I didn’t get to do much when I was a young’un. I was brought up in a fairly dodgy area, surrounded by neighbours with pervy eyeballing movements and the odd Polish person. People would sometimes hang about after dark and try to steal cars (often failing quite miserably), and there was an old couple a few doors down that persisted in calling me Bartley. My parents never dared to be so rude as to correct them.

I was never allowed to go outside on my own until I was about 10. My poor mother lived in fear of me heading down to the park, sniffing some pritt stick and pretending to get all “high” and stuff. Either that or manically fingering some slightly older but downright skanky, chip-pan faced sod-for-brains girl behind the bushes. With her Puma popper trackie bottoms and shouting racist but still awkwardly irrelevant words at passing cars and getting “well pissed” on a J20.

PAH! Oh Pritt you old wally, you.

I never done none of that fun stuff. At 12 I was an ugly, disgustingly fat kid who for some strange reason shaved my bonce off completely, thought Korn were the shizznit and had a rack of teeth strikingly similar to a handful of broken hula hoops (that was until I got the black coloured braces due to me being such a devoted “grunger”, oh what a social statement to make in those days).

BOO! Guess whoooo?

I was never naughty at junior school, and if I got told off I’d probably cry for an hour and try forcing a little wee out into my pants. I’d never go playing on the railway tracks or anything. Hell, I practically pooed myself one time when I went to the newsagents to buy some matches at the age of 11.

What I’m basically saying then, is that I was a right massive shameful pussy… and I pretty much still am, albeit taller, skinner and with slightly better teeth. But at least I’m honest about it.

Yet when I occasionally stagger my way out of these four walls covered in my own dried faeces, I often stumble upon a few people from my secondary school years (which was notably an all boys school and certainly prolonged my entry in to the sexually active world by about, hmm… two years? …and I’m still feeling the effects).

So when I gradually move forward to make conversation with some of these people – once some form of intoxication has taken place of course, I only really talk to about nine people when I’m sober – I’m fully expecting a little frilly, high-pitched girl’s voice to pop right on out of their face traps, just like how I remember from the olden times. I start hoping that they’ll jabber on about some HIGHLARIOUS Warhammer nonsense, or how awesome Papa Roach are, or boasting about how many wanks they managed in one day, just to give me some kind of excuse to subtly take the Mitchell without them coming to any kind of realisation… and resulting in nobody getting upset or hurt.*

But what do I get instead? I’m stopped in my tracks with a deep, gravelly voice, words chopped apart and forced out into the open with an angry, turbulent thud. A true Sittingbourne accent, one that sounds like these people have been brought up on some windowlicker farm where everyone has a wildly mutated Adam’s apple and just drink handfuls of bleach. A place where people don’t look at dictionaries, they just bash the keyboard in their brain until a sequence of letters comes out that just about make enough sense to roll of their tongues.

Suddenly my initial giddy excitement turns into some minor form of slight intimidation. Next thing I know, I’m trying to defer my attention away whilst remaining politely responsive, as I’m told a story about how they recently beat the living crud sticks out of some really old aged pensioner, just because he had a large lower lip that was capable of engulfing half a face and he quite liked to show it off.

This is Shoebox. We don’t know where she came from, but we do know she has beautiful eyes.

But the problem is I kind of do it too, at least when I’m drinking. All of a sudden I lose the ability to pronounce my ‘t’ or ‘h’, and this weird, half-arsed attempt at being cockney flops out, like I’m some kind of lout who drinks a shedload of lager, pulls some orange girl and drills her by the bins. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve ever done that. But that’s how you might imagine me to be if you couldn’t really see me properly, but for some strange reason you could hear my drunken voice.

Sadly though, I don’t really have the stories about scary fights or car crashes that I usually have to cringe to. Although there was this one time I donked my pathetic excuse for a fist into some ginger kid’s face on New Year’s Eve a couple of years ago. But immediately after this I found myself getting slapped back by several of his friends. This lead to my cheek swelling up so much it looked like I was sucking on a light bulb for three days and really, really enjoying it. My poor mother cried when she found out as well, wishing she’d never even let me go outside on my own in the first place. Poor lady.

IT’S EVIL.

But! I do have a good story which involves me finding a dildo and thinking it was my Christmas present when I was about four. But I guess that’ll have to wait.

You are the Egg Men. I am the Walrus. Goo Goo G’Joob.

Brad x

*Yeah, a lot of any such people could probably hurt me quite a lot, which is why I’m not writing about anyone in particular… as such… or am I? **

**No.

Psst, come here! Yeah, you, over there, with the yellow tinge running all over your face and far too much time on your hands, sitting there, idly trolling through the web looking for your next fix of pointless information to repeat to your friends in an even more pointless fashion, thus rendering you completely and utterly pointless to the point where you’re basically an oversized orange casually sitting on a chair. Yeah, that’s it, you! Let me tell you a little secret… one that I’ve really tried to keep quiet for the best part of the year, not that I’m ashamed or anything, and not that you’re probably not already aware, but just because it may be a little bit boring, but anyway… I fucking love Twitter.

