Blog 127. UKIP Black&Asian membership clemency – via Amnesty Inter-rational

Farage has ridiculed being PC preferring to be PD (politically disgusting). Surely a rescue/clemency campaign for Black and Asian members of UKIP is desperately overdue.

“I didn't realise I was black” cried one panicked ukipper.

Like the disaffected youngsters drawn to BABAL (the Blair and Bush Armageddon Legacy), these folk need some untangling. They were obviously not thinking clearly - or listening or looking or registering or comprehending. Far from condemning our brown and black brothers and sisters for joining the Big-on-Bigotry party, they should have the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they were suffering from mental illnesses, fantasies or racial amnesia causing them to forget they’re black.

Internet search UKIP and you’re overwhelmed by examples of racism, homophobia, misogyny and dangerously inflammatory islamophobia. But the mainstream media continues to allow poster boy Farage to paper over the chasms.

Surely it follows that ethnic minority members must be at best delusional.

Would sane Jews join the Nazi party?

One of the things I love about living in Scotland is that when Farage crawled out from under his rock south of the border, a significant vocal minority went ‘Hooray  – it’s OK to be politically disgusting - wohoooooo - party time’. Up here Farage was pretty much told to piss off.

Black and Asian Ukippers must be offered treatment at the Betty Ford clinic for Delusional Bigotry & Prejudice Addicts (De Big-Prejudics).

Post recovery they should be rehabilitated and accepted into society. Alright – neither you nor I would ever trust one of them to babysit the cat or go to the shop for a pint of milk but we can be kind and tolerant. They should be objects of our sympathy and mercy not our embarrassment, derision, disgust, disparagement, discontent, displeasure, detestation, disbelief, disapproval, dislike and disdain.

And – especially for the Big-on-Bigotry crew we really have to have this again...

Comedy performance poem by yours truly -

HOW TO BE A BETTER BIGOT

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhVBSvac52c

Blog 126. Cameron Vs Brown Girl - solves the TV debate debate.

Cameron can represent privileged out-of-touch white blokes who think a sound-bite is a policy, have dodgy mates with wildly inflated ideas of their own worth, who think a ‘moral dilemma’ means considering whether or not you will get caught out tax dodging - and I’ll have a go at representing EVERYONE ELSE.

Sorted.

We saw in 2010 what a soap opera a ‘leaders’ debate was (isn't that how we ended up with Clegg?) But if we must have one, I propose the solution above.

Ok

Like me you may already feel a guilty desire to be distracted from the looming depressing horror show which is May 7^th and the unedifying votes bidding war. Here then is a little BGOTR smorgasbord of random alternative short diversions from the archives;

For Bonkers Bigotry click here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhVBSvac52c

Something to keep the kids calm for half an hour or get them to sleep (!) visit www.caseyandthesurfmen.co.uk/

And if you’re worried you’re going crazy – rest assured you are quite normal – relatively speaking - this is what I did last half term, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aK8soOeNkqQ

For Funny Feminism go to blog 69.

And free membership is still available for - The Crap Gap Club - see blog 113.

I hope that helps keeps you sane till next Tuesday...

Blog 125. Good God-zilla, Enola Gay and Haemorrhoids!

Ignoring what my film buff mate calls ‘the Oscar circus of public school boys getting mantelpiece metal for playing establishment figures’, film choosing went a bit random at the end of last week. My partner and I did that hand -in-the-tub pick-any-video for a Friday night veg. thing. In the end it came down to finding something that didn't have either a a guy with a gun on the cover, a ‘worthy’ film where ordinary folk who aren't yet dead are portrayed as saintly creatures or the slaver we've come to know as the Rom-Com. We chose the one with the large lizardy thing on the front.

What I found in Godzilla was a metaphor for modern life that may even outdo my doggy pooh comparison (see blog 49. Dog Pooh in Scented Bags).

Bizarrely, at the end of the film, main characters and extras are seen idolising the large destructive lizard with the very small head that appears to ‘save’ them while leaving mass mayhem in its wake. It seems uncannily like the current world where we are left craving improbable unexpected salvation out of the death and chaos we have wrought.

