The opinions expressed herein are my own personal opinions and do not represent anyone else's view in any way, including those of my employer.
Copyright © Spitting Bullets 2008
BBC Watchdog - Shit On The Box
In tonight’s enlightening programme (BBC 1, 7.30pm), Sir Cliff Richard wrote a letter to BBC Watchdog advising people not to buy tickets for his live concerts from ‘rip-off merchants’ or non-approved ticket agents. As tempting as it might be to buy your ‘dream ticket’ he said (who the fuck is he kidding), just don’t do it.
The fact that there is a black market for Sir Cliff’s live performances is in itself astonishing, but not as astonishing as Watchdog’s invitation towards the end of tonight’s episode, in which the presenters encouraged us all to let the team know of anything that needs investigating.
Well, as it happens, I have something I’d like investigating, because it’s already causing quite a stink at home.
This morning, I did an enormous shit which wasn’t as brown as the one I did yesterday morning. What I want to know is, why is this?
Is it a cruel trick of nature? Highly unlikely, especially if one is an avid fan of Watchdog. Which I’m not.
However, if one does succomb to this slice of so called ‘consumer affairs’ programming, then it’s more than likely that one’s insipid plop is connected to the way in which one has apparently been ‘tricked’ out of two-and-a-half pence by the dark forces of corporate marketers after failing to pass on the recent cut in VAT to the consumer (a cut which, if we’re going to be perfectly honest, is the shittest attempt at saving the UK’s economy we’ve had to contend with so far - right up there with the introduction of perimeter fencing as a means of preventing football hooliganism in the late 1980s - and we all know how that ‘ingenious’ idea turned out - fucking idiots).
Or is it simply that shit changes colour on a daily basis. I don’t know, but it’s definately worth a half hour ‘investigation’ by someone who used to present, erm, Top of the Plops (Nicky Campbell - ha ha ha).
Anyway, there’s only one way to find out about my oddly coloured poo, which is why I’ve just placed my aforementioned turd in a plastic food box using the kitchen tongs, popped it into a Jiffy bag, and will be making my way to the local Post Office tomorrow - to send it ‘Special Delivery’ to the BBC’s team of consumer rights heroes (I use the word ‘heroes’ in its loosest sense - so loose in fact that ‘pricks’ might be another word one could substitute in its place).
If anybody else is concerned about the shade of their shit, then I urge them to send the offending item to:
BBC Watchdog
MCG A6
Media Centre
Wood Lane
London
W12 7TG
Alternatively, you can submit your shit turd complaint online to the eloquently named ‘Got a Story’ section of the BBC Watchdog website, where the laziest investigative journalistic team on earth will gladly spin your brown sloppy mess into something even less interesting for next week’s episode.
Tune in to BBC Watchdog next Monday evening, the 16th March at 7.30pm, to find out what happens to your shit.
Remember to wash your hands afterwards.
I’ve been feeling the tiniest twinge of guilt over the last few days since I posted an article entitled BBC Masterchef - Masterchefs, Mastercunts and Minge Biscuits. In it, I referred to several things about Masterchef that makes me want to throw my colon up into a Pyrex bowl and force the producer’s face against the glass.
However, the catalyst for my semi-remorse was not related to any of these things.
In my article, I referred to the contestants as having ‘no particular skills’. Like the mastercunt that I am, I decided to give Masterchef another go (more to assuage my sense of guilt for the aforementioned comment than anything else), and therefore sat down and watched tonight’s programme. I soon realised I’d been wrong - these contestants can clearly cook very well indeed, even if they appear to cook the style of food that many of us will never eat, understand or even dare to recreate in our own kitchens.
I therefore forgave BBC Masterchef tonight. I Forgave it for the pain and suffering I’d experienced last week and I even forgave it for the feeling of being disappointed with myself for the childish way I had reacted to it. I forgave it like a man who forgives his father for allowing a bunch of leather-bound Italian Imperialists for nailing him to a cross. I told myself ‘Perspective - that’s what you need from now on. You must get some perspective.’
