Matthew Broderick is a man with a surprisingly unremarkable film career.

We don’t mean he doesn’t make money- we’re sure he’s super-successful if judged by wealth. However, before you continue reading, grab a pad of paper and a pen. If, like us, you get hand-cramp from even writing your own name, then just open up a word document instead.

Now make a list of all the Matthew Broderick films of which you can remember. Done that? Now cross out all the ones that weren’t artistic travesties. Come on, be honest with yourselves. By the way if you didn’t cross out Godzilla it’s probably best if you cease this exercie immediately.

As a reliable rule of thumb one should master cutlery before tacking cultural discourse on the internet.

Don’t look on Wikipedia, that’s cheating. Now how many films have you got? Not many eh? 3, 4, 5 maybe? Weird isn’t it for an almost 30 year career?  We were surprised because we like equine bothering super nice-guy Matthew Broderick. The reason any of us still have a soft spot for him is because of Ferris Bueller.

If you like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, then you’ll probably love the new Honda commercial/Bueller homage made for the crazily valuable Superbowl commercial break slot. We say probably because you may feel there’s some ‘selling out’ issue. If that’s the case you may just have to accept that movies aren’t early 80s hardcore punk and that Matthew Broderick isn’t Henry Rollins.

Once you’ve done that then you can sit back and enjoy. Then depending on how keen you are, watch it again and look out  for the subtle details that were put there for your nerd-ass.

Oh, and try not to think about the fact that he looks like  70 year old botoxed woman when he has the towel on his head.

If you’re under the age of 22 then you will be familiar with the Daily Mail’s nemesis; common sense. Whoops! That should read Skins. If you’re living like the characters in the show, then you’re probably dead and we offer our sincerest sympathies; we died around the same time as Tony who was paralysed by youthful happiness and, you know, a bus.

If you’re lucky enough to be a child now, then we can blame you for the continued success of what is shaping up to be a life affirming/sucking programme.

Either way you will all be suitably disappointed to find out that a new series is going to be cuming (see what we did there?) to E4 on Monday. There are mere days to prepare yourself. Here in the ‘spray bedsit we like to think of Skins as a disease and as you know, with diseases, you must inoculate yourself with small doses to become immune. Based on that logic and no small amount of self-loathing we subjected, or watched, the two ‘webisodes’ on that thing some of you are calling The Internet. It’s a sharp learning curve for us all.

We’re still on the third cast of complete and utter hopeless specimens and this time they will be entering their second year of a 6^th form run by snivelling political comedy insurance vendor Chris Addison, but not before a little and undoubtedly highly believable dramatic holiday to somewhere sunny. There will be beer  five litres of vodka, there will be drugs, there will be sex, and there will be nothing resembling an average teenage experience. Leading up to this spectacle is where the web episodes come in and steal 20 minutes of your life which could have been used better by staring at a brown wall and contemplating the relevance of the colour brown.

For the sake of everyone, we’re merging these two together in no particular order, all you need to know is that it starts with wanking and ends with two boys, one of whom has gained A LOT of weight, in a bathroom debating who gets to shove the drugs up their arse.

You did NEED to know that didn’t you?

In between a ginger boy fails to have sex with one of those easy goth girls and reaffirms two stereotypes that are going to cause millions of children to be bullied by the bastardised youths watching this drivel and a man who we reckon is probably a heavyweight in the realm of British acting, smokes a lot of weed and talks about his ‘iron lungs’ before being mugged and only slightly sexually assaulted. IF IT WASN’T FOR THOSE PESKY KIDS, EH?

Christ it’s an awful show these days, remember when Nicholas Holt was in it? Wasn’t that vaguely all right? Not even the world’s worst named child Dakota Blue Richards can make it better; though she often tries with her stony glances and androgyny.

Anyway if you can’t be dicked or have some sort of sense about you then you probably shouldn’t watch this. Always the antagonists we will be shunning the popular consensus and tuning in every single week to numb the mind before providing you lucky kiddies with our pearls of wisdom on whatever grandiose shit went down the following day.

So try not to kill yourself and come back here or else we’ll throw a massive, obviously, Skins Party—a popular term meaning house full of dicks—and you won’t be invited and you’ll feel really bad when you see all the photos on Facebook.