There were other more immediate eye-catching parallels to our regressive modernism buried in the rubble of this blockbuster. In terms of sexism it went right back to the early days of popular cinema with the personality-only-vaguely-formed but pretty blonde providing hero worship for the slightly gormless hunk who staggers from scene to scene mumbling and looking perplexed. The less sexy, dark haired ‘other’ woman in the film skitters round behind the sciencey men whining – yeah – just whining.

(As a nonsense side-dish – the dad in the film who we are supposed to believe is living like a tramp – in the grip of grief – nevertheless manages to keep his hair-dye job in good order throughout!!!!)

There is also that remarkable re-writing of history which Hollywood loves so much. Remember, according to Hollywood, Tom Hanks won WWII. In this film it’s hinted at that the experimental atomic explosions that damaged so many unwitting servicemen were not what they appeared. Also the Enola Gay blot on humanity’s landscape was actually a nuke aimed at Godzilla, not Hiroshima. WOW!

In the end the silly monsters that could have been done way WAY better in plasticine by Ray Harryhausen, became a backdrop to the supposed ‘tension’ of the film (the only real tension was the irritation about the fact my guy spent £7 on this shit so I was determined to see it through but  wishing we’d played tiddlywinks instead).

The mess otherwise known as a plot ended with our hero unable to do a James Bond and defuse the big, big blowy-up thingy. Instead, he towed it out to sea on a boat with himself rolling round the deck presumably suffering from the various injuries he received earlier that didn't seem to bother him at the time. Or maybe he had haemorrhoids. Judging from the constant growling and stunted walking, Godzilla definitely had em. (I am sorry – I think that is the second week on the trot I have mentioned piles). Then hunk is rescued by helicopter and although the big blowy up thingy is a nuclear warhead – somehow the little helicopter manages in a couple seconds to get him far enough away from the central blast that he’s all ok and can go meet the blonde with no more than a bit of attractively placed grime and some stiffness (!)

This mooney claptrap can be applied with a pretty broad sloppy brush to what is going on right here right now. Just listen to the bluster of politicians as they pitch for votes with vague promises of tweaking this and being tough on that which – they say – is going to solve the huge problems such as debt, inequality and social lack of cohesion. It’s just as much of a messy unsatisfying fantasy. Godzilla and the instecty/alien things are smashing about in the background while in the foreground we've created silly problems with our own stupidity and then pretend they can be fixed with a bit of tweaking – or towing them away a few feet!

I begin to see why Godzilla became the real champ in this ridiculous flack flick.

Give me a mindless plasticine monster breathing nuclear charge with vaguely good intentions to the nonsense going on in the foreground any day.

Even with haemorrhoids, come back Godzilla.  We need a huge dose of prehistoric honesty.

Blog 124. I have T.I.T.s (Television Induced Tension Syndrome)

Regular bleaders know I suffer from P.A.N.T.S – see blog 53 - but after this half term I realise I also have TITs - Television Induced Tension Syndrome. It’s no laughing matter – it’s debilitating, scary and left me at one point feeling panic stricken and hopeless.

I often find myself mesmerised by the thing when I am in a house where TV rules, but this half term, at mum’s, I submerged myself in an ocean of TV over a 48 hour period and came up for air feeling vaguely brain damaged.

The root if the syndrome is – my own fault – a decade and a half without TV so that now when I am in the presence of the beast I have no defenses. I have lost my tolerance, my immunity. I have friends who manage to filter out the 89% rubbish and find their way to the rest – but they are skilled beyond my abilities.

And TV has changed radically in the last 15 years. Any chance of regaining resilience is thin. Where the prisoners at Abu Graib were reduced to pitiable, babbling wrecks with water-boarding, sleep deprivation and threats of death – the same results could be achieved with me in a locked room with a large TV showing – for example – only soap operas.

What has happened to soap operas? I recall watching Coronation Street with my folks back in the day – and the most exciting incident would be Ena Sharples changing her hair net. Now they’re packed with implausible, fantastical melodrama, underpinned by mind-numbing tedium and dull stupidity. That’s quite a balancing act.

