30.5.11

MISTER WILLIAMS IS AN ACTION MAN

The other night, me and my beautiful tiny girlfriend went to see the fantastic comedian Dylan Moran in York. He's an absolutely brilliant stand-up, but unfortunately you cannot repeat any of his material afterwards because from your mouth his words sound like those of a babbling maniac.

To be fair, from Dylan Moran's mouth they also sound like those of a babbling maniac... but he does have these glimmering nuggets of hilarious observation, in among the poetic surreal imagery.

At one point he was talking about the macho, manly-man films of Jason Statham and wondering why he even  bothered to watch these improbable, far-fetched and terrible films until 2am, especially when he finds Jason Staham's two dimensional, vicious, angry, sexist characters so repugnant.



At that point I looked at my beautiful tiny girlfriend as she gave me the 'Yes, you do that too' stare that often accompanies any comedian's observations about how naff men are.

And she was absolutely right.

I watch any number of these ridiculous films. I cannot possibly count the number of stabbings, slashings, glassings, shootings, stranglings, explosions, implosions, murders, revenge killings, car crashes, cars flying off cliffs and exploding, people shooting from helicopters, people hanging off helicopters, helicopters going behind hills to 'explode', decapitation by surfboard, windows shattering in front of bare feet, bullets, bombs, broken bones, poison darts...


...it's astonishing, when you think about it, just how much entertainment is derived from the inventive and comical way human beings dispose of one another.

When I was a nipper I used to come home from a day of pretending to shoot my friends with a cap gun, painting scars on my Action Man, using a dart or a compass to put holes in my Incredible Hulk doll (and then strategically place a few pipecleaners so he looked like he'd survived a Zulu attack), destroying a few plastic cavalrymen then come inside to watch the A-Team or the Fall Guy fire off a million guns and never hit anyone.


Knight Rider, Street Hawk, Automan, Manimal, Charlie's Angels, The Six Million Dollar Man, Starsky & Hutch, Cagney & Lacey, Simon & Simon, Magnum, CHiPs, Tales Of The Golden Monkey, The Dukes Of Hazzard, Mike Hammer, Airwolf - there were loads of action series coming over from across the pond.

The trouble was, they were so sanitised.


So clean.

"For heaven's sake, even I can see that that's not George Peppard jumping off a motorbike onto a horse," I used to think, as I cheerfully beheaded my Action Man and left his head on our yellow carpet to pretend that he was stuck in quicksand, "It's just a stuntman in a grey wig with a fake cigar in his mouth... besides, that fella's black."

No-one got hurt.
No-one got shot.
No one ever bled, which for a hyperactive 9 year old is absolutely no use at all.

"And another thing... how come, no matter where he is in the world, Stringfellow Hawk can get to Monument Valley and pick up his helicopter? It's miles away! In a flipping volcano or summat!"


There were loads of questions like that -
Why did the A-Team villain's drive behind bush-shaped ramps?


Why were the cameramen always on the floor to film (5foot 10ins) Mr T?


..and if 'Howling Mad' Murdock's insanity was just a by-product of being traumatised by the effects of the Vietnam war then how come "Born On The Fourth Of July", "Hamburger Hill", "Full Metal Jacket" and "The Deer Hunter" weren't much funnier?

As I got older, and if I was lucky I'd get to see the The Professionals or The Sweeney, where they usually STARTED the show with a ruck or a car chase around a deserted dock-yard or (if you were REALLY lucky) a stripper jumping out of bed and showing a bit of boob.


I used to think that London was just one enormous abandoned dockyard where The Sweeney, The Professionals, Minder, Dempsey & Makepeace and The Bill took it in turns to have a spin round the waterfront, smash through warehouse doors and have a 'tumble' in a lock-up, much to the annoyance of their 'Guv'nor' who was usually called Stubbings or something...
"It's Spikings, actually.."
 As I got older, my tastes drifted east-ward....
..and Eastwood.


The God Of All Action Heroes.

