It's A Wonderful Corden

Good morning, and Happy Christmas, fuckers! No, wait, that's not right... Merry Christmas, fuckers!

Much better.

Anyway, hope you all have a fantastic day. Continuing a tradition started, um, exactly a year ago today, here's this year's Christmas morality tale. Last year, it was the turn of Noel "Ebenezer" Edmonds in A Christmas Arsehole (if you're on the web version of the site, look down the right hand side to find the link). This year, please welcome lardy ego monster James Corden, winner of Dystopian Fuchsia's Shit Britons 2010 (as voted for by yourselves), in...

It's A Wonderful Corden

by Ian Hewett

High up in the heavens, somewhere 'twixt Uranus and Gliese 581d in the constellation of Libra, two lights sparkled, but these were not comically-named gas giants or disappointing exoplanets 20 light years from Earth, but angels looking down on Earth and its meerkat loving, t-shirt wearing inhabitants. One individual caught their attention, as he seemed to be praying mockingly in a high-pitched whine, whilst wobbling his belly in a vile manner. They were slightly repulsed, but, like all good car crashes, could not help looking back over his life to see how he got to this stage.

James Corden lay on his sofa, scattered with biscuit crumbs and remnants of cake, watching DVDs of Gavin and Stacey. He chuckled to himself. "I really am a fucking comedy genius," he said to nobody. He tutted as the phone rang, and reluctantly heaved his ample frame to a relatively upright position.

   "You're through to James Corden, the funniest man you'll ever meet," he whinnied down the phone. "What is it?"

   "Hi James, it's your agent," began the caller, before adopting a tone that sounded like they were reading from a pre-prepared statement. "The public aren't sick of you yet. Seriously, they all really, really love you."

   James smiled and nodded knowingly, and the caller continued.

   "I've got you a spot hosting the Glamour Awards this weekend. Shall I confirm it with them?"

   He sighed. Or perhaps got out of breath; it was hard to tell. "I dunno..."

   "There'll be an after-show party with free food."

   "Well why didn't you say so? Sign me up, Scotty!" He hung up the phone, and silently cursed, as he realised he'd planned a £100 order from Dominos that day.

   He walked over to his full-length, full-width mirror, lifted his t-shirt, and wobbled his belly. He winked at his reflection. "You've still got it," he said, and wrote down the belly gag he'd just made on the back of a Kit Kat wrapper, which he pocketed.

   

   As the weeks went by, James started feeling a bit under the weather. The Glamour Awards gig had backfired slightly when he publicly berated Sir Patrick Stewart when he shot down another of his belly gags. How dare he? He may be a Knight of the Realm and a highly respected actor, but you just don't do that to the great James Corden. It was now approaching Christmas, and things had dried up slightly. His hilarious sketch show with that one from Gavin and Stacey had yet failed to get another series, and his obviously hilarious football-based panel game was getting a small audience of cunts on late night satellite TV. Where had it all gone wrong? He needed some publicity-friendly good luck. And a kebab.

   He approached a bridge overlooking a freezing river, feeling at his lowest ebb. Then, a little boy walked past with happiness in his eyes at seeing him. Nervously, he approached the star with his mother ushering him on. "C-can I have your autograph, sir?"

   James beamed. "Of course you can, young man." He pulled out his pen just for such an occasion, and began to scrawl on the boy's scrap of paper, now smeared in garlic sauce.

   "Can you do that thing you do?" asked the boy.

   James chuckled. "Of course I can." He pulled up his sweaty t-shirt, and wobbled his belly. The boy screamed.

   "What the hell are you doing, pervert?!" bellowed the mother. "I'm calling the police, you fucking sicko," she continued as she dragged her bawling son away. "Your career's over, Wonga Man. Envirofone'll never employ you again!"

   James began to weep. Then he began to pray. "Hi, God, it's me. James Corden, the world's funniest man. Only, people don't appreciate me any more." He coughed. "You know what, fuck it. They don't fucking deserve me." He took out the Kit Kat wrapper from his pocket containing his hilarious belly gag, and tore it into little pieces. "I'm just going to end it now. That'll teach the fuckers." As he puffed and wheezed his way onto the edge of the bridge, ready to jump, a man fell past him into the river. "Oh for fuck's sake, what now?" asked a breathless James. He was ready to leave the other jumper to his fate, when he realised this could be great publicity. If he saved him, he'd be all over the papers. Something to gloat over as he ate his fish and chips out of them on Christmas morning.

