Ever been in a club and seen someone wearing sunglasses and just though ‘what a twat that bloke is’?

Yep me too.

You were probably in the “VIP area” weren’t you? Which is less to do with being important (you don’t see many cancer scientists in there after all) and more to do with being an obnoxious self-absorbed cunt who once sold the manager’s girlfriend some coke, and he vaguely remembers who you are so he grudgingly lets you in without really knowing why, or what your name is. But once you’re in there you preen and prance like your some kind of aristocratic lord whose escaped the peasantry and their dirty and squalid little world on the other side of the red rope.

Hi yeah, I’m like really important at the agency, if it wasn’t for my creative direction those shampoo adverts wouldn’t be such culturally important representations of… blah… blah… blah.

You aren’t a VIP though, you’re a cunt. But by the mere fact of being in the VIP area you get undue and totally undeserved attention from vapid and idiotic girls who also want to be in the VIP area. And then later you get to take one of them home and cum on her face, which makes you realise that no one’s interested in who you are, just in what you can give them, you die a little inside, and just wish she’d stop talking and leave.

But I digress.

I imagine people who wear sunglasses inside do it because they mistakenly think it makes them look stylish and attractive. And it probably does, for mouth-breathing cretins. But for the rest of us it just means that you can’t really see that I’m flashing you the wanker sign (I’m not really, I’m too much of a pussy), and that you’re desperately trying to cover-up your lack of personality and crushing inferiority complex with a desire to try to look different and some-how cooler than everyone else. We aren’t for one minute falling for it though.

Oh, and if you’ve actually got some kind of medical condition that means you have to wear sunglasses inside, then my apologies, but you’re still a twat.

Don’t even get me started on this cunt.

And I didn’t even mention that dickhead Bono once

I normally hate people who demand you must adore something, otherwise you deserve to be put in a truck and taken away and gassed. Usually it’s fashion people or TV-chefs, if you aren’t using super-virgin olive oil pressed between the buttocks of Enrique Iglesias then you’re a mouth-breathing prole and you’ll never get to fuck Nigella.

But it’s different with The Wire.

When my friends, some of them intelligent people who I respect, say stuff like “yeah I watched a bit of the Wire but I don’t get what all the fuss is about”, or “not much really happens does it?”; then I die a little bit inside and the world becomes slightly greyer. Then they tell me they prefer CSI Miami, and I have to make an excuse to leave, go home and write an angry blog post.

I don’t care that my friends don’t read Tolstoy (although you should, its dead easy, War and Peace is like a big soap-opera, not like Dostoyevsky, that shit is fucking impenetrable), and I don’t even care that some of them prefer Danni to Kylie, but The Wire is something else. If you like watching coloured shapes moving on a screen, with some sound, then The Wire is the absolute pinnacle. Its like all your life you’ve been eating at McDonalds, sure there’s variety, you could have a Big Mac, or a fillet of fish (if your insane), and your happy, but then one day someone comes along and gives you the finest curry imaginable, then gives you head, and you realise you’ve been a cunt all your life, eating processed swill. (If I’ve lost you with my slightly tortured-analogy; McDonalds is all the TV you’ve been watching, that curry and head was The Wire, that fillet of fish was any of those home improvements shows).

Curry is the best, and so is The Wire, and head

So why’s The Wire the apex of human achievement you resignedly ask?

Mostly because it feels so real. It was created by a guy called David Simon, an ex-police reporter from Baltimore (yes, he worked for the Baltimore Sun Wire-fans) and it feels as though Simon based the show on real people and real events. When you see how the police department works, or the local government, or the newspaper it feels like the real world; nothing works the way it’s supposed to, anyone in a senior position only cares about themselves and their own pay-packet, and consistently make the wrong decisions because of it and ruin the attempts of anyone who’s actually trying to make the world a better place. Just like at all the companies I’ve worked at. It sounds massively pretentious to say this (fuck you for thinking that by the way), but through watching The Wire you get a great education as to how the key institutions in society actually work, the police, local government, the media and the education system. And it aint pretty (or as boring as I just made it sound).