Whether he was 'adapting, improvising, overcoming', challenging you to 'make his day', literally painting the town red, asking who it was that 'decorated their store' with his dead friend, digging out of prison with a spoon, taking people to task for laughing at his mule or goading Eli Wallach into hanging himself over an open-grave, Clint was awesome.

The internet is full of myths about Chuck Norris, but in all seriousness Chuck Norris would wet his knickers if he ever met Clint Eastwood.

But Clint still wasn't playing a nice person, though, his characters were DEEPLY flawed.

For instance the unknown man in High Plains Drifter is quite clearly a rapist. It's true, you see him drag a woman off, in front of the whole town, take her into a barn and force himself on her.

Then he kills everybody and sets fire to the town.
The Man With No Shame.

My friends and I were so obsessed with Clint Eastwood that we used to host semi-regular Clint-A-Thons, taking in everything from Where Eagles Dare to Heartbreak Ridge and everything in between.

We even watched that terrible one with that grotesque performing monkey....


Then I gravitated to the East.
Jet Li, Jackie Chan, Sammo Hung, Michelle Yeoh, Donnie Yuen... Bruce Lee!!

I loved Hong Kong action films.

Taking their cue from Bruce Lee's superior platform-actioner "Enter The Dragon", every action film consisted of a lowly, reluctant hero working his way through increasingly bad bad-guys until they get to fight the big boss.

Any of the Jackie Chan historical films such as Drunken Master or Project A were far superior to anything coming from Hollywood's bloated arse. Even now I can happily watch something from Golden Harvest or the Shaw Brothers without feeling as embarrassed as being caught watching a Steven Seagal film.

Jackie & Bruce settling an old argument

I started watching Hong Kong action films in the 1980's because the American action films (with the exception of First Blood, Terminator and Die Hard) were pretty much unwatchable... muscle-bound cretinous bodybuilders, portly kung fu teachers and WWF people trading racist, homophobic and sexist quips.

Usually in a helicopter.

With Bill Paxton chewing tobacco.


In a bad Southern accent.

There are no honourable action heroes in the movies, they are usually alcoholic, divorced, misogynist, social incompetents, with suicidal tendencies... who always get the girl (who is 20 years younger than them).

Their ability to solve crimes is negligible as they'd much rather ride horses on rooftops in the rain and shoot at British people pretending to be Arabs or Eastern Europeans firing machine guns from helicopters.

And yet no matter how despicable, moronic, violent, insensitive or two dimensional these 'heroes' are there is not a man alive who hasn't worn a tuxedo and then immediately made a finger-gun motion to the side of his ear and pretending he has a licence to kill.


James Bond is one of the great male-fantasies of the action movie genre, yet he is fucking hopeless.

A rubbish gambler who cannot charm women without using a magnetic watch or a stacked-deck of tarot cards, drives like a crack-addled council estate chav in a souped-up banger and is such a useless spy that every barman in every casino on the planet knows A) his name B) that he is a Secret Service agent C) what his Secret Service status and code-number is and D) that his favourite tipple is a girls cocktail (that is even prepared wrong - everyone knows it SHOULD be stirred, not shaken, you tit).

I'm not the only one who confuses the character of an action hero with real life.

Look at Arnold Schwarzanegger.
After all the True Lies he's currently heavily involved in Foetal Recall...
...ay thang yew!

Yet despite knowing all this I can guarantee that I will be staying up until at least 2 or 3am to watch Liam Neeson beat up sex traffickers, Harrison Ford throw someone of Air Force One, Steven Seagal blot out the sun with his massive gut as a rapper with a name like a fucking eye-chart (Ja Rule, DMX, Treach) pretends to do karate next to him, Kurt Russell fighting three flying lampshades, Sylvester Stallone arm-wrestling or Jean Claude Van Damme avenging his own death or Arnold Schwarzanegger taking on Art Malik.

Why?

Because I am a man.
And this is what men do.

