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Archive for August, 2010

Scott Pilgrim vs. The World: A film review.

Posted by idetest on August 28, 2010

Hola chicos

So last night I braved the cold and the wind, despite my SARS-like symptoms (a bit of a sniffle) and went to go and see Scott Pilgrim v.s The world.

First up, who knew it was set in Canada? I thought Toronto just stood in for most major American cities – I didn’t realise it now had movies made there that were actually set there. So for that, big ups Toronto- it’s almost like you’re an actual place now.*

Second of all: I must admit that a) I have been in love with Chris Evans since the scene with the banana and the whipped cream in Not Another Teen Movie, and b) I have been in love with Brandon Routh since I heard he had to have his package digitally shrunk in post production in the Superman movie because he was too…super manly. So basically I couldn’t care less about Michael Cera.

Michael/Scott

I just don't see the attraction. Where's his stubble? Where's his CGI re-sized groin?

However, did actually love this movie: It was witty and ironic without being as annoyingly fake as Juno (things in common: makes North America look unbearably cold)  and I loved the fact that everyone lived in shitty apartments and just sat around not doing much; and if they had jobs, they were pretty shitty jobs. It was almost like it was based on something realistic instead of being a manufactured plot by some Hollywood studio that thinks everyone in their early twenties works at Magazines and Record Labels and we all live in Monica from Friends type apartments…

Howevers, bad points: girls who change their hair a lot are usually just odd, socially awkward and trying too hard. They fall into the same category as people who play Dungeons and Dragons and grown men who wear Matrix style long jackets. i.e. they are unrepentant un-embarrassable geeks who have B.O. issues and a collection of figurines stashed in their childhood bedrooms which their mother cries over saying “I’ll never have grandchildren and it’s all your fault! Damn you Star Wars!”

Also roller blade shoes? Oy vey you can so tell the graphic novel was from 2004 (yeah I wiki’ed it).

Other than these things the plot does go quite well: it takes a while for him to actually start battling the seven exes but you do enjoy the build up as we get to know all the characters. The actual battle scenes are confusing and fast and don’t necessarily make a lot of sense but y’know whatevs.

A few other things:

1) Love the gay roommate. Although I love the blonde guy he seduced more. Also Stephen from the band becomes gay in the books but not in the movie (wiki knows all). Which is a pity.

2) I love hyperactive Asian indie chicks. It was like having Lane from Gilmore Girls back. Judge me, I don’t care.

3) Scott’s ex girlfriend’s band’s song was v. v. catchy. I say they release it. I’d buy it. Well okay, I’d download it (illegally), but whatever.

4) Poor Anna Kendrick: first she gets nominated for an Oscar or something for that movie she did with George “not gay just haven’t met the right lady yet” Clooney and then she gets to do fun stuff like this, and now she has to go back and do Breaking Dawn. God, I hope those Twilight kids get paid well.

So yes, in conclusion: A fun, zippy movie you should all go see.

* Obviously I’m ignoring the brilliance that is Degrassi. Oh, Degrassi how I love thee, let me count the ways.

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Secret breeding program conspiracy theory #1

Posted by idetest on August 27, 2010

Hola chicos

As I sit here dying due to a scratchy throat and dry hands (a deadly combination that has derailed governments and brought civilisations to their knees) I popped in on that pimple on the face of the modern world that we all know and many of us hate: Book de la face.

It is through this ‘social networking tool’ (which by the way, is what they used to call sexual favours) that I discovered that yet another of the semi-retarded bimbos that I was forced to attend a run-down state school with is now engaged.

So that makes her about the tenth this year.  Not to mention all the other one’s that don’t even bother listening to Beyonce and going the whole hog and sprouting a sprog without even putting a ring on it.

Now I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with people getting engaged. Oh, hell- yes I am: these people are all in their early twenties, have usually barely left their hometowns and still hang around with the people they were binge-drinking with when they traded in their V-Card for a bourbon and coke. Not to mention that most of them are still fucking this one person and have maybe been out with one or two other people in their lives.