Omens. Omens are what alarmingly superstitious people look for as they bounce eagerly from bad situation to bad situation. People who believe the old hokum about black cats and ladders invariably lay traps for themselves, only to be surprised when they fall into them, screaming in metaphorical agony. These are the people that don’t make jokes about Friday The 13th because they’re too busy wrapping themselves up in bubble wrap to protect them from the oncoming apocalypse of minor misfortune.

These people need us- the non-believers- to show them how good life can be away from omens, faeries, bad luck and fishwives’ tales. They need us to lampoon and mock the beliefs that they hold as fervently as an evangelical Christian holds onto a fading belief in a benevolent creator. We need to be out there, dancing jigs under ladders, crossing swords with black cats and breaking mirrors over the heads of Arch-Bishops.

We need to show people that you make your own luck and believing in omens and superstition will only lead you to dash yourself against the rocks of life! Unless they’re right of course. In which case, those of you who just threw your mobile phones at a mirror on my command might be in for a bit of a tough time.

The only evidence I can find which backs up the theory of ‘bad luck’ can be found in advertising. All the tales you’ve been told about the man who walked under a ladder only to have his house burn down at the same time are probably true but then again, he probably left the chip pan on while he went to clean his windows. All of these things are twisted and made into advertising gimmicks but what if there was one person who was the unluckiest person on earth. What would you turn their story into?

How do you twist the story of someone who is so monumentally unlucky that the cloud of bad fortune that hangs around them can be seen from Uranus’ orbit into something that can be enjoyed by all and sell a few of your shoddy wares in the process?

It’s easy!

Take Noah. He must be the unluckiest bastard in all of creation. Not only did he wake up one day to find that everyone on earth except him had been judged as unrighteous by bloody GOD himself, he was then forced to build an ark using only a flimsy set of IKEA instructions and an allan key. Does divine intervention and losing your local haberdasher to moral corruption qualify him as the unluckiest man in the world? No, probably not but having to fill his flat-pack boat with the world’s most dangerous creatures definitely bloody does.

The poor bastard was left to deal with the mountains of crap and carcasses left behind by the animals in his biblical supertanker without as much as a by your leave from the big bearded bastard in the sky. They’d have been eating each other, shitting all over one-another and generally making Noah’s life a living hell. So yes, he is the most unlucky person in history*.

Until now!

Advertising has jumped in and reminded us that while Noah may have been unlucky, at least his ark was fit for purpose. Unlike the poor git in the latest Lynx commercial.

You’re probably sitting there dumbfounded that I’ve managed to go through 600 words of a column about Lynx and not mention either the brand or the fact that it’s the sexist preserve of hormonal teenagers that have an innate desire to smell like vapourised cat vomit but that’s not the point! You all knew that anyway. I bet some of you occasionally walk past a group of teenage boys and make some flippant comment about the smell of Lynx and stale farts- and that’s okay.

Usually, I’d go for that angle as well but Friday 13th got me thinking about luck and how little luck this modern day Noah is having. There he is, given the task to build an ark and GOD hasn’t even given him any instructions, let alone the sacred Allan Key of Antioch that he gave Noah. He’s having to make it up with a rudimentary pencil carved out of the wood he’s being forced to work ON HIS OWN without the use of the flatpack Ark that Noah had.

It’s no wonder that he ends up with something that resembles an ocean-going pleasure yacht instead of a good, sturdy biblical ark.

The poor guy has done what any of us would do and modelled it on something he was familiar with. Will there be space for all the animals in there? Only time will tell. It’s not only that though, he’s clearly gone for comfort over substance with his tilled-wood interior and convenient fireman’s pole to allow him easy access between decks. He’s not leaving enough space to fit the animals in. No cages either. How will he keep the predators apart from their prey?!

I’m sure he has it all in hand. After all, this is GOD’s chosen man. The man who will lead all the creatures of this earth out of the darkness of the apocalypse and into a new world. A better world. A world populated by people descended from this brave but unlucky man. We should welcome the forthcoming apocalypse with open arms if this man is to make us better.

