Archive for celebrity

What Would Paul Mckenna Do?

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , on July 25, 2009 by MrsMinxington
"Cupboardy"

"Cupboardy"

 

Firstly, massive apologies for the lack of recent updates, I’ve been right poorly in the chesticles and have not had the strength or willing to write anything bigger than 140 chars, via my phone, whilst flopping around on the couch coughing until I turn purple and more than a little bit of wee leaks out. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, we all piss ourselves when we have a chest infection. Don’t we?

Right, then.

And I don’t mean it leaks out of my mouth either, before the anally retentive come amongst us questioning my sentence structure. I am still ill, mkay? Just be grateful you’re getting anything.

Munchkin made me a card earlier, which she had painstakingly written inside “Hope you get better”. Me too. I don’t fancy the alternatives much.

Paul McKenna can’t make me better. Only the baby Jeebus could perform that sort of miracle. He would lay his hands on my fevered chest, and say “Rise, from your couch of unwellness, my child, and you shall breathe without restriction once more”. Then I would leap up feeling stronger than Mr Strong at the World’s Strongest Mr Man competition, sing The Mikado without stopping for breath, pull a lorry 400 yards with barrels strapped to my feet and the world would gasp with amazement.

He can’t make me thin, either. (I’m back to Paul Mckenna again by the way, I’m sure the baby Jeebus could “Let me apply the Dyson of Divinity to your rampant midriff, my child, and you shall wobble no longer”.)

I know he can’t make me thin, because I tried to let him. He’s also failed to make me rich, failed to make me give up smoking and failed to make me think he’s a superhero.

If he had brought out a book that was entitled “I Can Make You Wish You Were Never Born”, then we might have been getting somewhere.

Now, to say you can make someone do something, well, that’s quite a claim. It also takes the responsibility away from the person who is endeavouring to journey down the path of self-improvement. (Did I mention there’s a new Argos opening within walking distance of my house? The Laminated Book Of Dreams ON MY DOORSTEP!)

If he had for example, entitled the book “I can make you empower yourself to a level where you can control your eating disorders and not shovel 15 Galaxy Ripples in your face by the day” – then that would at least give some responsibility for self care and self improvement to the self who wanted to do it in the first place. But no, he takes ALL the credit. “I DID IT! ME! YOU JUST DID WHAT I TOLD YOU TO DO! ITS MY GLORY, NOT YOURS!!!”

Which kind of spoils the results a bit, should they prove to be successful. “Oh great, I lost 17 stone, THANKS BE TO PAUL MCKENNA!”

He possibly wields more power than Jeremy Kyle, Uri Gellar and The Great Suprendo COMBINED! (That would make a marvellous photoshoppertunity – I must create that spoonbending golfball licking usedtobonevictoriawooding monster…)

Screw Scientology, let’s all join the cunt cult of McKenna. We can get a big house, turn it into a commune, get dirt under our toenails, grow beards, screw everyone and meet after the evening meal to share and ruminate upon the various Tomes Of McKenna. Then we can take hallucinogenics, and our Master will come amongst us, bind us hand and foot, and describe in glorious technicolour what a Galaxy Ripple looks like all covered in VOMIT POO AND CAT HAIR. We will be thin in no time, and will be able to more freely go out amongst the people, and teach them the way to the Truth. We will however be a non-profit making organisation, that won’t be a problem will it, Mr McKenna? I mean, if you genuinely want to help people… Even the Jehovah’s Witnesses give out their literature for free! Not sure about the Moomins though. You have to pay through the snozz to be in their gang.

What do you mean you charge eighteen billisquillion to attend one of your seminars? But people can just get the book for £7.99 from Amazon and all good bookshops! Dontchathink you might just be OVERINFLATING IT A BIT?