Not that I think longevity and monogamy are a bad thing; God only knows the lower classes could do with some more of it, but it does make you wonder about how easy it must be to be them: they’re content with getting shacked up with some bozo called Kevin or Barry at the grand old age of 22 and to set out the rest of their lives at a time where I, myself am just beginning to figure out what I want to do with my life, for the next few years at least, and couldn’t imagine doing anything permanent.

Is it just me that this occurs to? Or is it common place to feel, at a time when we should be out exploring and fucking up completely and getting our asses bailed out by our parents still, that so many should be putting deposits on houses and saving up for a wedding dress? For god’s sake we’re all going to live into our eighties, what’s the rush? Do you have cancer? Do you enjoy driving on a motorway with your eyes closed and therefore expect death to happen soonish?

I say these people are freaks. Freaks with low expectations and an inability to consider a life less ordinary. There is plenty of time to go and get hitched and get knocked up by a truck driver with a hairy back and a porn addiction (I’ve seen their pictures – let’s not pretend that these guys are a catch) so why not use your youth and do something exciting? Travel the world, strip naked in Times Square and do the macarena, drink so much your liver packs up and leaves while screaming “I have never yelled at a girl like this in my life!”, wake up with a one-armed midget in a jail cell in Guadalajara – do not buy a house twenty minutes from your parents with they guy/girl you’ve been intermittently shagging since you were 16.

Also, I’m aware that some, if not many, of these people come from that strange breed known as ‘Christians’. Well, for fear of a fatwa (Christians do fatwas right? Oh, who cares all religions are as stupid as each other.) being put on my cute, sickly little head I’ll refrain from calling out their shit. Oh, the hell I will: Christians who get married are doing it for one reason: SEXY TIMES. They want to get down and dirty in the back of a Ford Falcon just like everyone else and though they try to pray it away it ain’t gonna work. So they get married and then grow old hating themselves and begging his Holiness for advice on how to get through life.

Give. Me. Strength.

Why not do as we heathen non-believers do and shag one and all and feel no guilt about it? Because let’s be honest it’s not a sacred act: it’s sticking one body part into another one until the friction results in a water-pistol like squirting motion. I swear your likelihood of ending up comfort eating with seven children and an ugly spouse you can’t stand living in a shitty town in the back of beyond is greatly reduced.*

And with that thought I leave you to hopefully be single and happy. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go and attend to my seven cats and spend all day twitching my net curtains.

*Also helps if you’re not white trash in the first place, though. If you are po’ and ugly then you’re just a cheap skank or a dodgy truck driver, the sort that gets featured in shows like CSI with a moralistic undertone.

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My bedroom, West London (the dodgy end), 26th August 2010.

Posted by idetest on August 26, 2010

Dear diary,

Many exciting things have happened to me today; the servants rebelled and slaughtered the master. Which was quite nice but a bit loud. Also, Miss Lucas has eloped with another woman and moved to somewhere called Brighton where apparently “You can’t move for muff divers and pillow biters”. I’m not sure what those are but it does sound like an exciting day trip!

But no, in reality diary, the most exciting thing to happen to me today was my flatmate leaving me a pain au chocolate and some chocolate milk. All this while I nearly broke my neck carrying her litany of ugly possessions down the stairs and into the boot of a caterwauling pregnant Australian woman who was to drive her to her new house.

Aside from this and the excitement of a trip to Sainsbury’s, I haven’t had a jot to write about today. Though last night, during a great storm that came to London, I made my way across land and sea to a public house where ale flowed and wenches went a-wenching to celebrate the birthday of a Jew I know from deepest, darkest Yorkshire.

Oddly, for someone from the land of whippets and pigeons she had very posh friends who all ‘fah fahed’ their way through discussing their trust funds and internships at ad agencies. I sat there, despondent ( having a fat day), and cried into my beer while I literally rung out my clothes and dried them on ye olde style radiator.

