Every week it’s the same, nothing ever really changes. We come into the hecklerspray bedsit on a Monday morning, having been released to poison the outside world over the weekend, and find the same stinking pizza boxes, the same drained bottles of methylated spirits and the same greasy, ignominious faces staring at us across the room.
Our ‘colleagues’ as we laughingly refer to them are actually lawyers who, down on their luck after losing a Tax Evasion case, have rented out the far corner of the bedsit which is sometimes known as “The Fred West Wing”. They look ill. Lawyers always look ill.
Perhaps it’s the smell which is putting them off their writs. The festering stench of the opposite corner, marked out by a laminated card which- in odious Comic Sans- reads “POST”. It’s enough to make anyone sick to their stomach.
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Winona Ryder once said: “Dear diary, my teen angst bullshit now has a body count,” clearly she was watching Skins where, in the opening three episodes of the season, two people have been brutally butchered from the cast list. We haven’t seen one funeral.
In fact the closest we come to Richard Curtis territory is a seaside elegy and mere reference to a wedding. Obviously this is too inherently British for the residents of Bristol who are more content to wallow.
It’s all getting totes emosh up in here which is no doubt why the writers this week introduced us all to a new plucky character to reconfigure the group dynamic. He’s gay too, so that not-graphic-enough-sex-scene ticks another demographic box for the youth enveloping programme.
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It’s Friday and the hecklerspray bedsit has breathed a collective sigh of relief as they’re allowed out into the world to live among functioning humans for a couple of days. Unfortunately, I’m still here as there are Readers’ Letters to be analysed. Still, it’s nice to have a bit of peace and quiet to work. No Mof Gimmers shouting about codpieces, no Sophie Hall shouting at Kris Wood for making a reclining chair out of sausage and no Euan L Davidson, breathing heavily in my ear.
Yes folks, Fridays are the nicest time to be in the bedsit. It’s easier to sit in “the clean chair” and the stale stench of discarded cigarettes and methylated spirits is beginning to lift. Unfortunately, that means that the foetid stench of the hecklerspray post bag is coming through loud and clear.
It stings the nostrils.
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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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You can’t fault Demi Moore’s record. Some terrible, terrible films aside, some people forget that she put up with really, really Republican gunslinger Bruce Willis’ penis for a considerable amount of time, before taking on Ashton Kutcher in his most elaborate “Punk’d” episode so far.
Fresh from divorcing the “Butterfly Effect”, um, star (well, he was in it), our Demi’s feeling a bit sleepy and has been admitted to hospital with exhaustion.
Moore, who has been in over 9 films since 2006 (so, 10), said through a psychic medium in third-person: ”Because of the stresses in her life right now, Demi has chosen to seek professional assistance to treat her exhaustion and improve her overall health. She looks forward to getting well and is grateful for the support of her family and friends.”
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Are you familiar with Drake? If not, then all you need to know is that he’s the lamest, softest, wimpiest milktoast of a rapper who ever lived. Seriously. Your little sister could easily take him. Your dead nana could beat him up AND out-rap him.
And so, with that, does it surprise you that the weather made him cry?
Over the weekend, he played at the Sundance Film Festival and it snowed a bit. Instead of making a snow-sculpture shaped like a ho with a gun, he preferred to bite his nails and worry about the whole thing, cowering under his Power Rangers blankie, fearing for his life.
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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.
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So. Death! Pretty serious stuff. Pretty bad all round, you could say. Like that time that gentleman from the news died. Not the Bin Laden one, the other one. Not Jeremy Beadle. Oh no, wait, it was Jeremy Beadle, wasn’t it? It was always Jeremy Beadle.
Oh god, it really was terrible about Jeremy Beadle. Right. Let’s just start again. DEATH. Que sera sera. Whatever will be will be. The future’s not ours to see.
Except it is, we totally tapped it. Here’s a list of who’s going to pop their clogs (allegorical or otherwise – this is SHOWBIZ) in 2012, because to be honest, the Mayan’s efforts of just saying ‘Uh, everyone’ were a bit lazy, unlike Sophie Hall and your humble (PAHAHA) editor Mof Gimmers – who have revealed themselves to be more clairvoyant than an X Factor themed M&S advert. Ladies, gentleman, and people who for inexplicable reasons Googled Jeremy Beadle to get here, we give you: THE FUTURE.
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Readers’ Letters: “This Ignorant Little Twit’s Opinion Doesn’t Matter” Or “A Cacophony Of Verbose Morons”
by Michael Park on February 10, 2012 0 Comments
Our ‘colleagues’ as we laughingly refer to them are actually lawyers who, down on their luck after losing a Tax Evasion case, have rented out the far corner of the bedsit which is sometimes known as “The Fred West Wing”. They look ill. Lawyers always look ill.
Perhaps it’s the smell which is putting them off their writs. The festering stench of the opposite corner, marked out by a laminated card which- in odious Comic Sans- reads “POST”. It’s enough to make anyone sick to their stomach.
Read More >>>