It’s no wonder he’s feeling a bit warm. He’s worked up one hell of a sweat working all that wood in time for the world ending. Having a spray of deodorant before the animals start to come isn’t going to make any difference, is it? Unfortunately for our plucky hero, all the shops had sold out of real anti-perspirant and he was forced to pick up a can of Lynx. Still, no matter. There will be no people to react to his smell of vapourised cat vomit where he’s going.

Here’s where our story comes to an end though, perhaps with the most unlucky element of all. It’s a well-known scientific fact that women cannot resist the smell of Lynx and will actively seek it out across continents if they have to. It’s not this man’s fault that he had to buy that can of Lynx. He’s going on to the birth of a new world, of course he needs some home comforts. Now his ark is suddenly full of beautiful women, attracted by the smell of his body tonic.

What is he supposed to do? Turn them away? The ark can very easily be converted to house people and the animals haven’t bothered to walk the lengths of themselves to join him. He tried to resurrect the world as we know it but was left with a giant wooden boat full of women that will eventually turn against him when ‘The Lynx Effect’ wears off and the can lies empty. He needed two of every animal but he didn’t get them. He failed GOD and when the waters subsided, he was left a broken shell of a man, completely ruined by his failure to create a new world.

The unluckiest person in the world stands, crestfallen, on the deck of that ark: make no mistake.

*Mythical history, that is. It’s a long-established fact that the unluckiest person in history is Adam Rickett.

Effortlessness is of course the cornerstone of cool.

That’s why the Chesterfield hanging out of the corner of James Dean’s mouth is better than the Benson being desperately tugged on by the 14 yr old on the corner of your street. It’s why more guitarists want to be Hendrix than Angus Young. It’s why every indie rocker in the late 80s wanted to be J Mascis.

And with that Dinosaur Jr reference we’ll move clumsily and rather obviously onto Yuck, a band who seemingly can’t be described by writers outside of the context of their apparent influences. Which is a pity since Yuck’s crime isn’t sounding derivative, it ‘s sounding authentic.

There’s plenty of bands that sound like they spent too many nights arguing over which is the best Sonic Youth album but few that have managed to amount to anything more than an NME cover. Late 80s American indie-rock is a tough genre to incorporate into your sound and retain an identity. Bands seem to master the sound and forget to write any memorable tunes. It’s why Biffy Clyro only soared when they realised that their heroes Nirvana were great because they wanted to write pop songs and the distortion pedals were the means, not the end. It’s also why The Vines are just a footnote.

The thirty-somethings in the audience tonight no doubt appreciated the familiarity of some of Yuck’s melodies, but the reason their debut album will be featuring in everyone’s lists at the end of the year isn’t just some exploitation of the plaid pound but their knack for songwriting  that manages to be both catchy and emotive. As great as the bands closest to their sound are/were, few of them had hooks that took up long-term residence in your head ready to burst out when the shower starts. Freak Scene and Teenage Riot are the exceptions that prove the rule.

For a band with just a debut album to their name, their set contains very little filler. Sure, new track Soothe Me seems surplus to their existing singles but the repetitive refrain of The Wall gets a surprisingly calm audience moving. Not that Yuck are begging for approval, that effortlessness belies an appreciation of the power of the instant hook. At their best, such as on Georgia, they manage a combine that hook with a perfect mix of listlessness and heartfelt sincerity.  Yuck, however have two settings and they unleash the slow-burners in the encore. The penultimate song  features percussion mixed to virtual silence resulting in a psychedelic jam reminiscent of My Bloody Valentine on a boring day. Maybe it was just an enormous intro to Rubber, with which they finished. This is probably the sort of thing we should know.

So here Yuck are, finishing the first chapter of their career- an assured debut, comparisons to all the right bands and a benevolent press talking them up. The second chapter will almost certainly feature the high-profile support slot and the talked about festival appearances. What follows after, the second album, will be the test…

When you’re in trouble, don’t call Batman, call Billy Crystal. Especially if you’re in need of a host of the Oscars. In fact, specifically if you’re in need of a last minute host for any awards ceremony.

That’s because Billy Crystal is pretty much unable to do anything other than be a vaguely charming awards presenter these days.

