Impending Death and Shit Britons

Yesterday, I took one step closer to death.

I stopped celebrating birthdays when it was deemed socially unacceptable to go around to children's houses and eat cake, so turning 33 (AKA "7 years away from 40" and "practically one third of a century") was never going to cheer me up. Especially when I was working a ten and a half hour shift in work which finished at 10pm. Still, thank you for the dozens of birthday messages on Feckbook and Twitter. You made an old man very happy. Would anyone like a Werther's Original?

Apologies for not being around much lately, a combination of crazy shift patterns and problems with my pension (one of which is true).

A few weeks ago, I promised the results of Shit Britons via podcast. I did make a podcast, but it suffered from a technical problem. Technically, it was utter shit. The more I listen to it, the more I hate it. The main problem is that it's just me on my own. If I had somebody to banter with, it might be slightly interesting, but as I don't, it ain't going to happen.

So then, the results of Shit Britons 2010:

Thank you to everyone who took the time to vote, it's much appreciated. Absolutely tonnes of entries; if nothing else, it does show what a raft of cunts this country has produced, and that we're really good at doing just that. Something for us to be proud of as a nation, I feel.

Some surprises, not in terms of who received votes, but mainly who didn't receive votes. No votes at all for Margaret Thatcher, Myra Hindley, Ian Brady, Peter Sutcliffe, Jack the Ripper... some of the biggest cunts this country has produced, yet not one single vote. So, who do you, the voters, think is worse than Jack the Ripper?

The also-ran list was great; lots of people I hadn't considered or had forgotten existed. People voted for:

All the Big Brother housemates

Lewis Hamilton

The Duchess of York

Rodney Morgan

Emil Heskey

The Krankies

Working class hero Lord John Prescott (aka Baron Prescott, of Kingston upon Hull in the County of East Yorkshire)

Pat Sharp

Black Lace

Maureen from Driving School

Natasha Kaplinsky

Fiona Bruce

Chris Tarrant

Kerry Katona

The bloke from the Go Compare ads

Jeremy Clarkson

Richard Littlejohn

That one from Loose Women with a face like a BSkyB dish (thanks, @Scriblit)

Jamie Oliver

Otis Ferry

Vernon Kay (but not Tess "Tickle" Daly)

Peter Kay

Davina McCall

David Cameron (who can be proud of the fact in the short time in office, he has exactly the same amount of votes as Tony Blair)

George Osborne

Paul McCartney

Chris Moyles

Jonathan Ross

Christian Bale

Andy Murray

Paul Daniels

Phil Collins

Jim Davidson

Michael Winner

Alan Carr

Wayne Rooney

Chris De Burgh

Amanda Holden

Russell Brand

Ant

Dec

Katie Price

and Simon Cowell.

So, the top spots...

In 3rd place....

It's a tie between Jeremy Kyle (a kind of Matthew Wright-esque parody of a man with the sneer inverted, whose distorted sense of principles and opinionated nonsense could be attributed to his own apparent troubled past. Or it could be, as many Shit Britons voters have decided, that he is, intrinsically, a complete shitgibbon), and Nick Clegg (who can be proud of the fact that he's officially a bigger twat than his boss, despite nobody being aware of him six months ago. His placing in the Shit Britons voting is testament, no doubt, to his remarkable ability to stab an entire country in the back).

In 2nd place....

Piers Morgan. Pudding-faced, monotone-friendly, ego-monster, media whore, truth-distorter Piers was a very popular choice, mainly due to his ironic position of talent show judge, but one must also consider his dreadful talk show, his books, the fact his name is an anagram of "A Grim Person", and his self-assured mono-expression dough-faced curmudgeonism. Which isn't a word. However, going further back in an undeservedly blessed career, he used to be the editor of The Daily Mirror, and was rightfully sacked for publishing fake photographs of Iraqi prisoners being abused by British troops. Regardless of your stance on the Iraq war, it is fun to brand Morgan a traitor. Going further back, he used to write the showbiz column, Bizarre, in The Sun, shamelessly name-dropping wherever column-inches allowed the room for his ego, foreshadowing his future career, and acting as a template for all future contributors. He paved the way for showbiz journalists to be self-serving camera-muggers, and though I don't condone violence in most instances, there can be no staircase high enough to push him down. Or perhaps an escalator, since you can do it over and over again. All hail Piers Morgan, figurehead of the unforgivable, out-of-control state of affairs in today's celebrity-driven cuntfest.

Now we reach the top spot.

