Archive for June, 2009
If you can sit you can get fit!
June 30th, 2009 | 
Author: Soon to be introduced to London buses and other forms of transport…Way to go!
Tags: big business, chair, fitness, infomercial, marketing, morons, office, sport, video | 
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New Ryanair policy: “We hate you, and we hope you die in a plane crash”
Michael O'Leary summarises Ryanair's opinion of you
Imagine, if you will, a family wedding. In amongst all of the guests, the mothers and grandfathers and children and friends, you always have that one person who has to be invited but whom no one else can stand. The greasy, sleazy cousin who farts through the service, uses his fingers to eat the chicken, gets drunk, starts a fight with the best man, and ends up drooling over the boss-eyed bridesmaid who can’t handle her champagne.
Know who I mean? Good. Now imagine this man’s less appealing little half-brother, who is on his way to collecting ASBOs in every major borough of London. You are now picturing a man who has at least twice the charm of Michael O’Leary, patron saint of shit airlines.
Michael O’Leary is a force of nature. Insanely arrogant, he actually had his car classified as a taxi in 2004 so that he could drive in the bus lanes around Dublin. He allegedly once posed as a journalist to obtain information following a safety incident on Ryanair, the airline he both runs and fronts.
It’s music, Jim, but not as we know it: Z-list celebrity singles
An extract from Inexplicable Celebrity: The Diary of Kayleigh-Anne Boyd
Post eviction: Monday 30th September
I have giant round shiny new boobs. Look so totally gawguss. I need to go shopping now for some classy outfits to show off my vast and deep cleavage. This morning I lost half a piece of toast down there and spent, like, 30 minutes trying to get it out.
I heart Angus right now, he is doing everything right for me, he only wants the best. Yesterday he says to me, Kayleigh-Anne Boyd — now is the time for your single.
I thought he said, now is the time you are single and burst out sobbing. I am so single! So dumped! Sven is telling all the papers I am a lousy lay — soo embarrassed! And it’s not like anybody could be a good lay in the Big Brother house anyway, having sex under those blankets and trying not to make any noise.
Yesterday all the paps cornered me outside the club I was stumbling out of, asking me what I thought about that, and I had to give a very dignified response, so I said, I’m so above all that and won’t be commenting on whatever crap that peeny weeny stupidass fuckhead says.
So… yeah, but no, what Angus actually meant was it’s time for me to record a singing record thingee. A song. Squee! I am going to be a pop star too!
Terry Smith: proving that crime minus thinking doesn’t pay
The Art of Armed Robbery
‘Dumbass’ is a rubbish word. With so many insults available to advocates of the English language, it is a word that should be buried and left for dead. ‘Idiot’, ‘ignoramus’, ‘cretin’, ‘dolt’, ‘moron’, ‘simpleton’… All of these should be more than capable of ousting the word ‘dumbass’ from common usage.
Except that, sometimes, there is no other word that so perfectly captures the essence of a person. Some people, through their own ridiculousness, are so suited to being referred as a dumbass that the word simply cannot be laid to rest, lest we start thinking of them as somehow intellectually equal to goats.
Dogs eating mail / the crazy poodle
A solution to my junk mail problem! All I need to do is get a dog like one of these:
Hartley really really really hates junk mail
Just die… doo doo doo do…
Clearly she is not as original as she makes out - the Yeti is minutes ahead of her
I am still surprised and throw up in my mouth a little bit every time I think of Lady GaGa, and how she even penetrated mainstream music.
When “Just Dance” was getting air play and the odd mention in tabloid columns, Lady GaGa was namedropped, quickly followed by “the electro queen of 2009” or “the electro pop diva”, I’m pretty sure no-one linked the peroxide eccentric with the lasery tripe of “Just Dance”. I was excited and greatly anticipated the arrival of electro in the mainstream UK music circuit. I would be chuffed if electro started blaring out when my tone-deaf partner had Capital FM on in the car.
My enthusiasm was deluded. This goddamn bitch is not only not producing electro, but really trite R&B. Any wonder I didn’t connect the name to the tune.
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The infernal paper spam of LaRedoute
One day I decided I wanted new sheets. I ended up buying some from the LaRedoute website, after a sufficiently gruelling online search. My mad search skillz uncovered a voucher code for LaRedoute which gave me a mega 35% discount plus a free gift, which the geek in me was very smug about.
The sheets were fine. Maybe a tad cheapish feeling, but fine. I stuck em on my bed.
But the free gift turned out to be a LaRedoute catalogue. They actually sent me a paper version of their website. I stuck that in the recycle bin.
I don’t do catalogues.
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I’m not a wannabe – get me out of here!
Hedonism is more difficult than it looks.
I am in hell. I had all the best intentions. Relax and spend quality time with my other half on a quality beach and in bars. I know I wasn’t forced to come to Ibiza, but it was a lastfeckingnanosecond.com steal for the flight. As is the case most times one winds up in hell, I have myself to blame.
Airing my woes while I was there was fraught with danger, given the stereotypical mindset of my fellow countrymen abroad. My thoughts were bound to be misconstrued as drawn-out contempt. I’d rather just spill my guts here.
Just a wafer thin intraperitoneal injection
The day I recruited Geoff for clinical trials.
Geoff frequently complains about being the sugar-daddy in his relationship. It’s not that I actually care, it’s just I get sick of hearing him whinge on about it. And I know that Geoff will do anything for money.
Gripped by the throes of intense irritation philanthropy, I decided to get Geoff some money and sign him up for some clinical trials.
Geoff is probably the healthiest person I know, which makes him the ideal speciman for testing random pharmaceutical products on. An occasional non-smoker, he consumes 5+ a day fruit & veges from a variety of foodstuffs such as crisps, fries, pizzas, burgers and those little snack salami thingees. He can even run to the corner shop in about 10 minutes, depending on wind speed.
I knew he would be really excited about giving back to the community too. About really making a difference to the world and bringing meaning to his tiny and pathetic life.
Clinical trials are inherently… sometimes… safe. You know that by the time they’ve come to test the drug on humans, no more rats will be dying while foaming at the mouth and bleeding from the eyeballs. By the time it gets to the human testing stage, they’ll only be looking for side effects like severe organ failure.
Scent of a whore’s fake LV handbag: the art of celebrity perfume making
An extract from “Inexplicable Celebrity: The Diary of Kayleigh-Anne Boyd”
Post eviction: Tuesday 7th September
My manager Angus picks me up at 9am. Way, way too early. I didn’t have time to glue back on the 2 nails I lost last night prying open that bottle of pink vino, so I could get boozed enough to call & hang up on Sven 17 times. I hate not having all my nails glued on. I look like a total freak. Even though am wearing my best ever outfit — favourite Jodie-esque white lycra minidress with hot pink knickers.
“Can we go by the salon?” I beg Angus.
He blows a cloud of cigarette smoke into my face. “No time, princess. Your personalised scent awaits. Eau de Boyd. Time to join the celebrity perfume gravy train.”
My own perfume! So, so excited. This is the moment I have been waiting for since I left the Big Brother House last week. It’s a real sign I’ve made it, you know? More than the Nuts photoshoot, or the interview with that fat radio DJ… My own face is gonna be stuck on a product. People are going to buy my face. Now that is fame.