So good thing Eddie Murphy quit the job after some gay slurs made everyone quit the gig, right?

Oscar organizers got Billy back AGAIN to host the film awards after the departure of one producer and his handpicked master of ceremonies Eddie Murphy.

See, what happened was that producer Brett Ratner used the gay slur “fags” at a screening of his movie Tower Heist, which stars Murphy.

Naturally, gay rights groups went nutso and Ratner ended up losing his job. He probably muttered something far worse than ‘fags’ under his breath when the shitstorm failed to dissipate.

Of course, during all this brouhaha, Crystal’s spidy-sense went off and he spent three whole days sat besides his telephone, answering with “Good day, Billy ‘does a great Oscar ceremony’ Crystal speaking!” to absolutely everyone who called him.

Eventually, it came good and he announced the gig – which he’s done eight times previously – on twitter:

“Am doing the Oscars so the young woman in the pharmacy will stop asking my name when I pick up prescriptions. Looking forward to the show.”

It almost seems like Billy Crystal is becoming the new Bob Hope, in as much that he’s famous for simply existing rather than doing any proper work.

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Have you seen how outrageously great Eddie Murphy was back in his SNL days? Think about those fantastic films he made way back when! Beverley Hills Cop(s), Trading Places, Coming To America, 48hrs… not to mention stand-up films like Raw.

He was untouchable for a while. And then he went rubbish. Really, really dreadful.

In fact, it all started going wrong in the ’90s with dreck like The Nutty Professor, Shrek, Dr Dolittle and anything that enabled him to play all the characters at once. So what went wrong? It seems he stopped drinking, that’s what.

According to the man himself, he hasn’t touched a drop of booze in 18 years. Apparently, he can no longer drink because it makes him sick.

The last time he had a hangover was after he consumed three paltry glasses of champagne on his honeymoon following his marriage to now ex-wife Nicole Mitchell in 1993.

He said:

“The last time I got drunk was … on my honeymoon, maybe 18 years ago…. I only had three glasses of champagne. It don’t take a lot … I was feeling great for about five minutes, thinking this is a wonderful honeymoon.”

So then, think about this – he was a clean living, non-boozehound when he was stopped by police with a transvestite prostitute in his car.

He was stone cold sober when he had sex with Spice Girl Mel B. He was clean as a whistle when he told everyone that he didn’t want anything to do with the baby she had with him.

Amazing.

And now he’s making a Hong Kong Phooey film and generally being about as humorous as a Stanley Knife blade being jammed up your fingernails.

Eddie. Please start drinking again.

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Prince Harry is a very, very wealthy man. He could probably get people killed if he wanted to. It must be brilliant being him, even with the whole Not Sure Who My Dad Is Now You Mention It thing.

With all those coins, cars and boats at his disposal, it’s not difficult to imagine that Harry can’t move for tail. The ladies invariably throw themselves at him, with dreams of being a real life princess.

However, the press are adamant that Harry should have sex with his sister-in-law, Pippa Middleton. That’s right! The rags are courting these two, pressing their noses up at windows, overlooking a non-existent sex life. It’s astonishing. And now, it seems that Pippa ‘the arse’ Middleton is falling for it, hook line and sinker, playing out the role of nagging girlfriend before they’ve even had chance to buy condoms.

If you missed it the other week, Prince Harry acted like a drunk young person with lots of money to throw around. Basically, while in Croatia, he got hammered and jumped into a swimming pool with all his clothes on.

Why should he worry about ruining his clobber? He can buy enough trousers to cloth the human centipede a million times over.

However, Pippa Middleton isn’t happy, not that it’s got a thing to do with her.

After seeing his drinky drink antics last week, Princess Kate Of Wherever’s sister decided to give him a good telling off.

A source says:

‘Pippa texted him to suggest that he starts acting “less like a teenage chav, more like a real man”.’

Chav?

Let the class wars begin.

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The Oscars are great aren’t they? Tara Reid likened them to spending a few weeks in the Big Brother house… it really doesn’t get any better than that does it? And now, Eddie Murphy appears to have signed up for the show.