Taking all of Britain's history into consideration, bearing in mind we've had a colourful past, where cunts have emerged through socio-political events or out of necessity, or simply due to being utter bastards by nature, who do you rate as the worst person to ever emerge in this septic isle? 

The worst person this country has ever produced, ever, as voted by yourselves, is...

James Corden.

In a rollercoaster career, very little has changed...

Being a reasonable actor but poor comedian, his ego has gradually filled out to the point where it could maintain a small village for a year. I can't completely admonish him; Cruise of the Gods was a wonderful piece of television (due to get remade as a Hollywood movie), and Gavin and Stacey is competently written (though how much of that is down to Ruth Jones is in question), despite having a poor, lazy, hasty ending to its final episode. However, when you draw the disastrous Horne and Corden orgy of dull oh-look-I've-got-my-belly-out-again-look-and-laugh-at-the-devil-may-care-boisterous-fat-man gags, Lesbian Vampire Killers, and his recent attempt at upstaging national treasure Patrick Stewart at the fucking Glamour Awards into the equation, you can see why he's such a popular choice this time around, though I suspect it's largely a recent-memory thing. Perhaps events like this will spike his ego; we'll see how he does next year. I hate to say that he was okay in his recent Doctor Who appearance, though it was a joy to watch the Eleventh Doctor headbutting him twice in succession. 

Congratulations on your win, James, you moderately talented bastard. You are officially the biggest cunt this country has ever produced, as voted for by Dystopian Fuchsia readers. It's nothing personal.

Actually, it kind of is.

I do hope your public persona is an act, and that you really don't believe your own hype. Hell, even Winston Churchill made some devastating errors and bigoted statements throughout his career, really poor and tragic choices, and he had a state funeral. Do you want a state funeral, James? STOP PICKING ON PENSIONERS. You're too early in your career to square off against Knights of the Realm in a tacky, low-key awards ceremony that you clearly thought you were too good to host. I'd better stop now, before I anger myself too much thinking about your reprehensible behaviour. Christ.

...

So, there we go. Thanks for your patience. I wonder how different the voting will be for Shit Britons 2011. I hope that James's public perception improves a tad; as much as I agree with his placing, I can't bring myself to completely hate him. I've always had a problem with that self-aggrandising attitude that some people thrust into the limelight develop. I don't remember him being like that three years ago. Maybe it's just a phase.

Okay, I'm off. I'll end up posting here soon-ish. Loads to tell. Particularly the tragic death of my PS3.

I suppose when you get to a certain age, you expect your friends to drop dead around you. Time to read the Obituaries.

I'm still alive.

I've been to my first ever festival.

Sort of, anyway. I saw one band. But I was there.

Hard Rock Calling at Hyde Park on June 25th; the line-up wasn't too great overall; the Gaslight Anthem and loads of people you wouldn't have heard of. But Pearl Jam were headlining, and, since I've been a fan of them for nigh on 18 years, it was about time I saw them.

So, festivals, then. My wife and I turned up fashionably late, as we only wanted to see Pearl Jam, after enduring weeks of her inappropriate comments about Eddie Vedder. We narrowly missed the opportunity to throw bottles of piss at Gomez, unfortunately, but there's always time for that. Following a lengthy trek from Cardiff, we were a bit peckish. I'd heard the stories, but decided to buy a festival burger and some drinks. Approximately twenty five quid down, we made our way towards the stage. Well, sort of.

There were thousands of people there. Thousands. I completely forgot to factor in the General Public. Bah. How dare these people come along and get in my way, damn them?

My wife was determined to get as close to the front as possible, which meant pushing through. We got as far as the midway point, and I got the full festival effect. People taller than I directly in front of me and unwilling to move, and a gentleman stood directly behind me shouting half-remembered lyrics which were louder than the gargantuan speakers. Yes, I paid all that money to listen to a drunk, tone-deaf man. 

I don't know what happened, but he was finally silenced. I could hear the band. And they were amazing. Here's some clips I found on YouTube:

I've seen hundreds of live bands over the past 15 years. Sepultura (with Benji from Dub War/Skindred on tribal drums), Marilyn Manson (believe it or not, in a thoroughly disappointing less-than-half-an-hour set), Queens of the Stone Age, Therapy? (three times, no less), Mike Flowers Pops... All paled in comparison to Bad Religion at the Astoria in 2004. Pearl Jam have just joined my favourite band at the very top of the list. They were flawless, sounding equally as good as, if not better than, they do in the studio. Eddie Vedder remains an extremely charismatic, energetic frontman, and Stone Gossard, Mike McCready, Jeff Ament and Matt Cameron work together perfectly. In fact, Matt Cameron's presence is probably the closest I'll ever get to Soundgarden, since each time I was due to see them, Chris Cornell cancelled with a sore throat. Bugger.

