Zero

Feeling quite queasy today, could have been the eight pints I had after work last night, but most probably the half a jar of Mayonnaise I ate when I got home. Fuck, that was stupid. But I was drunk-hungry and my Kitchen isn't exactly a treasure chest these days. I'm surprised I managed to get so drunk, seeing how I ran out of money three weeks ago. I had to rely on the generosity of others to ride the booze train to smashville.

The reason I'm so skint is that I had to take three weeks unpaid leave from my time spent in Australia chasing a work permit. After rent, I was left with £27 for the entire month. Lunch yesterday was a packet of Doritos I bought using a hand full of pennies I found in a cup on somebody's desk. Probably not the ideal amount of roughage before a night on the booze, and a key factor in this shitty hangover I'm currently living through. But one thing is settling my haggard state, and that's the icy cold bottle of Coke Zero I'm sipping on while writing this.

I've always been a fan of Coca Cola. I enjoyed drinking it as a child, and used it many times as a mixer as an adult. The fizzy sweet liquid compliments any meal, and has near-medicinal powers when it comes to hangovers. But let's be honest people - the shit's not good for you. I don't care how many 1940s style paintings they release of Santa Claus sipping a coke winking and smiling, Coca Cola is right up there with McDonalds in the war on society's health. They've played a key role in taking a generation of tree house building whipper snappers, and turning them into a bunch of chubby Nintendo playing shit bags.

Writing about the dangerous levels of Coke sugar reminds me of an observation we did at school when I was a young lad. A kid I knew named Glenn lost one of his baby teeth in the middle of class. The teacher asked if she could have the tooth for an experiment, and placed it in a container of Coca Cola in the cupboard. One week later...Glenn had AIDS.

There certainly is an unhealthy amount of sugar in your average bottle of Coca Cola, and that's where Coke Zero comes in. The soothing mild caffeine high of regular Coke, without the sensation of a pound of sugar chewing it's way through your skull everytime you drink it.

Q&A abut Coke Zero:

Q: How is this any different to Diet Coke?
A: Coke Zero doesn't have that shocking saccharinee aftertaste that makes you want to punch somebody in the back of the head.

Q: Didn't Pepsi come out with a no-sugar version years ago?
A: Maybe, who cares. Pepsi is Coke with Down Syndrome.

Q: No sugar? Is it safe to bathe my children in a bath tub full of Coke Zero?
A: Not only safe, it's recommended. Afterwards, make them go and play on an Ants nest - it's Character building.

Enough fizzy drink ramblings, I'm going to get dressed now and go to a barbecue in Tooting Bec Park. I'm going to get drunk and chase squirrels, and I sincerely hope everybody's weekend is going to be as productive as mine.

Hot and fresh out the kitchen

I've mentioned in a few posts about my current living situation, how the bathroom upstairs sprung a leak that eventually caused the ceiling below to cave in. Jimmy has now sent me a few photos of the fun and adventure that is our kitchen, enjoy the mayhem and click to enlarge the pics if the mood strikes you:


The kitchen Ceiling, and what appears to be giant rabbit ears hanging from it. When I'm feeling down, I like to go into the room and hug these furry things. When I'm drunk, I like to eat sections of it. Fuck I hope it's not Asbestos.


Closer expection of the roof cavity revealed a number of interesting things. Such as the empty cans of Stella that the last builders to work on the place had left inside the rafters. Welcome to London.


The resulting damage from the cave in, which included wiping out most of the dishes in the sink. The kitchen is in a bit of a state at the moment, not that I really mind. I usually can't be arsed washing the dishes in the sink anyway, and instead like to leave them outside my front door where the stray dogs and homeless guys lick them clean.

So there you have it, my London kitchen. The shit hit the fan last Friday, and we still haven't heard when it will get fixed. I'm guessing some time late August a fat guy with his arse-crack hanging out his pants will rock up with sticky tape and a couple of planks of plywood to fix the ceiling. He will be aided by his apprentice, some stoned teenager with long hair and a Metallica t-shirt. I can't wait to meet them.

