Childlike supervillain creates giant teddy bear

“It will melt your heart, then dissolve your face.”

The sound of Shakira

If a trumpet and a foghorn had sex in a bucket of broken glass, the noise they made at the moment of climax would sound exactly like Shakira’s singing voice. I’ve got one of her recent chart-topping abominations going around in my head right now and it’s enough to make a sane man want to bury an ice pick in his brain in order to drive out the demons. Trumphorn.

Spice Girls reunion is on!

Yes, it’s the photograph you’ve been waiting for — Porky, Whiny, Squealy, Pinky and Sausage are pictured here together for the first time since 2001, meaning it can only be a matter of time before a reunion is announced!

Three reasons Xmas is rubbish

1. Xmas music: Slade, Roy Wood, Jona Lewie, Wham, and any fucking cunt who’s ever released an Xmas single. Laziness and cynicism drive the annual spurt of Xmas bleating, and the artists do it purely in the knowledge that if their record is even a mild hit, it will earn them royalties for the next 50 years from every Xmas compilation album and in-store piped music system in the country. Screw you all, you money-grabbing cocksuckers.

2. Xmas shopping: In which people suddenly become even slower, wider and more stupid than before as they block pavements, doorways, and the precise shelf you want. Heaving crowds of last minute idiots clog every free inch of every shopping centre, making you wish you could just seal the place up and fill it with some sort of lethal Xmas gas made from sprouts and greed. May you all receive dangerous presents that are poisonous or liable to explode, you pile of blinkered twats.

3. The spirit of Xmas: get fucked. Serving only to highlight quite how shitty people are to each other the rest of the year, the Xmas spirit involves a good deed requiring the least amount of effort possible, such as spending another quid on someone’s gift or holding a door open for some old dear who ordinarily would beat you to death with her walking stick in order to secure the last turkey in the frozen food section. If anything, the Xmas spirit should involve being as putrid to each other as humanly possible in order to make the rest of the year seem less soul-destroyingly crap.

And balls to the baby Jesus too.

Three things they should teach girls in school

1. If you dye your hair light blonde, don’t tan your face dark orange.
2. If you’re wearing a white skirt, don’t wear a black thong.
3. If you’ve got a funny walk, don’t wear tight trousers.

Bad films II

I watched a series of incredibly, mind-bogglingly stinky films on TV yesterday. First off was “Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle”, which looked like it was directed by an educationally subnormal hyperactive chimp. The film made so little sense that I thought they must have edited the fuck out of it for daytime TV, but in the end I decided it was really was that gasp-inducingly abysmal. Mundane things such as set-up shots, logic and coherence are obviously beneath a director the stature of McG. Third worst film ever made.

Then I watched “Men In Black II” or “MIIB” or whatever the fuck it’s called, the most perfunctory sequel ever at 88 minutes. This one looked like it had been edited by a blind, one-armed Parkinson’s sufferer and appeared to contain 50% of the first film’s script and 100% too much Lara Flynn Boyle. Scorchingly average.

Finally, there was “Bad Boys II”, or “BIIB”, probably. Compared to “Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle” this is a masterpiece, but it’s still a colossal, 40,000ft tall pile of the world’s smelliest turds, lovingly flattened and shaped into a two and a half hour long strip of film with Will Smith’s face on. This is the shrill, pointless, ugly, loud, grating harpie of a movie you would get if every single member of the cast and crew spent every free second of their time during its making stuffing enormous amounts of cheap cocaine up their noses and dousing themselves in piss before jabbing themselves with electric cattle prods, especially as two thirds of the way through it gets bored with being the film it’s supposed to be and turns into a 1980s Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. They should have called it “Michael Bay’s Hundred Million Dollar Wank”. Wank.

Inside Tony Blair’s dreams

“That’s President Blair, motherfucker.”

Bush unveils new policy on Iraq

“Who, me? Nah, it was that Rumsfeld guy.”

