right. If that’s where you cut your comedy teeth, well… you might as well just give up now.  Unfortunately, she didn’t.

What I didn’t know was that they (being THE POWERS THAT BE AT THE BEEBEECEE) wanted to move the Catherine Tate Show to BBC1 but she refused to move off BBC2 because she didnt want to have to worry about the ratings. Wise move.

It is only a matter of time, I suspect, until she appears once again upon our screens.


I’m not bovvered, my face is not bovvered, and my late lamented grandmother, who incidentally would have been 90 years old today, had she not died when she was 70, is probably the least bovvered of us all.

God Save The Queen (From any more Royal Variety Performances involving Catherine Tate). Amen. How VERY dare I.

Peter Andre-x

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , , , on July 7, 2009 by MrsMinxington
Warning:- May cause nausea and vomiting.

Warning:- May cause nausea and vomiting and insanier.


Greetings to you, avidly despondant readers. Todays nominee for the list of disgust is, as you can see from the above picture, Peter Andre. He was on the original list, back in yesteryore, and he still rightfully deserves a place today. He has this unnerving effect on me, one that I only experience normally when thinking of voles or malt loaf, and that effect is most accurately described as “a triggering of the gag reflex”. 

There is a reason I experience it with voles or malt loaf, and that is because as a teenager, after a family holiday to Hay-On-Wye (of bookshop and book festival fame), we were returning home when we stopped for something to eat at a roadside catering caravan. I had neither voles OR malt loaf from the van, but a harmless enough looking ham sandwich, whilst the rest of ma famille had fromage.  

Long story short, by the time I got home I had the worst dose of food poisoning I’ve ever experienced, it lasted a week and involved hallucinations and the usual unpleasantries that accompany it. During the week of that holiday (it was a camping trip) I had eaten a lot of malt loaf, and also we had found a nest of baby voles in a hay stack. For some reason, an association was made in my head with feeling incredibly sick, voles, and malt loaf, but not with ham sandwiches. Even now, I still cant write those words or think about those things without beginning to feel really quite sick, so if you don’t mind I shall move swiftly on.

Anyway, I have no such weird and tenuous links with Peter Andre that could create such a psychological phenomenon, but the fact remains he too causes me to feel quite nauseous and generally fairly unwell. When he first arrived in the public eye in the UK, he had already achieved some level of celebrity in his home country of Australia (although he was actually born in the UK, which I didn’t know) via an appearance on “New Faces”. He first came to my attention with that heinous “Mysterious Girl” song, which was a huge summer hit and I ABSOLUTELY LOATHED. And don’t even get me started on that supposedly sexy video of his far-too-chiselled-self splashing about and grinding his pelvis in waterfalls. It makes my skin crawl. Actually OFF my body and under the nearest table to hide.

Then he had a couple more hits, which were a couple too many for my liking – and then it all went tits up, he disappeared and I could breathe a sigh of relief.  Or so I thought. More fool me. Poor More Delusional Fool Me.

Thanks to his reappearance on “I’m A Washed Up Half-Wit, Get Me Out Of Here And Back Into The Public Eye Where My Ego Tells Me I Rightfully Belong” – and his subsequent romance and marriage and offspring spawnage with Miss “Katie-Jordan-Tits-Oot-For-The-Lads-Oi-Oi-Saveloy-Polo Darling?” Price, he’s barely been out of the papers, or off the telly box since. 

Now, obviously I dont go out of my way to watch or read about him, because the doctors would call that bulimia and make me go and see a nice psychiatric doctor who would force feed me and show me pictures of him to get me over my phobia. I do try, where possible, NOT to inflict him on myself. But as he and his cash-hungry soon to be ex-wife insist on inflicting themselves on us at every possible opportunity it is a bit difficult to avoid him.

I can say, honestly, and without a shred of a crossed finger, that I have never watched an episode of “Katie and Peter – The Disastrophe” – fortunately it’s on ITV2 I think so is easily avoided, as are most programmes in my house that aren’t shown on the Playhouse Disney channel, but from what I have gleaned from other media, the premise was basically that it was worst-case scenario reality tv at it’s finest. If you happen to think finest means the same as “desiring to rip out your eyes and ears with a crochet hook to save ever having to suffer it again”.

The same can most definitely be said of their Disney duet of “A Whole New World” – the song from Aladdin (Michael Jacksons most borrowed video from the local Blockbuster… probably – unless of course his assistant misunderstood when he said “Let’s get Aladdin tonight”.) which was THE most singularly horrifying piece of I cant even begin to dignify it by using the word music that I have ever had the misfortune to inflict upon myself and yes, I did listen to it voluntarily out of sheer morbid curiosity.

