Sunday, 31 May 2009

Heartening news

It heartens me to no small degree that – over the course of the past month – three people have arrived at this blog following a Google search for 'hardcore filth'.

I hope they found what they were looking for.

Thanks to Google Analytics for providing me with that particular slice of Sunday morning schadenfreude.

Saturday, 30 May 2009

Caitlin Moran's Righteous Indignation

There's a TV roundup by Caitlin Moran on the Times website – that rounds up four programmes I did not watch (putting them in the same category as every single other programme that was on over the last week).

What she has to say about Simon Schama, Armando Ianucci (Milton's farting angels: excellent) and the programme on Tourette's is definitely worth a read – but I'm going to lift her words on BBC2's Who's Watching You?, because I find them table-thumpingly righteous and, well, just pretty much bang-on.

In a typical moment, Richard Bilton [the presenter] took us to a beach where CCTV had been installed. This was to catch dog-owners who let their hounds decorate the foreshore with steaming ziggurats of excreta, then walked away, whistling.

One such dog-owner was Mr Shipman. He had nine dogs that he had emptied out on the sand, and had later been busted by CCTV footage. “I was brought up on the Channel Islands during the Nazi occupation,” he shrilled, “and this city is going the same way! It’s absolutely disgraceful!”

No — what’s disgraceful is forcing councils to spend thousands of pounds in trying to make you act like a decent, responsible human being, all you kvetching, Clarkson-lite, self-righteous whingers who rail against CCTV, traffic wardens, speed-bumps and health and safety inspectors.

Shame on you for insisting that we must police you into civility, you idiots. Shame on you.

Damn right. Not much I can add to that.

Thursday, 28 May 2009

The Worst Multiple Choice Exam In The World

And as it was promised, so it came to pass.

It, in this case, happens to be THE WORST MULTIPLE CHOICE EXAM IN THE WORLD. I have a collection of empirical data to back up this claim, but seem to have put it down somewhere and can't locate it right at this moment.

Anyhow. As you cast your incredulous eyes over the sea of bollocks below (imagine that. A whole sea of bollocks. Bobbing gently as the tide goes out), I ask you to bear in mind that this multiple choice test was written and administered by an academic.

By a human who is employed to teach other humans things.

At the higher education level.

You may laugh at the outrageousness of it all. But I ask you also to bear in mind: people –hard-working, diligent students, eager to learn and further their journey along the route to enlightenment – had to answer these questions. And were going to be marked according to their answers. And that this mark would contribute to their grade. And that their grade would potentially determine (to whatever degree) THEIR WHOLE FUTURE.

Ay, there's the rub.

Anyhow, I could've reproduced the whole lamentable exam (which was leaked by an unnamed source intimately involved in the scandal) – so uniform was it in its shoddiness. However, in the interest of conciseness (a speciality, as you will have gathered, of the Intellectual Hooligan), I shall instead guide you through its especially grueling portions.

Let's kick off with question 3:

A visionary perspective of the future of [the company in question] has drove its success towards the "Australian Phenomenon". Is this True or False?
a. True
b. False

Okay. Hold it right there. I'm not even going to dwell on 'drove'. Instead I'm going to ask: with what mystical powers of divination is one supposed to be endowed in order to answer this question? 'A visionary perspective of the future'? Trying to make the words in that phrase make any kind of sense is like trying simultaneously to dunk three floating turds with the use of only a single chopstick. (Sorry, I'm a little preoccupied by scatological bobbing imagery today. Excuse me.)

And even if you are able to fathom what a visionary perspective of the future might be, how the hell are you meant to know if somebody had one, let alone whether or not it drove anything?

I'm not even going to ask who True and False are. But they're very nice names.