David Simon, better than God, plus actually exists

This kind of thing doesn’t happen on other TV shows, even the best, like Prime Suspect. In the end Tennison always gets her man, then smokes her fags, drink neat whisky and aborts another baby. But Prime Suspect looks like some kind of idealistic utopia after watching The Wire. I used to love The West Wing, but it looks like Thundercats after The Wire, what with all the competence, idealism and mostly happy endings.

This is the cast of The West Wing, Cheetara is Donna, cos she’s so fuckable… Panthro is Leo

Another reason is the fact that the characters are so great, again, because they feel real, although maybe not Omar, I’m not sure how realistic he is, he’s like some kind of projects super hero, knocking-over stash-houses, leaping out of 4^th floor windows, and looking menacing in silk dressing gowns. He’s absolutely fucking ace. And he will take your re-up, you cunt.

Most of the characters have fully-formed personalities, they do both good and bad, and clever and stupid things, like real people. Sometimes you like them, sometimes you don’t, apart from Bubbles, you always love him.

You could live in my basement anytime Bubbs, plus I know where we can get our hands on some copper piping

Most of the series you hate Rawls, he’s a utter twat to McNulty, he only cares about his own promotion prospects and ‘not fucking-up the stats’, but then when one of the department gets shot on a botched sting he gets his fat carcass out of his corner office, comes down to the crime scene, and takes control like a mother fucker, sorting the scene out and going on an evidence rampage. You get a glimpse of the talented cop he probably used to be, before he was perverted by the wicked powers of the promotion game. Most of the time you like Keema, she’s clever, capable and has some idealism in her, but then she’s an absolute cunt to her girlfriend, but then you can sympathise with her too.

Rawls, mostly a gaping a-hole

The list of awesome characters is very long, so I won’t bother, but if you’re interested my favourites are Omar, McNulty, the Bunk, Bubbs, Michael, Brother Mouzone… fuck it too many.

The Wire is also complex, but the good complex. You won’t be sitting there thinking, what’s going on, or why’s he doing that? The Wire won’t spoon-feed you, but you won’t get lost in stupid plot-twists, dodgy character motivations and poor writing, like what happens with Lost. It’s complex in the sense that people have conflicting motivations and events aren’t black and white, the cops can be utter shits, and the drug dealers are often sensitive, loyal and intelligent, usually more so than the police and politicians. The Wire is full of social commentary, but not the overly-simple drugs are bad, school is goof kind (I’m looking at you Grange Hill).

Fuck you Zammo, drugs are brill

I could say much more, but I’ve probably made the Wire sound dull and pretentious enough, but its not, it’s like taking a trip into a different, but real, world. And it’s better than The Sopranos and The West Wing combined. If you don’t like it, then you’re probably a twat, and you prefer McDonalds to curry.

Here’s some more Cheetara:

I’d crawl over broken glass…

On the 2^nd of October 2010 a woman in Australia was attacked by a shark, she was out snorkelling or something. I know, people probably get eaten by sharks all the time in Australia, as well as crocodiles, poisonous snakes and red back spiders hiding behind the loo.

But this time it was different, because some guy she was swimming with grabbed the shark by its tail and bothered it until it let her go. He then got her back to the surface and swam her over to a boat. Apparently it was a pretty big shark, 3 meters or so.

She’s called Elyse Franckom by the way, and she’s fine know, although they had to pull a shark’s tooth out of her arse.

She’s feeling a lot better now

But that isn’t even the best bit. The guy refused to be interviewed by the press and refused to be named, the only comment he made was “all I want is the girl to be OK.”

How fucking cool is that? I feel like most people these days would have milked it for all its worth, demanding an immediate promotion to the position of minor celebrity, appearing on Good Morning and the Jonathan Ross Show to proudly recount the ordeal, then going on to appear in some kind of tawdry celebrity reality TV show, where they have to eat a dolphin’s penis and then cry a bit on camera. Then they say something racist, the media tears them to shreds, and their fragrance gets de-listed. Not his guy though.