Before this I had been at work where, after an amusing discussion that ranged from topics as diverse as ‘Gay Polish people: the forbidden salami’ and “Queefs: what are they and how can I blame them on socialists?” and everything in between, I was then flirted with by an elderly gentleman. Actually two if you count the one who winked at me and tried to give me a tip for not recoiling at him and running away. This is a constant trauma I face: randy, elderly rich men who want me and my nubile skin. Probably to go all Buffalo Bill on me and then lock me in a well. Oh, well. I’m easy.

The night before this, on Tuesday, I had ventured into deepest, darkest East London (Stepney to be exact…where no men ventures alone. Unless they’re an indie scenester fucker who lives in a cheap flat and looks malnourished. They bring out my inner Jewish mother “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD EAT SOMETHING!”) where I had to deal with 900 French blender salesWOMEN. Yes, you read all that correctly.

I don’t speak a word of the lingo so spent all night going  “Je suis désolé” and hoping they’d respect my Gallic shrug (perfected it when I was twelve. Oh, the beating my father would give me.) and stop yelling at me when I filled their glasses up more than a third. Apparently, despite having more than half their population diagnosed as alcy’s the French only like a tiddle of wine to enjoy the flavours of their meal.

Sure. And that dead hooker was like that when I got here.

Anyway. I ignored all this and instead found out my employers actually have a section of my colleagues they recruit as spies. Cue one of the Polish girls gushing “Oh it’s just like being back home!” Luckily for us the spies stick out like a sore thumb. They are all fat, bald men in their thirties. Or they are terribly over zealous and socially awkward.

And the rest of us …are not, shall we say.

Also found out I missed a chance to work at the Black Gay Pride Party last week. I didn’t apply because even my ghetto roots would find it awkward being a lone honky with a tray of champagne  in a room full of Nigerian Doctors. Well, that’s what I thought it would be because it was only advertised as a Black Pride Event.

They left out the “flaming” part of the night, and I thought I’d show solidarity with my adopted people and let my African and West Indian Colleagues take the shift…mostly because, y’know, it was far away and I was le tired. However, had I known I could have spent the night with Lafayette and Antoine Dodson (Google him. I’ll wait. Y’done? HILARIOUS AIN’T HE? I’m going to move to ‘bama and stalk him.) I would have been there with MOTHERFUCKING BELLS ON. And we all know that I can’t stand the gays en masse so this is saying something.

Anyway on Monday night I went for a drink with my other top Jew and heard all about how he’s fucking a girl. Nothing so unusual about that you say- but the devil was in the detail -the girl comes from Hamilton (That’s Hamilton, New Zealand. Not Hamilton, Ontario or anything. This is the worst of all the Hamiltons: imagine the stroppy natives and gang wars of Tijuana or Juarez without the endearing Latino charm or warm weather). I kid you not. People from ‘The Tron’ are spreading like an illness across the world and have made it to the periphery of my social circle here in London Town. I, of course made him promise he’d dump her (undoubtedly) fat ass. Because that’s what friends do. And then I told him the chlamydia stats for that hell hole and he soon agreed for reals..

After this we went to a gay bar where he attempted to score a fag hag while I tried to chat up the obviously straight Eastern European barman. I’m not sure why I struck out (I mean, I’m such a stud. How could he resist?) but it was obvious he would: everyone knows on a Monday night fag hags are at home crying and trying to come up with a diet they’ll actually stick to this week and lamenting another weekend with nothing betwixt their chubby legs.

Anyway, that’s been my week so far. If you ignore the tears, tantrums, orgies and sacrificial executions. But enough chatting diary, I tire. And when I tire I like to go into the pantry, lock it from the inside and eat cookie dough until I’m crying so hard my throat is constricted and I pass out.

Aideu.