Besides, it doesn't matter how many elaborate deaths, improvised weapons, explosions, lacerations, mid-air gun battles you see -

"Has this fockin' blog finished yet??"

- there is absolutely nothing that you will see in even the most horrific, gory, badly-plotted shoot-'em up that will ever make you want to kill and maim quite as much as having to sit down and watch "Eat. Pray. Love.", "Mamma Mia"or a repeat of "Desperate fucking Housewives"


Talk about two-dimensional characters!


And not a decent fucking car chase among them.




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***********************

ADDITIONAL TREAT!
WATCH THIS...

http://bit.ly/9VjRT9

"YOU LIKE PAIN?"

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24.5.11

BACK TO BLACK

‎Yesterday, I watched about an hour or two of the rolling-news Channel's 24hr coverage of some crowds that had gathered to wave the Stars and Stripes at some Irish asphalt and a newly painted street. 

They were anticiating a Big Event. 
Something monumental was about to happen in the tiny village of Moneygall.

The President of the United States of America, Barack Hussein Obama, would soon be visiting the town with his equally glamorous and stately First Lady, to visit the house of his great, great, great grandfather.


Or as the sniffy presenter would have it -

"President Obama will be in Ireland to trace... SOME of his ancestors"

What an odd thing to say. What a strange way to say it. 

Just some? Not all? 

No.

The implication being that he was there tracing his white ancestors.

Because he is black.

Have you not noticed?
The President is a black man.


Is that what you meant, TV News? 

If so, say so. 
You fucking cowards.

The rest of the day seemed to be divided between genuinely happy and welcoming Irish people and superior-sounding twats back in the studios archly describing the scene in subliminally racist overtones.

Like an idiot, I made this observation on Twitter and immediately got a couple of confused and righteous responses:

@MisterWilliams: President Obama is visiting Ireland to trace his roots on his mother's side of the family, is that OK ?


@MisterWilliams no it's because he is only like 5% Irish!

20.5.11

SOMETHING FOR THE WEEKEND

There's a new art gallery opening up in Wakefield this weekend, on the site of an old air-compressor manufacturers that my mum used to work for when I was a kid. It's right next to the site of an old stonemasons/gravestone yard and is called The Hepworth Wakefield, showcasing sculpture of a different type to what was previously available there.


It's a controversial building as it looks like something the Borg from Star Trek have left behind on a river bank, but I've a feeling it could be quite beautiful. It's a very exciting thing for Wakefield to have and is a tribute to the famous sculptor Barbara Hepworth whose beautiful artworks I used to pass everyday on the way to and from my home near Wakefield College.


I was really looking forward to taking my beautiful tiny girlfriend's beautiful tiny daughter for the Family Fun Day. I'd booked our time to look around the different artworks, the children's activities, got stuff in for a picnic and a new cooler bag.

If the weather holds off it could be a really lovely day.

Unfortunately, I'd completely forgotten that the opening of the Hepworth clashes with the End Of The World.


Honestly, I don't know why I bought that diary. I never look at it.

You're probably just like me and totally forgot about the Rapture as well.

My mate Irish Steve was planning on going to the Harewood Kite Festival with his kids, but realistically speaking I think the whole 'the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds' is going to play havoc with kite displays isn't it?

I know you can't plan for every eventuality but you'd think the organisers of these events would have checked these things, wouldn't you?

"Excuse me? I paid £25 for a family ticket and now my daughter's Disney Princess kite seems to be entangled in the spirit of the dead in Christ. Yes I would like a refund."

My mate Toby reckons that this would be the ideal time to pop into town and get some high-end electricals on Buy Now Pay 2012 offer. It's a good idea but I reckon that Comet is going to be choc-full of Mayans this weekend with similar ideas.

You may scoff but I'll bet any money that on Saturday night you can't move in the pubs for Mayans showing off their new iPad 2's.

