It all becomes clear. All those tree-hugging-hippy-anarchist-wannabe-tosspots who smash up windows in anti-capitalist demonstrations might actually be onto something. I have seen the devastating impact corporations are having on Third World countries first hand, and it makes me sick to my stomach. It’s like taking the blue pill and waking up from the Matrix.

Which sick bastard changed Um Bongo?

For those who may not know about Um Bongo, allow me to explain. Or even better, watch the video below and allow Youtube to explain more eloquantly than I ever could. I don’t think it’s sold outside the UK, but I make no apologies for sounding parochial.

Um Bongo is more than simply a juice drink, and it’s not simply nostalgia either. It was a perfectly blended cocktail of apricots, guavas, mangos, passion fruits, and mandarins. It was also a rare employment opportunity for the diverse wildlife of hippos, pythons, marmosets, and parrots.

And when you mixed it with Blavod (black vodka), it created an astounding colour/taste sensation.

But imagine my horror when the other day TechnoScouse returned from a supermarket that doesn’t deserve naming, to find that my memories of childhood have been pillaged by the adulterated felch-juice now being called Um Bongo!

This picture of a serving suggestion from wikipedia would be perfect if it was the old stuff with it’s charming packaging (painted by parrots remember), and contained what afficionadoes refer to as “the good shit.” As it is, look at the poxy, human-designed carton and recoil in horror at the rancid spluff that is contained therein:

I mean that orangutan (a primate that lives in Sumatra in Asia, as opposed to the Congo in Africa) looks like it’s been given rohypnol and has had those fruit items mercilessly inserted into it’s furry pocket of happiness!

And what fruits are they? Orange, pineapple, and banana. Vile. I loathe bananas. They are the staple food of geriatrics and monkeys who don’t smoke. You can’t get a smoothie half the time (and I don’t even bother trying 90% of the time) which doesn’t have a banana rammed into it like a hooker dating a grocer. Just look at a banana with fresh eyes. They look like the fetid todger of a jaundiced clown. And I’d imagine the taste isn’t far off either. Yet some absolute shithawk had to dip his into the juicebox.

Hanging’s too good for some people.

And so it is time to act. We must take to the streets to spread the word on this dispicable outrage. The people walk in darkness, unaware that there are hippos out of work, watching Trisha (well, the Congo equivalent), and living a hollow existance. Pythons used to have a job for life in the passion fruit picking plantations, now they spend all day smacked of their tits listening to Libertines records. As for the poor parrot, well life as an artist is always tough and regrettably they all died out recreating the absinthe excesses of Toulouse Lautrec.

It’s no wonder the Democratic Republic of Congo fell into civil war. That’s not just because they have French as their official language you know (though the risk was increased because of this).

Don’t be fooled by any other campaign to Bring Back Um Bongo. If you see these pages, you’ll discover that they are actually being done by the producer of the new filth itself! Clicking on www.umbongo.com will actually take you to the petition. They lure you in with their old-chool images, but they still have that abused ape on their boxes. You can’t trust anyone these days.

So, I need you dear readers to suggest ways to reclaim what is rightfully ours. If anyone has anything we can use to blackmail heads of state to put international pressure on these bastards, let me know. That’s the level of action we’ll need to overcome the corporations on this.

To arms Comrades! You have nothing to lose but your cordials!

Firstly, allow me to make yet another apology for the huge gap since my last post. Yes, I know I’ve actually missed an entire horoscope. I hope each of you did the only sensible thing possible in the circumstance and didn’t leave your house in case destiny was planning to violently offend you the second you stepped through your door.

It was the only option.

Anyway, I have been very busy, very stressed, and much as I enjoy writing for you dear people it would possibly have killed me.

So what is it that has stirred my mind and dragged me away from the unending tide of shite that fills my desk/bag/brain on a daily basis? Well it’s an old thing that I used to explain to people over and over on MSN messageboards when I could be bothered to irritate and undermine the other opinionated tosspots who bothered with those sites.