Pearl Jam have hundreds of songs, so it was inevitable that some of the stuff I was looking forward to was omitted; no Rearviewmirror, Animal, Leash or, bizarrely, Jeremy, but we did get fantastic renditions of Once, Black, Do The Evolution, Even Flow, and, within the two encores, Alive (of course) and Yellow Ledbetter. It was heartwarming to hear their tribute to Joe Strummer with a cover of Arms Aloft in Aberdeen from his final album with the Mescaleros. Ben Harper joined them on stage for Red Mosquito, and I now wish I'd arrived earlier so I could see him too. Great musician.

I only wish I hadn't been as far back as I was. I kept wondering who the children were on stage. Thank Christ for the big monitors, eh?

Then came the fun of actually getting out of Hyde Park, since the police decided to block off most of the exits whilst their horses shat everywhere. Hurrah! Whilst watching a drunk man having a disagreement with a tree (he lost), I couldn't help noticing the hundreds of identical (and very brand-new looking) Stickman Alive t-shirts. I'm glad I wore my United Federation of Planets t-shirt so I don't look like some sort of loser. 

My vintage Alive t-shirt was folded up in my drawer at home.

Anyway, it was a great experience. I urge you to watch some of the better quality clips on YouTube. 18 years is a long time to wait to see a band. Most bands I like don't tend to last that long (apart from Bad Religion - 30 years now).

And if you ever do go to a festival, don't buy anything. Starve if you have to. It'll be the best money you'll never have spent.

We're Goin' To The Insane Creationist Zoo, Zoo, Zoo, How About You, You, You?

A couple of weeks ago, I was given a letter by my 6 year old son's teacher, highlighting a school trip to Bristol Zoo. Only a fiver. They requested I go along too so I could look after him and his asthma. Okay, another fiver. Since it coincided with my day off, I asked if I could take my 3 year old daughter along too. And so on. I was looking forward to it; it's almost like a rite of passage as a father, as I was my son's age when I was last taken there. There are photos. If I manage to get my folks to find them, I may share one day.

So, on Monday, my son boarded the coach with his classmates and a few other parents and teachers, and Keira and I were relegated to the back seat of a crappy little minibus, sat behind a chavvy mother whose features were so distorted, she might as well have been looking into a spoon. As we rattled along the motorway, this woman kept banging on about holidays she's been on and stuff that she owns, and, on one of the most sweltering days I've ever experienced, she decided to close the only window on the minibus, without asking anyone, "'cos it's blowing". Selfish fucking idiot. Oh well, Ahmed's mother opened it back up again half a minute later. Nice one, Ahmed's mother.

Anyway, whilst crossing the Severn Bridge, the teacher who was driving was asked by someone if it was Bristol Zoo we were going too. You know, Bristol Zoo, like it said in the letter, very clearly. "No, we're not going to Bristol Zoo, but we're going to a zoo." Ah. Foiled again. So, where were we going? I wouldn't know until we got there. Looking at the signs along the roads, I could tell we were moving away from Bristol slightly.

So, Somerset, then. Not too far out. Still, any zoo that was there would be slightly misleading if it had the "Bristol" prefix. We finally arrived, and my Spider-Sense started tingling as soon as I saw the sign. Here's a flyer.

Something was bothering me, and it wasn't the absence of a possessive apostrophe. Noah's Ark. Noah's fucking Ark. Why was that triggering such a bad feeling? Surely this couldn't be that place I'd heard about? The one from the BBC investigation? The UK's only Creationist zoo?

What were they thinking, letting me go along?

The first problem I've got is that had I not gone along, I wouldn't have been any the wiser as to where my son was. The permission letter clearly said Bristol Zoo, not Insane Anti-Darwinian Religious Zealot Zoo. But that's an issue I'm raising with his school, so we'll leave that one there for now.