Like, I really love it. I spend more time on it than anything else, I tweet more than I sleep. I tweet outside, inside, upside down, whilst having sex, whilst on the toilet, I tweet trying on shoes, making toast and shaving. Hell, I’ve tweeted in my dreams three times before. But I love it for reasons you may not quite expect.

Twitter is the best thing on the internet right now, and I really don’t care if you disagree. You hear the same thing all the time from the boring doubters; “It’s not as good as Facebook, it doesn’t have pictures”, “It’s just a load of people talking at each other”, “It’s only good for celebrities”. It’s this latter part that completely defines Twitter for me: Celebrities. But I don’t mean following them or caring about anything at all that comes from their scabby, money-grabbing fingers (even though Peter Serafinowicz is absolutely HIGHLARRYOOS on there). Oh God no. As if I care about the words of some egotistical, vain, self-obsessed show off who only cares about his own opinions and isn’t a single bit arsed about anyone else’s (err…).

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

The true reason I totally bum Twitter to death isn’t to hear, acknowledge or understand why Jonathan Ross is still banging on about Sachs-gate, or why Stephen Fry wants to make love to a tiny chimp-like creature, no, I bum Twitter ‘cos I like the celebrity death rumours that seem to occur almost all the time.

With this ever growing list of famous people dying throughout the year, people across the globe seem to have really been inspired by all these dead celebrities. One bored person decides to make a mock up of a popular, trusted news provider and, usually never actually intending on it going further than a few friends who are no doubt ‘in on the joke’, they link it on their Twitter.

Then some numb nuts (usually a slightly stalkerish fanboy/fangirl) happens to search for said celebrity, sees the tweet, believes the hype and passes it on to all their silly little followers.

Just last night, before attempting to enter the land of nod, I saw Zach Braff on the trending topics. Which would be odd ‘cos Zach Braff just left Scrubs and was probably sat at home, crying in the corner, smashing his against the wall screaming “idiot!” whilst waiting for his career to completely nosedive. But people probably wouldn’t have known that.

Actual photo of Braff pre-skull bashing

Within minutes this can be seen all over Twitter. Suddenly you get random people spouting a load of rubbish like “Zach Braff RIP”.

Now, one must be quick to point out that these people are usually American. Over here in Britain, we usually wait until the BBC has reported it before we accept anything whatsoever, so we’re less inclined to just believe absolutely every little piece of shit we read on a computer screen. Although that doesn’t include every single one of us mind, every nation has its morons. Ours just don’t know how to use computers yet.

Anyway, so news spreads that Braff had died when really he was fine and dandy and probably a tad confused. Apparently it all started from this website – which has now been changed to some kind of statement explaining all what happened, including Braff himself calling the guy a “douchebag”.

I, of course, find it all hilarious, the way such ‘news’ can travel around the world in an instant – to the point where actual news providers have to come out and deflate the claims – just ‘cos some geek in the States knows how to use Photoshop a little bit.

It’s happened tonnes of times though, and always with the most random of celebrities. When Patrick Swayze died a few weeks ago, I remained sceptical for hours until the beeb finally reported it, simply because I was pretty sure I’d heard about him dying at least three times in the past, and I might have already thought he was dead and still not given a shit.

A lot of these hoaxes tend to follow the exact same pattern as well, presumably because of any such web-page generator they’re using. In 2006 – obviously pre-Twitter – Tom Hanks was the subject of a mass e-mail rumour when someone clocked on to a website stating that he’d “fallen off a cliff somewhere in New Zealand”. Obviously this wasn’t true, he was in California or somewhere else utterly generic, but people believed it so his people had to make a statement.

A mere few months later, the same thing happened Tom Cruise. Like, exactly the same. He also conveniently fell off some cliffs in New Zealand. And people still believed it. Admittedly it’s quite a rural country and no doubt those cliffs are some slippery motherflippers, and maybe they weren’t signposted enough or something, but who’d have funk those cliffs would kill two Hollywood stars in a matter of months? If I were famous I’d stay well clear of New Zealand, let alone it’s cliffs.

But wait, hang on, the holy grail of celebrity death hoaxes, and probably Twitter peaking in its own brilliance:

This, right here, is the reason I fell in love with Twitter. In amongst the tragic and downright earth-shattering news of Michael Jackson’s death, some guy on the other side of the world thought it would be “well funny” to pretend that Jeff Goldblum, JEFF GOLDBLUM was dead. Now who the hell conjures up that idea? Someone with the best imagination ever? Totally. Someone I’d probably want to be friends with? Totally.

And guess what? He died in New Zealand! Can you imagine if someone famous actually does fall off a cliff over there? No one in their right mind would believe it anymore. Apart from maybe the Americans. And Channel 9 News.

But you know what they say, so long as you believe in something enough, it’ll happen. And so vast is the speed and power of Twitter, anyone can be proclaimed dead within a couple of hours. So I’m gonna start hash tagging #JohnnyBorrellRIP and see what happens. Feel free to join me.