Last week, a businessman called Munir Hussain received a 30 month sentence for wounding with intent, after he assaulted a man who had burgled his home and tied him and his family up before threatening them with knives. This has caused absolute outrage in the tabloid media, and the Conservatives are now trying to make political capital out of it by saying they would allow homeowners to use anything but “grossly disproportionate” violence against anyone who breaks into someone’s house.

Now let me make one thing clear: I have sympathy with anyone who has their home broken into. Burglary is one of those crimes that always leaves an impression on the victim, as the sanctity of their home has been tainted by the incident. I have been victim to burglary, and know many others who have, so I mean it when I say I can understand the desire to get some form of revenge. But that doesn’t make it right, and it certainly doesn’t make it legal.

Contrary to what the Tory Smugs would have you believe, members of the public are already allowed to use reasonable force (i.e. force that isn’t grossly disproprtionate) to protect themselves and their property. It’s the principal of self defence, and it’s something I have probably explained to dozens of confused clients over the past few years.

The key issues or phrases though are self defence, and reasonable force.

Let me explain. You can use force if you have a genuine and reasonable belief that it is necessary to use force to protect yourself, someone else, or property. However, once you/they/it is no longer at risk, you are no longer defending it. You are retaliating. For example, someone comes at you with a wild look in their eye, and a fist raised. You use your years of ninja training, and deftly knock the assailant to the floor with the skill of a grand master. They are humiliated, and crawl away regretting ever breaking into the home of Chuck Norris’ harder brother. If you then run up behind this person and give them a few more kicks to teach them a lesson, you are not protecting yourself but assaulting them. This is illegal.

So, back to Munir Hussain. He and some of his family got free and chased the burglars off. As the assailants were running away, one got caught and overpowered and attacked. I’ll go into more details below, but I wanted to firstly clarify that Hussain was not defending his property.

Ok, so second point is that force used must be reasonable. Or, of you’re a Tory not “grossly disproportionate”. Actually, if you’re a Tory why are you reading this. You are officially banned. I’m not looking for political censorship, it’s just you seem to be favouring a party with very few actual policies other than those designed to support the massively wealthy, and other pathetic publicity seeking twoddle like the one we’re debating here. So you’re banned from reading this. Bastards.

Sorry, where was I? Ah yes, reasonable force. The best explanation of this I can give is that if we go back to our example before and someone runs towards you with a fist raised, it would be excessive to shoot him in the face with a Dirty Harry-style Magnum (the handgun, not the ice cream). The force you use to protect yourself must be proportionate to the perceived threat against you or your collection of Sylvanian Family beavers.

Now the Courts have made it very clear that if you think you are about to be attacked, you cannot weigh up the precise level of force needed to protect yourself and nothing more. Much of the case law on this point is making it very clear that what matters is what’s reasonable in the circumstances as they appear to the person claiming to defend themselves. That’s pretty accomodating really, and allows for the grey areas that exist in the real world.

What isn’t allowed under the principal of reasonable force is the following: the use of a pole, a hockey stick, and a cricket bat to beat someone so severely that you fracture their skull and cause permanent brain damage. Step forward Mr Hussain, and take a bow. Not only did you attack someone who no longer posed any threat to you, but you absolutely twatted him! (possibly not the terms used in the Judge’s summing up). Again, this is illegal.

I have seen a number of comments and articles referring to the level of provocation that Hussain had suffered as a result of this burglary. Well, yes he clearly was more than a little pissed off by what had happened, and I’m sure that that anger fuelled him as he took a few extra swings with his cricket bat. But provocation is not a defence to assault. I wish it was- my already impressive (hey it’s my site so I’m allowed to blow my own trumpet) record of trial wins would be even better if I could rely on the playground-level defence of “he was asking for it!” At best though, provocation is mitigation. It may put his actions in a proper light, but it doesn’t make them right or lawful.