From what I have gathered though, the nightmare coupling of Peter and Katie has been far from a harmonious romance. But, you know, I dont really care about that. Since their recent separation there has been an awful lot of negative stuff said about her and positive stuff said about what a great dad he is, and credit where it is due, even though in this day and age its incredibly common to have splintered family trees with children with different fathers and stepfathers, he clearly DOES love Harvey as though he was his own son and has taken the responsibility of fathering him very seriously, (unlike a certain footballer, apparently/allegedly/maybe, all those words that can save me from getting in troubly).


The fact that both he and Katie have used their relationship, their children, their lives, in all the tawdry gritty detail to provide an income for themselves, and a VERY substantial one at that, kind of negates any good father points he gets, in my mind. In most countries selling your kids is against the law. Not so in the south of England it would appear. Not that in the countries where its against the law it doesnt still happen – I’m looking at YOU China, but it’s the principle of the thing.

Those kids have NO choice as to whether their faces are splashed all over the front of Allo Allo magazine, (“Eet is the picture of the fallen Jordan with zee big boobiez” would never have worked as well…) and no choice in whether the intimate details of their family life are exposed for the world to dissect. And lest we not forget, one of them had no choice in being called Princess Tiaaaaaaaami either. FFS.

But the most CRIMINAL thing of all, really, for me personally, was the year my brother bought me a bottle of “Insania by Peter Andre” scent. I would call it perfume but that would fail to describe the aroma with any sort of accuracy. For the uninitiated, and I pray for your sake that you are – a more accurate way of describing the smell that permeated my entire house within a microsecond of opening the box the bottle came in (WITHOUT actually spraying the damn thing) was the perfect blend of dead baby voles, rotting malt loaf and the scrapings from Peter Andres groin, left to rot together for about 15 years and then unleashed to destroy every single one of your senses on impact.

We had to actually put it outside the house, by the bins, to stop it from killing us.

If North Korea are looking for something to REALLY do some damage, they should sack the nuclear programme off and instead fill missiles with this crap, it could wipe out the planet in a matter of seconds.

Off to puke now, have a nice day!

I’m Looking At The Minx In The Mirror…(MJPun#1)

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , on July 3, 2009 by MrsMinxington

Sorry about the lack of recent updates, had visitors and chicken pox to deal with over the last week or so. Not necessarily in that order.

I wont usually interrupt the flow of annoyance with a personal post, but in this case, its an event, more than a person that has annoyed me the most this week.

 Now, I love a good celebrity death, don’t get me wrong – even though you don’t KNOW someone doesnt mean that you have no involvement in them, whether that be because you are a fan, you spent money on their work, or you admire their talent, or some other aspect of their personality, or you love to hate them. The meeja bring us more celebrity news than we can possibly EVER need or want, and while most celebrities do not figure on our radars for very long at a time, there are a few who for whatever reason, REALLY capture peoples attention, spark the most heated debates, and are loved or hated in equal measures.

Michael Jackson, I dont think there would be much argument that he was one such person. If there was ever a person who has been through the media mill, he’s a prime example of why celebrity culture has a very serious and dark downside. I am not required to detail the past here, HIStory (MJ Pun #2) is so well ingrained in us all, that only people recovering from a persistant vegetative state in the last five minutes would need an update. EVERY aspect of his life was documented, as much as they could be, for someone who tried so hard to maintain SOME level of privacy. Anything we didnt know was endlessly speculated on.

And now he’s dead. And it still goes on. And on. And on. It’s a week now since he was papped being rescuscitated in the ambulance when he was effectively already dead, the tribute editions of magazines are already looking yellowed on the shelves of the supermarkets, no doubt having been in the cupboard WAITING for this valuable money making opportunity to arise. Pretty much EVERY news site is carrying various updates on the saga, its STILL a trending topic on Twitter (tho dropping down the ranks slightly now), and it looks unlikely to end.

Thank heavens the meeja realised Uri Geller was a bit of a pointless “source” and went for more reliable recent offerings such as “The Bloke Who Was Once A Child Star In Oliver! – The Movie” and “The Bloke Who Interviewed Him Once And Had Lots Of Phone Calls With Him Afterwards”. WHAT would we have done without them?