Brad x

Everyone hates unemployed people. “Sponging off the state” you might hear them say, with their Marks and Spencer shopping bags filled with swanky dead animals you never knew were edible. “Lazy scum” scream others from their shiny hybrid Mercs. “The shit on the sole of society’s shoe” yells the conservative voter in the corner there, with his rich daddy who got him his first job in the big wide world and still buys his underwear for him.

Get over it, we’re not all that bad.

It’s not as if I’m unemployed through choice. I mean, I know it’s my fault, I picked a stupid university course to study, an overpriced city to live and study in and a rubbish trade to try and earn my living, that being the scabies-riddled shit heap world of journalism.

Plus, Jesus, didn’t I time it well? Let’s graduate in an economic crisis, the one time when magazines and publishers don’t want to take risks, when employers are downsizing and the only people getting jobs are old timers with cobwebs up their arses and significantly more substance on their hand-written, coffee stained CVs.

I’m not bitter – much. It’s just lame when people pass judgement without actually knowing how difficult the situation is. Some people have worked hard and done well, notably the more talented, well-organised and better connected females with much prettier faces, and the people who aren’t reserved, mumbling, pessimistic arseholes like yours truly.

So when employed friends or family give me stick for not being employed I tend to let it slide. Or force myself to realise they’re only trying to help, without realising all they’re actually doing is coming across as patronising little buggers. There’s not always a simple enough solution to people’s recommendations of “just get off your dirty arse and get a bloody job” …just what the hell do you think I’ve been trying to do all this time?

So what happens? You start doing unpaid internships where you’re sat in the corner of a poorly ventilated room, doing everyone else’s unwanted dirty work and watching them reap the rewards in the form of a monthly wage. It’s all in the name of experience, right? Yeah, sure, here’s a list of all the things I’ve ever learnt from internships and work experience placements:

1) Papercuts hurt like fuck

2) Hot water hurts like fuck

3) Spitting in your editor’s tea will make the days go faster*

4) Stealing is really, really fun and makes you feel A LOT better

Number three is actually a little harsh, as two of the internships I’ve done have actually been useful (stand up Artrocker Magazine and Rocket PR – you guys are safe, this doesn’t apply to you, I’d never spit in your tea), but the rest of them, especially anything based anywhere around Oxford Street, you’re a bunch of goons.

The other thing that really grinds my gears (lame Family Guy reference, I’m just as bad as the rest of them, sorry) are people that work in the job centre. I thought it was the sensible option to go on the dole. I get £52 a week, which ain’t exactly helpful, but the people in there seem to think they’re the love child of Sir Alan Sugar and Simon Cowell.

Yes, this did actually happen

Here’s an example; I was two minutes late for my last sign on – which I cunningly blamed on the Sittingbourne buses that plod along the roads like a bunch of dying raccoons who’ve accidently munched a few skag needles. And oh my, the looks I get walking in there. Waving through the groups of chav scum loitering by the door (you know, the types that still sniff glue and hold their ball sacks all day), the eyes given to me by coffee slurping ‘big shots’ in that building tear through my wirey frame like a flaming samurai sword slicing through a plastic bowl of piss.

My fellow jobcentre peoples

It’s like they’re supposed to be big shots. They’ve got their jobs and we’re causing them some sort of inconvenience for not having jobs and requiring their help. They act like they shouldn’t have to be there. But wait, hang on, don’t they need us just as much as we need them? I mean, fuck, if there weren’t any jobless people there’d be no need for the job centres, so don’t look down on me like I’m causing you problems, arsewipe. I’m giving you work to do so you can feed your inbred children, so do your job and help find me a job rather than jabbering on to eachother about how you think you might be going through the menopause or some shit. Ah thank you!

Plus who are you to judge, Snooty McSmugarse? You work in a bloody job centre. I think that means a nice old ‘nuff said’ is in order.

So sod you lot. As soon as I get a job I’m posting a card through their letter box with some scribbles simply saying “cunts”, poorly scrawled with my own poo, of course.

Brad x

* NOTE TO EDITORS – I didn’t actually do any spitting, nor did any of my fruitful bodily fluids reach any tasty beverages

I’ve only ever felt shame in my life a few times.

One of the first times (picked especially from my selective memory) was when I threw up during a school disco in year two. Maybe it was a sure fire sign of things to come, but to cut a long story short I ate some super dodgy wotsits and ended up projectile vomiting across two of those wrestling style fold up tables, all over various bits of food (that may or may not have later been eaten by another child – most likely the snotty kid) and all over the recently varnished glossy gym floor. I remember legging it to the toilets to finish the job properly, only to come back and see half of my mates skidding across it and having a massively amazing time at my sicky expense.

Another time I’ve found myself crying inside with shame was when – in the midst of showing off and trying to be the ‘weird, quirky, crazy kid’ at school, I downed an entire litre of cold chocolate milkshake and munched a load of 29p foam sweets during a lunch break in a Sainsbury’s cafe, IN SIXTH FORM. You could kind of tell things were going wrong when the mild tripping started, not to mention when I started sweating brown liquid and smelling like a mouldy Milka bar.