What’s also significant is that by taking the law into his own hands, Hussain effectively prevented the legal process from dealing with the burglar in the proper way. Due to the level of injury caused in the incident, the burglar was not fit enough to enter a plea to the charge of unlawful imprisonment.

Perhaps I’m just defensive because I am part of the justice sytem and I like to try and justify my own existance. It confuses me though that the press are making such an issue of the fact these men were convicted, considering they  were found guilty after trial by a jury of ordinary citizens (not an “out-of-touch” judge).  Perhaps the sentence of 2 and a half years is a bit much, and I’m sure that the Court of Appeal will be asked to reduce this.

So hopefully I’ve put things across in a reasoned way that will help people to have a better understanding of the way the criminal justice system here in England views these cases. Whether it’s right or wrong is something each person has to consider for themselves. Let me pose a few rhetorical questions though to encourage a bit of reflection:

Do we really want a world where people are allowed (and therefore encouraged) to exact summary justice against an individual who has wronged us?

What if they had got the wrong man, or someone who had looked like the burglar?

What if they had killed him- would the press be sanctioning mob justice and a non-judicial death sentence?

Where do we draw the line if we go down that route? If someone takes a parking space or blocks you in, are you entitled to poke them in the eye or smash their headlights with a crowbar?

One other question though… if anyone can look at the details of Steven Gerard’s trial for affray earlier this year, when he managed to successfully run a self-defence argument, and explain how the whiny scouse gimp got away with it, please let me know. Obviously it’s not the case that a Liverpool Jury would be influenced by the prospect of sending their football club captain to prison, is it? And I’m not saying for a second that it’s remotely improper that the trial Judge and Prosecutor were both fans of Liverpool FC… am I?

Right. Sorry there weren’t many chuckles in this. Will try to rectify that soon, with tales of TechnoScouse or something similarly jovial.

For further reading, please feel free to laugh at the indignation of the Daily Mail readers at the bottom of this handy link. I hate Middle England, mainly becuase I grew up there!

Well I’ve just stepped off the scales, and had flashbacks to the panic and fear of an expensive night at the casino.

There are 3 possible explanations for the results:
1- There is an extraordinarily strong gravitational field operating in the bathroom
2- The scales are knackered
3- I’m a bloater trapped in a slightly bigger than averaged sized body

Ruling out mechanical problems, and a unique collapse of the laws of physics, I may have to accept that I’m overweight.

As there is a risk of all sorts of bad things happening to me due to my lardy nature (excess sweating and being ambushed by the Japanese Whaling fleet being amongst the most daunting), I must consider ways to solve this hazardous problem.

I am currently playing an amusing game of litigation-chicken with Fitness First gyms, and my spine still feels like I’ve given Kerry Katona a piggy-back on the way back from the kebab shop, we can rule out exercise.

I can’t sing that well, so no hope of appearing on Britain’s Got Talent and getting a makeover funded by Simon Cowell or the News of the World.

I’m skint, so the only liposuction option involves a kitchen knife and a Dyson… and that didn’t work so well when they did it in South Park.

Which leaves only one terrifying option- a Diet.

I like my food. Clearly this is the case, or I wouldn’t have played bubba-fatass roulette with such apocolyptic results. I enjoy proper breakfasts (half a pig in assorted shapes, and anything else that can be shallow-fried), trips to the drive-through burger bars, crisps, curries, cheese, and pies. And that’s before my tea! You can therefore imagine the enthusiasm I have for anything that amends my meal choices.

To assist and encourage me though, I have TechnoScouse. Not only is TS on my case, but she has a book, entitled Skinny Bitch. The one and only time she goes for the archaic use of print on paper, and it’s costing me calories. I feel this book is only going to be half successful though- I’m going to be its bitch before I become skinny.