Instead, swallowing our bile and mustering composure, we'll skip onto question 8:

8. Which of the following characteristics demonstrated by the Wheelers are considered entrepreneurial?
a. When they travelled across Europe and Asia to Australia
b. When they decided to write a travel guide following their trip
c. When they sought to expand the company portfolio to grow the company
d. When they sold copies for two dollars door to door and through various bookstores

'Considered entrepreneurial'? By whom, exactly? By the questioner? By you? By themselves? By God? (I reckon it's God, for the record. God would be great on 'Dragon's Den'. They should do that). I also adore the way in which the elegant construction 'When they...' is employed, seamlessly, in a spirit of linguistic pellucidity the like of which (we may surmise) has illuminated the work of the great prose masters throughout the history of the written word.

Question 9?

Maureen ceased to be an entrepreneur when she believed 'Lonely Planet'; couldnt support her family and she opted for a degree in social work. Is this True or False?
a. True
b. False

Maureen, you have ceased to be an entrepreneur. Do not pass Go. Do not collect the following characteristic: 'when you are an entrepreneur'.

Nice semicolon, by the way. Most people don't know how to use semicolons properly. But the trick is just to be confident about it, and it'll all turn out fine. Trust your instincts.

But let's not get bogged down in this airy fairy stuff. Question 14 gets down to brass tacks.

The introduction of the second book to the series was as a direct result of the financial gain from the success of "Across Asia on the Cheap" as opposed to entrepreneurial desire. Is this True or False?
a. True
b. False

So we now have a choice between two diametrical opposites. On the one side we have 'reacting to past financial success by introducing followup' and on the other end is 'entrepreneurial desire'. That makes a lot of sense, now that I've got it sorted out in my head. For a minute there I was getting confused (silly me) because I had an aberrant thought that entrepreneurial desire might be something to do with wanting to cash in on successful products.

But now I understand.

The climax, in any case, is yet to come. Like the closing ensemble number of a big-stage musical, Question 17 is a veritable medley of delights in which the hits just keep on coming.

The company originated for which of the following reasons:
a. No other travel guides have been produced in 1972
b. At this point nobody travelled to different countries
c. Existing guides didnt offer practical advice for those travelling on a budget
d. Noone understood fully other country culture
e. Maureen and Tony had nothing else to do on return from travelling
f. Financially they had to develop a business idea that would succeed in order to survive
g. Cause they wanted to develop a company of their own and watch it grow

The first sign that we're in for a treat is the use of the verb 'originated'. I was disappointed not to have options h, i and j listed:

h. Evolution
i. Big Bang or other creation theorem
j. Cartesian first principles

I mean, guys, how far are we tracing this thing back? But, nitpicking aside, let's sit back and admire some of these gems. I particularly like option d, which offers a delicately-poised satire on international miscommunication and linguistic barriers by SOUNDING LIKE IT'S BEEN TWICE REGURGITATED BY AN AUTO-TRANSLATOR.

I also admire the optimism inherent in option a, in which we consider the possibility that, though no other travel guides have yet been produced in 1972, there's still time, eh?

Then, in option f, we return to Darwinian mediations, as we consider the contribution of successful business ideas to survival. Would Maureen and Tony have survived (we ask ourselves) had they come up with an unsuccessful business idea? Or if they had come up with a successful non-business idea? I am sure we will all agree that, no, they would not. No indeed, no.

They would of been ded meet.

And I'll tell you what I particularly like about the elevated academic behind this masterful piece of spiritual/philosophical enquiry masquerading as business investigation. I particularly like that fact that – though he has amply demonstrated his mastery of the written word, his stylistic flair, his syntactical virtuosity – he nevertheless gives his lofty words The Common Touch, with a Joycean mastery of colloquial English. Ladies and gentlemen, let's close with a round of applause (dare I propose an ovation?) for option g.

Cause they wanted to develop a company of their own and watch it grow.

Reader, I tell you: I could not have put it better myself.

Monday, 25 May 2009

The World [Wide Web] Is Not Enough


The Internet contains everything, doesn't it? Anything you might possibly want? Yes?

No!

It does not contain video footage of the Intellectual Hooligan's lifestyle mentor – the sadly deceased Mr Edmund Trebus. Or if it does, the Hooligan's sporadic searches have failed to unearth said footage.