Now, you may be thinking that Eddie’s not done much since (allegedly) groping a drag queen’s bulge and successfully having sex with Mel B with no condom on, but you’d be wrong.

See, as Mel B found out when she had group sex with Murphy (Eddie playing the other six participants, including the token amusing overweight elderly lady), the Beverley Hills Cop has a plan to host and win all the Oscars in 2012.

No official decision on the 2012 Academy Awards has been made, but sources close to the awful festival of self  congratulatory fellation say that our Ed is the top candidate to do the honours in February.

Producers of the Oscars – Brett Ratner and Don Mischer – will first have to decide whether they can handle the logistical nightmare that is having a host who wants to not only host it, but also win and present every award under a variety of broadly stroked characters, not to mention performing songs and routines while under 40 inches of latex and make-up.

Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis will probably get asked if they can’t be bothered with Eddie Murphy’s increasing and self-imposed loneliness.

In fairness, Murphy might be a great shout. He’s clearly having a nervous breakdown, so it’ll be more fun to watch him forgetting which character he’s playing and crying through a Valley Girl mask, in comparison to recent squibs like James Franco and Anne Hathaway, or the regrettably disappointing Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin.

He’s not even listed at the bookies, so get your money on now before realising Billy Crystal gets given the gig AGAIN.

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The cool thing about Spiderman is that he’s a bit lame. Sure, the whole Spidey Sense thing is cool and so is the whole parkour thing he invented… but he’s still lame. He’s a complaining smart-ass who still lives with his elderly Aunt. We even saw him being a student in a bedsit.

And so, when recreating the comics, you really need to grab a hold of that lameditude and embrace it. The ’90s animated series pretty much nailed the nerd/hero axis, but sadly, the movie adaptations were too keen on making Peter Parker too nerdy, and his alter-ego too cool.

So the new The Amazing Spiderman film is going to sort all that out, right? It’ll retain some of the b-movie fun of the enjoyably crap ’70s films, as well as throwing some decent explosion at him, right? Ummmm…

Sadly, we’re entering an age where all superhero films are going all out to copy the Batman movies. All high-tech rubber suits and brooding orchestrations. Apart from the Green Lantern which is essentially Dude, Where’s My Superpower?

Spiderman should, of course, always have that ace b-movie quality. He’s not a classy, brooding superhero. He’s sulky, petulant and mildly irritating. He’s basically a teenager who hasn’t worked out whether to be a tit or a bollock.

Giant monsters, clunky dialogue, Stan Lee introductions aimed directly at the fans, a stupid lycra suit (which, after all, was handmade by Parker himself because he’s a gigantic milksop) and, most importantly, a soundtrack that sounds like…

But here we are, faced with another gloom filled serious-a-thon with this leaked trailer which should get a few geekpulses racing. After watching it, it might even turn out to be a good film (it can’t be any worse than Tobey Maguire’s efforts at webslinging).

Of course, as this is leaked, its all a bit blurry, but it does the trick (and will probably be taken offline real soon because the studios are massive spoilsports) and will keep us in SpideyWanks ’til summer 2012.

Here it is.

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Trolling the carcass of Princess Diana is a very, very easy thing to do. Diana has the kind of fans that Michael Jackson would be proud of – bug-eyed nutters who howl in anguish at any kind of negativity thrown their way.

However, riling up these devotees isn’t easy. They’ve heard it all before, willing to shrug off the lamer of the insults levelled at their idol. However, there’s some words being thrown at Diana which are expertly pitched.

How about the one where Lady Di gets called an “anorexic, bulimic narcissist”?

We wouldn’t be surprised if you think that the aforementioned line came from the hecklerspray crayon, but alas, we aren’t responsible this time.

This fine slice of winding people up comes from American lunatic, Ann Coulter, who really does have a special talent when it comes to making people outraged.

While appearing on The Insider, she was asked if she ‘sometimes says things that [she knows] will stir people up’, to which Coulter replies:

“Oh, sure. I definitely know how to rile up liberals. It’s almost a gift.”

Not just the liberals are taking a tongue-lashing. The Royals as a whole get thrashed.

“I find it a little baffling when Americans get so gaga-eyed over a princess. In particularly Lady Di, who was just this anorexic, bulimic narcissist.”