"Can you play Angry Birds on it?"
Unfortunately for New Zealanders the End Of The World has already happened as they are a day ahead. Even as we speak they must be going around with a big dustpan and brush to sweep up all the little Hobbit corpses that are littering up the Shire.

The way it works, apparently, is that those who believe in Jesus all go this weekend, while the rest of us stay behind and tidy up a bit. We then go in October. I think it's a bit like priority tickets at a big gig, or First Class travel at an airport.

"Still, nice day for it..."
Anyway, they get to go first and pick all the best clouds, the cirrus and cirrus stratus and the like, and all the cutest cherubs. Then the rest of us go up and make do with the slightly greyer looking nimbostratus and the moth-eaten cummulonimbus, and the little wonky-eyed ginger cherubs that keep picking at their arses that no-one wants.

And that's that.

For all eternity.

We just keep looking up at all the believers on their natty sports clouds while we chug along on or rubbishy grey misty bobbins, wishing we'd gone to the art gallery or kite festival or got a massive telly on the never-never.



I don't know about you, but the Rapture's put a right dampener on my weekend.

"Get a shift-on. We haven't got all day... oh, hang on. We have."

Still, could be worse.

My beautiful tiny girlfriend's got a Sainsbury's delivery coming on Monday.

She's gonna be furious.


All together now....




IF YOU HAVEN'T DIED AT THE END OF THE WORLD THEN WHY NOT JOIN THE FACEBOOK GROUP - THE MUSINGS OF MISTER WILLIAMS ?

IT'LL GIVE YOU SUMMAT TO DO.


ADDENDUM:
AFTER CHATTING WITH A COLLEAGUE ABOUT THE RAPTURE, I WAS REMINDED OF THIS CLASSIC SKETCH FROM 'BEYOND THE FRINGE' AND THOUGHT YOU MIGHT ENJOY IT.

CLICK HERE TO HEAR...
GOODBYEEEEEEEE.

19.5.11

SIMON COWELL IS NOT GOD

Oh yeah.
Here we go.
It's so easy to mock Simon Cowell.

It's all so easy to mock Simon Cowell. 
You liberal, lefty, Guardian-reading, artsy-fartsy-types. 
You love to mock Simon Cowell. 

Have you pointed out that he has heightened trousers? Yeah? 

His belt-buckle reaches his nose? Yeah?

That his teeth are so white you can pick them out in a collapsed mining disaster? Yeah?

His hair looks like a grizzly-bear's arse parting? Yeah?

That the previously mentioned high-trousers are in danger of chipping his expensively straightened and whitened teeth with the aforementioned belt-buckle? Yeah?

You're just jealous.

Jealous of his success.



That's what's going through your head when you see the title of this bloggage, isn't it?

Oh Mister Williams, with his sweary take on all of modern life FINALLY gets around to mocking someone who has been previously and more intelligently mocked before.

Well.. Yes.
And No.

I'm not completely out of step with the public mood.

I remember that long before Simon Cowell made an enormous success out of parading the delusional, the borderline mentally ill, the novelty and the failed working men's club acts into your drawing rooms (you still have those, right?) there were OTHER and, unbelievably, less charismatic arbiters of public taste.


We forget the talent shows of the 70's and 80's, which were also derided in their day, but it was on these shows that we discovered the likes of Victoria Wood, Mick Miller, Frank Carson, Marti Caine, Roger DeCourcey & Nookie Bear, Pam Ayres, Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band, Paul Daniels, Les Dawson and Dave Allen.

Brilliant, inventive and varied entertainers whose talent wouldn't have been recognised without the talent show format.

Admittedly, we also got Jim Davidson, Showaddywaddy, Little & Large, Billy Pearce, Gary Wilmot, Michael Barrymore, Joe Pasquale, Su Pollard, max Boyce, Lena Zavaroni, Bonnie Langford, Peters and fucking Lee, Bobby Crush, Roy 'Chubby' Brown and Lenny Henry.

But then you can't strike gold every time.
And obviously, my idea of gold my not be your idea of gold.