I was first reminded of the Trebusmeister upon rereading this brilliant article on untidiness –which speaks to me (some would say, a little too eloquently).

Do you remember Mr Trebus? The man was a legend. He rose to fame as a result of the excellent Life of Grime series (narrated by the also sadly deceased John Peel) – in which series he featured as a gentleman chronically predisposed to hoarding.



Considering his showstopping appearances on Life of Grime (he was clearly the biggest celebrity of the series, which chronicled the lives of the extraordinarily messy and the attempts of the city council to moderate this messiness), I was rather surprised to discover the WWW's paucity of information on the chap. Sure, there's a site dedicated to the man – and a Trebus entry on Wikipedia – but what's happened to the video clips?

Trebus was a sprightly old chap, fond of the defiant catchphrase, 'Stick it in yer chuffer!' – often employed during his efforts to confound his patient adversaries in the city council. He'd fiercely berate the council employees for trespassing upon his property, and disrespecting his possessions – in so earnestly righteous a fashion as to prompt a reappraisal: wait a second, doesn't the guy have a point?

(Okay, so his neighbours were overrun with rats as a result of the piles of refuse collected in the man's garden ...)

Anyhow, I'd've thought that he'd be all over YouTube ... But all I can find is some pitiful band performing a song they've entitled 'Mr Trebus' in a transparent effort to garner hits.

This isn't right, surely?

INTERNET, WHY YOU MOCK ME?

So I put this out as an appeal. A cry into the webby void – a plea for Trebusfootage.

Poor critter

Liveblogging a box of chocolates. Part 2

Well, here we are again, for the latter installment of our chocolate liveblog (you didn't miss Part 1, did you?)

12.55am:
Cognac cup. Perhaps the pleasantest flavour of the bunch (soaring accolade indeed!) – and not so hideously sweet as its boxmates. Texture is a little too gooey – a burst of liquid would've been better than slightly over-viscous mousse. Still.

01.01am:
Wild Strawberry Mousse. This was never going to be great, was it? Let's start with the name. Wild Strawberry Mousse. I'm sorry to say: this is about as wild as the bass guitarist in fucking Travis. It's also disgustingly, hideously sweet, and has noxious overtones of air freshener. Truly unpleasant.

01.05am:
Caluwe's Praline has texture in its favour. The Intellectual Hooligan is an avowed fan of combined crunch and smoothness (unless in the context of walking across his bedroom floor, in which instance the likelihood is that he has just stepped on a CD case). And Caluwe's Praline (who the hell is Caluwe, anyway? Some toothless bastard, I suspect, the amount of sugar he must get through) combines a crunchy hazelnut bite with a 'super-smooth' filling. Still uber-sweet, mind. But texturally commendable. And bereft of unpleasant flavours. (Indicative, surely, that this last point be noted as a standout feature?)



This leaves us with just one remaining chocolate. Nestling so seductively in its moulded plastic bed. Its flavour?

BANANA CARAMEL.

Oh my dear sweet Jesus. Who the hell thought that was a good idea? Not even our mate Caluwe is prepared to put his name to this'n. 'An innovative blend', says the tasting note. Innovative in this case is the perfect adjective: one that implies approbation, but is actually studiously neutral. The Poll Tax, for instance, was innovative. So was apartheid.

(Sorry. That may have been excessive. But so're these chocolates, damn it.)

Anyhow.

I dislike banana at the best of times. Banana flavouring I truly detest.


Look at it. I mean look at it. Heed the warning signs, for God's sake. I mean, it actually looks like a bloody turd.



And yet.

And yet ...

For you, my readers, my subscribers, no stone – however mouldy and woodlouse-infested –shall be left unturned; no bile left unretched.

So it is that I raise (with trembling paw) Sainsbury's Banana Caramel to my reluctant lips.

(This is like one of those extreme stunts you see on TV where they have ambulances and firefighters lined up metres away, ready to leap to action at a moment's notice. Except instead of the emergency services, I've just got a pack of dried wasabi. Which I figure ought to be flavour-displacement-inducing enough ...)