Seriuzly. Theres more important stuff going on in the world than worrying about if Neverland is going to become a shrine or if Debbie Rowe is going to go for custody, or indeed, if this is an elaborate hoax, or who Blankets mother is, or how he wanted to talk to also recently deceased dead celebrity Jade Goody before she carked it, or who he’s named as guardian for the kids in his will (DIDNT THINK THAT ONE THROUGH DID YOU! GIVE EM TO YOUR MOTHER! YOU HATED YOUR DAD COZ HE BEAT YOU, SO HAND THE KIDS TO THE PERSON MARRIED TO HIM! GOOD CALL! or you know, Diana Ross. Surely his mate Macaulay Culkin would have been a better choice, he will at least be reasonably likely to still be alive when they reach adulthood…)

But, once again, I am digressing. This whole media circus has INTENSELY annoyed me (even though I insist on slurping up every morsel of tabloid fodder and HATE myself for doing it) for one, very important reason.  


Normal service will be resumed tomorrow, where proper LIVING people will be tortured for my own entertainment once more.

PS, Paris Hilton made a comment on Twitter today that made me lol and cringe ALL AT THE SAME TIME! It was pretty much “I heard Beirut totally rocks! HUGE!”

Indeed it does. But perhaps not in the sense she meant it.


Uri Geller – no relation to Ross or Monica. They still have Friends.

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , on June 26, 2009 by MrsMinxington

Firstly, apologies for the lack of blog the last few days. The eldest and youngest Minxington children have succumbed to the chicken pox over the last couple of days and plus I had a Vegan land on me for a holiday, so I have chained her to the kitchen sink and am now ignoring her to write this.

Anyway, you can’t HELP but know that Michael Jackson is dead. It has after all been breaking news on Sky 1 for about 18 of the last 24 hours. Think they *might* have got round to removing the breaking news logo by now – and just gone for TODAYS TOP STORY instead, but I wouldn’t know because my attempts at a diana style overt display of handwringing wailing and swaying, whilst heading straight for the crash spot so I could lay my tribute bouquet, or you know, gawping like a moron while stuffing my face with bourbon biscuits (Did you know they are vegan? Most brands are anyway – but don’t let that put you off. ) had been somewhat impeded by stern looks from the Vegan who labelled me sad, then stuck a postage stamp on my arse and sent me to Coventry.

I had the good / bad fortune to get wise to the breaking news because I was farting about on Twitter at the time when it started to be talked about. Kids were in bed and I was patently trying to ignore the vegan because she’s been nothing but trouble since the moment she arrived. I did actually boot her up the arse today in Argos, things got a little heated and competitive over the arrival of our respective orders – she only ordered one thing, BEFORE ME, and I ordered FIVE things, AFTER her. And my stuff all got to COLLECTION POINT B first. HAHAHA. Anyway, her failure to lose gracefully led her to shamelessly berate me for handing her the larger of the two bags to carry. She whined like a wino. That means “a lot”. So I demonstrated the “Bishop Brennan” on her and she soon behaved herself. Sorry. went a little off tangent there.

So, I switched the news channels on to see what was happening, and lo, there’s Uri Geller talking about how he’s hanging on to a glimmer of a thread of hope that the rumours aren’t true and that he is going to be ok even if the coma rumour turns out to be true. Now, this is literally minutes after the story started to break. MINUTES. Theres no ACTUAL confirmation of the death yet, but either some desperate researcher scrabbling for someone to comment on it had called him, OR he had called into the studio himself to say that he was too upset to talk and then carried on talking anyway.



"Look, I told you Mr Geller, I'm straight!"

"Look, I told you Mr Geller, I'm straight!"

So, there I am, with the husband and the vegan, gawking like the rubberneckers we were – and there’s Geller, the smug cutlery intimidating cunt, talking about how he can’t talk about it right now, he doesn’t have the words, but he’s devastated, and has no words, and has no comment when asked when he last saw him (which implied to me it had been a good while – didn’t they fall out anyway?) but he’s devastated, and has no words, and so many people are calling wanting to talk to him and he doesn’t even know whats going on yet, he doesn’t know if he’s dead but of course would much prefer it if he was in a coma than actually dead because coma is something you can come out of, deadness tends to be a bit trickier, but he has no words, and he will be in a better place now if it is true, which if it is, he has no words for.