Until then, relive the gut-wrenching tragdey of our kitchen with this photo taken on the morning of the cave in (once again, click to enlarge):

Review - Pirates of the Caribbean 2

I usually don't go to see a movie unless it involves Serial Killers or Giant Robots stomping on people’s nuts, but found myself wandering off to the cinema for Pirates of the Caribbean 2. I remember being pleasantly surprised with the first film, especially with Depp whose Jack Sparrow was one of the most engaging Anti Heroes I'd seen in years.

The sequel starts with the ruined wedding of Keira Knightley and Orlando Bloom, not that I give a fuck about their bland onscreen romance. Though I must admit that a union between a stick insect and a gay elf would produce some interesting offspring. The wedding has been interrupted due to the Bride and Groom getting arrested for aiding and abetting convicted Pirate Jack Sparrow. Orlando is sent off to retrieve a magical compass from Sparrow (or something) in order for the young lovers to gain their freedom. Keira spends the first third of the movie in jail, and by god I hoped they fed her well, because the bitch sure needs a decent feed.

Meanwhile Sparrow is having his own problems, he owns his soul to a squid head named Davy Jones, and is desperately trying to locate a chest that will solve his dilemma. Jones is played by the English actor Bill Nighy. In the last few years he has played a zombie and a vampire (twice) and now he's an immortal octopus monster. There's a reason Nighy keeps landing these undead roles, the fucker is a zombie in real life:

Davy Jones steers a ship full of lost souls in his service, men slowly mutating into various sea creatures. The real shock is how the other characters react when they come across the ship of freaks. There are two central themes in these films: one is Pirates, the second is the Super Natural. But while the monsters scared the shit out of everyone in the first film, they barely raise a reaction this time round.

Here is an excerpt from the Black Pearl script:

Sailor 1: Holy Jesus Fuck! Those Pirates are Zombies!
Sailor 2: The Fucking Living Dead!! Fuck Me!!

Compare that with the general attitude in Dead Man's Chest:

Sailor 1: OMG look. A Kraken. And a ship full of Sea Monsters....:)
Sailor 2: You do see some weird stuff in these waters lol

Nobody seems to give a fuck anymore. Meeting a man with a Star Fish for a head is like bumping in to your old Gym teacher, big deal. It makes me wonder what super-natural fuckery is going to be met with complete apathy in the third film;

Sailor 1: Have you met my new wife? She's a giant sea slug with 10 vaginas and pianos instead of breasts.
Sailor 2: Whatever.

Monster-lethargy aside, the real buzz in these films comes from Johnny Depp’s portrayal of the scoundrel Jack Sparrow. I rate Depp as an actor. Every role he plays is completely different from the last, something the so called "best Actors of their generation" De Niro and Pacino have never been able to pull off. Those pricks haven't changed character for at least three decades. Apparently Depp bases his performance on Rolling Stone guitarist Keith Richards, and does a near perfect impersonation. I wouldn't know, watching an interview with that haggard old drug whore isn't high on my list of things to do. But it certainly makes for an amusing Pirate.

The main problem with the Second film is that Sparrow has been reduced to a mere cartoon character. In one scene he actually falls off a 50 metre cliff through a dozen bridges, and comes off without a single scratch. Depp is still great fun to watch, but he had a load of great lines in Black Pearl and just seems to flop around in a rum haze in this film. It's not that this second film doesn't try for humour, the audience I watched it with giggled through out as it's infested with ticket-laughs

ticket-laugh:
To laugh out loud at a luke-warm joke you normally wouldn't find that funny, because you've made the effort to come to the cinema and already paid the exuberant ticket price so might as well "enjoy yourself".

Hee hee Johnny Depp fell over. Ho ho that skinny dork from the Office lost his wooden eye. Ha ha he just lost his eye again. And I shit you not, one of the sea monsters has a hermit crab shell for a head, and it keeps getting knocked off. This is then followed by the severed head on the ground yelling at his body to come get him. It's a gag I've already seen in a dozen Horror films, and at least one episode of the Young Ones. Lazy writing.