And, I would have done, had the programme ended with ten minutes to go.
In the last ten minutes of Masterchef, it is common practice for the three remaining contestants to present their final dishes. Tonight was no different, and the tall one (who eventually won and whose name I can’t remember - he had a big nose, if that helps?) came along and plonked a large white rectangular ‘plate’ down in front of John Torode and Greg Wallace, whilst the voice-over woman muttered something about the recipe he’d invented before finally ending her synopsis with the phrase ‘Micro-Herbs’.
‘Micro-Herbs!?’, ‘Micro-Herbs!?’ Had I heard this right. I turned to Lady Gobshot and said it again and again in disbelief, ‘Micro-Herbs?’. ‘Micro-Herbs?’ She looked back at me and said ‘Yes dear, Micro-Herbs’.
I was confused. Why was she not confused?
‘Micro-Herbs’ I said again. ‘WHAT the FUCKING HELL are MICRO-HERBS?’
Greg and John knew what they were, but they were so busy shovelling the ‘Micro-Herbs’ into their gaping orifices and pontificating about the balance between the sharp-sweet/shit-sour contrast of flavours inside their gigantic food infested faces, they forgot to enlighten the non-alien viewers who, occasionally, happen to watch the bloody programme.
I mean, what exactly are ‘Micro-Herbs’ - and when did people start talking like this? When did we allow TV food to become so sodding exclusive that the hoi polloi needed reminding that, although BBC Masterchef is on ‘prime-time’ TV, they’ll never really be able to attain the dizzy heights of actually cooking this stuff? When did you last see ‘Micro-Herbs’ on sale for fuck’s sake? When was the last time you said ‘Darling? Please could you pass the Micro-Herbs, I’m going to have some more, they’re absolutely delicious.’ NEVER. And the reason. Because it’s utter bullshit on every level.
The contestants invariably say ‘Winning Masterchef means everything to me - Cooking means everything to me - Food means everything to me’. To that we can now add ‘Micro-Herbs - they’re all I’ve ever wanted - Ooo!’ Ridiculous.
If you need to cry yourself into a frenzy each time you burn a carrot then by all means feel free to leave your partner, murder the kids and tell the boss to fuck off, but please, don’t share it with us on TV. Go away and eat ‘Micro-Herbs’ somewhere - alone preferably.
You see, I was doing well until the ‘Micro-Herb’ moment. Greg was just his usual loud pompous self and John was simply smiling a lot, irritatingly. But then came the ‘Micro-Herbs’ - turning a generous, kind and life-loving man into a hideous, irriational, hating machine.
And what’s even more vomit inducing is the fact that I allowed myself to sit through it yet again. I am a fool.
LG
PS - By the way, I’ve since learnt that ‘Micro-Herbs’ are apparently big business and all the chefs are using them. Cunts.
Copyright © 2009 Spitting Bullets
It’s Sunday lunch. You’ve taken your seats at the table, polished off your first drink, and you’re presented with your starter.
‘Mmm, it’s very nice’, says one diner.
‘Yeah, very nice’, says another.
Then you say ‘I like the lettuce. I like the prawns. I even like the Marie Rose sauce. But, and it’s a big but, I’m not sure they all work together on the plate. For me, there’s just too much going on - too many flavours.’
There’s a brief silence whilst you work up a face reminiscent of a rhinoceros scratching its balls. You sigh and scratch those balls some more before you say, ‘I’LL TELL YOU WHAT THIS PLATE OF FOOD NEEDS - IT NEEDS DOG-SHIT. THERE’S…SIMPLY…NOT…ENOUGH…STEAMING…EXCREMENT…ON…THIS…PLATE!’
There’s complete silence as jaws stop chewing, the waitress faints and the restaurant manager runs into the kitchen to summon the chef.