But regardless of my REAL actual gold (compared to your Fools Gold),  let's just say that you have to pan and sift through an awful, awful lot of densely-packed shit to get to that gold - and that's what is happening now. Only this time we see the shit-sifting.

It's just Light Entertainment history repeating itself.

Whereas we used to sit at home and wonder how Les Dennis had made it through to the finals now we have a similar quandary when faced with a body-popping Darth Vader.



Where we once had a dubious plywood Clap-O-Meter that 'scientifically' measured studio audience approval, now we have dubious premium-rate telephone lines that are already closed when we vote.

Where we used to have a talentless troupe of ill-qualified 'judges' like Nina Myskow, Noel Edmonds, Muriel Young and Ed 'Stewpot' Stewart we now have a talentless troupe of ill-qualified 'judges' like Dannii Minogue, Cheryl Cole, Geri Halliwell, Sharon Osborne, Piers Morgan and The Hoof.

You can no more blame Simon Cowell for any of that than you can blame Hughie Greene.


To me Simon Cowell is not the Anti-Christ or the Patron Saint of Bland.

He's not the one who makes the music charts the equivalent of a homogenised and safe (if the music charts still exist to this downloadably impatient generation).

I don't blame Simon Cowell for ruining Saturday Night prime television or the Hit Parade

I blame you.

And, obviously, the other people who are supposed to make entertaining prime time Saturday Night Television.

But mostly, I blame you.
Mostly.

He doesn't MAKE you stay in on a Saturday night.
He doesn't MAKE you buy these downpods.
He doesn't MAKE you phone these premium rate telephone numbers.
He doesn't MAKE you listen to what Amanda Holden thinks.

YOU do that. On your own.

You ring up.
You buy Joe McElderry songs.
You go to the fucking arena tours to see the people who didn't even make it to the third fucking week.
You like Subo.
You like Leona Lewizzzzzz.
You like the Cheeky Girls. 

You. Like. Jedward.

It's all down to you.

He's created a massive media empire by doing what we all wish we had done, by making show-offs turn up in their thousands and embarrass themselves, then telling them they are fucking shit and a complete waste of skin.

Just imagine every gig, every busker, every bad comic, every nutter-on-the-bus, every terrible play you've seen, every friend-with-a-guitar-at-the-end-of-a-party, every single loudmouth in the pub you have ever met.



Every self-inflated, pompous know -it-all you've ever encountered.

Imagine them all, now, clamoring for your attention, desperate for your approval - and you being able to, and quite correctly, telling them EXACTLY what you think of them.

And then you get a million pounds for telling them they are fucking shit.

Yes, in that respect I AM jealous of Simon Cowell.

BUT....

..and it's a big 'but'...

I don't believe that Simon Cowell is God.

Like a wizened pop-svengali Rumpelstiltskin, he has spun some gold, literal and metaphorical, from taking basic materials like Susan Boyle and that moany charisma-vacuum Leona Lewizzzzzz and tuning them into global megastars, but that doesn't mean that the Government should see him as an alchemist to reform political debates, Royal Wedding coverage, the NHS, the Olympic's opening ceremony or anything else that needs a little more attention.

It's not Simon Cowell's fault that TV Commissioning Editors are so witless and bereft of imagination that they can't make any light entertainment programmes without trying to emulate his success and appropriate his already heavily appropriated-formats. Not everything has to have an 'X', 'Idol' of 'Factor' in its title.

Simon Cowell is an excellent turd polisher and no mistake, but some turds will forever remain dulled.

The BBC's Lottery Shows, for example... I mean, sweet Jesus? How does that even get on air?

It looks like so something Rupert Pupkin would pitch. 


"Yeah, it's me in a lock-up gagage with a tape recording of a long-dead variety audience, a washing machine full of ping pong balls, two silent snooker referees in gloves and a boyband that I make dance for me. 

I do a few gags, read a few numbers, make the boys dance or backflip or some shit. 