Speaking of writers, they must know we are getting bored with Orlando and Keira's romance as they try to squeeze an unnecessary love triangle sub-plot with Depp into the script aswell. It doesn't gel, Keira's a scrawny hag - not enough meat on her body for one man let alone two. The only person I'd recommend romancing Keira are guys who are strapped for cash. The crazy bitch only eats 4 grapes a week, think of the money you'd save on Dinner dates. And by god she sells herself well, look at this recent quote from Elle magazine:

"I'm awful. I always have freak-outs. I don't know why anyone puts up with me. I'm mostly an emotional wreck! It's stupid shit. I don't freak out about anything that actually warrants a freak-out. That I can deal with. It's the little stuff I can't deal with. Anyone who has gone out with me will tell you I have this awful tendency to cry when I get really angry. And I can't stop."

So not only is she a bulimic wreck, she's a psycho-witch too. We learn more and more about this precious Angel every day. Will anybody be surprised in a month's time when we find out she has a dick?

Don't get me wrong, the film will entertain you for a good two and a half hours there's plenty of decent scenes to amuse you (the three way sword fight is pretty epic). And I loved how they returned to Tortuga. The island is one giant whore ridden Bar Brawl, imagine Ibiza circa 18th Century. For all it's faults I did enjoy the movie, It's just not a fully memorable experience. Like the other Summer Block Busters X-Men 3 and Superman Returns, it's all spectacle and not enough heart. It didn't stay with me. I didn't walk out of the cinema wishing I was on a Pirate Ship, but found my mind wandering to other things - Like what a strip club would be like if it specialised in Siamese twins.

Sexy, and symmetrical.

Friday

Had my alarm set for 7:45am this morning. I needn't of bothered, as I woke to the sound of my kitchen ceiling caving in at 7:32am. Scared the fuck out of me, I thought a bomb had gone off. I was having the nicest dream too. I was dreaming that the old Britney Spears (The sexy young pop star) and the current Britney Spears (the one who looks like she sits outside a Trailer home screaming at stray cats) were facing each other in an axe fight. Maybe it's just as well I woke up, the current Britney was winning.

My kitchen ceiling sprung several leaks last week, the cause was a broken toilet pipe upstairs. Said pipe was fixed, but the leaks had caused a number of cracks. The current London Summer caused the cracks to buckle the plaster. 1 + 1 + 1 = fucking cave in.

I also learnt that drinking eight or nine pints then sleeping in a stinking hot room leaves you with a head-ache the next morning. A foul shrivelled up throbbing pain, like a Doberman has vomited battery acid into your skull.

Ironically the jarring pain has given me some kind of Zen like clarity. I have come to the conclusion that there is not nearly enough sex on the blogosphere. I will rectify that problem right now:

Enjoy the weekend kids. And remember one thing: though your parents may hate your guts, your Uncle Beef loves you just the way you are.

Xx

City of Sweat part 2

I know I have already posted a rant about London's shitty inability to handle hot weather. But it's getting on my nerves, and if you're not in the mood for my angry raving then fuck off to another web site. I'm sure you can find a 'nice blog', with some silly bitch posting photos of her wanker kids. Go there instead.

It's still Summer in London, and I'm still sweating my nuts off. This city is renown for it's endless grey winters and the powers that be have decided to just ignore Summers altogether, even though we are currently in a heat wave. A lot of Pubs, shops and houses are unbearable at the moment, but it's public transport that is leading the volcanic race.

Time for a quick History lesson. Look at this guy below:

Know who that is? Why, it's Willis Haviland Carrier the man who invented Air Conditioning in 1902. Do you know what that means kids? Air Conditioning has been around FOR 104 FUCKING YEARS.

So why in Blue-Blinding-Fuck are the following temperatures being recorded in London:

47C (117F) ON TUBES

52C (126F) ON BUSES

Yes kids, that's fucking warm. To put it into perspective, it is illegal to transport Cattle at temperatures hotter than 27C(81F) according to European Union guidelines. One of the locals summed it up best in the Evening Standard:

"Surely the Central line has to be the seventh circle of hell. It just gets hotter and hotter. How come you can travel through France, Spain, Germany and Italy on air-conditioned trains, but not here? It is a joke and we're supposed to be hosting the Olympics"

It boggles my mind that this giant G8 tourist infested Leviathan of a city has such a miserable attitude to keeping the populace cool. The city is riddled with night clubs slugging their patrons 10 quid for entry, £5 for drinks, yet still won't shell out for a simple air cooling system you could find in a 2 dollar Taiwanese Brothel. Fucking Bastards.