I am actually under the subjugation of the follow-up title Skinny Bastard. As my readers have an IQ higher than my cholesterol level, you will have guessed that this is aimed more at men than the effeminate first title. If, alternatively, you are as lucky as me to have read the contents of both books, you will know they are pretty much identical, but with gender reversal of the pithy little snipes made by the patronising harpies who have now extracted 2 amounts of cash from my plasma TV fund. (Bitter? Me?)

Now as expected, deep-fried Mars bars do not seem to be favoured by the Skinny Bitches. Perhaps that’s why they are probably embittered old skanks who listen to Joss Stone albums, drinking wheatgrass smoothies, and smelling of incence. However, what amazed me was that low calorie soft drinks are on the same level with diesel when it comes to being included in your diet.  It would seem that nutrasweet or other artificial sweetners may be low in calories, but are about as beneficial to your health as polonium. Indeed their approval by the American FDA is the subject of almost hysterical conspiracy theories of corrupt practices by some lawyers (which i find hard to believe).

Meat too is pretty much outlawed, with numerous references made to the appalling conditions in which animals are slaughtered. Not only that, but it would seem that (contrary to the evidence of evolution and the fact that humans are living longer than ever and are generally ace), that the consumption of flesh is directly responsible for everything from bad breath to cancer to global warming and the continued anti-western stance of Iran and North Korea. I am paraphrasing there a little, but still reading this book is like going out for a meal with Morrissey and Paul McCartney, and rather talking about music they take turns to kick you in the groin because of your choice of starter!

Hitler was a vegetarian. Didn’t drink or smoke either. Not my paragon of health and fitness, and hardly lived to a ripe old age did he?

Now I hate intolerant people, but do you know the kind who hack me off the most? Lactose intolerant people. Sorry, crap joke but it segues nicely because good old cow-juice is strictly off limits for skinny bitches. Despite the fact that I’m the next stage up the evolutionary chain, and drink  my coffee black, there are such delights as butter, cheese, and… well, more cheese, that make eating (and therefore living) that little bit more worthwhile.

This has resulted in a humilating and morally repugnant addition to our weekly shopping list. I now have to buy cartons of chocolate soya “milk.” Not that I would ever care what anyone in the queue at Tesco thought about me, but it’s like a shorthand way to say “Yes, I live with my fiance, and yes I lose this argument every sodding week.” And for what? 3 cartons of the stuff that gets flushed out during colonic irrigation. Yum-yum!

What’s more, is that if I’m prohibted from the ideal breakfast outlined at the start of this little ramble, then the lack of milk means that cereals are out of the picture too. This leaves toast (no butter or anything else of interest is  approved to go on it though), no coffee (as it is apparently the same pH as the blood of an Alien, and about as good for your insides), and fruit.

The idea of fruit is great, but the reality is very different. Due to powers beyond my comprehension, any fruit I buy will be subject to mysterious laws of nature. The more appetising it is, and the greater my desire to eat it, the shorter the amount of time before it becomes blue and fluffy or attracts a colony of fruit flies (I still have the blood of some little buzzing jasper smeared on the wall of my office from the last time in bought a punnet of plums). Conversely, if a piece of fruit doesn’t interest me in the slightest, or isn’t something I like, it’ll last for approximately 5000 years without so much as a layer of dust troubling it.

So let’s summarise. Bread with nothing of interest to go on it, no fried food, no milkshakes, no breakfast worth having so by the time lunch arrives i could eat a passing dog if meat wasn’t off limits. This lifestyle doesn’t make you live any longer, but it will make each day drag out so it feels like you’ve lived forever!

I have always been one to question fashion, and to strive to have my own personal sense of style. That sounds poncy. What I mean is I know what I like, and I like what I know. For many years this was the safe “t-shirt and jeans” combo that is still a faithful standby as I rapidly approach my post-late-mid-20s (I’m 29 in about 2 weeks). However I have also dabbled in somewhat chappish attire of waistcoats (never with jeans, unless you want to have comparisons with Justin Timberlake stamped on your forehead in your own blood), brogue-style trainers, and good-old button on braces. By and large, I wear what I think suits me and not what strangers and magazine editors tell me to wear.