Oh, yeah and I'll be playing the whole thing in drag...but it'll be obvious I'm a man in a dress cos I look like such a big old mammalook!

Then I swap a few more gags with the disembodied transatlantic voice in my head... what?"



 ".... What? MA! I'M DOING THUNDERBALL HERE!!"

Honestly, how could you possibly make handing over millions of pounds to the home audience THAT fucking boring? Every single week.

And what the fuck is an OJ Borg, while we're on about it?

Weren't the Borg a nightmarish race of canibalised cybernetic organisms  from Star Trek that wanted to assimilate everything until it had absolutley no identity of its own?

I think he's really a Vernon Kaye clone that's been assigned a serial number instead of a name.


That doesn't even look like human hair...I'm just saying.

The tabloid press love Simon Cowell, though. He's a godsend. Now they can print yards and yards of coverage of a television programme that you have already seen a day or two before as News! There's the convoluted and contrived 'spats' between Sharon Osbourne and Louis Wlash, there's the erratic behaviour of Welsh-waitress shagging The Hoof, there's the has-she-hasn't she surgery debate about Amanda Holden, and of course there are the endless tragic stories about the smack-addled, orphaned contestants who can sing a passable version of "I Know Him So Well".

There's also the added advantage of a little moralising and tub-thumping, as the tabloids print picture after picture of Cheryl Cole, a Pussycat Doll, Christina Aguilera, Beyonce, Rhianna or any number of warbling sex-dolls skimping about in their frillies.

LOOK! 
LOOK AT THIS!!


YOU HAVE TO LOOK OR YOU WON'T UNDERSTAND HOW OFFENDED YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO FEEL!! I MEAN, IT'S ON AT 7PM ON A SATURDAY!! 

WHEN CHILDREN, THE PRECIOUS LITTLE CHILDREN ARE WATCHING! 

LOOK!! 


YOU CAN NEARLY SEE HER TOOT-TOOT IN THESE ONES!! 

YES, IT IS SOMEWHAT HYPOCRITICAL TO PRINT NINE PAGES OF THIS IN A SO-CALLED FAMILY NEWSPAPER THAT CHILDREN CAN PICK UP AT ANYTIME OF THE DAY BEFORE 7PM IN THE EVENING... BUT LOOK!!

I CAN SEE HER BOSOMS!!

And another thing, just because Simon Cowell's talent show rejects went to No1 with a David Bowie cover and raised a fortune for soldiers maimed in a pointless war doesn't mean they had to...

"Christ. Is there nothing else on??"
...pick a David Bowie song, I mean.

I can't really get too that annoyed at all the shit music he has his thumbprints all over. There are LOADS of people who make shit music, all over the world, every single day. Life's too long to be spending too much time worrying about which fucking idiot composed which particular annoying fucking ringtone anthem.

Maybe I'm getting older and more mature, but I find I'm ignoring a lot more and exploring older 'classic' stuff, and in a way that's all thanks to Simon Cowell.

Besides, despite his wealth and success he still, as a job, has to go to the office every day, on both sides of the Atlantic, and watch a parade of bad comics, unchoreographed street dancers, body-popping Darth Vaders,  nutters-on-the-bus, friends-with-a-guitar-at-the-end-of-a-party, loudmouths in the pub, skateboarding dogs, bad street magicians, inept jugglers, the delusional, the borderline mentally ill, the novelty and the failed working men's club acts...

...and his work-colleagues are Dannii Minogue, Cheryl Cole, Paula Abdul, Geri Halliwell, Sharon Osborne, Piers Morgan, The Hoof, Louis Walsh and Les Dennis's ex-wife.

The poor fucker.

And as if all that wasn't bad enough, he has to keep fucking fending off an increasingly horny and ageing Sinitta.


She's like Zelda from the Terrahawks - on heat.


So, no, I'm not jealous.

In many ways I pity Simon Cowell.






That said, he doesn't have to be quite such a fucking charmless, arrogant, soulless, money grabbing, corporate spunkbubble about it all.