If I can just eat this anteater anus, my public will love me

I’m not sure what I’d have done is his position, would I have milked it? Actually I know, I wouldn’t have pulled the shark’s tail in the first place, I’d probably have just floated there doing that ‘pretend to look concerned for the sake of everyone else, but not really giving a shit’ expression that you do when an old person falls over on the tube, then wee myself and swim as fast as I could to the nearest boat. I’m a pretty shit representation of the masculine stereotype.

This is how men are supposed to behave though, especially Australian men. They’re supposed to do acts of selfless heroism, without banging on about it or trying to coerce the lady in question into a furtive blowjob, I’m pretty sure Brad from neighbours would have done the same without thinking, maybe not Todd though. He was soft as shit.

Todd you fuck, what’s Phoebe going to do now?

I’d like to think that he was bunking off work that day and didn’t want to get in the shit with his tiresome joyless little fuck of a boss, that he went for a swim, had a fight with a shark, saved a woman, then went to the pub with his mates and did other manly stuff like, I dunno, play darts? I don’t really know what real men do.

If you think you’re detecting a subtle seam of homoerotic attraction here, then you’re probably right. I bet he’s got strong arms you’d feel safe in.

I’m off for a confusing and angry wank.

I’d never heard of Richard Dennen before today, but then a girl I like on Twitter made a sarky comment about him and posted a link to one of his articles. Now I know a bit about him, I wish I still didn’t though, ‘cos he’s apparently an obnoxious little turd of a man.

There’s a link to it here, and I’ll reproduce it in its entirety below, in case someone at the Evening Standard has a brief glimmer of sense and removes it (that won’t fucking happen though will it?)

I went through the usual string of emotions, the initial incredulity, followed by the burst of incandescent rage, then repulsion, then mellowed back down into despair and depression at how some human beings can be such utter utter self-absorbed shits.

If you can’t be arsed reading the article, basically he say’s something stupid about the earthquakes and tsunami in Japan reminding him of the film 2012, which scares him, but don’t worry because he’s off to give it all a good thinking about in Rome, in a ‘very posh pensione, owned by a little Italian count’. Thank fuck for that.

I’m not sure what exactly he’s getting at. First of all the ‘article’ bizarrely blends together a disaster film, an actual real disaster, site seeing in Rome, elitism and political policy in Bhutan. All with a sense of flippant bonhomie.

At first I assumed it was a joke, a satirical portrayal of a self-obsessed cretin? But then my fragile sense of hope was crushed under the weighty realisation that this cunt was being serious. No, the incident in Japan is not like 2012, as 2012 isn’t real, but people are actually suffering in Japan. Thousands have been killed, and many more have been left without the most basic amenities of life, like food, clean water and shelter, and you have the temerity to proudly boast about your little luxury break, you self-obsessed, venal, elitist little twat.

As I said, I don’t know anything about this cunt, but based on this one article I’m writing him off as probably one of the worst human beings ever. Judging by the comments below his article, I’m not alone.

He’s probably fucking her too, so now I’m a bit jealous as well. She looks properly dead behind the eyes but I bet she’s well dirty

Here’s the offending article, posted without permission of the Evening Standard, 15th March 2011:

Has no one else seen the film 2012? Is this not what is happening before our very eyes?

I found watching the film stressful, it struck a fear inside me that I didn’t like, nor did I sleep that night. I fret about having to pack up my stuff and head off to find some ark in the Himalayas as the world falls apart around me. I am hoping that the Mayans and their stupid calendar were wrong.

Next year, I do not want to “Party like it’s the End of the World” or “party like it’s 2012″. Thanks but no thanks, Jay Sean.

But as scenes in that film seem to be switching into reality, as the plates of the planet shift, as we watch horrific images beamed from the other side of the world, as we hash-tag “prayforjapan” on Twitter, or buy one of Lady Gaga’s wristbands, I wonder about that.

But if the world is over next year, what does that mean for me in the short term? I have headed to Rome to have a think. Where better than the Eternal City? I having taken a room in a very posh pensione, owned by a little Italian count, and my room looks over the gardens of the Quirinale Palace.

