Ka-loo ka-lay everyone! It’s almost the end of the week, and just like Lenny Henry tells us on those awful hotel adverts, it’s almost time for the weekend. And what’s a weekend all about? Going out, getting trashed and generally being like those pesky kids from Skins, sitting around in your pants as much as you can in 48 hours.
It’s what sets us aside from the animals y’know. They can’t figure out the little hole bit for willies.
It’d be remiss, and frankly irresponsible of us, as your favourite website of all time ever in the history of Google, to not keep you occupied between your next bottle of something fizzy or yeasty. It’d be like the 1994 film, Baby’s Day Out. You clearly can’t be left to your own devices can you? Sometimes, just sometimes, you actually make us sorry to know you.
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God, look at you all.
Sat there in your ostentatious Ivory Towers looking down on us in our hecklerspray hovel as we scrap around trying to pick a living from the meagre bones of underweight celebrities. You sit in judgement of us like a Feudal Lord views his peasants with seeming omniscience.
You sit there with your lucky dip box at the ready, it loaded with randomly generated insults and put-downs designed to make us feel like the lowest of the low, like the dog dirt on the shoe of the internet, like Tim Westwood. Your words are designed to cut, to hurt but are said with the best interests at heart. You want to protect your favourite celebrity because you know- deep down- that they’re too disinterested or stupid to defend themselves.
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The good looking version of Herman Munster, George Clooney, has used his charm to get a lot of things in his life. If you believe the rumours, his charm has worked best on throwing people off the scent that he might be gay.
We’ve no idea if he’s gay or not and don’t rightly care. That’s because he’s a massive slag either way.
How so? Well, what happened to you when you found out you didn’t get tickets for some stupid event at the London 2012 Olympics? You basically looked into your lap, dejectedly, and thought ‘that’s that then’. Clooney is a star though. He can slag it up in the media asking for a freebie.
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When Michael Jackson was alive (he’s very much dead these days), he ended up getting married to Lisa Marie Presley. It was weird. The King Of Pop shacking up with The King Of Rock ‘n’ Roll’s daughter. Mixing pop royalty like that… it’s incestuous and odd.
And guess what is going to happen?
That’s right, with a little bit of history repeating itself, Michael’s daughter – Paris Jackson – is giving the sex-eye to pop midget, Justin Bieber. You can just imagine the people behind both of these veritable toddlers advising them about how good a relationship with each other would be for their careers. Blecch!
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As well you know, Demi Moore’s suffering and being rushed to hospital after seizures from alleged narcotics, is simply not enough for us. The fact she’s so unhappy is fine and all, but we need more.
Like what?
We all need to hear her cry for help. It’s not good enough knowing that she was desperate – we need to hear EXACTLY how desperate she was. Of course, this also gives everyone the opportunity to overdub her pleas for help into a Hitler video or, indeed, remix it into the next hilariously autotuned dance-smash! That’s right folks! Her 911 call is getting released to the public!
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Americans have loads of stuff that’s essentially just for them, but occasionally seeps into the cultural mindset of others. Even though its just rounders for men, they call it the “world series” even though only American teams compete.
Then there’s the general extra injection of happiness and excitement that all Americans possess. Even going to the toilet to expel waste results in over enthusiastic whoops, screams and cheers, almost like they’ve passed a sparkly stool.
TV is, sometimes, America’s best export. But then again, this is the same nation that still churns out The Simpsons despite all its charm vanishing years ago. One giant success is Glee, even though it is essentially a TV version of High School Musical, but even more sweet and sickly. And the series is about to broadcast a tribute Michael Jackson episode. What could possibly go wrong?
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And-roid Warhol. A psychedelic treehouse. A tank made of cheese. If there were any words we could employ to try and sway you into watching Noel Fielding’s newest “offering”, it would be these.
They show us many, many things. That Noel Fielding is sticking to his tried and tested roots of clashing the realistic with the absurd, with brain warping determination. That he clearly takes himself either far too seriously, or not serious enough. And that there clearly isn’t such a thing as flogging a dead equine.
We all liked The Mighty Boosh, that was unashamedly brilliant [No we didn't. Some of us hated it and everyone who watched it. Ed]. Everything from the ground to The Moon was dead-on: keep things simple and fun and show everyone why Caroline Quentin probably shouldn’t be in a mismatched family unit. The mixture of boring situations clashing with fantastical characters kept us coming back for more. But Luxury Comedy seems trite and, slightly forced. Watch. Watch us how we’re magically become Noel Fielding.
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Imagine being Kate Moss. What do you do with your life? You stand around in a variety of clothes, which people hang off your bony frame and generally lord it up like you have an actual talent other than your genetic make-up.
Despite a clear lack of anything worthwhile, other than being sufficiently bland enough not to distract people from the garments you’re wearing, that still doesn’t mean you can’t act like a pompous, deserving buffoon.
And that’s exactly what’s happening as Kate Moss has revealed that she isn’t keen on interacting with her admirers on Twitter. Basically, you plebs don’t deserve her musings.
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