IF YOU HAVE ENJOYED THIS THEN PLEASE JOIN THE FACEBOOK GROUP - THE MUSINGS OF MISTER WILLIAMS - AND FEEL FREE TO LEAVE ANY COMMENTS, GOOD OR BAD. 
UNLESS YOU LIKE SIMON COWELL. 
OR ARE HIM.

IN WHICH CASE, GO FUCK YOURSELF.





17.5.11

M*STER W*LL*AMS TAKES OUT THE SUPER-INJUNCTION

Is it a Bird?
Is it a Player?

No!

It's a Super-Injunction!!!


So shut up.

Is anyone still talking about Super-Injunctions?
Are we allowed to even know if they are still talking about Super-Injunctions?
Am I breaking a Super-Injunction by asking about Super-Injunctions?
Or even acknowledging that Super-Injunctions exist?

Ah, well. I'll keep on about them until there's a knock at the door....

"Just watch yerself, Sunny Jim..."
So, what is a Super-Injunction?

Well, according to MacMillan's Dictionary a Super Injunction is a noun... so that's that.
Oh..
You want more?

definition of superinjunction (also super-injunction)

a form of gagging order (an order from a judge stopping reporters from talking or writing about a case that has not yet been decided) in which the press is not even allowed to report on the existence and details of an injunction
At least 30 superinjunctions currently appear to be in place, including one relating to allegations of water pollution and another to a right-to-die case.


Well, it doesn't really seem to matter, really, at this moment in time lets just say it's a bit like a piss-drenched Merry-Go-Round at the media circus where everyone gets to have a free go on the ride, shouting their heads off and then get down, feeling a bit grubby and stinking quite a bit.

According to some a Super-Injunction is a way to preserve their privacy after some regrettable and repeated 'genital-misplacement'.

A Complete Dick
To others it is seen as a way for very rich men to subjugate the young women they have slept with.
Basically, to fuck them over a second time.

Some have suggested that it is a belated-form of protection for the high-profile philanderer as it saves them from lurid exposé stories in the tabloids or, in extreme cases, blackmail.

The filpside of this being that the cowardly, adulterous, footballing philanderer can simply CLAIM to be the victim of blackmail, thus hiding behind this gagging legislation, while the poor pretty dupe cannot defend herself in public and so appears to be a money grabber in lieu of any supporting evidence.

And finally, to the terrible, terrible 19th century tabloid Press (which we still endure for some fucking reason) it's a 'Freedom of Press' rallying call.

But to them it is really a win-win situation, as they can print acre after acre of news-sheet about how they are not allowed print anything at all, the 'Wicked Whispers' bits they used to use to plug the advertising gaps on the showbiz pages become the whole damned rag.


Two cocks

Then they can then pile pressure on the people in the public eye who they think should be held to account, and finally they can print salacious pictures of the people who have been wrongly 'outed' in the sex-scandal stories on social networking sites.

Bless 'em.
They need a break after all, as some of them will still be under investigation for all that illegal phone-tapping.

Human manure-sacks like former Sun Editor, Kelvin MacKenzie, hate the idea of a Super-Injunction as they 'gag-the-press' - IE., stop them printing pages and pages of tits and thongs from fake-tanned, kiss & tell merchants that hang around dreary pheromone-Totter's Yards like Chinawhites - while simultaneously claiming to be the moral guardians of Britain's working class families.

He claims that Super-Injunctions are being used by the rich and powerful to stop "The Truth" reaching the breakfast tables of ordinary people.

Why anyone would want to read about Andrew Marr's sex-life over breakfast seems to be a question that hasn't penetrated the shit-caked insides of Kelvin's head. 

Maybe, just maybe, Kelvin, people buy newspapers under the misguided notion that there might actually be some fucking News in there???

To say that the working classes just want to read about Big Brother contestants fucking footballers is an insult to working class people. They don't buy your newspaper for celebrity tittle-tattle.