I should probably learn to accept the conditions and stop complaining. But where's the fun in that? Most people don't realise the simple cathartic joys that come from word-spanking a blog like this. And I know for a fact that there are women reading this post right now getting turned on by my pure masculine anger. Ladies, there's nobody watching.

Go ahead and flick the bean.

Article (to soon be) Removed

The Shoddy Blog has been up for four and a half months now without me having to remove an article (No matter how much Gordon Ramsay begs me) but that dream run ends later this week when I remove this amended article you are reading right now. I've managed to stick my size ten Nike square in my mouth, and this is me essentially Necking-the-fuck-up.

There's been a photo flying around on the web of two Adelaide people, one donning a bright blue Iced Coffee woollen sweater (was up on this web-site until today). Personally I've received the email a dozen times now, each time the forwarded string has been as long as my arm. The photo must have lapped planet Earth a thousand times by now. Everybody was so busy commenting on the Iced Coffee sweater (and how they wanted one) that nobody paid any notice to who the people in the photo actually were. Fuck, here in London we had no idea. With such crazy woollen attire the picture couldn't be about anything serious, right?

But this is Adelaide we are talking about. A city where a Night Club is closed down every three weeks because rival Bikie Gangs are warring over the security contract. Where a Brothel Owner ran for Mayor. A township of beautiful flora, provided giant Marijuana Crops are your thing. Fuck it's the Serial killer capital of the Southern Hemisphere for God's sake. Twin Peaks aint got shit on the City of Churches.

And so what initially looks like a highly amusing photo is actually representing something far more sinister and tragic. An email I received this morning regarding the much forwarded photo:

Dudes, that is NOT good form. While the bloke's Farmer's Union Iced Coffee garment is indeed a rare and beautiful garment, the two people in question are actually victims of years of sexual abuse from their own father, and chose to speak out about it to the media. While they might have reconsidered their wardrobe for the big day, it might come across a tad flippant to have a go at them after everything else they've put up with. Just so you know.

And why did the brother and sister get photographed by the media? To quote the Advertiser web-site:

"They have consented to being identified by The Advertiser because they want to encourage other child abuse victims to speak out."

And here's me like a Prick posting their picture on the web raving about Mullets and Iced Coffee. Christ, talk about bad fucking Karma.

I bet I get hit by a bus today.

Neck Up - Keira Knightley

The Shoddy Six Pack is over, the World Cup is over, and the evaporation of football fever means that business returns to normal here at the Shoddy Blog. Back to the Movie reviews, British lessons and Ozi's favourite: The Neck Up Awards.

Less than a month ago I touted Ronaldo as losing his ability to win Football matches, two days later he scored two goals to win a game against Japan. Rest assured, I felt kinda silly.

So to rub ointment on my erroneous wounds I'm going to point out somewhere where I was correct. Back in the second British lesson totty I referred to Keira Knightley as a "scrawny hag", mainly due to the bitterness of her beating Keeley Hazell in the FHM top 100. My words rang true, if anything it was a bit of an understatement. Check out the red carpet premiere of Pirates of the Caribbean 2:

When I first saw this photo, I assumed the film starred C3-PO has a bullimic transvestite. Mild horror washed over me when I realised it was in fact the movie's starlet, Keira Knightley. I wasn't the only one, in fact anybody with the gift of sight who saw Keira questioned if she had developed an eating disorder. KK had this to say:

"I've got a lot of experience with anorexia. My grandmother and great-grandmother suffered from it. And I had a lot of friends at school who suffered from it. So I know that it's not something to be taken lightly and I don't. But I don't have it, I am very sure of that."