Now, I'm not a fan of zoos for the usual reasons, so I won't go into that, but I wanted at least for my kids to see some exotic animals, which they did. Walking past the gibbon enclosure and seeing a poster highlighting the differences between Man and Apes in a Creationist context was now making my Spider-Sense cause a severe migraine. This is an example of the sort of thing I'm talking about:

My son has an extraordinary gift for reading and writing, but I'm not overly bowled over by the thought of him, at the tender age of six, reading about clitorises, so any of this religious propaganda that I saw, I steered my kids away from. I'm all for religious tolerance and understanding, being a balance-minded atheist and all, but to have this kind of voodoo, which falls down when examined by cold, hard, scientific fact, anywhere in modern society, is irresponsible at best, dangerous at worst. Some people are very easily swayed and believe anything they read. Those people are either children or Sun readers. It's the reason we have the government we've got, after all.

Further research reveals that this place was expelled by the zoo industry's regulatory body, BIAZA, for bringing the association into disrepute, following the BBC investigation, and alleged links to the Great British Circus. Amongst other things, following the death of a tigress a week after giving birth to three stillborn cubs, her head was filmed by the BBC in a freezer, and, against DEFRA regulations, the carcass was buried illegally on the Farm's land, except for the paws, skin and aforementioned head, kept for the purposes of display.

But still, somehow, my son's school either thought that all of this was okay, or they didn't do their research. All will become clear either way.

My kids enjoyed themselves nonetheless; I'll let them decide on their own path as far as religion or atheism goes, scientific fact or arrogant superstition which places Man above Beast, and the cruelty of zoos. I'd be a bad parent if I didn't give them that opportunity first and humiliate and ridicule them later whilst tutting disapprovingly.

If it turns out that somebody at my son's school has a religious agenda, leading to this particular trip, I'm going to suggest they take the kids to Techniquest or something next time, to even the balance between fact and woefully inept fiction. I admit that religion does have a place in the world, but I don't think that that place is a zoo.

Oh, and the chavvy mother, who blows the whole Creationist theory apart, was going to spend an hour under the sunlamp when she got home, if you're interested.

Keep voting for Shit Britons! See previous posts for details. Closing date for votes is 30/6/10. I'm getting votes for Amanda Holden, the Krankies and Cheryl Cole at the moment, still no votes for Paul Daniels, quite surprisingly, Geri Halliwell or Tess Daly. Vernon Kay's only had one vote that I can see. Vote as many times as you like for different people; James Corden's still 'winning', so if you want that changed, there's still time.

The Graphics Card of Death

Good day. Y'know, I've never reviewed a game before. I'm going to give it a bash.

You may have noticed that the BBC have made a Doctor Who downloadable game available, City of the Daleks. They've advertised it quite heavily after episodes for the past few weeks, and as a Doctor Who fan for many, many years, I thought I'd give it a look.

The first obstacle of the game is to get it downloaded, and you do this by checking to see if you meet the minimum requirements. Getting bored of waiting for that, I decided to download it anyway. What could go wrong?

After a few hours, I got to the title screen.

As you can see, they've been very faithful to the TARDIS design, and just to make sure they've hammered the point home, they've used the image several times over. I'm guessing that in the storyline there's been some sort of temporal crash that has resulted in the Doctor's TARDIS smashing into itself several times over, damaging its Chameleon Circuit. It's this kind of fan-pleasing attention to detail that is sometimes lacking from the parent show. I tried entering DystopianFuchsia as a name, but had to drop a T to get it to fit. Bah.

In order to appease old gamers who experienced long loading times in the 80s, you have to sit through the loading screen featuring the unpopular new Daleks for about quarter of an hour. They've thought of everything; realising that it won't just be new fans downloading this game, but older fans who've not played anything since Way of the Exploding Fist or Sweevo's World, they've kept a loading screen firmly in place for that length of time so as not to scare anyone by new fangled technology. 

Finally, the game itself loads, and there's a cut scene voiced by Matt Smith and Karen Gillan. It's choppy and sporadic, again enforcing my suspicion that there's something afoot in the time vortex. Half-sentences cropping up in seemingly the wrong order; it's a bit like the Red Dwarf episode White Hole. 

They've done something very clever here. By showing the Doctor constantly mid-regeneration, but voiced by the current Doctor, the player can decide which Doctor he's playing, but new fans won't be isolated. The companion is forever blending into the background and its skin changing, obviously a nod to 80s robotic failure companion Kamelion. Again, the TARDIS interior is as jumbled as its exterior. There is definitely something wrong with time. Can the Doctor sort it out? Let's get into the game and find out.

The gameplay is quite interesting, and again is geared at older fans; as you move the mouse to turn the Doctor, it pauses for about 3 minutes, designed no doubt to emulate the pacing of a seven-part Jon Pertwee epic. The backgrounds are, we're repeatedly told in the game, representative of a devastated 1963 London, and to further tie it into 'classic' Who, they do indeed look like mismatched Chromakey effects. Brilliant stuff!