Well. Here goes ...

(You'd better friggin appreciate this, that's all I can say.)

...

BLEUUUUURGH!

AROOOOOAAARGH!

CLEUUUUUURGH!

FUUUUUUUUUUU
ck

By the risen Lord, that was the most repulsive thing I've had in my mouth since ... well, let's not get into that.

Apocalyptically, bandsaw-shittingly horrible. Utterly, utterly repulsive.

BLAAAAARGH!

...

Never again. Never again will I subvert my instinct for the cause of confectionary appraisal. In fact – hell on legs – give me one of these pieces of filth, won't you, if it'll take that piss-awful taste out of my mouth.

DAMN.

Taste the Difference?

Too fucking right.

Sunday, 24 May 2009

Liveblogging a box of chocolates. Part 1

Tonight, as promised, the Intellectual Hooligan brings you the first big event of the Bank Holiday:


LIVEBLOGGING SAINSBURY'S 'TASTE THE DIFFERENCE' BELGIAN CHOCOLATE COLLECTION.

Oh yes.


11.23pm:
First up is Dark Orange Ganache. What's a ganache, anyway? It sounds like it could be a collective noun for a gathering of socially inept Conservative backbenchers. Anyway. This one's pretty much like a Terry's Chocolate Orange, but bitterer, and with irritating chewy little bits that get stuck between your teeth. The Intellectual Hooligan's verdict: barely okay.


11.31pm:
Next: Marc de Champagne. 'A rich dark ganache with a generous splash of Marc de Champagne in a creamy white chocolate cup', apparently. Generous is one word, certainly. But what's this Marc stuff? Says David H, 'top contributor' to the ever-reliable Yahoo Answers:

Marc is similar to Grappa in Italy, it is made from the grape reminace, stems, skins and pits from the Champange making process, they add grape juice and yeast and ferment it alot like wine, only like brandy it is distilled into a clear alcohol, were brandy is put in barrels like Congac to age, Marc is not and it is drank fresh.

It has a kick like a mule, and depending on the strength, it can run up to 100%. Sometimes they will add fruits or spices to make it more palatable.

Well, David H, thank you, first of all, for the commas. They really helped keep your prose fluid yet cogent. With regard to your description, I'm afraid I didn't taste anything much like Grappa in Sainsbury's take on this classic beverage. Less like being kicked by a mule, more like being suffocated with candyfloss by a sadistic Easter Bunny. Appallingly sweet.


11.51pm:
Caluwe's Caramel is the next 'treat' to find its way into the Hooligan's jaws. And this one, at least, has a moderately acceptable locus of flavour – simple, honest caramel. To be fair, it tastes kind of like a Rolo. But is (believe this) about 500% sweeter. Than a Rolo, for Christ's sake.

Slight chemical aftertaste. Mmm-nmm-nmm.


[12.06am:
Chocolate liveblog initative put on hold. Intellectual Hooligan feeling the strain. His palate, like that of any tasting professional, is a delicate sensor – and easily overwhelmed]


But tomorrow! The Intellectual Hooligan's verdict on Wild Strawberry Mousse! Cognac Cup! Aaaaand –– Caluwe's Praline! PLUS one more flavour even the name of which I cannot actually bring myself to share with you yet!

Yes!

So, um, stay tuned, won'tcha?

Friday, 22 May 2009

Bank Holiday Blogfreeze

Now I don't know for sure that it'll happen. But I'm prepared to bet.

It's a bank holiday weekend, here in the United Kingdom. That means Monday off work. An extra day of government-endorsed slothfulness. Bang on.

Now, it's at such a time that the Intellectual Hooligan is (past experience suggests) most likely to find himself mooching around the dusty corners of the interwebs. And it is at such a time, correspondingly, that he is at his most thirsty for droplets of RSS-delivered moisture. Blogged sustenance.

But, every public holiday, nobody ever blogs anything. The buggers.

DON'T THEY KNOW I'M HERE WAITING?