Anorexia runs in my family, I'm a physical wreck, why is everybody worried. It's the whole Calista Flockhart syndrome. Lose a dangerous amount of weight, reduce yourself to near skeletal proportions, then spend every waking moment whining of how "There's nothing wrong with my weight", "I'm not anorexic, stop saying I am" and "No, you can't scrub your washing against my ribs". Posh Spice went down this path not that long ago, and more recently Nicole Ritchie has joined the ranks of the Calorie challenged. But she's a stupid bitch so doesn't really count.

The main crow squawk of these Praying Mantids (yes, that's the plural) is the whole "I'm happy with my weight". The problem though is that the rest of the world is not. What did Flockhart get up to after Ally MacBeal wrapped? Sweet Fuck All. Becuase nobody wants to see a romantic comedy starring a concentration camp victim. I know Keira is the "it" girl at the moment, but unless X-Men 4 requires a british actress to play the "Mutant Tape Worm Girl" I honestly can't picture the casting agents rushing to her door.

It's tedious if nothing else, but it's also quite dangerous. The worst thing is that there are thousands of young girls who look up to people like this. Perfectly healthy normal women who think they have to starve themselves to emulate these skin bags. Quite irresponisble of Miss Knightley if you ask me.

In last years Domino, Keira's character was reffered to having the body of a 15 year old boy. She's lost at least 5 kilos since then. Fuck, these days she's so skinny she has to run around in the shower to get wet.

I'm no expert on women's fashion (I'd be a fag if I was), but I'm pretty sure if you're going to starve yourself to the point where Oskar Schindler is offering to buy you cheese burgers, you shouldn't be wearing a frontless-backless dress. Coming under fire for showing so much of her emancipated flesh, Knightley had this to say:

"I figured it was hot outside and if you can't wear a dress like this on a day like today, then when can you?"

I know it's a rhetorical question you skinny bitch, but I have an answer anyway:

FOR YOUR NEXT ROLE AS AN ETHIPOIAN DRAG QUEEN.

Neck up you fucking stick insect.

World Cup. Chest Butt.

Last night's World Cup final was one of the most exciting games I've ever seen. Ealier in the day I made a £5 bet that Zinedine Zidane would score the first goal and France would win the final 2-1. The dual bet was paying fifty to one, and by the 19th minute all I needed was one more goal from France, and Italy to not score another goal. Every attempt at goal from that point on would define whether I would win or lose £250. It meant that I watched the rest of the final with intense passion, even though I had no real feeling for either side. If a shot for goal bounced off the top-bar, I fucking felt it.

The lesson learnt kiddies? Gambling enriches life.

Although my bet didn't pay off and my preferred team didn't win, I still found the game a memorable one. Mainly due to the way Zidane chose to end his illustrious Football career:

At the 110th minute mark in overtime, Zinedine Zidane (whose parents named him after a Mary Poppins song) turned around and head-butted Italy's Marco Materazzi square in the chest. To Head Butt somebody in the chest is such a rare form of random violence. The only other way you're going to see it, is if you chuck a Mountain Goat into a Strip Club:

I've seen my fair share of dives and feigned injuries in these matches, and it brought a smile to my face to see a player floor an opponent by headbutting him square in the nipple. The act combined with Zidane's prison-inmate appearance made him look like one tough mutha fucka...

...until I saw him bawling his eyes out for being sent off. If I had a dollar for every time I saw a grown man cry during this World Cup, I could afford to buy one of these:

Zidane's chest-butt is the sports reference of the moment. Here are some related links:

Zidane's chest-butt
France Fighter IITurbo
Materazzi Counter Attack

And the Zidane Chest-Butt Flash Game. Updated with better link.

All of these appeared online within hours of the event happening. God I love the net. And for those of you who missed Zidane's antics, here is an artists's rendition of the incident:

Six Pack - 6th July

The final two Shoddy teams Germany and Italy faced each other in a tense battle on Tuesday night. The game remained scoreless up until the last few minutes of overtime, when Italy scored two goals in quick succession to win the match and earn themselves a spot in the final.