Films are unwatchable unless you enjoy 3 minute interruptions every 5 minutes to view gormless women smiling at their cleaning products or gasping and groaning about their hair conditioner. Are they experiencing some sort of far-away ecstasy or do they have haemorrhoids?

I watched the iconic Come Dine with Me and thought that, for light entertainment, in the reality genre, I could cope with that. But then you watch two or three or four and the screen begins to swim before your eyes as the same people types in slightly different hair/make-up/clothes – all slightly delusional – slightly socially inadequate are paraded in front of camera to make fools of themselves. Do cameramen have to take special drugs?

Anything on Kid’s TV seems to be psychedelic and hyperactive and with plots that are un-childlike.

I clicked around until I found an infamous piece called Geordie Shore. I viewed 10 minutes of something so gross – so at-the-dog’s-arse-end of what humanity reveals of itself - as to be actually depressing.

And yet – when people find out I don’t have TV and haven’t for around 15 years – (and am not one of those people who substituted watching on-line for watching ‘the box’) they behave like I am the one who has a screw loose.

“What do you do” tends to be the main reaction. Like I must be frantically trying to fill the 16 hours a day that cannot be officially designated to bed-time.

Followed closely by “What do you talk about?”

I realise that in a society where there are magazines dedicated to the ridiculous on-screen lives of the soap-opera characters I may be a wee bit out of step. Every has-been comic now has his own chat show and/or game show slot, every ‘news’ presenter is a personality, the private lives of the cardboard cut-out breakfast show casts have become hot topics, food is entertainment not nourishment and the more ghastly bits of your personal life you expose or the more private the flesh - the more likely you are to be ‘trending’ in any 24 hours of the nation’s attention span.

What do I talk about?

Not bake-offs, not Davina’s waistline, not who is the most debased character in Geordie Shore...

Hmmm – what’s left?

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Check out the BGOTR 2-minute Soap Opera

http://youtu.be/aK8soOeNkqQ

As you can see – I didn’t waste half term!!!!

Blog 123. When I am Queen by Kate...

... and Camilla.

Following the hugely warm response last week to the idea of me being queen (I’m blushing) I felt I should blog-flog that particular horse and - like that daft cow Mayers – (too much farm analogy?) do a book – or at least a post on royal rich people I don’t know.

I considered the more proper title ‘When One is Queen’ but there are two of em lined up. ‘When Two is Queen’ didn't work. Then of course Cam aint gonna be queen anyhoo . She’ll be HRH/something/consort. So that idea went to hell.

So I will stick with when I am queen in my brown girl blog world and perhaps call the piece

My family and other animals (who will live off the state but still look down on other people) - or something catchy like that.

So here let me build on the promises I made last week with my queeny powers (like superwoman powers but without the uncomfortable knickers.)

To the people of Britain and BG world…

For all those who read 50 Shades of Grey – I will have a word with God and see if I can get those hours back for you. If you went to the film of your own volition you’re beyond help.

I dealt with tax dodgers last week – but for those equally heinous beings who let their dogs crap all over the places where I walk and only pick up the turds when they think others are looking, I will write a particularly long queen’s speech. Offenders will be forced to listen to it in a limbo land where it is always Christmas day – they are always waiting for dinner and they can’t have it until the speech ends – which it never does.

Skankers who swear on the bus, women who get drunk on trains and force everyone to listen to their weekend’s sexual exploits and businessmen who STILL think its fine to do that mobile phone I’m-so-important posturing in train carriages where you can’t escape, will all be escorted off said public transport by patrolling Dementors.

Men and women who wear so much perfume/aftershave that you can feel your lungs and eyeballs dissolving within 6 feet of them will not be allowed to board public transport (I’d rather sit next to one of those stinky old men who haven’t washed since 1993)

Harriet Harmon will be forgiven for coming up with the utterly ridiculous, condescending, patronising, pathetic, demeaning, embarrassing idea of a pink van to attract women voters – because prior to that she’s been ok.

I shall be forgiven by my teenaged daughter for the countless times I have ‘ruined’ her life. I do now know all the names of the members of 5SOS.

On my subjects birthdays (and whenever they feel fed up) they will be able to stay in bed, eat very messy almond croissants and watch old episodes of Columbo. Ditto when they're ill / tired / it’s raining or they feel like it...