   He belly-flopped into the river, half emptying it on impact. Struggling to stay upright, he suddenly found he was being boarded by the jumper, and guided to the riverbank. Soon, in an old cabin, the two men were wrapped in towels, and a look of recognition flooded onto James's puffy face.

   "Bobby Ball?" he said in a high-pitched cacophony. "I do not believe this."

   The curly-haired annoyance grinned broadly. "I'm yer guardian angel, fatty. You were about to top yerself in a moment of self pity. Me an' Tommy was watching, and it were makin' us sick, yer big jessie. I tell yer one thing for nowt, you make really good ballast."

   "But you're not dead. How can you be my guardian angel?"

   "Well, me career's dead. Has been for years." He stretched his red braces out with his thumbs. "Rock on, Tommy!" he shouted. The wet braces pinged back, whacking him painfully in the nipples. James sat silently. "Anyway," he continued, a tear of pain rolling over his moustache, "if I get to show you that life's worth living, I get me wings. Tell yer what, I'll show you what the world would be like if you were never born. That'd be good for a laugh. I love a good laugh, me!"

   James sighed. "Fine. Let's get on with it."

   They made their way into the city, and passed a nightclub. He saw all the stars going through the neon entrance, from Christopher Biggins to Tim Lovejoy, all of the nation's favourites. "Ee, that looks dead posh, does that," chuckled Bobby.

   "I'll get us in," said James with an air of utter confidence.

   The bouncer pulled the rope across James's path. "Where the fuck do you think you're going, tubby?"

   "I beg your pardon?"

   "This is an exclusive club. Now clear off," he growled, as he let Timmy Mallett through.

   "Don't you know who I am?" shouted an indignant James.

   "Look, pal, clear off, before I fucking cut you." James backed off nervously. "Just a minute," he suddenly said. "Oh my god, it's you!" James beamed broadly.

   "That's better. Now then..."

   "Not you, prick. Can I have your autograph, Mr Ball?"

   Bobby grinned. "Of course, son." He took a pen out of James's pocket, and signed.

   "Oh, and can you do that thing you do?"

   Bobby twanged his braces. "Rock on, Tommy!" James shook his head as his face dropped.

   "That's brilliant. Nice to meet you, Mr Ball!"

   "Unbelievable! How can he not know who I am?"

   "Don't forget, you've never been born. You'll see some things've changed."

   "No, wait. This is brilliant! I can bring my amazing jokes and belly-related fun to a whole new world!" He felt in his pocket for the remnants of the Kit Kat wrapper. "It's gone! My fantastic belly joke's gone! Did you nick it, you little tit?"

   "What would I want with that, dipstick? It's not there, 'cos you never wrote it. You were never born, were you? Keep up, yer silly beggar."

   "No, that's okay, that's okay... I've just got to get on the phone to the BBC, so I can flog 'em Gavin and Stacey."

   "'Ang on... Didn't you co-write that with that... that big girl, Ruth summat..."

   "Fuck her. It's her loss. Give me your phone."

   Bobby shrugged, handed James a brick-like mobile phone, and put his hands in his pockets, adopting an impish pose out of habit. "You're making a mistake."

   "Ssh, it's ringing... Yes, hello, my name's James Corden, and I'm a very talented comic writer and actor. I've got an idea for a show called Gavin and Stacey, a sitcom with a girl from Wales and a bloke from... what? No, this isn't a joke... No, I'm not wasting your time, I'm just... No, please don't hang up. DON'T HANG UP!" His face dropped as he looked at Bobby. "They hung up."

   "Course they did, son. You weren't around to 'old Ruth whatsit back, and she wrote that sitcom off 'er own back. It were much funnier in this world too. See, you were basically writing yerself as a character. Thing is, you're a massive wally. People realised that soon enough when yer started believing yer own 'ype."

   James felt like weeping, as they passed his local kebab shop, boarded up with a sign indicating they'd gone out of business due to poor trade.

   "I've got nothing. I'm fucked in this world, I'm fucked in the real world..."

   "It's never too late, son. Everyone goes through a dry patch. Look, yer sitcom. It were alright, that. Okay, yer sketch show were shit, and yer shouldn't've 'ad a go at Picard and made yerself look like a massive wally, but you've 'ad a wonderful life, and yer voice ain't even broken yet. You could always write yer biography while some people still know who you are."

   A tear rolled down James's reddened face. "You're right, Bobby. Thank you. Thank you so much." He went to embrace him.

   "Ee, keep away," said a retreating Bobby, comedy fists aloft. "I've seen you with yer 'omo bits on yer sketch show, yer big nancy."

   James smiled. "All right. Look, I've learned my lesson. Can you put things back the way they were?"

   "They already are. Look in your pocket."

   James reached into his pocket, and pulled out the torn fragments of his Kit Kat wrapper, still scrawled with his wonderful belly gag. "Kit Kat wrapper! It's my Kit Kat wrapper!" Excitedly, he jogged through the snowy streets, and saw the kebab shop was open once more. "Hello, kebab shop! Hello, you wonderful Greggs!" He slowed his pace as sweat poured down his face. Bobby slowly caught up to him in a casual stroll.

   "Come on, son. Let's get back to yer 'ouse, and I'll 'elp you sort out yer book deal."

   Christmas Day, and James walked into his house a happy man, clutching fish and chips wrapped in yesterday's newspaper. He read the headline in the grease about his autobiography deal, and when he read the word "million", he giggled like a schoolgirl. Finishing off the meal, he took a Christmas dinner for one from the freezer, popped it in the microwave, grabbed some mistletoe, and began snogging his hand. Life was good. As he waddled through his living room, he came across the home-made spit with the roasted corpse hanging from the ceiling from red suspenders. He gnawed at some newly formed wing meat, grateful for the help Bobby had given him. "It's what he would have wanted," he chuckled, as the grease from washed up Northern comedian dribbled down his chin. He collapsed into his crumb-laden sofa, and began writing the best belly-related gags he had ever written. He was back.

Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope you and yours have a great few days. See you before New Year's Day!

Welcome to Christmas Eve, y'all.

Well, the final window then. Excited? Hmph.

Ladies and gentlemen...

... A white Christmas.

I bet you all thought it was going to be James Corden, didn't you? 

Well, bollocks to a white Christmas. It's caused nothing but misery, chaos and discomfort. I had to miss two days of work last week because of it, and things we've ordered for Christmas presents haven't shown up.

I shall be finding every snow scene Christmas card I can (especially ones painted by my former art teacher John Upton), and burn them in a big fire. I have nothing more to say on the subject. Hmph.

...

That said, I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas either way. I'll be here briefly tomorrow morning to post this year's Christmas morality tale (you may remember A Christmas Arsehole last year, starring Ebenezer Edmonds - scroll down on the right hand side to find it).

In the meantime, here's a story I wrote for Diary of a Ledger's short story competition from last year. Enjoy!

Yuletied

by Ian Hewett

The bell rang as the door creaked open. The woman's sour expression entered first, followed by her two screaming children and a blast of freezing air. Chris sighed, shivered, and surreptitiously checked his watch was working. His face twisted into a smile like a well-worn catchphrase.

“You,” said the customer, instantly failing to get in Chris's good books, “I want the complete Shakespeare and the Banjopips Annual.” Silence. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you going to find them for me or not?”

“Wait there,” he harrumphed, and trudged off to find them. BloodyBanjopips; this year's must-have flash-in-the-pan merchandise fodder. Dragging his feet through his small bookshop, he barely noticed the man browsing his small collection of occult-themed tomes. Putting his hand on the last of the Banjopips Annuals, with The Complete Shakespeareunder his arm, he did his best not to make eye contact with the man. Chris slowly made his way back to the counter, when one of the children addressed her mother.

“Mummy,” said the grizzling offspring, “I hate this shop. It's dusty and smelly. I want to go home.”

Sliding both books onto a random shelf, he returned to the counter. “We're out of both books.” He could barely contain his sarcasm with his next word. “Sorry.”

“I saw you!” shouted the woman. “You had them under your bloody arm!” She got right in his face, her lip trembling. “I want to see the manager!”

Chris stood his ground, and indicated himself silently, barely able to suppress his smirk. The woman shook her head in disbelief, and dragged her brood out of the shop, leaving the door wide open. Chris went to close it, ignoring the dozens of shoppers, mouths agape, staring his way. He returned to the counter, where the man now stood. Chris turned on the radio, and Slade's festive hit rang out.

“Well, she was fun,” mused Chris to the customer.

“Not in the Christmas spirit, young man?”

Chris exhaled loudly. “No, not really. It's Christmas Eve, and what am I doing? Selling books to rude idiots.” He surveyed his customer; he was an old man, with half-moon spectacles and a greying beard, his overcoat a genuine antique. His lined face had a thousand tales to tell. “Got to keep the shop going, though.”

“Oh, I wish it could be Christmas every day...” mocked the radio.

Bagging the gentleman's items, he offered a small smile. The old man smiled back sympathetically. “Have a nice Christmas, young man.” Chris muttered indistinct words back, as the man left. He had had enough of the ingratitude, the impatience and the miserable faces. Locking the door of the shop several hours early, firmly turning the sign around to “closed”, he made his way up to his flat above the premises, and cracked open a bottle of whisky. Humbug. At least it was Christmas Day tomorrow, and he could have a day off. Slumped in his armchair, his fifth straight whisky sloshing around his palate, he drifted angrily into a deep sleep.

He was woken rudely from a disturbing dream about Noel Edmonds by a banging noise from downstairs. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth like velcro, tearing away painfully. Getting a drink of water to appease the drought in his mouth, he picked up his sole Christmas card. His mad old mum sent him one from the same multipack she'd had for years every Christmas, written in her standard drunken scrawl. Making his way to the shop floor in his dressing gown, dropping the card on the counter, he saw a man staring through the window. A look of confusion and annoyance drowned his face as he unlocked the door.

“We're closed.”

“On Christmas Eve? What sort of shop is this?” The man stormed off, leaving Chris bewildered. Why were there so many people on the high street on Christmas Day? He turned on the radio, but each excitable DJ confirmed it. How had he lost an entire day? Turning off the radio, he scrambled upstairs, got dressed, and within minutes tumbled back down the stairs, a slice of toast hanging from his mouth. The shop was reluctantly open again. He was convinced he was going mad.

That feeling was confirmed after a couple of hours. Chris served exactly the same people that he had the day before, all wanting the same items. He looked around for hidden cameras, to no avail. By midday, he reasoned that it was just his imagination. He had been working all hours lately, exhausting himself. All of his friends had drifted away, and he had no family he was in contact with any more, so the shop, “Leaves All Around”, was all he had. He heard the bell ring, and heard the whining children. Chris felt himself turn cold, and it wasn't just the breeze. Looking up, he saw the woman from yesterday. Usually when he annoyed a customer, he never saw them again. He hated confrontation, so was not looking forward to this.

“You,” she said, “I want the complete Shakespeare and the BanjopipsAnnual.” Silence. “Well?”

The events played out exactly as before. The old man was there, as were the books the woman wanted. Hands trembling, he returned to the counter. This time, she bought the books, but still didn't thank him. As she left, the chilling breeze filled the shop. He edged towards the door and closed it quietly, the coldness remaining within him. Returning to the till, the old man was there, right on cue.

“Are you okay, young man?”

Chris didn't know what to say, in all honesty. He nodded quietly, as he switched the radio back on.

“Oh, I wish it could be Christmas every day...”

As he bagged the old man's physics books, he noticed him reading the Christmas card on the counter, a glint of sadness in his eyes. The man placed the card back on the counter, smiled thinly, and left once more. Shellshocked, Chris walked to the door, locking the world out.

Making his way upstairs, he slumped into the armchair, and began drinking, hoping he could drown the nightmare, wishing it would drag his sorrows down with it.

He was woken rudely from a disturbing dream about Noel Edmonds by a banging noise from downstairs. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth like velcro, tearing away painfully. Getting a drink of water to appease the drought in his mouth, he picked up his sole Christmas card...

“Oh, no...”

Within minutes, he was back downstairs, gripping some toast between his teeth as he unlocked the door. The same man was there, but Chris decided to let him in. The day played out exactly the same again, though he felt a little more prepared, but couldn't help the annoyance in his tone with people. Was this some sick joke? This should be Boxing Day, but it appeared that somebody had forgotten to tell the space/time continuum. He kept an eye out for the old man, but by the time the miserable mother and her horrible children had entered, there was no sign of him.

“You,” she said predictably, “I want the complete Shakespeare and theBanjopips Annual.” Silence. “Well?”

“Certainly,” said Chris. “I'll just go and fetch them for you.”

The look on her face was worth it, a small victory. It appeared that she wasn't used to friendly customer service. Mind you, Chris wasn't used to giving it. Making his way to the back of the shop, there was the old man. Chris looked at him strangely. “I didn't see you come in.”

The old man smiled, but didn't say anything. Chris found the two books, slightly bemused, and returned to the woman. “Here we go,” he said, a broad, if slightly forced, smile on his lips. “You were lucky to get theBanjopips Annual. It's my last one.”

The woman smiled slightly, actually looking relieved. “Thank you so much. You know how it is, trying to find that one item for your loved ones that you just can't find anywhere.” Chris hadn't given anyone a present in years, so he didn't know how it was. He could only imagine. Bagging her items, she headed towards the door. “Merry Christmas,” she said with a smile, and closed the door behind her.

He returned to the counter, and turned the radio on.

“Oh, I wish it could be Christmas every day...”

“Well, that went a little better,” said the old man with a wry smile. Chris eyed him curiously. “Is there something wrong, young man?”

Chris squinted slightly. “Nothing... I've just noticed, you've got the same scar as me.” Just under the old man's right eye was indeed a small but visible scar. Chris had the same mark in the same place, the result one of his father's little 'accidents' with a teacup years ago.

The man chuckled, and stroked his scar. “My, so we do. Isn't that strange?”

Chris bagged his quantum mechanics books. “Who are you?”

Picking up the Christmas card, sadness bled into his expression. “I'm a very lonely old man, trying to put things right as best I can.” The rhyming couplet was lost on him.

Chris locked the door. “You're more than that. You know what's been happening to me. The only thing that hasn't been constant is that you've bought different books each time.”

The man sighed. “Let's just say, I'm the ghosts of Christmas past, present and yet to come rolled into one.” He paced around the counter. “You seem very lonely, too. Don't you have any friends or family you can spend Christmas with?”

Chris shook his head, glumly. “Not any more. They all left.”

The man looked him directly in the eye. “It's never too late, young man, to change your fortunes. You're so intent on pushing people away, it shows in the way you serve people. You'll lose your shop if you keep doing that.” He pushed the Christmas card into his hands. “It's never too late.”

The man collected his bag of items, and made for the exit. “Merry Christmas, young man.” Then, he was gone.

Chris locked the door, and made his way upstairs, still clutching the card. He sat gently into his armchair, awash with emotions he hadn't felt in years, still unsure as to what the events of the day meant. He picked up the whisky bottle, full again as before, but decided against it this time. Time to break the circle... or at least, chip away at it. He drifted off into a deep slumber.

He woke peacefully the next morning, listening out for the banging at the door. It didn't happen, and he found himself strangely missing it. He made his way to the shop floor. There was precisely nobody outside. The street was empty. He unlocked the door, and went into the street, still in his dressing gown. Nobody. He tried to suppress his laugh, but failed. It echoed loudly around him, reverberating around the otherwise silent buildings, punctuated by frosty-white breath. He ran back inside when the chill became unbearable, glad that it never actually snowed at Christmas. Locking up again, he turned on the radio.

“Oh, I wish it could be Christmas every day...”

He sat and listened to every note, welling up with nostalgia when Noddy broke into the scream at the end of the song. The DJ confirmed that it was Christmas morning, but Chris already knew that.

He smiled, and picked up the telephone, dialling a number from memory.

“Mum,” he said, tears trailing down his cheeks, “it's me.”

Day 23...

Well, what a dreadful year, eh? So dreadful, in fact, that today's advent calendar window gives us a twofer.

Ladies and gentlemen...

... David Cameron and Nick Clegg.

No one party gained a majority during the 2010 General Election, so it fell to David Cameron to give a "big, open and comprehensive" offer to Clegg's Liberal Democrats, and Clegg, eager to enter Cameron's big, open and welcoming buttocks, stabbed the nation in the back, bringing a dreadful right wing coalition government into power. Kay Burley said that the country has "voted for a hung parliament". No it hadn't, you silly cunt. 

Since then, law and order has collapsed, (quite rightfully) angry protests at the steep hike in tuition fees (which wouldn't be of immediate concern to these two privately educated millionaires) will continue and exacerbate, whilst the Liberal Democrats in government prove ineffectual. The one ray of light is that the cracks are already beginning to show; no coalition government has ever lasted for long. Let's hope that this one falls by the wayside before they do too much more damage.

Last one tomorrow. See you then!

Day 22...

The last couple of years has seen television vomit out some particularly unpleasant presenters. Today's advent calendar window reveals one of the most irritating. Ladies and gentlemen...

... George Lamb.

The only man in the western hemisphere to be named after two pubs, Lamb is the son of Larry Lamb, who was the main puppet character in Toytown and went on to play evil rapist Archie Mitchell in EastEnders. Lamb Jr's droning pretentiousness has grated against the nation's speakers for a few years now, fronting such heavyweight fare as Big Brother's Little Brother and Celebrity Scissorhands, and his cocksure arrogance is a punchable offence. How a man with amoebic charisma with a face like a spoon's reflection and hair like an octogenarian mushroom cloud is allowed anywhere near a television camera is a source of irritation for me.

Kindly piss off and let someone with an inkling of how to engage viewers step in instead, you orange tit.

22 down, 2 to go... who's next? Find out tomorrow!

Day 21...

Good morning. Hope you're dealing with the snow better than I am.

We have another returnee for the advent calendar, simply because they're annoying as much this year as they were 12 months ago, and it's another case of bafflement as to why they're so revered, especially considering their past.

Ladies and gentlemen...

... Cheryl Cole.

Back in 2003, bruiser Tweedy (as she was then known) tried taking some lollipops from the toilets of The Drink nightclub in Guildford. The attendant tried stopping her as she had to pay for them. Obviously, this was unacceptable, and the attendant was punched by Tweedy. During the incident, she called Sophie Amogbokpa, the attendant, a "black bitch," and said "go and get that Caribbean jigaboo back up here and I will give her another one." Nice.

Of course, this whole incident was brushed under the carpet, and Tweedy, twice suspended from school (once for fighting) is now enjoying a career of judging the talent of others (which really doesn't sit well at all, as though irony was made of osmium to make it heavier), and making piss-poor music, simultaneously advertising shampoo that gives you a "healthy Cheyenne".

Quite why you'd want to acquire a healthy Cheyenne, I don't know. Perhaps you have to send off tokens.

It would take a very cynical person to even suggest that her recently-ended marriage to Ashley Cole was a celebrity-culture marriage of convenience to quash accusations of racism. Thankfully, I'm not cynical enough for that.

So here we are, about to enter a new year, and pudding-faced slugger Cole is still fucking well everywhere. Her music is cacophonous, her crocodile tears wash over the stupid and the easily led, and it turns my stomach that such a vile bully with dead, soulless eyes is so adored and allowed on television. It sends out a poor message that this is what young girls have to aspire to.

Seemingly, the only thing that will get rid of her is if she shoots herself in the foot. Given her past, she's not too bright but extremely self-serving; it's a delicate balance, but one prays that she'll do something very, very stupid soon that will remind everyone what a nasty thug she's capable of being.

Back tomorrow!

Day 20...

Hello.

There's nothing quite like great political satire. Some people are absolute masters. Some are... well, slightly over-rated. Ladies and gentlemen...

... Rory Bremner.

Why him? He's hilarious! Actually, no he fucking well isn't. He's never, ever been funny. Ever. Unless karma is a reality, in which case he's due to become the funniest man who ever lived.

A man of 1000 voices, my arse. He's got about 3. His George Bush is just his old Ronald Reagan with a bit of a slur, his Ed Miliband will no doubt just be his Tony Blair, and his Geoffrey Boycott was recycled in recent years as Gordon Brown.

He's a fucking bore. He was on the Andrew Marr show this week; he was asked to do his review of the year in as many wacky voices as he could. So, cue the George Bush impression. Obviously, Bush has been a major figure in the year's news. Oh, and cue Tony Blair, again a major figure in the news for all of five minutes. That's ALL HE FUCKING DOES.

Guaranteed, whenever he's cropped up on a panel show (be it Mock The Week, Whose Line Is It Anyway or whatever), they'll suddenly have an impressions round. Why do these shows cater to this blank slate like he's some kind of comedy god? His material is devastatingly weak, and yet  here he is still, twenty or so years down the line, still polluting the airwaves with his tired patter. The current crop of politicians are fairly bland and anonymous (much like Bremner himself), so perhaps he can create some scenarios where Bush, Blair, Brown and even John Major and Geoffrey Boycott are shoehorned in, the unimaginative cunt.

More tomorrow!

Day 19...

Hello.

News channels. Aren't they great? Free from political bias of any kind whatsoever, and anchored by journalists at the very peak of their profession, providing balanced, thoughtful insight and calm, rational delivery.

But then there's today's advent window. Ladies and gentlemen...

... Kay Burley.