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I am homeless. Like the Jews pre 1948 (But I do it better).

Posted by idetest on August 25, 2010

Oh, cruel twists of fate that endlessly conspire to make me feel like I would be better off to change my name “Lindsay”, move to LA and live on a Park Bench (note: I need no encouraging to do this. It’s already my plan for 2011).

Yes faithful acolytes who love me, worship me and hang on my every uttered witticism: I, your godlike blogger of infallible brilliance and amazingly toned calves is soon to be homeless due to (in no particular order) the economy, the failings of state education and a particularly bolshy Australian with too many minutes on her cell phone plan going unused.

So what am I to do? Do I use this opportunity to pursue my dream and move to the Swiss Alps and find a hunky blond (I’m imagining Alexander Skarsgard. Yes I know he’s Swedish. But come on…do you know how cold Sweden is? At least in Switzerland they have… er, um, chocolate?) farmer whose cottage I will deliriously stumble upon after days of hiking across the terrain. Obviously he will take me in and bring me back to health. Then we shall unlock each other’s hearts and find love. Also: free German teacher! Although hopefully I won’t actually have to speak it to him – we’ll talk with our bodies or some shit.

Option number two (and this is considerably less exciting and involves little chance of Skarsgard’s Swiss cousin coming into the picture) is I actually like, demean myself enough to go and look on gumtree and join in the scrum of people trying to find mid-priced flats in zone 2. Which is basically as easy as, oh, you know, SPLITTING THE ATOM. I’ll die before I find a place that lives up to my impeccably high standards! Does the world not realise how amazing I am and how much I require in a humble abode? (i.e for it not to be humble at all and in fact magnificently opulent…for under £450 pcm.)

OR there is always option number three. I actually pursue my dream of becoming a Lindsay Lohan impersonator right now and move to LA and sit around on Sunset strip, or whatever that street’s called, and charge tourists $50 a pop to have their picture taken with me while I’ look like this

Mama?

People. we have a winner.

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You get what you give

Posted by idetest on August 16, 2010

One of the searches my blog got hit up on was a ‘recession theme party’. Hah.

Unfortunately that person probably went away empty-handed on tips for some decadence. To apologise I’ll try to rectify that.

For a recession themed party you shall need the following:

  • Despair
  • University degrees to burn and dance around
  • At least one ethnic minority to dress as a Mexican Migrant who will halfway through the party shake off their cloak of despair (did I not mention the despair comes in cloak form?) and laughingly declare themselves King of the Gringos.
  • Burlap Sacks
  • Vodka. For added emphasis make people line up for it and hand them a potato or stale bread when they reach the front of the line.
  • A riot.
  • A portrait of Margaret Thatcher.
  • A Billy Elliot rendition.
  • A soundtrack consisting of Pulp, The Clash, Morrissey and poss. Bon Jovi (I’m not sure why but when I think ‘recession’ my mind always turns to New Jersey…)
  • Snooki (Italian’s know hardship). Also: because Snooki makes everything better.
  • A Chinese person to go around and taking everyone’s money off them before bumping fists with the Mexican and run off cackling.
  • Someone for the Mexican to use as a footstool
  • A scared fat person who could be used for food if things get desperate.
  • A few relics of the good old days; A JLo record, some cheap party favours from Walmart, a copy of Time or some such magazine with an article on house prices.
  • An SUV parked in the driveway they can’t afford to run anymore.
  • A foreclosure sign out the front of your house.
  • At least one token intellectual right-wing person who will find a way to blame the Jews/immigrants/the poor/gays/single mothers.
  • At least one person wearing a sandwich board sign saying “Will blow for food/work”
  • A gun to kill yourself at the end as the joke wears off and a Nietzsche like sense of existential hopelessness at the declining standards of humankind envelopes you.

Enjoy kiddos!

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There ain’t no party like a recession party!