The Shoddy Six Pack has drawn to a close, we now have a grand champion:

Germany will face Portugal on Saturday in a fight for third prize. Italy takes on France on Sunday in the Final. The World Cup has seen some surprising results, a few weeks ago I thought the four strongest countries were Spain, Germany, Argentina and Brazil - and none of those teams have made the final. Whatever result Sunday's Final brings one thing is for sure, the World Cup will soon be over and other sporting events can now draw our attention:

Latest News from Wimbledon

From hateon.blogspot:

BEER-swilling Baywatch star David Hasselhoff was booted out of Wimbledon - because he was "steaming drunk". A guard led him from the tennis tournament's grounds after a series of clashes with security staff.

FIRST, the 53-year-old actor had a blazing row outside Centre Court. Guards would not let him in because he did not have a valid ticket.

THEN he was banned from press and player's bars as he tried to get another drink.

Hasselhoff, who has fought a long battle with booze, yelled at staff: "You should let me in. Do you know who I am? I'm The Hoff."

Yeah.

Six Pack - 4th July

The Quarter finals finished on Sunday, another team has dropped out of the Shoddy race:

THIRD PLACE: ENGLAND

The bronze medal for the Shoddy Six Pack has now been handed out, and it lands on the necks of England. The Poms lost in a penalty shootout with Portugal, the same team that knocked them out of the European Cup two years ago. A shame, I would have liked to see them in the final. But Even if they had won this game, they would have gone on to face a strong sided France without stars Beckham (injured ankle), Rooney (red carded for nut stomping) or John Terry (Second yellow card). Once again England has dropped out of the World Cup, and again their final accomplishments do not match their fine talents. They are forging a reputation as the great Football Underacheivers.

There has been much heated discussion over Rooney's red card, and the controversy over his Manchester United team-mate Christiano Ronaldo's involvement. I know I'm new to Soccer, but personally I think the rules are too fucking subjective. The referees say is final, cannot be appealed in the World Cup - and yet how many poor calls have happened in this one Cup alone? For a sport as low scoring as this, a penalty or red card can cost a team the game. If the ref doesn't have a clear view of the incident, then fuck it, he gives the player who dived the benifit of the doubt. But I'll end that rant there, coz Soccer Diving is getting it's own article very soon.

David Beckham had to pull out because of an ankle injury, and spent the rest of the game sobbing in the stands. On Monday he announced his retirement as captain after the loss, unsuccessfully trying to hold back the tears. Personally I hate seeing grown men cry. It's like seeing a lizard with pubic hair, it just doesn't seem right. I haven't cried since I was six years old - I fell off the top of a two storey barn, and got speared through the abdomen with a pitch fork. I let a few tears flow and felt like an utter wuss for doing so.

Weepy Beckham stated that although he has given up the captaincy, he would continue to play for England as a midfielder. And when his playing days come to an end, his model looks could land him in many lucrative television commentary deals. It's just a shame that he has the voice of a ten year old boy whose nuts are caught in a trampoline spring.

Beckham's departure as captain has left the door open for other players to fill the role. The most likely contender is John Terry:

He has experience as the captain of champion side Chelsea, and is well known for his motivational speeches.

The least likely contender is Benny Hill:

He doesn't play on the England side. And he's dead.

The Final Two

Germany were evenly matched with Argentina, and a final 1 all draw led to a penalty kick off. I sat on the edge of my seat during the entire shoot out. Partly because it was so intense, mainly because the pub's couch had vomit on the cushions. Germany came through victorious.

Italy sent the Ukraine packing with a 3 - 0 win. 3 nil is not a score you see every day in Soccer, in fact it's a pretty fucking huge win. It's the equivalent to a Basketball team winning 320 - 15, or a baseball player hitting a homerun using his dick as the bat.

Of most interest to this blog, the final two Shoddy Six Pack teams will be playing each other tonight:

In just a matter of hours we will have our inaugural Six Pack Winner, an accolade so intense that I mentioned it to a woman in the park today, and she got so excited she threw her baby in the lake. Crazy bitch.

Pay Day

It's pay day today, and thank god. I was forwarded this buy Chuck this morning, and I don't want to miss out: