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...

Day 12...

Howdy.

Some people just won't go away. Despite their views being vastly anachronistic and offensive, they somehow manage to keep in the public arena, and openly embraced proudly by their employers.

Ladies and gentlemen...

... Richard Littlejohn.

This man's been a thorn in the side of decency for as long as I can remember, going as far back as when he tried to stop Robin Hood crossing a river. Notoriously bigoted, Howard the Duck lookalike Littlejohn firmly believes in the racist, homophobic nonsense he spouts from his approximation of a mouth.

Three things sum him up nicely. Firstly, when he returned to the Daily Mail, the newspaper proudly declared that he was returning to his "spiritual home". Secondly, he is Nick Griffin's favourite journalist (most likely because he provides a mainstream voice for his small-minded scaremongering and lies). Thirdly, on his own talk show, Littlejohn was branded an "arsehole" by, of all people, Michael Winner, which is a bit like the pot calling the kettle black.

Littlejohn wouldn't like that at all. Cunt.

Back tomorrow for another of the nation's finest.

Day 11...

Hello.

One of the worst things about having a Tory government (with Lib Dem frosting) is, inevitably, you're going to get somebody with the middle name Gideon. Ladies and gentlemen, the 11th advent window has yawned open to reveal...

... George Osborne.

What a dreadful man. Looking like a Victorian workhouse owner, Osborne was actually named Gideon Oliver Osborne. When he was 13, he changed his name to George as an "act of rebellion". That's just not normal.

Not yet 40, this man is in charge of the nation's beleaguered finances. Being heir apparent to the Osborne baronetcy and a direct descendent of Lady Clarisse Loxton Peacock, coupled with his personal fortune in excess of £4m, he obviously has the working classes at the forefront of his decisions.

The sight of him makes my skin crawl, and it's only going to get worse; the VAT increase to 20% from January is the tip of a very large right-wing iceberg.

Ugh.

Be back tomorrow for another reason this country's morally crippled.

Day 10... Ooh, crumbs, PM!

Good evening. It's Friday, so a late addition to the advent calendar today because of work. Hmph.

So, are you feeling the sting yet? Y'know, the evil snare of the Tory Fatherland in which we're now engulfed? Well, today's advent windowlicker couldn't be happier...

Nick Robinson.

When everybody knew that the inevitable was going to happen (ie the downfall of the Labour government), most sane people were slightly trepidatious; was this going to mean a coalition government formed from the remnants of Labour capped off with Liberal Democrats, or worse, the same with the Tories forming the bulk of the government? When it became clear that Nick Clegg had sold us out, this stain of a man was utterly delighted. Leaving his remit of avoiding political bias firmly at 221B Baker Street, he was practically mid-coitus as David Cameron and Clegg skipped merrily along Downing Street, holding hands like two giggling schoolgirls.

Smugly batting off any potential Lib Dem/Labour deals, he took just a bit too much delight in the events that unfolded. I mean, I've never liked the oily tick, but this pushed me over the edge. Perhaps one day, we'll see the likes of John Cole back in the position of the BBC Political Correspondent, and we'll get thoughtful, balanced coverage again, regardless of their personal political bent.

It would help if you could see his fucking eyes. If you squint at him like a magic eye picture, you can just about make them out. Shouldn't they be attached to his head? That can't be normal.

More tomorrow night...

Day 9...

Hello there.

Firstly, the announcement trailer for Transformers: Dark of the Moon has just been released online. Tonally, I love it. If Bay can avoid the dire, puerile slapstick this time around, then we may actually be in for an intriguing film...

Onto business, then. Let's open the 9th window of the calendar...

Kara Tointon.

You know, that one that used to be on EastEnders? The one that spoke each of her lines in a precise, monotone approximation of cockernee? The one that's been on that anachronistic dancing programme lately?

Just another fame-hungry drama school alumnus, she used to date that one from Busted that isn't the one you're thinking of. As soon as they split up, she dumped him as he wasn't famous any more, and therefore would not help her career. Despicable, and typical of the self-serving attitude that a lot of young 'stars' seem to have nowadays.

She's threatened that she would like to return to EastEnders one day. Christ, I hope not. When she's on screen, her face looks like she's sucking a lemon whilst an inconvenient quantum singularity forms up her nose, and so hungry for fame she eats three shredded Heats every morning. Weasel-faced starfucker Kara wants YOUR attention, so expect a flurry of mediocre reality show appearances before she tries to launch a singing career, tries desperately to get cast as Eliza Doolittle (the character, not the flavour-of-the-month NME fodder), and winds up back in monotocockernee mode on EastEnders again.

More tomorrow...

Day 8: Cheeky Chipper Cockernee Wanker Day

Good day, all.

You know, sometimes a person will appear on TV that you just know you won't be able to avoid for years to come. The vile opportunists will crop up on any low budget, lowest common denominator shit going. Today, we open the Dystopian Advent Calendar's 8th window on one such annoyance.

Dominic Littlewood. The man annoys me for many reasons. It's his affected cheeky chappie persona that really fucking grates, for one thing. On a more personal level, a couple of years ago when I was working for HMV, he happened to be filming on the main street outside. That day, the amount of people coming in and actually fucking haggling over the price of  what they were paying for (from singles to consoles, even gift cards) was ludicrous. He was notably absent from this minor act of chaos, and god only knows how many other retailers had to put up with his nonsense that day. The man's a menace.

He used to be a used car salesman. Does anyone really trust this irritating slaphead? Those rumours of him being a former burglar just won't go away either (though many references to that have mysteriously vanished from the internet). 

The sooner he's off the telly, the better, though I get the feeling that won't be for some time. Fuck.

Anyway, back tomorrow for more.