I moved to the toilet relatively sharpish after the stomach spasms began to occur, and obviously did the dirty right there and then. It was like I’d turned into a malfunctioning chocolate fountain, I spewed freezing cold brown milk juice everywhere, rarely actually hitting the water in the toilet. In fact, a majority of it hit the sides of the cubicle, leaving it looking like that loo from the beginning of Trainspotting. It was like joke vomit, like, you know in Guest House Paradiso when Simon Pegg and his family are all vomiting for yards on end because they’ve eaten nuclear fish? Yeah, it was literally like that, only brown and icy with the odd piece of strawberry shaped foam mixed in, not fluorescent green and bubbly.

Of course, I immediately took a picture and told my friends to come meet me in there to show them the good work I’d produced. Sadly though, all good feeling was spoilt during the incident when a man and his young son came in and heard me throwing up like the girl from The Exorcist. This led to the son awkwardly asked his father: “What’s that noise Dad?” “I don’t know, son” “And what’s that smell?” “I don’t know, let’s just get out of here”. I’m hoping that’s a moment that will scar the poor lad for life. The aftermath photo still exists on one of my old phones, one which I can’t be bothered to find for you.

Vague recreation: Although this looks more like actual poo, and my milkshake mess wasn’t really in the toilet much…

Then there was the time I was forcibly removed from some wanky club in Mayfair only to be put in the back of an ambulance and thoroughly mocked by the paramedics (“look at Pete Doherty in the corner there, ROFL”). Again, to cut a long story short, a swift intake of various mixtures left my stomach eagerly churning, and after spending what felt like five minutes (it was actually closer to an hour) in a plush toilet throwing up everywhere and eroding the suave seat with my bile, I was literally picked up by the huge security goblins and dropped in a gutter like the big massive cliché London is.

After having rich couples in Ferraris sneer past me for about an hour, it was only until a gang of hoodlums stumbled past and called an ambulance on my grateful behalf that my luck eventually turned. This is the same group of lads who openly admitted that on any other day they probably would have just mugged me had they not been in such good spirits, so that was pretty lucky. Not that there was much to mug, and I don’t think my shoes were quite to their taste in fairness. It was the equivalent of a Jewish person offering Hitler some Lemsip because he had the sniffles and it was most probably catching.

Here’s me in a gutter. Notice tag hanging out of bum crack.

The reason I bring all this up, and the point I was intending on making before I inadvertently got really distracted by my horrible history, is because I’ve just had to move back in with my Mum after graduating from university. And I’m confused as to whether I should be ashamed about this or not. I’m fully aware that this has absolutely nothing to do with vomit and yet all previous examples do (that was completely unintentional), but perhaps I feel like I’m ‘puking my life away’.

Having spent the past two years of my life as a semi self-sufficient adult in London, doing my own washing, occasionally cooking my own food, rarely doing my own ironing, I feel a bit silly moving back to this shitty little East Kent town I for some reason know as home. Should I feel ashamed that I wasn’t quick enough out of the blocks to get a job sorted straight after I graduated? Should I feel ashamed that I’m back in my blue bedroom with shit posters fit for a 14-year-old loser, like the one I once was? Should I feel ashamed that my mum is once again washing my dirty pants for me?

Answers on a postcard sent to whoever the fuck you want.

Brad x

I’m a massive pervert. You only have to briefly assess my general habits to come to this conclusion. As opposed to going out and being ‘normal’ most nights of the week, I stay indoors, in the comfort of my designated corner of the room, sitting on the internet and searching relentlessly for boobies during ever increasing gaps of writers block.

Some how I only really manage to go on about 10 websites a day, often the same, boring, standard ones. Usually hunting for morbid, disgusting stories, checking e-mails, gently stealing music and playing Farmville on Facebook.

Then I noticed this advert:

You may well have noticed it too, especially if you’re the proud owner of a penis. I noticed it once and thought nothing of it (despite the fact that, at the time, I was watching Freakazoid videos on Youtube). “Odd”, I thought, “that’s a little risque, surely there’s something dodgy going on there, best not click it.”

But then I saw it again. And again. And there’s something about that specific pair that grabs your attention for more ways than one. Sure, they’re a whopping great pair of jugs just sitting there in the middle of the page, screaming out for you to click them and download a shitload of trojans for your troubles. But I ask more questions, like, are they actually real? Why is one abnormally larger than the other? Is it just a bit squashed? What do they smell like?

And hang on a minute, THERE’S A GAME? A BOOB GAME? What is this “boob game”, the best free web game you speak of? Should I click? I shouldn’t. It’d be silly, I’m bound to be disappointed. But I will. Because at the end of the day, there’s a great big bunch of tits drawn by some 15-year-old spotty weirdo telling me to.

It links me to Evony, an online game that’s also tried to tempt me with these other familiar ads:

Are they her glands that I’ve had forced upon my poor, untainted eyes?