All this is excellent PR work for her new book, which is called Demonic: How the Liberal Mob is Endangering America. Jeez. She’s teaching us a thing or two about heckling.

If you’d like to see her slate Lady Di in a video, then click here to watch the clip. She very nearly performs the line with a straight-face.

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Princess Diana was the Queen of our Hearts. Apparently. Quite why, no-one has ever really said. It would appear that she’s attained a lofty position in our affections because she was reasonably good looking and joined the glamorous Died Too Young Club.

Of course, if she’s in heaven looking down on us all, it is fair to say no-one wants to stand near her because half of her head is missing after she redecorated the inside of a French tunnel.

But what would she look like if she’d lived? Well, there’s no need to try and imagine that now as Newsweek have decided to recreate her with the miracle of computer software and plastered her wizened face on their front cover. No. Seriously. They have. Click over the jump to see her Royal Liverspottery.

Newsweek have decided to speculate about what Princess Diana might be doing at 50 years old. Apparently, she’d have ‘It’s Complicated’ as her Facebook relationship status (presuming she would still be with Al Fayed’s son, it is fair to say nothing would be straightforward with a man who has built a horrifying effigy of Michael Jackson outside Fulham FC’s football ground) and would be hanging around like a groovy wrinklemama with Kate, the Duchess of Cambridge, who would’ve been her daughter-in-law.

Maybe she would’ve given her tips on how to stay slim by puking up your lunch by discretely sticking your fingers down One’s Throat?

Newsweek paint a bizarre picture of Diana, noting that:

‘Fashion-wise, Diana would have gone the J Crew and Galliano route a la Michelle Obama, always knowing how to mix the casual with the glam.

‘There is no doubt she would have kept her chin taut with strategic Botox shots and her bare arms buff from the gym.’

The piece also adds that:

‘After so many loves and losses, she would finally have let go of her rancour toward Camilla.

The story also suggests that Diana would also have been ‘poked’ on Facebook by French President Nicolas Sarkozy. Seriously. Make your own jokes up there.

Of course, we think that this is a crock of cack. It’s obvious that Princess Diana would’ve been ravaged by worry and stress, continually hounded by the paparazzi, prompting her to become a Howard Hughes-esque recluse, hitting the sauce and cigars as her only solace, and turning her back on a fashion world that seemingly loves Hitler.

As such, sliding into a desperate decline, Diana would break-up like bread in stagnant water, leaving her unrecognisable to the general public, allowing her to roam freely amongst us undetected. The loss of fame would see Diana turning to the last resort of sex with strangers in a bid to feel loved.

She would age prematurely and be found toking on expensive cigars, sent as gestures of goodwill by James Hewitt (star of Diana’s 2018 sex-tape), lonely in doorways, waiting to take advantage of ‘the kindness of strangers’.

She would die at 62 years old in an Inverness bedsit surrounded by dead rodents who choked on her sinewy cadaver. Dr Conrad Murray would be somehow implicated in her death after he is found cowering in a sewer clutching her preserved knees and a flank of skin from her back which contains Diana’s ‘THUG LIFE’ tattoo.

HAPPY 50th LADY DIANA!

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Arse worshippers! Good news for your deluded selves! Pippa Middleton is single! Now, you shouldn’t let the fact she wouldn’t touch you with a stinky bargepole stop you believing you’re in with a shot of getting next to her now world famous behind!

Even though she’s now related to one of the most wealthy and powerful families of inbreeds on the planet, you should definitely think to yourself that somehow, she’s going to take kindly to a pleb like you, just like Prince William did when he married ‘a commoner’.

A commoner with a shite load of money.

Pippa had crisis talks with her bum and they both decided that it would be best if they didn’t have a relationship with someone called Alex Loudon, who accompanied her to the Royal Wedding in April.

This is good news for magazines who want to try and boost their ailing readership figures, as now she’s vulnerable and single, she won’t have a boyfriend to tell her not to appear on their pages in her knickers and vest.

Some friend who clearly doesn’t like her enough to keep their fat mouth shut, said:

“It is common knowledge in their close circle of friends that Pippa and Alex have recently split up”

It would appear that Loudon was no longer willing to live in the shadow of Middleton’s arse and its newfound celebrity. They’ll probably intend to stay friends, but ultimately, won’t.