A dreadful embarrassment to the news anchor profession, equine-faced Burley is the moron who stated, on the morning of September 11th 2001, that " the entire eastern seaboard of the United States has been decimated by a terrorist attack", and called the student protesters "insurgents". Ham-fisted journalism at its very worst. You can expect no less from this real world Sally Smedley. Just watch this for evidence of her fuckwittery:

"Nobody cares what I think." Indeed. Now kindly fuck off and let a grown up do the job.

More tomorrow!

Day 18... Sontar Ha!

Hi.

I hope everything's okay with you lot. Me, I'm not great. The snow has prevented me from being able to get into work, so I'm feeling pretty shitty. I live on a steep hill, and there's a foot of snow so far. No buses are coming this way at all, taxis refuse to drive up... Pretty much stranded. Bugger.

At least one person will be nice and warm, with all that fat. Oh, and armour. Ladies and gentlemen...

... Eric Pickles.

Sometimes, some people appear in the public eye who go beyond parody. Charles Dickens had some very colourful names for his characters; who knew that one of them would cross over into the real world?

Pickles is Secretary of State for Communities and Local Government, an overblown title for an overblown man, severely out of touch with the working classes and any sense of reality. Watch this...

... and this...

Isn't it worrying that Michael Winner has contributed to two of this year's advent calendar subjects? Terrifying.

Not as terrifying as having a Sontaran in government.

More tomorrow!

Day 17... Children of the Dumbed (Down)

Hello!

Today's choice may seem a little obvious to some, but after last year's calendar, they're still here, corrupting the very quality of television, music, sanity and matter. It's about time they fucked off, but it doesn't seem that's going to happen any time soon.

Ladies and gentlemen...

... Jedward.

Contrary to what some may think, that isn't a contraction of Jacob and Edward, the supernatural flavours of the month, but instead something else that's a worse affront to natural order in the eyes of whatever god you believe in. There are ways of killing vampires and werewolves at least. How do you destroy stupidity?

This pair of imbeciles, despite not winning that rubbish talent show that so many seem to like, haven't gone away. Their voices haven't yet broken, and, more worryingly, the vital synapses relevant to sentience don't appear to have fired either. I often state that people on here are thick, but these two... these two... it's a dreadful state of affairs that this talentless duo of cunts is still in the public consciousness, or that they got there in the first place. In perhaps the cruellest mistake that genetics has ever overseen, not only do we have the densest, most annoying person the human species has ever birthed, but we have it in duplicate. Thank fuck they weren't triplets.

From advertising Nintendo to getting fronting a CBBC show in 2011 (I fucking knew something like that would happen), all you idiots that voted for them in that thing last year, I hope you're fucking happy. We should not be celebrating or promoting stupidity. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.

More dreadfulness tomorrow...

Day 16...

Good morning, all.

Before we get onto today's subject, there's an update on yesterday's, justifying his inclusion on the Dystopian Advent Calendar. Michael McIntyre has proven his light entertainment credentials by signing up as a judge on Britain's Got Talent. Good lord, shoot me now. Last year's advent calendar alumni Amanda Holden and Simon Cowell are still there (the later only cropping up later in the series, but still), Piers Morgan's fucked off to replace Larry King of all people (how?!  How are these ridiculous things happening in the world?!), and they're joined by David Hasselhoff (a man who does a decent enough job of parodying himself, but maybe he'll be here on next year's advent calendar... we'll see how much he annoys in 2011). Hasselhoff aside, the full set of bastards have been on the calendar now. I hope they all annoy you as much as they annoy me.

So, today's window, then. Earlier in the year, I sang the praises of EastEnders around its 25th anniversary. The storylines were more compelling than usual, the standard of acting (apart from a couple of dregs who have since departed) far surpassed that of your usual soap opera stereotypes, and it showed that it was capable of pulling the rug from under your expectations on occasion. It was in the best shape it had been in years. That was mainly down to departing Executive Producer Diedrick Santer, who had guided the show to the brilliance it was more than capable of.

But then he left. And things went rapidly downhill under his replacement. Ladies and gentlemen...

... Bryan Kirkwood.