Within an hour or so he’s actually ON camera talking about it, how he doesnt have the words, how he’s devastated. He doesn’t at that point encourage us to put our index fingers on a red button on the TV screen to focus positive energy to help Michael heal. This disappoints me slightly, after all, it worked for David Beckham’s cruiseship ligament. Nor does he use the power of his mind (has he actually got a large magnet mounted in his forehead that is charged in the polar opposite way to your average kitchen implement? Some sort of stainless steel repelling implant?) to ruin any perfectly serviceable spoons. He just doesn’t have the words to express how devastated he is. Of course, he can’t comment on how MJ has been recently. because he has no fucking clue, he’s just been pulled out of a nice snuggly spoons position and handed the opportunity of a deathtime to reinvent himself as “Friend of Michael Jackson” which will let him dine out for MONTHS along with all the other “FRIENDS” who will no doubt follow suit.

Of course, I should be careful what I say – he will already have read my mind and know that I have malice aforethought. Then he might start legal action against me, just like he did when he tried to sue Nintendo for creating a pokemon that he claimed was modelled in his image. No, not Jigglypuff, although that was my first thought too. I can’t be arsed putting this into my own words, so I shall just post it in its raw entirety lifted straight from Wiki.

“In November 2000, Geller sued video game company Nintendo for £60 million (the equivalent of US $100 million) over the Pokémon character “Yungerer,” localized in English as “Kadabra,” which he claimed was an unauthorised appropriation of his identity. The Pokémon in question has psychic abilities and carries bent spoons. Geller also claimed that the star on Kadabra’s forehead and the lightning patterns on its abdomen are symbolisms popular with the Waffen SS of Nazi Germany. The katakana for the character’s name, is visually similar to the transliteration of Geller’s own name into Japanese. He is quoted as saying: “Nintendo turned me into an evil, occult Pokémon character. Nintendo stole my identity by using my name and my signature image.””


That’s beautiful.

It was thrown out of court.


Loose Women

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , on June 23, 2009 by MrsMinxington

loosemingesNow, according to The Law Unto Hucknall (which I made up myself, and thus can cite with confidence), people should be listed individually with their individual lack of merits detailed individually. In this case however, I shall make an exception. It would be very easy to pad out a chunk of the 1000 people with each and every single “woman” that’s ever been a panellist on ITV’s “Loose Women” but frankly, I don’t feel like giving them that much space or attention. So I am lumping them into one post.

If you aren’t familiar with the show, and I sincerely hope for your sake that is the case, then basically I can describe it thus. It’s like Scrapheap Challenge, but instead of manly men building interesting things competitively in order to provide fulsome entertainment, the Scrapheap itself has been given it’s own show and invited to comment on topical items of the day in front of a studio audience made mostly out of other bits of the scrapheap that didn’t ever make it to be famous.

Now, I should point out, that I am a lady, of sorts, anyway. I’m not the most delicate and feminine of girls, I have all the right lady parts and am definitely identifiable as female, but I’m not a girly girl by any stretch of the imagination. When you are six foot odd and built like a brick shithouse, it’s pretty impossible to get away with flicking your hair back, giggling lightheartedly and talking about kittens. Although kittens ARE pretty cool. But even if I was two foot seven and shaped like a cotton bud, I still don’t think it would be in me to be able to do those things. I’m far too lazy, for one thing.

It just doesn’t interest me. It’s the way I am. Not a thing I can do about it.  So, you can imagine that something like “Loose Women” is not something that is likely to appeal to me anyway. I’m sure lots of people find it entertaining, I suppose if they didn’t then it wouldnt have been recommissioned endlessly.

Packed to the absolute brim of the cauldron with former soap actresses, former reality stars, former wives of famous people, former frontswomen of meaty stock cube advertising campaigns, etc etc etc etc, it’s notable that the word FORMER is relevant in nearly every single case.

Now, I don’t dispute that it is important for older people, of both genders, to be appearing on TV and showing us that life goes on beyond the twenties. But this format and this concoction does no favours for the positive reinforcement of that message. Instead, it tells us that by middle age, women should be bitter old careworn harridans who have nothing better to do than bitch at one another, until one of them gets so stressed out they have a nosebleed and have to be carted off to hospital.

They are not setting a good example, in my opinion, for the middle aged or older generation. It’s tawdry, and it’s not good TV. 

But then, it’s pretty much typical of ITV these days. Long gone are the days where Farmhouse Kitchen, Emmerdale Farm, The Sullivans and Crown Court were the daytime viewing choices on offer – and perhaps that’s not a bad thing either, but if this is the choice of a new generation, then that generation should be given a very stern talking to at the least, or potentially given community service for crimes against public broadcasting.

Come back, A Country Practice, all is forgiven.