Well then maybe we will just have to look elsewhere for a spiritual leader – if that’s the way you feel about it. I’d rather it be Bill Bailey anyway. He won’t force me to imagine my favourite food EVER all covered in horrid things. He will just tell me about how a  squirrel and an elf had a race and the pixie queen gave out galaxy ripples to everyone to mark the golden anniversary of yesteryore. And he’s got more hair than you. Fuck you, Mckenna. Fuck you! If I want to be thin, that’s up to me to achieve and YOU aren’t going to take all the credit! HA! Howd’ya like them apples? And cupboardy is NOT a word and I won’t look into your eyes, I will look AROUND the eyes.

Anthea Turner & Grant Bovine

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , , , on July 12, 2009 by MrsMinxington
Not Sponsored By Cillit Bang.

Not Sponsored By Cillit Bang.

 

In about 27 minutes, from time of commencement of writing, it will be EssexGourmet’s birthday.  As a special birthday treat, I proposed that she nominate today’s annoyance, and she thought hard for about twenteen seconds and then twittered “ANTHEA TURNER AND GRANY BOVEY!”

I hope that the Y should have been a T or I might be writing about the wrong generation of Bovey’s here – let’s hope not, because if she was actually married to Granny Bovey that might make this retch-inducing pairing at least rate as “slightly interesting”.

So, Granthea. What a truly adorably nauseating couple they make. She, the “perfect housewife”, and he the multi-squillionaire property tycoon.

Let us just for a moment take a loving and adorable look at Wikipedia’s entry for Anthea.

Under career, it states  “Turner joined BBC Radio Stoke as a comedic writer inspired by father Daniel who once told her the meaning of life was grapes.

Turner shot to fame at the age of 21 after her father burst onto the set of her radio show claiming that turner was one of the forefathers of the Brothers Grimm and progressive modern Jazz. Luckilly for Turner, Thomas’ interruption on the cold July morning attracted huge attention of Scania Childrens Books. From this point on Turner decided that she would concentrate her efforts on being a red engine. Frequent oil changes at this crucial stage helped turner into a lake.”

Now, I can’t help but think that someone MAY have altered that somewhat from it’s original commentary.  However, what we DO know is that she used to present Blue Peter, for which you need to have a squeaky clean character sheet (I’m looking at you Janet Ellis for your OUTRAGEOUS “getting pregnant without a husband” stunt, and you, Richard Bacon, for your “KIDS TV PRESENTER TAKES DRUGS” downfall.

It’s just a good job no-one ever found out about Simon Groom’s secret love affair with Goldie and the fact that he was the biological father of her puppies, including Bonnie, her successor as Blue Peter dog*, or the fact that John Noakes had to smear Vicks Vapour Rub under his eyes to invoke the copious tears he shed when informing the nation of the passing of Shep.**)

Her relationships with Bruno Brookes and former husband Peter Powell registered little on the scale of tabloid hysteria.  Unlike when she accidentally ended up a little bit on fire while making an outside broadcast involving pyrotechnics and a stunt driver – if you haven’t seen this, it’s totally worth a look.

They couldn’t have given her a better opening line to say – “If you want something to happen to you…”

Luckily for us all***, the damage was only minimal and despite temporary hearing loss and some burns, she lived to fright another day and take a payout from Auntie Beeb, or more accurately OUR BLOODY LICENCE FEES.

But then, some time later, she embarked on a liason with Grant Bovey, who left his then-wife Stellar, changed his mind and went back, and then changed it again and went back to Anthea. They married and were largely ridiculed for posing with Cadbury Snowflakes during their wedding photoshoot for OK Magazine.

Had I been writing this at that time, I would have ridiculed them too. Cadbury Snowflakes were utter wank-on-a-stick, and they should have posed with Galaxy Ripples for at least a little credibility.

Having spent some time on the GMTV couch with Eammon Holmes (and don’t sit there looking smug, arse-face,  your turn is coming…) who called her “Princess Tippy-Toes” and loved her so much that he demanded that she be sacked or he would quit (tough choice there, Martin Frizzell), she got the sack and then moved on to bigger and brighter things like, presenting the lottery sometimes, and… telling us all how to fold our tea towels.