Anyway. This isn’t about me. This is about other people as seen through my embittered and sardonic eyes. I just thought it was worth confessing my own sartorial sins before pointing the finger at someone else.

And today’s someone else is anyone wearing anything by Ed Hardy.

I have no idea if this designer’s works are internationally known, or perhaps the cancer has not yet spread beyond the British shores. If not, then hopefully this will be a warning beacon, informing others on a global scale of such over-priced shite before they suffer from sequin-induced blindness.

Ed Hardy apparel follows 2 simple rules:

Bright Colours Make Up For Crap Drawing Skills

Now I am no artist. I would describe myself as autistic before artistic. A sure-fire way to lift TechnoScouse’s spirits and probably reduce her to a dribbling heap of chuckles is for me to put pen to paper and try to draw even the most simple of pictures. I accept this lack of talent, and instead use words to paint a mental picture (rather than using a pen to paint a picture that just looks mental).

The designers at Ed Hardy, on the other hand, seem to have been recruited from the local happy-bus of colour-blind freaks as part of some form of art therapy workshop. Never have I known people to pay good money (see below) for pictures that look like they have been drawn by the backwards kid in a class of 7 year olds, who has no idea what the picture is meant to be of.

For example, let us look at the skull. If we are to believe the geniuses at Ed Hardy, then the human skull is so distorted and misshapen that John Merrick would take the piss.

Alternatively let us look at the majestic tiger (here looking more like a ginger cat from the depths of a nuclear reactor, and spanked round the face with a spade). I personally would rather walk round with Napoleon Dynamite’s Liger on my t-shirt than one of these technicolour abominations!

The brand tries to defend the lack of artistic talent by following the trend of retro tattoo design, such as pin-up girls and the like. The difference is though that if you had a picture this bad permanently etched into your skin, observers would assume that it had been drawn by your loving cellmate during a long incarceration in prison. Would you want to look like you were the bitch of a guy that can’t draw a for shit? No, I didn’t think so, so don’t wear a pair of jeans that look even worse.

Glitter is Good

As I saunter through the walkways of shopping centres, I am now intermittently dazzled by a spectrum of colours that makes me think that I’ve either taken LSD by mistake, or I’m being pissed on by a My Little Pony. These virtual laser-light shows are because of Ed Hardy t-shirts that are covered in more sequins than Liberace’s codpiece! While certain animals such as tropical fish have developed shiny skins to reflect light and dazzle potential predators, I don’t think that the Neon Tetra is a role model if you want to avoid getting punched in the chops for looking like a pillock.

Remember- the only people who don’t get beaten up for wearing sequins are 1980s WWF wrestlers. Before parting with your money, just ask yourself “Am I Macho Man Randy Savage?” If not, then slowly put the t-shirt back where you found it, and run away before the shop assistant spots you.

My final complaint, and this is often true of fashion, is that this crap is so painfully overpriced. For some reason, wearing a holographic t-shirt of a gay weasel with a birth defect becomes socially acceptable if you’ve paid £120 for the pleasure. If these things were going for £15 at Asda, then people would wisely stay away for fear of looking likesome rancid bastard’s wiped their nose all over your pants.

“Oi, you… yes, the bloke trying to dress like the Joker and in dire need of a shave. Yes, you… put those pissing pop-tarts down and listen. The Hills is on tonight. Seriously, if you like self-inflicted pain, you have to watch it. Sober.”

The scales fell from my eyes, and I felt envigorated by the revelation before me. Partly it was the confirmation that improbable-God speaks with a subtle Mancunian accent, combined with the fact that during this time, the afore-mentioned pop-tart had cooled down and I had been saved from third-degree tongue burns. Then the realisation dawned on me what lay before me.

And so, I am prepared. I have coffee, and have put the remote on the other side of the room so I can’t succumb to temptation and change the channel.

It begins:

Oh come on… there’s an hour of this??? A double bill? My God, why have you forsaken me?

Right, a nice little summary of the story so far… not that it is a story. These are real people you know. They just don’t have real personalities, jobs, or breasts.

So, excellent production values and it looks like someone’s used an Imax camera to film their mates sitting around talking about their weekends. This stuff is tedious on a bleeding camcorder, so why does a clear picture make a difference?

Heidi has been tasked to do something… organise a party I think. Now we cut to 2 girls discussing one of their friends moving into her own place. And then a bit of music, footage of skylines and landscapes.

[What the fuck is going on??? How is this entertainment?]

Now Audrina is in a bar/restaurant/film set talking to some herbert in a baseball cap. She’s just asked him to move in with her, and then we cut to commercial.

7 minutes. 420 seconds. and now we’re watching adverts. Can someone please explain to me how this is different to sitting in a pub and listening in to other punters’ conversations? At least there you’d hear more than 4 sentences before you are forced to eavesdrop on some other blabbering trollop.There is more character shown by Pablo the drugs mule dog than by any one of these “people”!

AAAANNND we’re back. Audrina’s showing her sister (face of a man, tattoos of 17 men) round her house. She must be a frigging drug dealer or very high-class prostitute to afford this! Oh goodo, more meaningful pauses in conversation before another music/landscape interlude.

Time for a re-structure of my approach for this blog. With such a disjointed programme, there’s nothing to analyse or critique in any meaningful way. I mean I’m watching 2 dolled up bints packing ornaments into boxes… all with full makeup, jewellery, and studio-quality lighting. The level of dialogue is like something out of a badly written porn film, but instead of getting it on they have pauses in conversation and try to remember their own names.

In that whole episode, the only thing that actually happened was Heidi getting fired for being pissed at a party she was professionally organising, and for having her boyfriend there. So how did she react when summarily dismissed from employment… you guessed it, she fell silent walked out and got her bag.

The only option left is to take the people (I can’t describe them as either characters or personalities, without some evidence of either) individually, and try and sum them up to remove the need for you to sit through this turgid goldfish bowl of arse.

Ok so first let’s deal with Audrina. Brunette, seems to be seeing some rugged looking bloke (i.e. he wears a vest and baseball cap in restaurants, and doesn’t shave) for about 5 minutes before asking him to move into her new place with her. No idea about what job she does, so I’m sticking with the dealer/hooker guess from above.

2 girls with dark blonde hair. No idea what their names are. They work in the fashion industry, and seem to be mates with Audrina. Maybe they pimp her out. Probably not. That’s it… can’t work out anything more about them.

Heidi… now unemployed, and not overly emotional about losing her supposed dream job of 3 years. who’d have thought that getting trolleyed and inviting your boyfriend (Spencer… see below) to a party your boss had been paid presumably thousands of dollars to organise could have a negative effect on your job security. Live and learn chuckles!

Last and by every means least, we have Spencer Pratt. That’s right… that really is his name. Seems to be the only regular (by which I mean he’s on screen often, not that he’s normal) man (I think) in the cast. He seems to be under the impression that he has significance or influence. He has the personality of a belch, approximately half the charisma of a Ken doll.

Sorry… that should have been this photo. What a mistake to make.

Words just escape me. I am genuinely struggling to understand how this has lasted so long on TV, particularly without some crazed stalker gutting one of these bimbos and wearing them as a hat, a la Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs. It’s as if some unforseen hand is flicking between high-definition CCTV cameras, cutting between random bystanders having coffee and sampling conversations. The only rule is that the channel must change just before any of these dialogues reaches it’s conclusion, or justifies the carbon dioxide spewed out during it.

Will I be tuning in again? I don’t even believe I have ever tuned IN yet!