But my feed aggregator is left cruelly bereft of aggregatable fodder. The soughing desert winds blow across my barren Apple Mail subscription collection.

And so, like an OCD gardener with a lawnmower and a postage-stamp lawn, I trundle back and forth, round and round. Guardian website. Times website. Check emails. Check other emails. Twitter. Last FM. Facebook. [Repeat to fade].

IT'S FRIGGIN' DISMAL.

So, in an effort singlehandedly to buck the trend (although, I realise, one does not buck with one's hands unless one's anatomy is somewhat unconventional), the Intellectual Hooligan will endeavour to spew forth a veritable RSS torrent over the course of this bank holiday weekend.

Boy, have we got some treats lined up for you?

Yes, boy, we fucking have. (And stop looking at me questioningly with those big dumb boyish eyes of yours. YOU'RE RHETORICAL, damn it.)

So what've we got to look forward to?

  • We've got possibly the worst multiple choice quiz ever.
  • We've got a homage to one of the Intellectual Hooligan's personal heroes – a style icon, if you will. A giant of a man whose presence on the WWW – albeit posthumously – is crying out for a boost (no, not that kind of boost). Who is this exemplar? Tune your blogreaders to the Hooligan frequency (or point your slathering email inboxes in a subscriberly direction) to find out.
  • Over on siblingblog Heavy Soil (if it's a sibling, it's clearly the aloof older adolescent brother, acting cool in front of its sister's friends. Fucking loser.) we'll be reviewing ol' Jarv Cocker's new album, Further Complications.
  • And we'll be liveblogging our way through this box of chocolates, wot we got given as a present:

… Just for you. Damn right. This is investigative journalism at its finest.

Together, my friends, we can RSS up this bank holiday.

(When I say 'together', I guess I just mean me, really, don't I? Unless, of course, you want to comment...)

When is punctuation like pop music?

There's a rather fine article on exclamation marks (you're familiar with my feelings on exclamation marks, aren't you?) on the Guardian website. Good stuff. It's actually one of the best-written online newspaper articles I've read in a long time [Christ, I know, I'm setting the bar high, aren't I?]

The following got me thinking:

Shipley and Schwalbe argue that in the internet age, a dash of sensation is just what is needed. "Email is without affect," they write. "It has a dulling quality that almost necessitates kicking everything up a notch just to bring it to where it would normally be."

Hence the profusion of exclamation marks. Stuart Jeffries (who wrote the article) takes issue with the post-rationalising theories of Shipley and Schwalbe – but the idea of an exclamation mark arms race does seem to ring true.

It reminded me, in fact, of compression in recorded music – the process whereby dynamic contrasts of loud and soft are ironed out in favour of a uniform loudness. I've written about this – in the context of a record review – on Heavy Soil.

In the case of both the email exclamation mark and the record producer's compression processor, there's that idea of making something a bit larger than life, a bit more 'real', a bit more punchy, a bit 'louder'.

And all it does is make everyone else do the same, for fear of seeming insipid/lifeless/quiet.

Anyhow. I urge you to read the whole article. It's funny – and clever.

Wednesday, 13 May 2009

When is art like a dodgy kebab?

Before we get into this, I ask y'all to remember: the Intellectual Hooligan likes good art. Art can be bloody brilliant.

... Just not that often.



So far (I hope) so obvious. After all, brilliance is brilliant only relative to almost-ubiquitous dullness (although, if you're in the mood for bone-picking, you might want to debate this. I refer you to the comments concerning relativism and paninis at the foot of a previous post. Suffice to say: the Intellectual Hooligan likes his steaks rare and his adjectives relative).

So, yes, I'm content to live with the mediocrity. Because it makes the brilliance (when it reveals itself) all the more dazzling.

But I'll tell you what I'm not prepared to live with:

Bullshit.



Most particularly:

Bullshit being torturously expelled from the mouths (or oozing from the pen-nibs, or squelching under the key-presses) of unremarkable artists, describing themselves and their work.