Maybe I’ll spot Silvio Berlusconi and ask: “Bunga bunga?” Covertly – for inexplicably it is not that cool to be clever in my crew: I am a classical geek and I want to stroll down the Tiber, take in the Palatine Hill.

But I got caught for hours on Sunday afternoon by a downpour as I wandered past the Colosseum.

It’s said that it was seeing the Colosseum by moonlight that inspired Byron to write some of his best poetry. My umbrella had blown inside out and I was soaking and while I tried to give off the air of a Romantic I just don’t feel it’s working for me right now. But if time is running out, who cares?

It means that from now on I will spend less time staring at myself in the mirror weighing up which side of my hair to shave off, willing myself to be as cool as Alice Dellal.

It means I will stop trashing David Cameron’s Big Society and guffawing over his happyconomics (if anyone should approve it should be those of us lucky enough to have visited Bhutan, where the King has made Gross National Happiness as important as GNP) and promote the idea that people will want to donate to charity when they plug their bank cards into an ATM.

It means I will be kinder to this guy I’m seeing because, even though I am a fairly ghastly person, he seems to like me and not mind that too much. But that’s probably just me.

I’m starting with something really fucking heinous. Nope, not homophobia or racism, not even the Daily Mail or Peter Mandelson (politics yeah). I’m starting with the Apple Store.

It’s not what you think though, I don’t hate Apple itself. Sure all of their products appear to be made of crepe paper and keep breaking on me, and yep, Steve Jobs is properly creepy, and U2 are just the most hateful group of cunts you could never hope to meet, but it’s none of that.

Some people hate Apple just because everyone else likes it; the inevitable Apple backlash. But they’re idiotic snobs, who think buying products is an important act of self-expression, but that’s probably something to do with a crushing lack of self-esteem and a delusional desire to mark themselves out as superior to the masses by choosing to buy a different plastic electronic device from everyone else with a different arbitrary brand image. But that’s how twats behave.

You should hate something or someone because they do shitty things, like U2 or Trafigura, not because they’re popular.

Why God, why?

I don’t give a monkey’s about Apple, but I fucking detest the Apple store because it’s the most obnoxious retail ‘experience’ possible; it’s always packed, it’s too brightly lit, it’s noisy, the staff are self-important wankers and it’s the epitome of product worship, it’s more like a fucking futuristic shrine than a shop. Actually, mostly it’s just the staff.

My Mac packed in a few days ago. I took it to the store and was told I’d need to talk to someone over at the ’Genius Bar’. I wondered over, there were about twenty staff behind the bar, talking in small groups. They all ignored me. I stood there like a total plank, looking like Oliver fucking Twist clutching my Mac in my grubby little paws, waiting for someone to deal with me.

A bit like this

Eventually I interrupted one of the staff, he told me to take a seat at the bar and to wait. He said this without even fucking looking at me, then carried on talking. I felt like I’d gate crashed a party and was trying to ruin everyone’s fun by explaining why they shouldn’t be snorting so much gack.

Gak (not really, its sugar)

After a while a few other plebs with broken products arrived to the party, we all stood around uncomfortably, sharing the odd glance and making pantomime exasperation faces as we waited for these cunts to deign to acknowledge us. We waited for fucking ages and all started to look visibly annoyed without actually saying anything, because we’re British.

Just look at those happy twats, makes you want to self-harm

Then this stunning girl walks in clasping her broken iPhone (which probably wasn’t even broken) and suddenly the wankers behind the bar are all ears and attention. I went absolutely fucking apeshit.

Well of course I didn’t, I said nothing. I made some kind of vague loudish noise, was ignored a bit more, the stalked out of the shop feeling like a Morrissey song, probably “How Soon is Now”.

Told you it was worse than racism or Mandelson.

Yeah, fuck you, I couldn’t resist

PS. If any clever cunt tries to point out that this post is more about me, my impotent rage and various other problems then let me pre-empt you by saying… actually I haven’t got anything.