Posted by idetest on August 12, 2010

Hola, but no! This is not a time for rejoicing (hot like Mexico, though it is my pretties). For today is the most damaging and depressing of all the Thursdays in all the Augusts that ever were  or are to have been! Evah.

Also – August already? My goodness it feels like just yesterday I was throwing an empty Tesco-brand champagne bottle at the TV screen and yelling at my man-servant to turn off the  “chavvy people what be singing auld lang syne on a loop!”

But, as aforementioned ‘no’ pointed out, I cannot celebrate this. Today is a sad day. Today I have officially become a victim of the recession/credit crunch/global credit crisis/Socialist propaganda A SECOND TIME!

Yes my chicos I have already been a victim of Stock market smackdown ’08-10 once. You see I am a middle class university graduate. And like throughout history it is we who always fair the worse in tough economic times. It is we who must cancel our gap years to work in daddy’s law firm, it is we who must move back into our parent’s tastefully redecorated colonial style 4 bedroom houses to save money (and not even an en-suite – BEASTLY), it is we…you get the point.

Anyway, after suffering the slings and arrows of being an unemployed graduate last year – it was brutal. I may have even visited a jobcentre, oh it was horrible, will no one think of the children!? – ahem, anyway after being unemployed last year for a period of around four months I was partaking in the most delightful little experiment with gainful employment. Except, alas dear Yorrick, it is August, as we’ve covered already, and in my industry that means that there is no work and I am left sitting by my phone begging, willing, pleading with it to ring so as to get as the working poor call it ‘a shift’.

Yes, I, good blog readers and assorted gays and lesbians and the hags that love them, I am underemployed.

I know, but don’t cry for me Argentina. Also if you don’t know what underemployment is go look it up…I’ll wait. La di da dum de dum …did anyone else see Mistresses tonight? Good wa’n it? That Joanna Lumley! – loves her. Right? We all good you know what it is? Good.

So yah; I’m totally underemployed. I have no work this month – well I have some but so far I’ve only worked two days and am only booked to work a handful more. And more importantly I just bought Kathy Griffin’s autobiography on Amazon today so God only knows how I’m going to squeeze that little treat for oneself (I’m so stressed you see!) into my already JLo-in-spanx-levels of tight budget.

Still it could be worse; I could, as other Economic Migrant (of which, technically, I kinda am because one did sort of move here as New Zealand’s dollar is owned by the peso) are forced to do go and clean people’s houses for my green card. Or worse, go back to Mexico. And I’ve already been to Mexico – and after like five minutes, I was like let’s go!

So, gosh, yah what am I to do? Luckily my Mother has guilt about the traumas of my childhood so throws cash at me – she doesn’t. Bitch is tighter than a Jew at Walmart – but I still managed to squeeze money out of her (It involved threatening suicide and publishing incriminating photos) but aside from that I am, as the English would say, skint… Guv’nor.

I’ve been ‘skint’ before. Oh, lordy have I been skint before. I have been single mother levels of broke-ass-hodom more times than Oprah’s had bulimia. But I tire of it. Just once I’d like to be all nice and cosy and confident that when I go to buy a bucket of fried chicken my card won’t read DECLINED BEYOTCH!  Is that too much to ask, good people of the world?

Anyway must dash to my second job on the street corner; Shanequia is holding my spot but if I don’t get back soon she’ll be all cracked up and start cutting bitches. And we’ve had enough police call outs to scare off the johns for this week thank you very much!

Think of me on the breadline.

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I know everything. It’s why my hair’s so big.

Posted by idetest on August 10, 2010

In my very first post I told Joe McElderry (amongst many, many others) to come on out and join the party.

Toothy, but doable.

He did.

I know everything (btw Joe: YOU’RE WELCOME!)

Also. I’m coming for you Chace Crawford!

What would Blair say?

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Sometimes even the Mormons have the right idea*

Posted by idetest on August 10, 2010

Hola chicos

Well, we talked about why the Gays are good but in the interest of fairness and me trying to scrape my way into heaven (ain’t never gonna happen but whatevs. I like to keep my options open) let’s discuss all that is wrong with the gays.