Love Actually: not a viable alternative to entertainment

I made myself watch ‘Love Actually’ on television last night which, considering my blind bile spewing hatred of ‘Notting Hill’ and more than mild annoyance at ‘Four Weddings And A Funeral’, was odd. Thankfully, though, ‘Love Actually’ didn’t disappoint. I’m pleased to say that the British film industry managed to turn out one of those films it does from time to time, one of those well-made, well-budgeted films that has a large cast of actors that wouldn’t be out of place in a Hollywood blockbuster, one of those films that’s so fantastically smug and fluffy it makes you want to pour fresh lemon juice into your eyes and rip off your own flesh with your bare hands.

‘Love Actually’ manages an incredible feat; though not quite as shit-fuckingly twee and wrist-gougingly woeful as ‘Notting Hill’, it comes consistently close — not just in the self-satisfied writing, but in the large cast of shiny shitfuck actors who poo out arch-dick Richard Curtis’s warm words of wank. From the opening scene until about halfway into the film, one shitfuck actor after another is introduced to the audience. Look, it’s Hugh Grant as an entirely believable Prime Minister. There’s Emma Thompson. Liam Neeson’s got a dead wife and a freakish little child. It’s that bloke from the BT advert, see? There’s Alan Rickman! Bill Nighy! Keira Knightley, Chiwetel Ejiofor (the poor bastard), and that bloke from ‘Teachers’! Colin Firth patronising a foreigner! That nerdy one out of The Office is holding some woman’s tits! Hey, there’s that porky slapper who used to be in Eastenders! There’s even time to shoehorn in Ant and Dec! And, once the seemingly endless introductions actually end, to get you over the disappointment of not seeing any new shitfuck actors on screen, there’s a fucking Dido song to listen to. It’s enough to make you break off your own teeth just to have something to throw at the TV screen.

And so it goes for something approaching eternity. Everything is lovely in all it’s lovely loveliness. Richard Curtis distills every character’s life down to a point where no-one pays bills, has a shit, works, eats or sleeps — all they do, for every single second of their putrid lives, is spout pompous windbaggery bollocks about love. Love is this, love is that. I can’t concentrate because I’m in love with a teasmaid, I’ll never love again, I’m in love with someone I can’t have and, strangely, I want to bang my slutty secretary because I’m married to Emma Thompson. Let’s face it, if you had a slutty secretary who spent her entire day making suggestive comments to you, and you were married to Emma Thompson, who in the world would sympathise with Emma Thompson? Just because, well, listen to her.

These characters’ stories interweave in a way Richard Curtis obviously hopes makes him the English Robert Altman, but in reality it just makes him a self-satisfied cock. And the end, the very end of the film (not the bit where Liam Neeson encourages his son to break through airport security, run halfway around a large airport, evade security and jump barriers for a miserable peck on the cheek, as if that wasn’t bad enough; or the bit where Prime Minister Hugh tongues a tealady in a primary school, or the bit where Richard Curtis finds time to introduce two more shitfuck actors, that bird who used to be married to Charlie Sheen, and the shiny tart with the knockers who was the tall one in American Pie II), the bit where a montage of people kiss each other until their myriad tawdry tonsil hockey fills the screen, is the single most nauseating thing I’ve seen since the whole of ‘Notting Hill’. The only thing that stops ‘Love Actually’ from exploding into a giant ball of candy floss is that occasionally someone says ‘fuck’; but even they’re fluffy, funny ‘fuck’s that your gran would tut at but then chuckle anyway.

‘Love Actually’ is the second worst film in the history of everything, even worse than ‘Big Fish’ or ‘Welcome Home Roxy Carmichael’. It’s execrable, the celluloid equivalent of being hugged by a perfumed duvet for the 6 hours the film seemed to run for, and to echo the words of Mark Kermode, everyone involved should be thoroughly ashamed of themselves. So there.

Paris Hilton wins VH1 award

“I’d just like to thank my panties, who couldn’t be here tonight…”