Sadly, recently Granthea’s empire was attacked by something called the credit crunch, (I don’t think that’s something from the Cadbury’s range… maybe Nestlé?) and he had to give his entire business back to the bank. Boo-bally-hoo. My heart bleeds purple piss on their behalf. So they went on Hell’s Kitchen to make some pocket money. And didn’t win. HA HA HA HA. YOU SUCK. You would have thought with Anthea’s flame grilling skills they would have been a shoo-in but sadly not.

Apparently Anthea has also had to take on a few sponsorship deals from cleaning products to help make ends meet. Surely no-one in their right mind would either buy a product advertised by Mrs Bovary or indeed believe that she need do anything other than waft her way through the house to turn it into a sparklingly hygenic establishment? Is it only a matter of time before she turns up on QVC hawking  microfibre mopheads???? What a sorry moment for the world that would be.

More annoying than Mick Hucknall?

More annoying in fact, than if you were to run the London Marathon backwards with  Mick Hucknall residing between your thighs singing “Money’s Too Tight To Mention”and causing severe chafing and friction burns with his wiry hair and gravelly tone. THAT’S how annoying they are.  

Disclaimers…

* – may not be true

** – may not be true

***  – may not have really meant luckily. Insert your own choice of alternative from the following, unfortunately, disappointingly, distressingly.

 

Happy Birthday ESSEXFACE!!!!

(VISIT HER SITE! LINK OVER THERE! If you happen to be on the front page, if not, it’s www.essexgourmet.co.uk)

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.

*shudder*

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).

HOOOOOOOWEVER.

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!

Lorraine “Gawjus” Kelly

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , on June 16, 2009 by MrsMinxington
She's a gawjus greet sheep. Two of those words are spelt incorrectly and one's a lie.

She's a gawjus greet sheep. Two of those words are spelt incorrectly and one's a lie.

Oh where do you start?

Is there anyone that you can think of that you would not prefer to have gurning at you at 9am in the morning?  OK, maybe John McCririck in his underpants. And most of the people on the list so far. Ainsley, definitely.

If there’s one person guaranteed to put you off your Honey Nut Loops – it’s Lorraine. If she fawned any harder she would be mistaken for Bambi and shot by Prince Phillip one day when scampering past Buck Palace. She would be “GREEEEET” on kids TV, but as an adult presenter, even in the floaty-lighter-than-light entertainment section of GMTO (Good Morning, Turn Over), shes more irritating than a chronic vaginal yeast imbalance. (That’s thrush, GMTV viewers).

I can’t imagine she’s likely to be in line for any National Journalist of The Year Awards, unless we have a particularly slow news year and the most cutting edge thing that happens is the price of lip-gloss exceeding the current rate of inflation, or batwing jumpers making a come-back.

Everything is “Gawjus”, even if its a potato sack. It makes a change from a few years back, when everything was “GREEEET!” I remember her interviewing Paula Radcliffe (way before the turd on the kerb incident) and telling her REPEATEDLY that she was in “Greet Sheep”. GREET SHEEP? WHATNOW?

Took me about 10 minutes to work out that she actually meant “great shape”. Well of course she’s in great shape you patronising mare, shes a marathon runner, you can’t run 26 miles and 385 yards if you weigh 30 stone and live on chocolate éclairs and doughnuts. Well, you can, but it’s more commonly known as waddling and would take about a month to complete.

Can anyone confirm or deny the rumour I just made up that she has invisible string attached to the edges of her mouth that is tightened each morning and tied behind the back of her head to keep that gigantic cheesy grin in place? I’m sure that’s what gives her the extra definition on her cheekbones too. And her perfect skin is no doubt the result of all that endless anal burrowing she indulges in when she gets an actual real life celebrity on to her overstuffed face couch.

 And just to add insult to injury, she immediately precedes Jeremy Kyle. If that’s not a good reason to put the radio on first thing in the morning, I don’t know what is. Bring Back the Big Breakfast, all is forgiven.