First of all, what is with the tight t-shirts? I actually refer to most gay men as to whether or not they fall into the tight t-shirt brigade. Many do. I think this ill-informed fashion choice, which makes them look stereotypical, malnourished and girly stems from this: most gays think looking good is an important part of their lifestyle. Not because they actually care but because it’s what’s expected. And so because of this they like to wear good clothes – and by good clothes everyone knows that means ‘well fitted’ and ‘tailored’ but until gays can afford ‘tailored’ they have to settle for ‘tight’ and ‘a size too small’ instead.

It’s a mistake every gay makes. I made it when I was but a boy. Now of course I would never buy anything purposely a size to small. Unless I’m having a fat day and don’t want anyone to mock me.

Secondly let us discuss gay bars. I.e. the fifth ring of hell! Nothing good ever comes from a gay bar. They’re seedy, smelly, hell holes full of techno music and tight t-shirts where you can see the STIs sliding down the walls. When you occasionally find a bar that isn’t a throwback to the pre-aids lifestyle of ‘sex, anywhere, anytime, BAREBACK BABY’ then you should hold onto this place for dear life because eventually some gum-chewing, peroxide blond twit called Jason and his band of faggy friends, who combined have an IQ of about 2, will turn up and try to turn the place into a sweaty popper-fuelled Lady Gaga shrine. Kill them.

You may have noticed I believe all gays to be stupid. Well, yes, this is because it’s true: all gays are stupid. Finding a gay whose life ambition is not to be Kylie or a hairdresser or who could tell you the difference between a potato and chihuahua (“is one a carb?”) is a mission that could take several years. Smart gays such as Ian McKellen and Stephen Fry must despair. Truly, they must just cry into their bags of money and let the tears wash over their toyboy’s rock hard abdomens.

I’m not sure why most gays are stupid. Maybe they aren’t any more unintelligent than the rest of society but it’s just that since the stereotype of fabulously witty, urbane gays exist we judge them against this. But there must be another reason (do fake tan and hair spray kill brain cells, maybe?).

Conservative right-wing gays. I can’t even bring myself to deal with this one right now. It’s too horrible for words. Particularly those that vote for anti gay politicians and shrug when you ask them why they like someone who takes away their rights. It hurts my head.

Also, an interesting amalgamation of the last two (Dumb and conservative gays) is the ethnic minority gay. They are usually slightly haunted by their past and have the look of a frightened baby deer after their mother’s been shot by poachers. That, and they are usually camper than even the aforementioned Jason the fake-tanned Lady Gaga acolyte.

I’m not sure why this is – but back home in New Zealand the Polynesian community is traditionally very open and welcoming to those from the fruitier end of the spectrum and thus some of the campest men whoever donned a pair of reinforced rhinestone encrusted stilettos are from small villages in Samoa. It’s a wonderful thing to see. But it does make one wonder if non-white gays have to be this way or else they won’t be approved of (some psychologist or something once did a study and found that in the butch, hyper conservative and stiff-lipped working class communities of northern England camp gay men were far more welcomed than those ‘stealthy’ straight-acting ones.)

Maybe they have to have such a swagger and in-your-face attitude about it to fend off the expected barbs – not everyone’s going to be okay with it no matter how long it’s been accepted as just an alternative lifestyle in your culture – and to try and look menacing. “I may be wearing make up but I can still smack your face in.” sort of thing. Which, with my actually quite lengthy exposure to Polynesian culture ( I know I’m so the token white friend) is what it usually boils down to.

Take of this what you will but to me it more of a sad thing than actual annoyance: you can’t be yourself, you must be this stereotype or else you won’t be accepted. That said GAYSIANS are a whole other kettle of, scary, petite, fish.

More to come as I find and learn to hate them.

