Day 14...

Everybody needs a role model.

I have several myself, ranging from those that have influenced me with their writing, like Simon Furman, J. Michael Straczynski, Rob Grant and Doug Naylor, to artists such as Andrew Wildman, Geoff Senior, Liam Sharp and Stephen Baskerville, to the pure intelligence and punk ethic of Greg Graffin.

It turns out that thick chavs need their role models too. Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to drop several dozen IQ points for...

... N-Dubz.

Those ridiculous hand signals they do (which could, I suspect, be indicating either IQ points or brain cell count) have been copied by Spar doorstep dwellers (I know of one such chav; her photos of her and her friends all have them doing some stupid hand gesture akin to these fuckers). It does make me laugh when British street urchins suddenly think they're in the East Side. A'ight. Do they still say "a'ight"? I don't fucking know. I can't keep up with the vernacular of stupid kids any more. "Safe" seems to be one of the latest ones. And I swear, if I hear anyone else saying "oh my days", I'll push them in front of a bus.

Anyway, that's all besides the point. They're a symptom of something that I hate about this country, manufactured "bands" (the sort that don't play instruments, write their own songs or graft tirelessly from seedy pub to seedy pub building up a following through their own merits), compartmentalised into cartoon characters, thousands of thick people who aren't wise to the ways of the world thinking that it's all real.

Dappy (the cunt that wears the stupid hats all the time, probably hiding an embarrassing combover) is pretty much one of them, a thick chav mascot (a "chavscot", if you will). Whilst this group were supposed to be central to an anti-bullying campaign, this utter turnip of a man decided to send malicious text messages to a woman who dared say on Radio One that she didn't like N-Dubz. His appearances on Never Mind The Buzzcocks just emphasise what a waste of atoms he is. Thicker than two short walks through heavy fog in a swamp.

I know very little about the other two, except the other bloke (who I've just learned is called Frazer, thanks to Google, perhaps the only time I'll ever search for these cunts) apparently was facing a life of crime if his music career didn't take off. One, that's probably a load of bollocks invented by the record label who are well aware of the simpleton audience who'll buy into the story, and two, I wouldn't get too comfortable in your "music" career, sonny. The woman, Tulisa (which has got to either be entirely made up, or the product of a really stupid parent; it sounds like one of those illnesses you read about in Dickensian novels), has the vacant stare and arrogant manner of your typical tracksuit wearing chav.

If you happen to walk past N-Dubz hanging around outside your local Spar, no matter how much they plead, do not go in and buy them 20 Lambert & Butler and a bottle of cider. They'll threaten you, laugh loudly and swear at you as you walk past, but they're only showing off in front of each other. They'll eventually just go to the local youth club or hang around in the Tesco car park nicking trolleys. Besides, Dappy's only about 3'5".

More tomorrow. Ta ta!