When I first heard that the former producer of Hollyoaks was being drafted in, I was a little worried about the state of the show to come. Looks like my fears have come true. During his tenure, Phil Mitchell has developed an addiction to crack; it took a pesky fire (where nobody died, unusual for a soap) to cure him within a couple of weeks, Shirley has lost any morality she developed as a character since she joined, pretty much going back to square one, the excruciating Gold family have been brought in, where we were supposed to care about the failing marriage of orange woman Vanessa and her Dominic Littlewood-alike husband, and the paternity revelation of their moon-faced daughter, eldest Branning daughter Lauren has been recast as an animatronic drama school gonk with jazz hands and a whole new personality (which seems as though it was poorly written on a beermat and typed into the show bible verbatim), Ben Mitchell has resurfaced with a new face (specifically Jay's), utilising the first use of split screen in a soap opera when he appears in a scene with said character, with a generic Mitchell characterisation grafted on, entirely replacing the old character to the point of being unrecognisable, Billie Jackson's death was poorly handled and with no dramatic lead-up, a poor pay-off for the build up of his joining the army... In a nutshell, it's become embarrassing.

EastEnders can be good. It has been good. But the man in charge is overseeing a show that has all the believability and impact as... well, Hollyoaks. I hope his tenure is a short one. He certainly shouldn't be running something as high profile as EastEnders. Perhaps there's a Primark in need of a changing room attendant somewhere. In the meantime, the only "doof doof" moments I want to hear are Kirkwood getting beaten up in a car park.

Back tomorrow evening for the 17th window. Fuckity bye!

Day 15...

Morning, all.

Last year's Dystopian Advent Calendar, much like this one, was based primarily on what's been of annoyance in the recent past, though last year's had a bit more irrelevant stuff. Like Christopher Lillicrap and Arthur Fowler banged up. This year, many of last year's subjects have fallen by the wayside, as although they're still alive, they haven't been as troubling. Heather Mills must be happy with the money she got from Macca, as I've barely heard her mentioned this year. Likewise, Josh whatshisname from the T-Mobile ads (who, bizarrely, started following me on Twitter not long after (he's unfollowed since)), Justin Lee Collins (who, since then, has been rapidly vanishing up Sky Three's welcoming buttocks into oblivion), and Patrick fucking Kielty (only one or two TV appearances this year, and though I still detest the man and his mean-spirited 'comedy', it's nice to have a break from him on my telly).

I'm hoping that today's subject, by this time next year, will be a distant memory (albeit the sort that you need decades of therapy to recover from). Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome...

... Michael McIntyre.

Yet another generic light entertainment enema of a man. Why do so many of his ilk wind up on television? Supremely outdated, there's no danger, no edge to his comedy. Perhaps it's the pinprick eyes and mid-puberty wavering voice, annoyingly and permanently teetering on the edge of breaking. Maybe it's because he looks like one of the Riddlers. I just don't know where his comedy is supposed to come from. I just don't "get" him. Bland, pointless, unfunny, ever so slightly smug, with an irritating hyperactivity, as though he's fallen into a character that he wishes he could leave behind, like Slurms McKenzie on Futurama. It all feels a little bit... safe. I think we're about due a resurgence of "alternative" comedy, like we had in the early 80s; we have a Tory government out of touch with the people, and disastrously anachronistic comedy on TV. We need something subversive. This pilchard ain't it.

Michael McIntyre

A Riddler

More tomorrow!

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!

Lucky 13...

Hi there.

Sometimes, TV gets into a rut. It becomes lazy shorthand to get flavour-of-the-month X to host mediocre programme Y, deluding themselves into thinking that it's by public demand. It's a self-perpetuating circle of despair, as the same bland starlets crop up ad nauseum on absolutely fucking everything.

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the cavernous nostrils of...

... Fearne Cotton.

The BBC have often done this. Get one young-ish presenter cropping up on children's TV, stick them on Top of the Pops or whatever yoof show happens to not be dead yet, then shoehorn them onto Radio One, whilst simultaneously letting them whore themselves around any old lowest common denominator shit that happens their way (this is known as the Edith Bowman Scenario).

BBC controller: "I've just commissioned a generic, brain-dead programme for generic, brain-dead young people. I just need someone generic and brain-dead to present it."

BBC producer: "I know just the person."

And that's the way it goes. Fearne Cotton's a complete mystery to me; she's not the one that used to host This Morning with Pip Schofield, by the way. Instead, she's the dim-looking one with the nostrils that Osama bin Laden wouldn't mind hiding in, the gravelly voice of a 40-a-day long distance trucker, and more unattractive tattoos than Popeye. How this simpleton that crawled from the reject bin of Jim Henson's Creature Shop is allowed anywhere near a broadcaster just escapes me.

Not even hosting the Xtra Factor was beneath her. Now, she's apparently trying to break America. I can only hope it breaks her first.

Be back tomorrow morning for window 14...