*Mormons never have the right idea. Unless that idea is to shup and fuck off back into the desert or wherever they came from.

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Your Summertime Nigel-No-Mates Experience

Posted by idetest on August 10, 2010

Hola bitches!

Well, I’ve been away a while (attempting to live out my dream of meeting either Snooki or Lindsay. The things I had to do.) but now I’m back and let’s dive straight into it with a post on my favourite subject: the telly box.

Yes, lest we let the lazy, hazy days of summertime interrupt with our regularly scheduled programming that enables me to keep my pasty white (I prefer ‘alabaster’ and ‘porcelain’ but most people just think of Nicole Kidman when you say that, and since bitch is now officially the creepier half of her and Tom Cruise I say No, thank you!) skin in perfect transparent condition.

Let us begin.

Sherlock (Sundays, BBC One)

So Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson have been moved forward to 2010. And yet they still live on Baker St. Despite that neither have a proper job and it’s in Zone 1. Whatevs.

The show is something that works for the first half an hour and then spends the rest of it trying to figure out how to do its denouement on a budget. Basically it’s not quite slickly produced enough to pull off what it’s trying to do (namely a big budget American style TV extravaganza)  and always falls slightly flat.

That said Benedict Cumberbatch (what a name!) and Martin Freeman (err, not a name) are both great actors and do the script justice. Howevs. Benny Boy Needs to SPEAK UP IN ALL FUTURE EPISODES. As I can’t hear a  bloody word he says. It’s just as well my flatmate is Japanese so we have the subtitles on our TV at all times anyway, otherwise the plot would make no sense.

Young, Dumb and Living off Mum (Sundays, BBC Three)

The jackpot of trashy, guilty pleasure TV. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll despair for our generation. It’s amazing. Basically over indulged, useless, unemployed slackers who sponge of their peroxide blonde mothers are sent to live in a posh house in Kensington and forced to live as adults and SHOCK HORROR do work! (And then things start getting real, no, yes? Is that where it’s heading?)

Also they’re all as thick as shit and all the guys, bar one, are raving homos so we’re talking levels of campness and stupidity not seen since the Carry On films were first made. However an episode I watched I saw someone I knew on it. So that’s exciting.

Also it’s narrated by Robert Webb. And he’s such a bitch.  Wonderful.

Grandma’s House (BBC Two, Mondays)

Ah, Simon Amstell. Remember him? He was the floppy haired Jew what used to host Never Mind the Buzzcocks before it went shit?

Yeah. That bloke. Aside from wanting to marry his adorable cockney, Jewish ass and thinking that he was hi-wait for it-larious on the Buzzcocks, I watched this show not really having and predilections. Oh, lord. ..Well we now know that stand up comics cum TV presenter do not an actor maketh.

Yes, Simon Amstell is a very, very bad actor. But this only serves to highlight what a good cast he’s managed to assemble as his fictional TV family. The show is fairly funny in some places but an instant classic I think not. Oh, well. Better luck next time you gorgeous little Jew. Marry me.

Mongrels (BBC Three, Tuesdays)

My new favourite. How I love thee, let me count the ways. I’m not sure why I  love it so- maybe it’s the irreverent cutaway Family Guy-esque moments, maybe it’s the musical interludes, maybe it’s the pot shots at B and C list British celebs, maybe it’s that Mongrels is filthy and foul-mouthed and wonderful. Yes, yes I think that’s it.

The show is about a bunch of puppet animals living in the back garden of a run down Eastend pub who spend their days trying to get laid and kill each other. Wonderful. There’s Nelson the posh fox, Marion his immigrant stray cat BFF, Kali a homicidal chav pigeon (even I thought I’d never write that sentence) and Destiny, a dumb as shit but HAWT Afghan princess. And they are all my babies.

Also the show scores points for having Katy Brand voice Kali the pigeon. And Katy Brand wins at everything all because of this:

Anyone else got any recent favourites?

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