Bullshit of this variety tends to be fibrously heavy with abstract nouns and superfluous or tautological adjectives, indigestibly clumped together. 'Exploring a profound emptiness imbued with the memory of togetherness yet unified by a deeply permeating underlying sense of the unseen.' or some such cack. The only thing being deeply permeated here is the author's arse, by his head.



And sometimes (almost forgivably, so amusing may be the effect), we may be treated to a few scattered pellets of metaphor. This brings me neatly to the piece of artistic self-analysis that inspired today's post. I shalln't identify the artist in question, but he describes his work thus:

At times speculative, fanciful & absurd in their subjects matter, elsewhere they may represent a familiarity observed through a skewered historical gaze.

Always with a comical intent at their core and their own singular sense of internal logic, they are a feral bubble in a spirit level & a shot across the boughs of possibility.

(My italics, not his)

This is about as hilarious as KFC's luxury panini. Hahaha. 'Feral bubble'. That's like the title of some surreal B-movie horror film, passed back and forth through babelfish a few times. 

And I presume – whatever our artist might write about 'comical intent' – that his pair of malapropisms is unintentional. My mind boggles in its attempts to visualise a 'skewered historical gaze'. The closest I can get is some kind of kebab:


The Intellectual Hooligan's advice (because, yeh, everyone's listening) to artists is this: let your art do the impressing. Don't talk it up. It makes you sound like a pillock.

Almost without fail, the most impressive artists I have met have also been the most modest, the most reluctant to 'do the art thing', to talk the talk; the most humble or noncommittal when asked to outline their artistic philosophy.

Conversely, if I read a catalogue note or hear an artist describe his or her work in grandiose abstract terms, florid metaphors and indulgent personification, I do not assume they are either clever or deep.

No. I assume they are fudgily second-rate f'artists whose foremost artistic talent is probably spraypainting ...

... Spraypainting a friggin' turd.

Monday, 11 May 2009

Hardcore Filth

(Sorry. That title was shameless search-engine bait. Though there is some pretty manky stuff further down.)



Last post around, I promised you dirty, dirty panini shots. And (though a bit of sick comes up just thinking about it) I propose to deliver aforesaid filth.

But (along with the bit of sick) I can't help but taste a certain tang of sweet, sweet vindication in the air.

Sorry – I shouldn't get ahead of myself. First: here's the picture you've all been waiting for:


And the closeup:


Hahahaha.

HAHAHAHAHA.

KFC, let this be the one and only time in my life at which I fucking salute you. You have just proven my point so astonishingly eloquently that I can scarcely believe you didn't read my blog post and think: 'Hey, paninis! This guy is onto something! Paninis could give KFC that high-class Joan Collins facelift we've been looking for! That elusive touch of insouciant sophistication!'

(Folk at KFC think with plenty of exclamation marks. You better believe it.

Look at the tagline and all:

'Make lunch luxurious'

(In a swirly typeface, no less. Luxurious, innit?)

HAHAHAHAHA once again.

All you panini-defenders, take note: your new 'ally' is Kentucky Fried Chicken – that gastronomic weathervane par excellence. The panini now takes its place on a gustatory rostrum that also elevates such gourmet delights as the 'Boneless Banquet'.

If this were a war, KFC weighing in on your side would be equivalent to a declaration of common purpose from friggin' North Korea.

Because I'm feeling jaunty (in my mood of triumphant schadenfreude), I'll throw in a photo of the KFC panino, courtesy of the superbly-named Kentucky Fried Bloggin'.



Yeh. Paninis. Finger-lickin' Classy.

Friday, 8 May 2009

Things That Have But One Function And Yet Fail At That One Function

Shredded remnants

THINGS THAT HAVE BUT ONE FUNCTION AND FAIL AT THAT ONE FUNCTION. Such is the snappy title behind the Intellectual Hooligan's latest campaign (don't worry, the previous noble cause hasn't been abandoned: we have exclusive dirty, dirty panini shots coming in from Edinburgh – our censorship team is currently working on making them safe for www browser perusal).