How Many Crows Can You Pick From Your Nose, In An English Country, Gordon?

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , , , on June 14, 2009 by MrsMinxington
Sac Re Blurgh!

Sac Re Blurgh!

So, you’re a knackersack. You spend all day just dangling, enjoying the more than occasional scratch, generating spermatazoa to continue the march of humankind into almost certain oblivion at some point, getting occasionally sweaty and  tensing up now and then when that cock that insists on hanging round with you recognises an opportunity to get a beating. Life is pretty sweet.

Then one day, someone comes along and asks you if you fancy training as a chef, with a view to opening multiple restaurants which will win you world wide acclaim, and lots of Michelin stars, which will lead to a career as a published author and tv cookery expert, marry a beautiful woman, have gorgeous kids that you can show how to slaughter farm animals, and be smug about never having changed their nappies.

Then you can allegedly have a bit on the side with a woman who once had a fling with Jeffrey Archer and get away with it, be rude to publicans with failing businesses, bully people into doing things your way,  and best of all, you can swear your head off and people will just think it’s cute, coz you are a decent down to earth family man. Bless.

You mull it over for a while, after all, it’s a tempting offer, but then you decide that fame is just not for you, you prefer to keep your head down and get on with the business of the day. You really can’t see that a scrotum would fare well in the public eye, it never worked for John Leslie after all, and to be honest, the whole “Jeffrey Archer’s Sloppy Seconds” thing is reason enough to say “HELLA-NO-WAY, THINK OF THE SHAME!” before running away screaming, and causing chafing to the inner thighs of your owner.

So you turn it down, and then one day, you are flopping about on the couch nestling comfortably in that hairy nest you call home, and you happen to see that “The F Word” is being shown on Channel 4.

“Bollocks, Fuck and Buggery”

Gordon Ramsay. Done.

Ainsley Harriott

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , , on June 9, 2009 by MrsMinxington
True.

True.

An old favourite from the original list this time around, simply because he’s never stopped being annoying for long enough to warrant a reprieve.

I’m sure some people find his hyperactive labrador approach appealing, and think he’s a Really Nice Guy ™. To be fair, this part is probably true, he probably IS a really nice guy and seems to really care about what he does.  He just does it in such an insanely irritating way it becomes impossible to take him seriously. 

He has, as I am sure you are aware, been presenting cooking shows for ever and ever and ever and ever and ever. Most famously, he’s been the host of Ready Steady Cook since Fern Britton left – for the uninitiated, Ready Steady Cook involves two professional celebrity chefs partnering two members of the licence fee paying public (or on occasion two other non-cookery related celebrities) in a cook-off against one another where the outcome is decided by a studio audience full of geriatrics who can’t actually taste the food, waving giant pictures of tomatoes or peppers.

Harriott acts as the presenter, zooming between the two teams, making bad jokes, informative “how to slice an onion efficiently” type comments and telling everyone how long they have left to undercook their food.

Unfortunately, he seems to treat the contestants as though he picked them up straight from nursery school with their faces still smeared with poster paint. This has been a trait throughout his televisual career as part gameshowhost part cook, having spent a long time referring to the giant sized salt and pepper grinders he wields so manfully as “Suzy Salt and Percy Pepper” for as long as I don’t care to remember. I recall from the website version of Hucknall stating quite clearly that I would like to shove Suzy Salt up his Percy Peehole, and that remains true to this day.

My most gruesome Harriott moment however, was some years back, when flicking through an old copy of Cosmopolitan. They were running some sort of feature, I suspect it may have been a charitable concept or other, can’t remember. Not important. So, there I am, flicking through this magazine, reading the odd article here and there, and I get to this feature and find Ainsley. Harriott. Grinning. And. Naked. Lying. On. His. Back. With. His. Modesty. Only. Saved. By. A. Huge. Bunch. Of. Grapes.