The chef arrives, clearly to inform you of your mistake by inserting a large, sharp, stainless steel object into you. But wait, he doesn’t murder you, or kick you out of his restaurant. Instead he thanks you for your overwhelming and masterly knowledge of ingredients - in future, he says, he will include dog-shit in his Prawn Cocktail after all. This is because you are an ‘ingredients expert’.
Ingredients experts are no more at home than on the BBC’s Masterchef , a TV programme so popular, it’s now showing the fifth series in its current format after condemning the man with the world’s weirdest accent, Loyd Grossman, to a life promoting ready made pasta sauces.
Masterchef is such an enjoyable programme, we thought you might like to recreate the format at home. It’s simple. So here’s the ‘recipe’:
You will need:
and finally…
Stupid programme. You’d have to be a Mastercunt to watch it [Oh - I just did].
Following what can only be described as the most tenacious under-cover investigation the UK has ever seen from a group of TV journalists, BBC Watchdog has found that a young boy’s Nike football boots were accused of smelling of cat piss.
BBC Watchdog unveiled the disturbing truth tonight on BBC1, a television channel funded by the licence fee. This amazingly fair and brilliantly informative programme, who only last week showed its journalistic prowess by reporting that BA were simultaneously the best and worst airline in Britain, filmed the owner of the ludicrously expensive football boots (£2.5m), saying:
“I got accused of keeping the cat in my bedroom because it smelt like cat wee.”
Whether the cat smelt of wee or not was, it now seems, irrelevant. It was the devastation and shame suffered because of his family’s false accusations and the implied relationship with the family cat, that led to the young man agreeing to be interviewed by BBC Watchdog - a safe haven for ‘victims’ if ever there was one.
Although BBC Watchdog failed to discover if the cat did smell of its own piss, after many hours of research conducted by seasoned complaints gurus (Nicky Campbell and Julia Bradbury), it soon learnt that the family may have quite literally banned the boy’s shoes from the house. It has since become apparent that the boy’s parents might have been asked by the BBC Watchdog team to confirm whether they had in fact banned the football boots from the house. Spitting Bullets is almost certain that if they had been asked whether the boy’s football boots had been banned from the house, they would have said:
“Yes, we’ve banned the football boots from the house.”
The turmoil and suffering experienced by this young and aspiring soccer devotee will no doubt affect him deeply - perhaps even, until he receives his next expensive and hugely disappointing piece of over-priced sweatshop produced footwear.
When contacted by Spitting Bullets, a spokesperson from ITV said that there were no members of the BBC Watchdog team available for comment. They suggested that anybody interested in pursuing this story further, should try contacting the BBC directly.
Copyright © 2008 Spitting Bullets
Now that the Olympic flag has officially been handed over to London’s Mayor Boris Johnson in Beijing, Spitting Bullets is proud to announce its status as ‘Unofficial Organiser’ of London’s 2012 Olympic Games Opening Ceremony.
London’s bid to create a unique festival atmosphere in 2012 will surely be boosted by the involvement of Spitting Bullets, with an incredible line-up of some of Great Britain’s finest, encapsulated in a schedule based on very little research and an enormous amount of Pukka Pies.
Olympics in London 2012
Here is a provisional schedule, celebrating all that is great and some that is British:
The Olympic Ceremony’s cursory nod to Her Majesty the Queen, performed in under half-an-hour by tribute band ‘Take That, That, and That You Naughty Boy’ (All 107 new verses will be performed with help from the Jehovah’s Witnesses).*
*CENSORSHIP WARNING - May contain references to the sins of masturbation in verses 3-109.
In the ceremony’s opening event, a guest appearance from Margaret Thatcher disguised as a pantomime horse, should get the show up and running at a gallop. Lady Thatcher will be gently wheeled out to the centre of the Olympic Stadium by her two close friends Michael Heseltine and Arthur Scargill, bent over double and tied to a post. Her bare bottom will be presented to a group of over 200 blindfolded ex-coalminers, who will then attempt to ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’, using an official Olympic javelin. (This event may over-shoot.)