Meanwhile, Pippa has been dossing with someone called Percy who is the son of the Duke of Northumberland. He sounds like a nice working class lad.

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For a brief moment in Britain, everyone felt kinda good when Prince William and Kate Middleton (or The Duchess of Skelmersdale or whatever she is these days) got married. Not that there was a sense of national unity brought about by an old-fashioned state event.

Rather, everyone seemed to agree that the little car they drove around in was nice and that Pippa Middleton has a very pleasing arse.

Of course, this good feeling lasted all of about 30 seconds and everyone went back to wondering what exactly the Royal Family offer us. And in the build-up to an official trip to Canada, one politician decided to vent spleen in their direction in a volley of abuse that is almost hecklersprayesque in quality and pettiness.

The Quebec Solidaire party (we’re sure they’re very, very important and not at all meaningless to the rest of the yawning chasm of the universe) launched into some impressive venom about the Royal couple.

Amir Khadir, a chap who is a member of the Quebec Solitaire Players Club, described the monarchy as

“a parasitic system that was inherited from ancient times”.

He added:

“A nation worthy of the 21st Century has no need for a monarchy or people with a bloodline.”

He wasn’t finished there either. Y’see, when you slag the Royals off, you’re always met with the cries of ‘yes, but think of the tourism!’, which Khadir amusingly batted away with

“If this is a tourist attraction, I would at least appreciate it if the stakeholders involved knew that we are bringing them here kind of like we do with circus tours.”

Quebec’s Intergovernmental Affairs Minister Pierre Moreau (yes, yes, we’re sure he’s a very important man who the world couldn’t possibly manage without) didn’t like Amir’s lip, saying rather charmingly:

“Being at odds does not excuse being impolite.”

It seems a little impolite to ask Canadian taxpayers to cough up $2 million in security for the visit of two equally unimportant, grinning poshos, right?

Protests are expected, but alas, Canadians aren’t nearly as mental when it comes to having an itchy trigger finger like their American cousins, which is a saving grace of sorts.

Unless you’re the kind of person who actually enjoys assassinations of course. Please hand yourself over to the police immediately. Many thanks.

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Stop! That’s enough! This has gone on long enough! The world is coming to an end next year and this is the best we can come up with? This is the pinnacle of human endeavour? The human race has been on this planet for so many years that to think about it in any great detail is enough to make anyone but the most eminent anthropologist’s brain burn but all of that might come to an end if those wacky Mayans are right.

Fair enough, the chances of that actually happening are slim but still. The human race has invented powered flight, television, the wheel, the idea of forcing others into poverty to expand your own bank balance, Victoria Sponge; not to mention the rest of the fantastic things that man has come up with.

We’ve all but wiped out certain diseases that used to kill people in their millions and fought wars against injustice and greed. That is what humans are. Inventive. War-like. Destructive, yes but bloody marvellous all the same.

However, imagine if you will: it’s 2012. The world has all but ended. Seas have risen and earthquakes have devastated most parts of the planet with only a few strongholds of humanity left alive, clinging on by their fingernails to the crust of an earth that they never thought would forsake them.

Imagine that you’re one of these people. The struggles of just living are becoming too much for those around you to bear. Food and water are running low as a result of the droughts that came before the tsunamis. The animals were washed away with everyone’s homes and valuables. Everything that you’ve ever needed or loved. Gone. Wiped out by the prophecy of a people who couldn’t even survive until the end of their calendar.

You’re devastated.

Everyone’s devastated.

The world is devastated.

With your last whisper of electricity, the last survivors of humanity decide to lift their spirits. One television, an invention of power that enthralled millions. One DVD player, a symbol of man’s constant struggle to improve on the existing innovations of their time. One DVD. A DVD means so much to so many. It can be a favourite film, a treasured family reel of a child in one of those little plastic cars going round and round in circles on a patio. It can remind us of simpler times, happier times.