It is a tough game; the Dalek-created desolation has rendered the landscape very difficult to traverse or make out, making it one of the Doctor's biggest challenges yet. As you can see, I didn't last very long. This indicates a longevity that's rare in games nowadays. I just pity the poor saps whose PCs aren't powerful enough to portray this game the way the programmers intended.

Doctor Who: The Adventure Games Episode One: City of the Daleks is available to download for free now on the BBC website, if you own a supercomputer with massive tape-to-tape reels like Bond villains used to have.

Don't forget to keep the votes coming in for Shit Britons. Post a comment on this post or the previous one to nominate. 

Coming up later this week, my adventures in the UK's only Creationist Zoo, more Children's Television: The Re-Imagining requests, and something about Pearl Jam, providing I manage to get there intact. Stay tuned!

Oh yeah, thanks to Michael Legge and James Hingley for plugging Shit Britons (and indeed Dystopian Fuchsia) on Precious Little Podcast #37. At the very least, Keith Lemon/Leigh Francis has been added to the nominations now. Some very interesting votes so far. Vote as many times as you like. Why not, eh?

Shit Britons - Vote Now!

I promised this days ago, but work and that, blah de blah de blah. Anyway, those who follow me (@IanHewett) or Mirror Universe Me (@DystopianF) on Twitter, or are friends with me on Feckbook will already know about this. "Hurry up folks! Not much time left to cast an inconsequential vote on a subject no-one with a mind gives a fuck about!" as one person put it. With an unconvincing wink. Fucking emoticons. I hope the person that invented emoticons is British so I can vote for him. Or her.

Remember that BBC thing back a few years ago, 100 Greatest Britons? That thing what Churchill won and that? Well, this is a bit like that, but for cunts.

Hence the name, Shit Britons. Do you see?

People have already been voting using the hashtag #ShitBritons on Twitter. Taking the whole of British history into consideration, James Corden is currently in the lead. Jeremy Kyle and Piers Morgan aren't far behind. Amongst many other people, there have been votes for Katie Price, Jeremy Clarkson and "that one off Loose Women with a face like a BSkyB dish" (thanks, @Scriblit). There are loads more. Anybody you'd like to throw into the mix (or a cement mixer)? Votes for Gary Glitter, Timmy Mallett and Jack the Ripper are a little thin on the ground.

If you'd like to vote and aren't on Twitter, post a reply here. I won't publish replies on this post but will add it all up to find out who the biggest cunt the UK has ever produced is. Results in early July on this site.

I might do a podcast if I can be bothered.

Thanks to everyone who's voted so far. Vote as many times as you like. It just means there's more hatred for some than others.

Vote now!

To think I nearly emptied my spam folder.

Hello. Just a quick one. It'd be selfish of me if I didn't share this wonderful opportunity found in my spam folder. Enjoy.



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 (BTW, I'm looking for nominations for Shit Britons. A bit like that thing Churchill won a couple of years ago, but for cunts. Currently on Twitter, the hashtag #ShitBritons has James Corden in the lead, followed by Piers Morgan and Jeremy Kyle. Post your nominations here. More details tomorrow.)

Gosh, posting from an iPod is shit.

Corden? Bleurgh.

In the midst of having a fucking nightmare re-organising the Children's Television: The Re-Imagining page, so you can now go directly to the one you want to read (the latest one is The Trap Door), with Blogger inserting its own HTML, taking out bits of mine, adding gobbledegook and duplicating said gobbledegook several times over, I've become very wound up. I hate HTML at the best of times, going through a very long page full of it to find a < span > that hasn't been closed because a piece of software decided to go wrong on you is enough to make me want to punch a cat.

I decided to calm down and put the world in perspective. At least I'm not acquainted with James Corden.