[Unfortunately, due to Team GB's extraordinary and unfathomable success in the Beijing Olympics 2008, Spitting Bullets has had to re-think this event following the banning of all British athletes from taking part. However, letters have been sent out to the Head Coach of Team Australia to encourage its athletes to take part - there are some promising early signs, however, being good at losing doesn't come easy to this colony of former 'crims', who've behaved like petulant teenage toss-pots since coming 6th in the 2008 Medals Table. Will they be ready in time? - the big question that no-one is asking.]
Several thousand members of the Women’s Institute (WI), whilst feeding each other cheeses and pineapples on sticks, will each mount a Penny Farthing before cycling feverishly around the Olympic Velodrome. They will then dismount and serve cups of tea to all the competitors, before each athlete is thrown individually onto the track - watch out for the other European teams as they struggle with the addition of fresh milk - this could be one to remember (although it’s highly unlikely - Ed.).
No sporting event in Great Britain can be held without the expression of some kind of anti-German sentiment, and what better time to shame a nation than at an Olympic Games Opening Ceremony. In true British fashion, the spectators will be encouraged to shout anti-German slogans* such as “Kraut”, “Sausage Chomper” and “Who Won the War?” at the German team. Alternatively, for the Under 18s, Spitfire and Lancaster modelling demonstrations** will take place near the Under 5s at the sand-pit.
*Programmes with official Olympic anti-German slogans can be bought for £27.50 from the foyer before the ceremony begins.
**Please bring your own Airfix kit.
Presented by two life-like puppets of Ant and Dec and featuring the voice of Keith Harris, Simon Cowell and other similarly piss-poor celebrity programme producers argue amongst themselves as to who should be shot in 2012’s X-ecution Factor. The winner wins a coffin worth £1 million pounds. As part of the contract, proceeds from the sale of the winner’s estate will go directly to the British Olympic Association.
To the catchy tune of Noel Gay’s ‘Doin’ the Lambeth Walk’ (Me and My Girl 1937), famous Cockney people such as celebrity Eastender’s stalwarts Barbara Windsor and Patsy Palmer will join Prime Minister Boris Johnson by leading the world’s greatest athletes through the world’s greatest walk - choreography will be directed ‘on stage’ by ballet guru Wayne Sleep. All athletes will be expected to sing with ‘fakkin East Landon’ accents, ‘aw’ight’. Those spectators who are still awake, will be encouraged to join in with the singing too.*
*See Official Programme for lyrics.
Elton John will make a guest appearance dressed in a stunning jacket created by art designers Gilbert & George from a medium of closely woven dog shit and litter found floating in the Thames. His role will be to introduce 5000 Morris Dancers individually by name (and Seb Coe thought it wise to joke? - Ed.), before asking them to leave. There will be no actual dancing.
Gordon Brown sells his wordly goods to help get Britain out of debt - Spitting Bullets predicts a thrilling spectacle.
Exactly who will light the Olympic Torch will remain a secret until the big day itself - but Spitting Bullets can reveal that London 2012 will showcase the world’s first fighter plane ever to be used as an Olympic Torch. Celebrating Frank Whittle and his incredibly British contribution to the invention of the jet engine - a decommisioned Tornado fighter jet bearing the words ‘Spitting Bullets All Over Baghdad’ will be positioned vertically and nose first into the ground at the centre of the Olympic Stadium. As everyone awaits the arrival of the last London Olympic Torch bearer - the sound of gunfire, recorded from a WWII Vickers Tank will play over the sound system. When the Olympic Torch is lit and the Tornado’s engines roar* - the games will officially commence.
*Spectators and Olympic athletes are reminded NOT to intefere with the fuel line running from the car-park to the Olympic Torch, under any circumstances.
Visit the official Olympic Website to book your London 2012 Olympic Games Opening Ceremony tickets early to avoid disappointment:
Copyright © 2008 Spitting Bullets
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