So much is at stake, layered onto that tiny, shiny disc. It’s unmarked. It could be anything. Everyone is hoping for a landmark moment in film. They’re looking to the greats. Kubrick, Hitchcock, Spielberg, even a Mel Brooks film would cut it at this point. They’re praying to a God that they no longer worship that it’s not John Cusack’s 2012. No-one needs to see an apocalypse created with better CGI than the real one.

The disc slips into the player. A breathless silence falls over the huddled mass. The DVD starts.

It’s an advertising reel, designed for Ad Execs to put across their ideas to clients. Still. It could be a reel of the world’s greatest and most iconic adverts. That would remind them of the glorious world that had been torn away from in front of their very eyes.

It isn’t.

It’s this. An advertisement in which two jacket potatoes discuss having unprotected sex on a night out. It’s an advertisement where they then engage in a threesome with a bottle of juice drink after a series of lazy puns and weak chat-up lines. It’s an advertisement where regional accents are used to provide the comic relief in a style derived from 90s late-night television staple Eurotrash. It’s an advertisement where the tagline is used to imply both sexual promiscuity of the juice drink and the fact that it can be consumed with any meal regardless of what it is.

It’s an advertisement where TWO JACKET POTATOES GET FUCKED BY A BOTTLE.

Is this tripe what we want the human race’s legacy to be? These people who have created and recreated the world in their own image only to see it ripped away by an apocalypse which is, admittedly, unlikely to happen. Is it a risk that we as humans can afford to take? If this is indeed the pinnacle of human innovation then we might as well detonate the world’s nuclear weapon cache right now and solve all our problems for good.

Remember the UK royal wedding? You might not want to, but thanks to the media still being in love with the couple of the moment, all sorts of tatty commemorative DVD’s and magazines have been brought out to mark the occasion.

Unless you camped out for several hours to wave at William and Kate, it’ll be the closest you’ll ever get to them. They don’t associate with peasant scum like us.

The marriage of William and Kate wasn’t just about them however. One other person who gained mass attention was Princess Beatrice. She didn’t stop an assassin or anything impressive like that; instead she wore a hat that looked like a huge gaping vagina with two mini spitting foo-foos on top. It’s fair to say it was a fashion no-no. However, some idiot will see it as “arty” and attempt to buy it. Shockingly, some people are already trying to do this.

At best, this strange creation looks like the work of an A-Level textile student who has been encouraged to “open their mind” by a weed smoking hippy teacher. Hats are generally meant to cover the head and protect from elements such as the wind, rain and to a lesser extent, birds defecating from the trees above. This hat, designed by someone called Philip Treacy looks like a prototype for a mobile phone mast spliced with a toilet seat. We assume he makes similar pretentious creations and has made garments made from materials including bellybutton fluff and chicken placenta.

Because people can’t lock themselves away from information these days, we assumed Princess Beatrice had realised she was a laughing stock. So what did she do? She did what all people in the public eye do – donate the awful thing to charity!

A winning situation for everyone really. She looks cool, kind and caring when donating funds to the charities involved which are UNICEF UK and Children in Crisis. Charities we must stress who are involved with awesome work prior to this auction and do ace things for helping those in need. To a lesser extent, somebody gets a stupid hat that they think is fashionable. Princess Beatrice said about the auction:

“I’ve been amazed by the amount of attention the hat has attracted. It’s a wonderful opportunity to raise as much money as possible for two fantastic charities. I hope whoever wins the auction has as much fun with the hat as I have.”

Not bothered about owning a piece of royal history? You should be after reading the items description:

“A truly individual, fun but elegant wedding bow becomes the fascinator form. This statement piece is worn on the front hairline secured by a clear wire headband that is easily disguised by the wearer’s hair. This is a gravity-defying hat.”

So is this some sort of Harry Potter/ Dr Who sci-fi magic stuff with anti-gravity clothing? We haven’t developed flying cars yet, but we guess a floating hat will do. At time of writing, the vagina hat was being sold for £16,2000 and can be viewed here if you want to even consider purchasing it.

If like us you can’t afford to blow £15,000 on a hat, just pop down the newsagents with a couple of quid and buy a book of stamps. You’ll permanently have the queen in your pocket, and if you have a fetish for old ladies, a chance to lick her wrinkling face.

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