For me - when I am ravenously hungry my gran will be flown by private magic eco-jet to Edinburgh airport having prepared roti and curry for my tea. I will eat this in vast quantities slurping and burping and dribbling and laughing like Henry VIII – but without the gratuitous bloodshed and without Hillary Mantel in the background going on about how they 'wouldn't have eaten that in Tudor times'. (How does she know?)

And we wouldn't need food-banks because I would set up an institution to see that resources were distributed fairly. I would call this thing – oh I don’t know – PARLIAMENT.

And we’ll all live happily ever after.

When I am queen.

Blog 122. Britain’s First Mixed-Race Monarch - Queen Amanda I

Following the recent hoo-hah over an unofficial biography of HRH Charley by some mad stalking bint called Mayers – the heir apparent has apparently let it be known that he ‘knows how to be king’.

Well – I’m pretty sure I’d know how to be queen – should the situation ever arise. I was, after all, on the front page of my local paper when I was 8 because I sent a letter to (and received a reply from) QEII.

Not only could I let all my family be supported by the state and live in a big house for free with people to bow to me and wipe my bum - my birthday is even on the same day as the queen’s. So - er – zeitgeist I think. Destiny. Fate. Providence.

I would do more than just be queen bee. Once in situ I would restore a proper monarchy; do away with this ridiculous celebrity-magazine nonsense. It's cruel to continue with a situation where they get all our dosh but are just cardboard cut-outs in daft clothes behaving like they were pickled in the 1950s.

And I would rule better than anyone.

Recently I heard Nickers Clegg pitching his election promises. After I stopped laughing I made a list of my new better-than-everyone-else queenly way of ruling Britain - 

I would – like Nickers – promise to cut less than the tories and spend less than labour.

I would be less faux-fascist than Farage.

I’d be more Mother earth than the greens.

I’d be more leprechaun than Fine Gael.

I’d be more haggis than the SNP.

I’d enforce Magna Carta so that we no longer have a situation where people on benefits are hounded to death for small debts they can’t pay while rich people get a polite request from HMRC for taxes they deliberately side-stepped.

I’d be more chocolate than Charlie.

More tennis than Serena and Venus.

More enigmatic than the enigma code.

Thinner than a model’s personality.

Fatter than a tax-avoiders off-shore bank account.

Softer than ‘hands that do dishes’.

Harder than an action hero’s chin stubble.

In the same way Tories argue that Scottish politicians shouldn't be allowed to vote on ‘English’ issues - I’d rule that you couldn't vote on anything to do with the NHS if you have private health insurance. Ditto education.

Tax avoiders would be rounded up and sent off to live (with all the other selfish spiteful people) on an atoll made entirely of money, adrift in shark-infested waters.

I’d be truer than Atticus Finch.

Faster than Usaine Bolt.

Calmer than Angela Merkel.

Braver than Frodo (and I would do even better death scenes than Sean Bean).

Sadly because my family is very mixed I can’t promise the in-breeding thing BUT...

I’d make sure everyone got at least one hug a day and everything including the internet and Stephen Fry’s gob would be closed on a Sunday.

I’d be the bestist queen ever ever ever.

God save me

Blog 121. Apple’s iProfit Success Secret is...

...Consumers are MORONS.

One has to assume this to be Apple’s working model.

I’m not sure how to spin this week’s blog out to the usual 700 – 1000 words because there is little else to say.

Apple’s £11.8bn iWatering first quarter profit is based on people buying shiny new shit because of a. sophisticated advertising b. the cynical, contemptuous short-term obsolescence built in to the last bit of iTat.

iConsumers are MORONS – is maybe a company mantra?

Perhaps if you’re one of the iPurchasers who bought new because the glossy thingy Apple sold you 6 months ago no longer does-iT, just repeat,

‘Consumers are morons’

until you get to about 800 words...

Cheers.

N.B in case of confusion

A customer is someone who buys what they need/want

A consumer is someone who shops for what is advertised regardless of price-benefit ratio.

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If instead of reading my rantings you'd like some comedy poetry, I'm doing the feature at The Blind Poet on Monday 9th Feb - proceeds going to Crisis.