Meanwhile, though, let's have a look, shall we, at Exhibit A? The oven ready meal.

This is already a mildly tawdry thing, I'll admit. But, hell, I got out of work after 9 o'friggin' clock this evening, so it was always going to be a Tesco-lasagne-and-bottle-of-should've-known-better-rosé night, wasn't it?

(HELL, I MADE A SALAD, ALRIGHT?)



So.

It's a simple enough object, this ready-meal lasagne. A plastic carton, o'ermantled by a cellophane sheet, snugly ensconced in a cardboard sleeve upon which the delicious contents are artfully depicted.

The instructions could scarcely be simpler. Preheat oven. Remove cardboard sleeve. Peel off cellophane lid. Put in oven. Wait. Remove from oven. Eat. (Burn mouth.)

It's at step three that we encounter THING THAT HAS BUT ONE FUNCTION AND FAILS AT THAT ONE FUNCTION.

From the perspective of the customer – the consumer – my single interaction with the cellophane lid of my lasagne is (or, rather, should be) as follows:

  • Ripping the bastard right off.

All that cellophane sheet has to do to make mine the perfect (yes, perfect) cellophane-removal experience is this:

  • Fucking detach.

As the manufacturers of yoghurt cartons the world o'er have shown us, peelability is a quality that does not elude the grasp of modern technology.

Why is it, then, o Tesco, that your cellophane is WEAKER THAN THE GLUE YOU USE TO STICK IT TO THE CARTON?

... Meaning that, when one employs the peeling motion, one is presented with a miniscule strip of static-charged cellophane, clinging pathetically to one's finger – and a tantalisingly lasagne-crammed receptacle still resolutely cellophane covered, yet now missing the small tab of unglued material via which to tug it from its adhesive foundations.

Now, perhaps the Intellectual Hooligan is, you know, a little bit – well – odd. And perhaps his delectations are not those of the everyday human.



(FUCK OFF, EVERYDAY HUMAN.
WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO MAKE YOU STOP?
YOU MAKE THIS WORLD LOUSY.)



Perhaps,
yes,
perhaps.

Perhaps the Intellectual Hooligan is not normal. But the Intellectual Hooligan nevertheless maintains (with a vigour that defies his mild exterior) that the process of peeling may – in the right circumstances – afford no small amount of pleasure.

Yes. A good peel, this Hooligan asserts, may be a supremely satisfying thing.

That's not a euphemism.



So, o Tesco. Your omniscient computer tracking tells you that the citizens of North Oxford are prepared to pay £1.11 for a carton of cream and £1.50 for a pack of rocket salad. And it tells you that, if you stay open after 9pm, you'll rake in a substantial amount of business from those who might otherwise have frequented the cellophane nirvana of M&S.

But why the HELL doesn't it tell you NEVER TO DENY YOUR DISCERNING CUSTOMERS A GOOD PEEL?

Thursday, 7 May 2009

What is wrong with this picture?

I just opened my email inbox to find the following gleaming – nay, glistening – notification:


Yes, Twitter-email-notifier, well you may employ an exclamation mark. For once, the manic tone of your email's subject line is justified.

For – ay, there's the rub! – this is the same Piers Morgan currently in possession of the Intellectual Hooligan's coveted Sh1t Muncher Of The Year award.

Appalling specimen.

… and, apparently, a Twitter-masochist.

(Because, yeah, it's clearly Morgan himself who runs his Twitter account.)

Saturday, 2 May 2009

Questionable benefit

The following was announced on the Intellectual Hooligan's train journey from Birmingham to Oxford:

'For the benefit of customers joining us at Leamington Spa, my name is Andrew.'

Well, Andrew, I'm sure the locomoting citizens of Leamington Spa will appreciate your parents' foresight (and altruism) in naming you thus.

Aforesaid citizens will be reaping the rewards, no doubt, in a manner which remains (as one who joined you, alas, at Birmingham – and to whom no benefit is therefore conveyed by your prenominal identity) a mystery to me.

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