They buy Heat for that stuff.

That's not deriding Heat, by the way. It does celebrity tittle-tattle and top-trending fashion very well. It's a very good magazine that knows what its audience wants.

What it doesn't do is print gossip as news, pretend that it is a crusading form of investigative journalism or claim to set the agenda for the moral high-ground.
Caution: Fleet Street shit-stirrers ahead

The tabloid newspaper's main argument is that the public has a right to know because the people involved in are 'role models'.

Bollocks.

We only have a right to know if they are breaking the law.

If they are rapists (like Mike Tyson), child-abusers (like Gary Glitter), violent (like Stan Collymore) or do it with ducks (like Kelvin MacKenzie).

If they are politicians preaching moral guidance whilst not practising any morality (The 1990's Conservative Party). 

If they are abusing their power (Richard Nixon/Jonathon Aitken).

Not if they can't keep it in their pants and their spouses are willing to carry on as if nothing happened. That is a matter for them and only them.

And, anyway, if you're the kind of dickhead that needs to look up to someone like Wayne Rooney as a 'role model' then your parents did a really shit job of bringing you up.

On a recent Radio 4 programme Kelvin MacKenzie, bellowed-down the host and his fellow guests to say he 'wanted journalism to go through people's bins'. What a lofty ambition he has for a Free Press. But then this is the man who lied about the traumatised and grieving Liverpool fans at Hillsborough pissing on the police and pick-pocketing the dead....


So at least he's gone from desecration to being the journalistic equivalent of a morally-bankrupt Womble.
 
At the moment MacKenzie is championing Twitter and the internet for their general disrespect towards Super-Injunctions, he worships the fact that Twitterers can say anything about anyone without worrying about any legal ramifications.

Wouldn't it be nice if, somehow, Twitter could be used against the odious fuck? 
Hmm?
Just a thought...


Meanwhile, over in Westminster The Prime Minister, on the other hand, is calling for more 'discussion' on the subject of Super-Injunctions.

You'd think, given all the consultation exercises, the way he wants our opinions on how the NHS is to be run, the 'happpiness' survey and the recent National Census he'd be against Super-Injunctions. In fact, this appears to be a Prime Minister who constantly needs people telling him every tiny little fucking thing about themselves.

I half expect him to leap out of my fucking fridge on a morning asking why I need so much milk...


One of the many things I do not understand about Super-Injunctions is that if Person A sleeps with Person B but then takes unprecedented legal steps to ensure that Person B doesn't tell the the world all about it - how come we all know that Person B is a 24 year old call-girl who is being advised by PR Guru Max Clifford, goes by the given name of Helen Wood and charges £195 for sex?
(Mind you, I have seen her on the TV news and you wouldn't pay her £195 for her conversation - which, ironically, they will have done!)

If the Super-Injunction prevents us from knowing anything about what happened - how come we know who it fucking happened with??
 


And another thing - if Max Clifford is so good at PR how come everyone thinks he's a wanker?


For the most part, none of this is news. Film stars, pop stars and politicians often have failed marriages. The temptations are too great and they are too weak. The newspapers will print anything that is easy and lurid because printing proper stories is too difficult and requires work. The public will busy themselves with this latest 'scandal', forget about it all and wait for the next lot.

In the end, who cares? It's a grim little world, sometimes.

What have we learnt?

Footballers & film stars sometimes shag hookers, rich people treat poor people like shit, tabloid newspapers have no morals and cry like petulant children when told to act like adults, the legal profession makes a LOT of money and silhouette-makers are having a boom-time not seen since the glory days of the 18th Century.

"My Nights Of Passion With A Lusty Milkmaid"

So no-one comes out of this well. I don't want to side with the celebrity, the hooker, the lawyer, the journalist or anyone involved in the whole sorry business. Like many people I just don't fucking care.


I've had enough of bloody Super-Injunctions.




What?


"Not clever..."

WHAT???


ADDENDUM:

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