All entries for Monday 11 October 2004

Battle of the Jennifers

So obviously this one is going to stretch people's decision-making abilities to their limits, be they male or female, straight or gay (or, indeed, somewhere inbetween on either count) – but it's a pressing issue which I really feel strongly about and think ought to be addressed.

The question basically comes down to this: Jennifer Connelly or Jennifer Love Hewitt?

Now, on the surface, this is undoubtedly a no-brainer for many of you – you're probably thinking, "Well it's Love Hewitt every time – end of discussion!". And frankly, I don't blame you.

But seriously though, just stop and think about this for a minute: what about Jennifer Connelly?

I mean, come on – she's smart, she's gorgeous, she's absolutely heartbreaking in pretty much everything she's in (did you see her as Betty Ross in 'Hulk'?! No wonder the guy had issues!), and she's an absolutely brilliant actress with an Oscar already under her belt. Let's face it, she was even hot in 'Labyrinth' (mind you, next to Bowie and that ridiculous hair of his, so was Hoggle).

But then again – and this is a big 'then again' – what about Jennifer Love Hewitt?

Oh, sweet, sweet Love. No matter how many duff movies she makes (and lord knows, she can pick 'em!), she still has the face of an angel, the body of a goddess and the agonising ability to come across as the kind of "girl next door" you can only wish you lived next door to.

Serious questions, people. Obviously I'm going to marry one of them at some point in my life, but I just can't make up my mind. Please help.

: 11 Oct 2004 06:38 |  Tags: Inane Drivel |  Comments (2) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

A heartfelt salute to Vanilla Ice.

Ladies and gentleman, Mr. Robert Van Winkle Esq. (a.k.a. Vanilla Ice).

Back in the early 90s, one man and one man alone set the charts alight in a way that would change the face of hip-hop forever. While MC Hammer undoubtedly had dibs on the moves, the pants and the customised gold-plated toilet seat, Vanilla Ice peddled a trademark so truly awesome that no other contemporary artist could compete with it: the quiff. Though it is still debated whether this mammoth ode to follicular architecture was born of a severe case of bedhead or simply a severe lack of a mirror, Ice's monumental coiffeur repeatedly wowed punters around the globe, all of whom were simply powerless before the might of this epoch-defining fashion icon.

Though he would later declare himself bankrupt both financially and artistically (even going so far as to disown his poignant chart-topping ballad 'I Luv You'), Ice's musical legacy remains very much intact to this day. Best remembered for incisive lyrics such as "If there was a problem, yo, I'll solve it / Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it", his fluid streetsmart rhymes and startling knack for the poetic continue to inspire many a budding rapper from middle-class Philadelphia, and his all-too-brief acting career continues to bring joy to millions of movie buffs through sterling appearances in the likes of 'Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of The Ooze' (go ninja, go ninja, go) and his very own star vehicle, 'Cool As Ice'.

Indeed, it is perhaps this remarkable canon of work (rather than his ill-advised reinvention as a rap-metal artist in the late-90s with the Ross Robinson-produced comeback album 'Hard to Swallow') which remains the most fitting testament to the man and his myth. To this end, it is imperative that I quote two key lines from 'Cool As Ice' in the hope of passing on his influence to future generations:

• [To the young lady he not-so-secretly fancies]:
  "Hey, babe – drop that zero and get with the hero!"
• [To Nick, the boyfriend of the young lady he not-so-secretly fancies]:
  "Hey, Dick! …Oh yeah… (lowering sunglasses, flashing cocky smirk) …'Nick' "

Ice, sir, we salute you. Word to your mother.

: 11 Oct 2004 05:38 |  Tags: Inane Drivel |  Comments (2) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

The Dream Team

1) Terry "Tezza" Nutkins

2) Rod "Emus can't fly, neither can I" Hull

3) Rolf "Sadly, the dog died" Harris

4) Bob "Surprise surprise Cilla, you warbling Scouse bitch!" Carolgees

5) Timmy "Ex-RaW Station Manager who was apparently known as Hitler" Mallet

: 11 Oct 2004 05:07 |  Tags: Inane Drivel |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Great Unanswered Questions of Our Time #1

Ready? Here we go:

WHO IS BUYING THIS RECORD?!

Come on, own up! Some of you are – it's not hanging round the album charts like a fly on shit for no reason!

Very bothersome…

: 11 Oct 2004 04:54 |  Tags: Inane Drivel |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Deeply Disturbing Sega Megadrive Games of Our Time #1

And here's why.

1) You control Michael Jackson (a disturbing enough prospect on its own), with the overall aim of the game being the destruction of his arch-nemesis, Mr Big. However, your primary objective on each level is to rescue a series of identical-looking children, all of whom delightedly coo the word "Michael!" when freed. Given subsequent disclosures about the man's rather unwholesome private life, this can at times prove somewhat hard-to-swallow (no pun intended).

2) Upon approaching one of the aforesaid children, by pressing the 'up' button on the direction pad you are able to make Michael thrust his crotch towards the young innocent in question while zealously exclaiming "Ooh!". What perhaps makes this more troubling is that knowing no better, the wee bairns continue to dance with joy while this action takes place – and in subsequent levels you are able to do exactly the same thing to maurauding dogs. This, again, is nothing if not problematic.

3) When all the children on each level have been found, you are swiftly joined by Bubbles the monkey, who hops on your shoulder and points you towards the location of a climactic face-off, all the while wagging his arm like some demented parody of Peter Cunnah's dance routine on D:Ream's "Things Can Only Get Better".

4) During each of these confrontations, by holding down the 'A' button for long enough you are able to initiate a synchronised dance-off in which our hero literally outjigs his adversaries until they can take no more. Be they zombies, gangsters or street thugs, all eventually succumb to Michael's evidently unimpeachable footwork.

5) Having completed each level, you are subjected to the perturbing sight of an animated Michael proclaiming "Hoooooh!", with a facial expression that can only be described as pure blow-job.

6) When harassed by hookers in the early stages, your duty is to kick them away. Given that his track-record with children is hardly exemplary, it seems rather self-incriminating to start slapping women about as well.

7) Michael is able to detonate the very soul of a man simply by throwing his hat at them. Never have I seen this happen in real life outside of a particularly vicious combat zone.

In spite of all the above weirdness, however, I was actually able to pull a girl once simply by demonstrating my awesome prowess on this ridiculously inappropriate game. Mind you, she was a Southern Irish midget who ended up running off with my best mate (himself an offputtingly hairy Christian), so I suppose her mindset was naturally somewhat off-beam.

Still, if you can't fathom the whole affair, I suppose it's probably best to just go with the flow. On which note, as C & C Music Factory once said: "EV'RYBODY DANCE NOW!!!"

: 11 Oct 2004 03:13 |  Tags: Inane Drivel |  Comments (2) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Tonight's second guest blogger: Mr. T

"Now listen up, sucka! Don'tchoo be talkin' no jive about this heuh Mistuh Agreeable, you dig? If any o' you scumbags tries to put the smackdaan on my main man Carter, I'll bust yo' haid!

Now quit wit' the online jibba-jabba and get some propuh work done, foo'! And remembuh – eat all yuh greens naa'. Bust it!"

: 11 Oct 2004 02:18 |  Tags: Inane Drivel |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Tonight's guest blogger: Tony Montana from 'Scarface'.

"You lookin' a' my fuch'in' blog, muthafuch'er? Well fuch' YOO, mang! I'll fuch'in' take you on til you BLEED! Tha's right! Run on hom'! Run on hom' to ya fuch'in' Momma! You fuch'in' wit' me, you fuch'in' wit' da best!

Say hello to my leetle frien' !!!"

[Editor's note]: It was at this point in the proceedings that Mr. Montana's behaviour became somewhat erratic and he had to be forcibly escorted away from the computer screen before serious damage occurred. We apologise for any offence caused by his actions.

: 11 Oct 2004 01:58 |  Tags: Inane Drivel |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

She stole my heart, and my cat.

I once met a girl who eviscerated my cat.

True story. We met in a crowded abbatoir, where I had just finished my daily trawl through the offal in the hopes of finding the engagement ring given to me by Madonna during our brief fling in 1991, a blessing of bling which had been fortuitously digested by an over-zealous cow following an ill-advised interlude at a petting zoo somewhere in South Carolina two years prior.

Hands drenched to the knuckles in animal slurry, I was about to play my daily face-smearing prank on the plant's Scabies-ridden supervisor Mrs Fegg when suddenly I felt a tingling presence deep within my lower thigh. Initially dismissing the disturbance as little more than a product of sleep deprivation and a scorpion bite sustained earlier that day while investigating an errant sand-dune which had inexplicably appeared within the darkest recesses of my plush showhome's custom-built dungeon, I swiftly discovered that this remarkable sensation was in fact being caused by the lascivious gaze of a nearby wench hell-bent on leering dirtily in my direction.

Naturally my initial reaction was to turn away in schoolboy embarrassment and plunge headfirst into the bubbling vat of entrails stewing nicely to my immediate left, but something about this girl was different. Okay, so maybe my opinion was being partially dictated by the fact that one of her eyes was slightly sqwiff, and perhaps her sense of overwhelming individuality emanated largely from her heavily-bandaged club-foot, a deformity which had evidently arisen from one of her three decorated tours in Vietnam sometime back in the early 80s (a hideously misguided but ultimately life-affirming experience presided over by a renegade cross-dressing Sergeant determined to see the war out in style). But there was definitely something between us, a chemistry given remarkable physical expression as our pupils dilated simultaneously in a display of mutual affection usually seen only in isolated sectors of the gopher community.

Before I knew it she had reached into her cack-soiled overalls and pulled out the yarling frame of my pet kitten Mewey, who had been missing for three days following a regrettable spat in which I had been accused of ogling haughty-looking Corgis during one of our weekly trips to the local Children's Hospital. Sensing the inherent thrill of an impending massacre, I bit my lip in glorious anticipation as she pegged the jealous beast to a nearby washing line by its scraggly tail and set her prized chainsaw a-roarin', pausing dramatically before proceeding to mangle the flailing carcass in a colourful flurry of fur, whiskers and interior confetti.

As the blades of the snarling implement ground slowly to a halt, she tossed the weapon aside and hurled herself upon the ground, tantalisingly mouthing the words "Come get me, stud" while wafting her arms back and forth to forge the impression of an angel upon the blood-stained floor. By this point I was powerless to resist, and promptly found myself losing control of both bladder and bowels as I dove headfirst into the morass like an excited child getting his first taste of Kellogg's Frosties while staying with Grandparents from a generation for whom excessive helpings of sugar on breakfast cereal was a tactical necessity.

There we writhed in lyrical ecstasy until night fell, when we lapsed into a blissful slumber and dreamed of a time when we would own a house in suburban Bangor and make violent sex three times daily. When we awoke the next morning, our first act as newly-melded siamese lovers was to acquire tattoos of our new pet names for one another. Indeed, though convinced that the artist responsible was merely using ink siphoned from the drains of a nearby Bic factory, my eternally slavish wanking arm now reads 'To Dear Felicity', while her pert but decidedly manly bicep is engraved with the legend 'My Darling Erminrude'.

It's all good.

: 11 Oct 2004 01:44 |  Tags: Inane Drivel |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Welcome to my nightmare…

In what must be the most stupid-ass maneuver of my entire life thus far, I have somehow managed to strand myself on campus with little hope of getting back to the delectable Leamo. Now under any normal circumstances my good friend Kat Stark would put me up on her floor, but having ventured up to her gaff only to discover a Van Morrison CD playing but no reply to numerous phone calls, I am led to believe that she's either zonked out and dead to the world or buggered off for some action, leaving Van the Man crooning in her wake. Either way, with the first bus out of this joint somewhere around 7am, it ain't looking good!

Currently I am sat in my place of work, The Learning Grid, contemplating how likely it is that I can stay here overnight without getting caught and/or fired. Right now I face two dilemmas: firstly, do I risk the comfort of the sofas and face the wrath of the Nightwatchman should he decide to patrol? Failing that, do I really want to give it a whirl on the floor in a secluded corner, knowing full well that tomorrow morning I will have about as much feeling in my body as Princess Diana (ie. none) and a high probability of waking up to the sight of my boss standing over me shaking her head in despair?

I am therefore calling on all nocturnal bloggers to aid me in my quest to find a room for the night, and thus preserve my scant livelihood for another week (and, lest we forget, my dignity as well – though something tells me I gave up that particular right when I ended up naked on Cryfield Pavillion with two unnamed Sabbs playing The Proclaimers' "500 Miles" on guitar over the summer).

Obviously there would be no funny business from myself, desperate though I clearly am for any kind of physical contact with a member of the opposite sex at the moment (this morning I rather inexplicably woke up humping my desk. It's not even a very attractive thing either – the myriad coffee stains are about as much of a turn-on as that gobby slapper from 'Wife Swap', and the splinters chaifed like a mu'fucker). So it would all be strictly on the level, and your reward would be a luscious warm glow knowing that you have done something for the good of your fellow man.

To inspire you all, I am including a picture of Mr. T wearing a daft hat in the hope that it will reach out and prod some semblance of humanity within your kind souls.

: 11 Oct 2004 00:39 |  Tags: Inane Drivel |  Comments (3) |  Close comments |  Report a problem