Well. Upon closer inspection, no. But they’re still very nice for a woman who’s not actually real. Notice the use of the word ‘discreetly’, as if it’s warning you that you’ll have something dirty and unspeakable to hide from your boss or your family members. Like some kind of game involving mass gang bangs and orgies, ogling at breasts and various other parts. Maybe some kind of porn version of Civilisation, where instead of fighting wars and creating a nation, you’re nurturing big breasted women, turning them on to drugs, making them shoot blue movies for cheap in a bid to crush all other competition with your smut.

Just a suggestion. But it’s kind of what I was hoping for. Maybe not exactly, but those kind of words were being wished for.

Turns out it’s just a shit Lord of the Rings, World of Warcraft type thing that losers play. So obviously I tried it out. I saw this:

…and I was instantly bored. Apparently this thing takes up a load of effort to get absolutely nowhere, so I gave up straight away. I put up a load of buildings and then begged a load of people to “come and destroy me” – perhaps at this point I was still hoping it would be some kind of porn/sex/adult/rape/awesome game. I aptly named myself “Bastard Man”, because that would be my porn star name if I were well equipped enough.

As I continue to harass people in the chat screen, saying things such as “Kill me”, “You’re all cunts” and personally and specifically insulting users who had just said something, I started noticing the one thing that makes you realise you’re not the biggest loser in the world. Sure, I’m picking needless fights with people over the internet for my own amusement, but when you see people such as ‘King Sakutay’ writing “Any girls out there wanna email me? I have 10,000 exp” or whatever, you know you’re alright.

Plus I wasn’t alone, plenty of people in there were simply asking “Where are the boobs then?”. Those were my people, and I felt for them.

So, to summarise. Don’t bother clicking those links or playing Evony unless you’re a prick. In which case, enjoy. Virgin.

P.S I did a bit of looking and found a piece on Coding Horror showing the progress and results of the Evony advertising. Let’s have a look at how they progressed:

It’s either extremely clever or utterly ludicrous. But it’s worked, ‘cos I’m writing about it. Maybe bigger companies should try it:

Splendid. Wait a minute, is that Amanda Holden about to clive a Burger King? I hope so.

Brad x

So as you may or may not have noticed, everyone seems to be fucking dying at the moment. Some we’ve been expecting, some we ain’t. When it was announced that Jacko was moonwalking his way up to heaven I was on a plane to Greece for my first holiday in about five years. Way to put a downer on the rest of the week, Mike. Thanks for that. Added to this my numb nuts flatmate blurting out the words “I can’t believe Michael Jackson is dead!” every two hours for the remainder of the week, it kind of swiftly turned my deepest sorrows and loving conscience in to a bastard-like bitter hatred, and instead of feeling sorry for his loss I started predicting who’d be next to go (I almost typed wishing – but that would’ve been a tad too harsh, no?).

As I’m typing this I’ve just noticed Robert McNamara – the guy who had something to do with the Vietnam War, like he was the U.S. Defence Secretary at the time or whatever – he’s died (thanks trending topics on Twitter). But you don’t care about that. You want someone as beloved and important and as influential as the mighty Jade Goody. Now THAT’S an important, life shattering death.

So here’s what I thought. I’m going to make some predictions. It’s not that I want these people to die (although some of them I might not necessarily miss), it’s just I think they might have a chance of dying in the not too distant future. And no doubt a fairly big fuss will be made of some of them. But sod it, let’s just have fun.

1 Michael Parkinson
I never even watched Parkinson, but whenever I skipped through the channels and caught a glimpse I swear Billy Connolly was always there. And they showed clips of Muhammed Ali like, every episode or something. And that dipshit with the emu puppet who basically physically assaulted everyone. But back to the topic in hand. As I loved his work so much that I never actually watched any of it properly, he’d get some pretty big attention if he died suddenly. People seem to really like him, and he likes Sky Plus, and I like Sky Plus, so we could potentially be spiffing friends. If he doesn’t die. Like I’m perhaps predicting.

2 Robert Pattinson
Much like with Parky, I’ve never seen Twilight and will continue to do so for as long as humanly possible. I’ve seen what that film does to people, overnight they turn into lame Paramore fans and start wearing bashed up studded belts. With all the adoring attention he was getting from every single female across the planet, I thought he was a prick (not jealous much), that is until I found out e was English. Now I think he’s pretty cool. But he seems to be the type to have some dark hidden secrets. And can you imagine the emo out pour if he went suddenly? It’d be bigger than Heath Ledger, and no one really cared about him until after he died. We need more shock celebrity deaths in the world.

3 Paul McCartney
It was a toss up between him and Ringo, and Ringo seems too boring to die any time soon. He’s too obsessed with himself to even consider letting any harm come to his oddly shaped head. Paul just seems a bit more rock and roll, like, I can imagine his yacht crashing into the Mull of Kintyre or something, which would make for some awesome headlines. Plus if Paul dies we can blame even more stuff on Heather Mills, and everyone totally loves to blame her for everything, right? For about two weeks I was convinced she was the reason why the Iranian government hates us so much.