Can you imagine being friends with that man? Humanity's very own polyp, a self-satisfied Flump who not only believes his own hype but sacrifices innocent people at its altar, basking in his own glory whilst basting his obese frame with his own self-aggrandising juices. He's on TV so much, his face has burned itself on my screen to the point where it looks like the Wonga man playing Orwell's Big Brother. It came to a head this past week; not only did he appear on Doctor Who (I mean, how dare he?), not only did he get to the top of the fucking singles chart with a football song, but he tried to upstage and embarrass Sir Patrick Stewart at an awards ceremony. From what I gather, Corden made some crass remark questioning the sexuality of one of the ultra-conservative Jonas Brothers who was sat in the audience. When Sir Patrick went up on stage to present an award, he criticised Corden for having his hands in his pockets and looking bored (though the footage I've seen, Stewart seemed to be putting on his comedy Shakespearean Actorrr voice, so I think it was tongue in cheek), and saying "I could see your belly". Corden, arrogant, uncouth Corden, got in his face, rather than being dignified in what was an embarrassing moment all round, and pointed out very loudly that Stewart was dying on stage. Oh, and then he got his belly out. As usual. Yes, Corden is clearly at that point in his career where he is allowed to badmouth a respected actor and Knight of the Realm, loudly, RIGHT IN HIS FUCKING FACE. Stewart's attempt at humour notwithstanding, I cringed at Corden's own behaviour. Of course, he's so assured of his own talents and importance, that it won't matter a fucking jot to him. This is the sort of "sleb" who shouts "DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?" whilst trying to get into some swanky nightclub. I imagine.

It's hard to put my finger on why I can't stand the man so much. Having carefully considered everything, I think it's probably because he's a cunt. It's a shame, because he has been in some great televisual output in the past decade, including the sublime Cruise of the Gods (track it down on DVD, it's a fantastic piece of television), and is a very capable actor. But there is no excuse for becoming a crass, overbearing, loudmouth bully at any stage of your career (like Russell Crowe, for example), especially when you're only just out of your 20s. You should never believe your own hype, but unfortunately it does seem that Corden has done just that, to the point where he giggles and swoons like a teenage girl over posters of himself whilst idly flicking through a copy of Look-In.

It was nice, however, seeing him getting headbutted, twice in quick succession, in Doctor Who. I can scarcely believe we're up to episode 11 already. The Lodger, written by RTD stablemate Gareth Roberts, based on his own comic strip of the same name from Doctor Who Magazine, was an enjoyable episode, quite a gentle, contained tale after last week's Richard Stilgoe vs the Invisible Chicken. Much like the Doctor-lite episodes from the RTD era, this was companion-lite, a small-budgeted episode before the end-of-series two-parter. Not the best episode ever, but far and away greater than the dire Voyage of the Damned and Fear Her.

Oh, and the Doctor played football in it. Another thing you can't escape at the moment. Fucking World fucking Cup fucking Fever, something that happens every four years where everyone pretends to like football. I'm not a liar, so I won't join in. I hate football. Always have, always will. What annoys me is when you can't even escape it in work, where there's a prize for best themed whatever. It was like it in my old job as well; most of the year, you put forward incentive or display ideas to management, who, because they have no personal interest in the subject matter, will brush over it, yet whenever something football related comes along, it's forced down your fucking throat. To me, football is something that gets in the way of the fucking TV schedules. In adverts, it's portrayed as a "way of life" in a Cockney accent whilst some Britpop hit of yesteryear plays in the background. It's not a way of fucking life. It's a dull sport played professionally by dull people with dull gold-digging girlfriends. Plus, I'll always associate it with school bullies. If you like football, don't take offence. It's just that I hate your sport.

Oh, and Big Brother's back. The TV show this time, not the aforementioned Orwellian namesake. It's the final series, or so they say, so the squirrel gathers her nuts for the last time, shouts at the top of her squirrel lungs, does that mock-shocked-in-silence squirrel face and generally gets on my fucking tits. Thus far, I have managed to avoid it. I imagine it'll be exactly like this though:

Deehh Woon. Jimothy is in the die ah ree room. Gladiola's on tha shittah. Tarquin's missing his mam, and Pendulum and Spuggy have failed the Happy Slap task.

And this:

Deehh three. Spatula is in the die ah ree room. Spunky's cookin' dinnah. N'kwomo's phasing through solid mattah.

And this:

Deehh six. SpongeBob is in the dia ah ree room. Apocrypha is tryin' on a hat. Judas is cuttin' his tawwnells.

 I just want it to end. Another thing that ruins the TV schedules with its unwelcome fuckery. It opened the floodgates for the barrage of reality shows (which, to be fair, have nothing to do with reality, as it features members of the public who are desperate for fame, and will therefore play up to the cameras and demean themselves in any number of possible ways, awful show-offs that I wouldn't like to know in 'real' life, oh, and who also don't get paid a fucking penny, therefore very cheap telly - don't fall for the con! Oh, too late). Fingers crossed they'll be gone one of these decades.

Wow, the world's really gone to shit lately, hasn't it?