I’m sorry about that last collection of words. I cannot assemble it into a proper sentence. The memory is scarred into my brain and causes me to have to call the out-of-hours psychiatric crisis team if I consider it for more than about 5 seconds at a time. I do however hope that someone had the common sense to trample on the grapes and make Ainsley Whine.

Fortunately for you, the internet could not find me a copy of this image so that I can inflict this unpleasantness on you. You can breathe easily again now. I know you were holding your breath going “OH GOD PLEASE DONT SHOW ME THAT” and I won’t. I am not that cruel.

However, I have NOT interfered with the image of the day, simply because it’s a piece of unintentional genius. As I understand it, this was the real packaging for some real Ainsley Harriot sausages that went on sale in Ireland but were pulled quickly (LOL – THEY PULLED AINSLEYS SAUSAGE QUICKLY! Sorry – puerile, but again, themed post…) when someone realised the rather glaring and terribly obvious hilarity. It almost kind of makes up for the ARGH I THOUGHT ABOUT IT AGAIN! WANT TO BUY MIND BLEACH! HALP! MUMMY! MY SKIN IS CRAWLING SO FAST IT’S JUST UPPED AND LEFT AND IS MAKING A DASH FOR THE HILLS! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!!!!!

Need to lie down now. Does anyone know where I can get some very strong valium?

David Brent, I mean, Ricky Gervais, I mean… WHO DO I MEAN???

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , , on June 7, 2009 by MrsMinxington
I'm not funny. And nor am I.

I'm not funny. And nor am I.

I could condense this post into one carefully worded sentence but a) that would be lazy, and b) I suspect that sentence would get me immediately removed and banned from wordpress.

Gervais/Brent ranks INCREDIBLY highly on my list of annoying celebrities, mostly because I cannot tell the difference between one and the other. Where one stops, the other one seems to start. Yes, yes, I AM basing my opinions on what I see in and read in the media, and things I have seen people in – as I dont have a little black book of celebrity chums to call and invite round for canapés at Pimms O’Clock, that’s kind of where my opinions tend to be formed. And yes, I DO acknowledge that the media will tell me anything and that half of the stuff that they say is based in pure fiction.

I watched The Office, when it was first on. Occasionally there would be a bit that made me laugh, but it wasn’t the hilarious sidesplitting ribtickler I had hoped for with all the hype it recieved. Mostly, I sat there scratching my head, hoping it wasn’t nits and wondering when the jokes would start. I’ve worked in an office, and really, there was no similarity, so I didn’t have the “oh, I knew a bloke just like that” aspect of things to amuse me, and the whole Brent as arrogant hapless cretin thing wore thin and actually started to cause me physical pain in a bad way fairly soon afterwards.

Then I started to see more of Ricky Gervais, on chat shows and the like – and I really couldnt tell where the line between David Brent and Ricky Gervais ended and began. Other than the wanky dance thing, they didn’t seem that distinguishable from one another. After a few such interviews and seeing him on the telly doing stand up, I gave up trying to get him at all. I never even bothered to watch Extras because he was in it. It might have been the funniest programme in the entire universe but I would never have known it because I could not bring myself to watch anything else with him in.

More recently, he’s been in the media slagging off Britain, from his comfortable position as newly found king of America. He doesnt want to do British films, preferring to wait for offers from Hollywood, because apparently British films are all shit and have been since 1950. The British dont like successful people either apparently, preferring to champion the underdog. Maybe he has a point there, but if being successful turns you into Ricky Gervais, then I’m for the cowering yorkshire terrier every time.

He whines that he earns too much money, whines that he hates being famous, whines that he wishes he had more of a cult following than mass appeal and just never seems to stop whining. Whine Whine Whine Whine Whine.  Put a cork in it. (Dya see what I did there, DO YOU?)

Maybe it’s just me. I don’t “get” him, but I don’t even think I would want to if I could. If his “arrogant superior unfunny cunt” persona is an act, and not the real him, then he needs to learn to switch it off, before it starts to wear even more thin than it already does and people start to switch him off. I already did.

This post not that funny? Well it’s themed. 😀