4 Samuel L Jackson
This would sadden everyone around the world everywhere. Who the hell hasn’t seen a film with SLJ in it? He’s like the hardest working man the world has ever seen. People would go absolutely ape-shit crazy, it’d have the potential for Judgement Day. Films would never be the same again and we’ll all get cult-like tattoos proclaiming that we’ve “had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!”. Shotgun designing it.

5 The Queen
Am I the only one who’s been thinking about this for a few years now? I think ever since her Mum died and all the fuss that was made of it I’ve been taking a quiet interest in planning for the death of our dearest queenie. It’s gonna be pretty massive when she finally goes. Like, epic. I might even get paid to do some proper journalism work, the papers will be sorted for about a year. But then we’ll have to put up with Charlie knocking about in that super big house acting like he owns us all.

Any more suggestions are welcome, send them in to youarejustasmuchacuntasiam@bastard.com.

Brad x – P.S I wrote this like a month ago so sorry for my laziness. But shut up.

Comedians can be pretty rock and roll you know. Some are so hardcore they put even our finest musical hipsters to shame. So what kind of crazy antics do you reckon the young darling of the current British comedy circuit, Jack Whitehall, gets up to in his spare time?

“I’m at home with my dad watching Royal Ascot. Well, we’re not really watching it but it’s on. I went there yesterday with my friends and lost a lot of money. And there were a lot of scouse girls there with lots of fake tan with a few of them had just passed out on the floor. Everyone was taking photographs, which is such a horribly British thing to do. Someone passes out on the floor but you don’t help them, you just take a photo.”

Crazy insane, or not. But whilst Jack Whitehall may not be the most unruly of comedians out there he has been turning more than a few heads with a number of notable television appearances, as well as making waves on the live comedy circuit. After initially making a name for himself as the presenter of Big Brother’s Big Mouth for a series, the boy seems to be doing rather well for himself with a new weekly Channel 4 show and more stuff in the pipeline. But being the young, sharp funny guy, willing to say whatever the hell he wants, it doesn’t come without a few hiccups, shall we say.

“I don’t really mean to be offensive or anything. I just say what makes me laugh and sometimes that offends other people, which is when it tends to go a bit wrong. I don’t mean to do it, I only really do it when I’m nervous, but I think quite a lot of people do that. I don’t really say anything that offensive anyway, if it’s not for you then it’s not for you. Some people do get really offended and it’s just like, you do have the ability to change the channel or just go to the bar and have a drink. God, idiots. Fucking idiots they are. Hopefully that’ll annoy them even more.

“The worst experience I had was in Bournemouth, which that name alone scares me. These people worked in this industrial warehouse and it was their Christmas party. It was like 20th of December and they’re all fucked. I decided to take the piss out of one of them who happened to be the biggest one there and I thought it’d help, but it didn’t. He got up on to the stage and got me in a headlock so the security had to come up. When he left I was a little bit shaky and felt really violated, but I carried on with the show. It was one of those things where, you know how when people get assaulted they take themselves to a different place? I did that, I just kept thinking of happier times. I ran and when I got back to London I just cried myself to sleep.

“Another time where we almost got beaten up was in Wigan. I don’t know why I did the gig but the guy was quite nice so I went there and it was this hard biker pub. I went in there and there were about 60 men and most of them weren’t really watching. Then I started doing some jokes about bikers and stuff and no one was really laughing. So I said something like ‘what happened, did someone fall off a bike or something?’ And later the guy was like ‘oh yeah, I forgot to warn you, but the bar lady’s husband recently fell off his bike and died’. Which was pretty bad.”

Thankfully, regardless of these previous encounters, Jack has managed to survive and continue his good work on our TVs. He’s been on a load of programs ranging from panel shows to award ceremonies, no doubt meeting lots of lovely and interesting people along the way that he’d happily pass comment on.

“I went to the NME Awards and I met a lot of people and it’s just, fucking hell. Well, actually no, it’s hard to tell because they’re all fucked. Like, I interviewed Kasabian and they were just so fucked and it was impossible to tell whether they were dicks or whether they were just nice guys but fucked. But yeah, people in bands are weird. But I met Jack Tweed last night and he’s a monster. He was a dick. I was talking to this girl and I was saying it was my birthday next month in July and she was like ‘oh, I’m 20th of July!’ or whatever, and then she just looked at me and said ‘cancer!’ as Jack Tweed walked past. Like, fucking hell. And I’m pretty sure he heard.”

Nonetheless, expect to see plenty more of Jack Whitehall on your box in the future, happily swearing away and laughing at all things inappropriate in a time where both young and talented comedians can be pretty hard to come by these days. Unless he goes back to Bournemouth or Wigan any time soon, which might not be the best idea.

So, as you may or may not have heard, everyone’s fourth favourite kung fu movie star died last week in rather mysterious circumstances. And by mysterious I actually mean sexy (although I have to be careful what I say ‘cos this boy doesn’t want to get sued).

Rumour has it he was found in the cupboard, hanging and naked having attempted an asphyxi-wank. What’s an asphyxi-wank I hear you desperately shout? Well I’m very glad you asked dearest reader.

Urban Dictionary – probably the internet’s most resourceful tool alongside Uncyclopedia and Retropanzer – has the following definition for an asphyxi-wank: “The act of self-strangulation in both the literal and metaphoric sense – i.e. one hand strangling the neck, the other strangling the penis.” So basically what you’re doing is suffocating yourself to the brink of death, desperately hoping that you time everything well enough to spew your man mucus just before you pass out and potentially pop your pervy clogs.

My first understanding of this lovely little fetish came about when Michael Hutchence had a go and royally cocked it up, the dirty gasper. And then there was Shuya’s dad in Battle Royale who appeared to have either 1) had an asphyxi-wank with a view to suicide or, 2) decided he might as well waste all the bog roll in an attempt to piss his grief-ridden son off even further.

Obviously there’s a pretty big element of danger surrounding this rather dodgy practice. So being the true gentleman that I am, I’ve made a nice little list of tips if you’re ever tempted to try something a little bit different to your standard spunking session.

Tip #1 – Epic failure if you’re famous

If you’re a celebrity – or in any way remotely famous – it’s probably a good idea not to bother. There are so many other ways for you to get your dirty little kicks. If you’re any normal person you’d get started on heroin, have a massive drug binge, slap some paparazzi people around outside a trendy nightclub and then enter rehab, eventually leaving triumphantly to increased CD sales and maybe even a book deal. Don’t go accidentally dying with your dick out. That’s just embarrassing. What are your kids gonna think?

Tip #2 – You should probably plan it properly

Maybe make sure someone you trust is around, just in case it goes wrong, which is a very strong possibility. And I mean someone you really trust with this kind of thing. So don’t ask your mum to hang around for a bit whilst you try it out, that’s totally weird. Try asking someone who you suspect is just as messed up as you are for starters. Plus if you’re any kind of normal person, masturbating in any form whilst being fully aware that your mum knows exactly what you’re doing is enough to put even Ron Jeremy off his stride.

Naughty Spidey.

Tip #3 – Write a note

Just to be sure, of course. If you’re not planning on making this the last thing you do, at least write one explaining exactly what it was you was trying to achieve and where it could have potentially gone wrong. You could include diagrams and maybe even some research, and then maybe a little paragraph at the end stating why you thought it would be a good idea in the first place. It’s common courtesy for your poor loved ones.

If you have anything to add, send your suggestions in to someone else. Also, I’d be willing to experiment further with this subject and possibly partake in some serious gonzo journalism if you’d be willing to pay my overpriced London rent for the rest of the year. But you’re not allowed to watch, you creep.

Brad x

So you know, Big Brother’s back again and people are still taking an interest in watching a bunch of morons do moronic things for moronic reasons. Gone are the old excuses of it being an “intellectual social experiment” from the first incarnation. Now it’s just a glorified version of Eurotrash – which I’m sure a large amount of us would rather see brought back to life as opposed to this load of bollocks.

Nonetheless, BB is in its tenth series now, but God knows what the general public are expecting from it these days. Anywho, here are a few brief but useful tips to this year’s contestants, not that they can actually read it (it’s questionable whether some of them can in fact read at all, up you stand Sophie). Still, if any of this happens again, which would be terribly boring, at least they can learn that hindsight and research are truly very wonderful things.

1. Don’t piss of India. You’ll probably die.

I mean, it’s fairly obvious, and names don’t really need to be mentioned, but it’s definitely a Good(y) idea to keep your mildly offensive racial opinions to yourself, especially if you’re white and already deemed a pretty big hate figure. Not only will the people of India get pissed off and burn a few pig-like effigies of you, but you might run the risk of getting cancer and actually dying and shit. And that’s really lame.

Nah it’s boring now…

2. Spitting in people’s faces ain’t cool, sunshine.

It’s only like, one of the most disgusting things you can do. It’s in the top three alongside paedophilia and listening to Razorlight, in fact. You can’t just go round spitting in people’s faces and expect to get away with it just ‘cos you’re on the telly. Unless someone asks you to do it of course, but that’s just weird.

Spittle: Chipmunk motherfucker.

3. Try not to have a mental breakdown on live television.

For example, when things aren’t going your way and you’re starting to feel the pressures of solitary confinement in the public eye, just go and talk to Big Brother about it, they’ll sort you out. Don’t just grab a load of plates, run out to the garden and smash them all, scream at the top of your lungs and threaten suicide. That’s just a waste of perfectly good crockery, plus everyone else is gonna have to clean it all up afterwards and that’ll piss people off. Plus no one respects emos anyway, so just relax and lock it all up inside like any good mental person would, will you? Bloody moaner.

Mentalist.

4. Foreign objects + Your fanny = Epic fail

Especially when you’re on the large, ugly and downright skanky side. There are better things to do with empty glass bottles. Like recycling. Or arts and crafts. Or making a Molotov cocktail. But for the love of God, don’t put it up there all Exorcist style in a bid to impress a bloke who wouldn’t go near you with a shitty stick. Plus you’ll upset all the old dears watching on television. You don’t want to give your poor old nan a heart attack now do we.

Kinga in action: Yeah, I totally stole this photo ‘cos I’m unoriginal as hell…

5. Remember there’s loads of cameras around.

So be careful when considering whether or not to shave your ginger chest hairs in bed, or dressing up as cat in a bid to sexually entice a fellow older house mate in some weird flirty erotic role playing. And with the latter, it’s best to think twice particularly if you’re a somewhat respected politician trying to gain some votes and support for your normal day job in which you already come under a great deal of scrutiny. People will just think you’re fruity and a bit fucked in the head… if they didn’t already. Which they probably did.

During these recent times of slippery economic peril and standard student loan destruction, I – for some ridiculous reason – thought it’d be a good idea to try and get on a game show. I figured any way to make a quick easy buck would suffice, and anything that involved a minimal amount of effort in order to pay my hefty Hammersmith rent (that was never technically affordable in the first place) would be an added bonus.

Around about this time, auditions for Big Brother 10 were starting. So why not go for that lovely £100k and the rent-free luxury/shit heap house, with all the food paid for and the slim chance of being famous for a tiny little while… something that would no doubt be heavily abused in the VIP sections of wanky west end nightclubs at a later date.

It’s fortunate for me then that the night before the open auditions I got wasted on space cakes and ‘vodkat’, ‘cos seeing this mashed up group of twerps strolling in one after the other made me do a little sick burp. Apart from one female house mate, who actually pushed me towards a partially noticeable semi until she opened her mouth, but we won’t go into that right now.

So who are this year’s stand out special school rejects that we have to put up with all bloody summer? Well there are 16 of them, but there won’t be for long. Let’s take a looksie at the buggers in no particular order or structure:

Siavash: On first impressions you won’t be able to imagine a bigger bellend than this guy. He’s a club promoter from London which immediately makes the hate-o-meter go mental. But worse than that is his relentless claims of coolness. Plus he says he’s got “fingers in many pies”, and I seriously hate people who say that. It’s like Justin Lee Collins breeding with a Persian Nathan Barley, bigger in size than the Brooker version but oddly enough a lot more punchable. Although you can’t help but admire that handlebar tasche.

Lisa: Punk lesbian Keith Flint look-a-like. She’ll annoy you to death for the first few weeks and I bet she’s terrible when she’s on the blob. But she looks like she might cause a bit of anarchy which would be nice. Still, a more attractive lesbian wouldn’t have gone a miss.

Sophie: The aforementioned semi-giving contestant. Totally stunning and beautiful until she decides to open her mouth, then you slowly gain the urge to gouge your eyes out with a USB stick. Still, she’ll stay for a while if she plays her cards right, i.e gets naked. And she’s done Playboy and Page 3 already so I’m sure that won’t be too big a problem for her.

Angel: She’s Russian and attention seeking. Looks like the type that would randomly threaten suicide if someone uses up all the milk.

Noirin: Doesn’t (sort of) rhyme with borin’ for nuffink.

Freddie: He lives in a big old mansion and reckons he’s a smooth talking ladies man that makes great indie music. In other words he’s a tosser… with a shit taste in hats.

Beinazir: Dodgy Amy Winehouse knock-off who some how manages to pull the look off with even less credibility or attractiveness. And she’s got this nasty nose piercing that just looks like a massive snot bubble.

Kris: I’ve kind of forgotten who he is but I think he’s the one all the girls are meant to fancy. Cheap version Russell Brand, kind of like George Lamb I guess.

Cairon: The man with a misspelt version of Karen for a name was born in London but specifically claims to have upped and left for America at the extremely tender age of one. So he must be some secret child prodigy or some shit. He actually seems all right though compared to most of the others. He’s like a more normal version of the albino abomination that was Darnell from last year, basically not as creepy and with a less knobbish walk.

Charlie: It’s not very often you see an openly gay Geordie, so kudos to him. He also took a matter of seconds to make a buggery joke, so fair play.

Saffia: About as interesting as Jo Brand’s monotone voice.

Marcus: Probably the early favourite purely on the basis that he’s a massive loser. Hugh Jackman/Wolverine style sideburns and an epic collection of comic books and action figures. And I’m pretty sure he said he still lives with his mum. I’d be his friend if I didn’t have standards.

Sophia: On her way in she made constant sounds that closely resembled that guy from Britain’s Got Talent who played the saxophone with his voice. She made me want to shoot something. And she’s eerily shorter than anyone else on the show. What a downer.

Karly: Couldn’t decide whether to be blonde or brunette in the audition tapes and she has the facial features of a toe. And I’ll bet her breath reeks of coffee non-stop.

Rodrigo: The Brazilian who loves everyone. Literally. Randomly turned bisexual when he came to the UK. Probably most likely to spit in someone’s face. I don’t really trust him behind that evil smile.

Sree: As I write this I’m desperately searching for odds on which house mate is likely to have a full on mental breakdown. When I find them I’ll let you know, ‘cos I’d totally recommend we all stick a tenner on this guy. You can see it in his eyes, he’s not all there.

Brad x