Posts Tagged ‘money waste’

As this chart not-so-clearly illustrates, the Sun will ascend into the tropic of Ubiquity around this time in 3 years. We will fly into the black hole at the centre of the galaxy, which will crush us down to less than the size of a satsuma. The whole process will take about two hours, twenty minutes.

Everyone loves a happy ending. Just yesterday, researchers unveiled that the end of makeshift cancer treatments is in sight. And on Friday 18 December 2009, Terry Wogan’s reign of breakfast radio terror came to an end as he was overthrown by employment law and common sense.

Oh, what’s that? Some people love peril and confusion to dominate the human psyche? One such person is Roland Emmerich?

Update: most cinema goers have a hard on for disaster.

Thejamtart saw 2012 ages ago, and although the plot, script, cast and premise left much to be desired she recommended it for a December cinema outing. Having seen a trailer for 2012, I was enthralled by the prospect of seeing (in modern cinema crikey-vision™ no less) the dome of the Sistine Chapel steamroll over a bunch of Catholics on Saint Peter’s square holding a doomed vigil, including a fictional Italian president. Reduced to the heretic subatomic particles of which they so readily and vehemently discredit the existence, I can’t help but guffaw at the irony like an inexcusable expenses-claiming Labour MP.

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I’d like to apologise to our readers and my blogging colleagues for the unannounced and prolonged downtime experienced over the last couple of weeks. I have resigned from the finance department and a chimp equipped with basic numeracy and organisation skills has been found to usurp me.

Ostentatious debutantes eviscerated for your year-round delectation

Somehow we have entered December, after what feels like only a few months into 2009.

Tesco and all the despotic UK retailers have been ready for Christmas since minutes after Halloween fizzled out, merchandising decorations and the like everywhere you turn.

Marketers love spinning sales off the back of the seasonal festivities that pepper the calendar year. September is the ideal time to buy back-to-school home and contents cover. DFS love to drive home the importance of getting a brand new sofa every December, “the ideal family Christmas present”. (That of course relies on you having not already bought one every bank holiday so far this year. But make sure to leave room under the stairs for just one more settee which you’ll inevitably rush out to get at 12:01am on Boxing Day!)

One thing you’ll find in nearly every shop around now is 2010 calendars. There’s a calendar for the usual tastes out there, from cute West Yorkshire terriers to marine life photography. Yay! Dolphins frolicking about in enclosures in the Dominican Republic, secretly plotting our demise…

For all the hormonally addled teenster there’s calendars of Hollyoaks hunks or The Bill babes. Mm, Roberta Taylor in a negligee in January.

But that’s all a bit run of the mill. For more select tastes, you can gawp at goats that’ve climbed trees to gain a better picture of the surrounding pastures.

Or, if you’re a loathsome sadist, there are 12 captivating photographs of non-descript beasts with their viscera caulked all over the highways of America.

Have you got a hilarious idea for a calendar? Are you set to appear in one, in a reputation-shattering compromising situation? Let us know!

They say money can’t buy happiness, but really it can if you have any imagination. However, money can’t, and never will be able to, buy class: the more money you throw around trying to surround yourself with pricey wares, the worse everything starts to look.

Middle Eastern interior design doesn’t follow trends. Instead the attitude appears to be “write a cheque and get one of everything, and then get a couple of spares, and then buy the companies that made them”.

Have you been contemplating converting your diesel motor, so that it runs on Crisp’n'Dry? This will help you come to a decision.

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“He could turn on a sixpence” goes an old and remarkably unrealistic football-related maxim. A more contemporary interpretation would go something like “he could turn on fifty grand”.

It all but knocks me out cold that Ben Haim of financially struggling Portsmouth earned something in the region of the abovementioned figure to benchwarm at Manchester City with his Nike Pro+ sweats. Meanwhile, NHS nurses fight over bean sprouts.

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It even scrubbed all the serifs off the text!

To get the most out of your portable USB drive, leave it in your jeans and throw it in for the wash. Afterwards you’ll not only be able to use heiroglyphics in filenames, but its capacity will have increased to 26.2GB.

This works as well as ever and the bidding starts at £50. I will pay postage.

Bidding closes 5:30 pm on Friday 9 October 2009.

Please enter your bid in the comments field below.

Karl Lagerfeld: the definition of ego

We on the IWDTFM team are often asked, “Why don’t you all become models?”. It’s a valid question, given how good looking we all are. But I have a secret: I don’t understand the fashion industry. What it is, what it does, and why the hell anyone would want to be a part of it.

I’m writing this because I read Kate’s article about the New Zealand fashion week, and – like Kate – I was impressed that a country that has yet to pave its streets even has a fashion week. Wales doesn’t, although this could be due to the fact that large numbers of the Welsh population have yet to be introduced to clothes.

Not that the fashion industry is particularly concerned with clothes. They don’t produce things that you can wear. They produce monstrosities of design, much like a five-year-old with access to a large supply of Play-Doh might.

What really confuses me about the fashion industry is that so many people seem to want to break into it. Models, fashion designers, stylists, hairdressers… never mind that the industry seems to be a mix of sweat shops and the Third Reich, it’s honestly an industry that people marry footballers to get into. On your average thirteen-year-old girl’s list of “Things I Want To Be When I Grow Up”, the desirability of jobs in the fashion industry is probably only second to whatever the hell it is Tara Parker-Tomkinson did to get famous.

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A French bulldog puppy typically vends for around £2000 according to our on-hand puppy-buying expert. This is a hell of a lot of money to pay to watch a creature writhe around on laminate flooring. Turtles are like, only a fiver.

This French bulldog is doing an impression of a turtle. His owners take pleasure in making him look stupid, whereas actually they are extremely intelligent, and in this case this gorgeous specimen is merely feigning an interest in sitting upright to appease his masters.

There is something strangely opaque about his fathomless eyes though. Remember when you used to play with marbles, the “misty” ones? I am reminded of them when I look into this dog’s eyes when he stops writhing for a rest and a breather.

Forget the negligence of the owner, one of his parents is slumped on the floor in the background. Totally. Not. Helping.

Only a truly self-righteous prick would want everything they own to be red.

Bono is widely accredited with being smug, arrogant and self-righteous. Not content with this public stance he continually goes on to prove everyone right by using the plight of the third world as a marketing outlet.

Project Red customises popular wares with a unique red fascia. Phones, iPods, t-shirts and what have you all come in red so that people just as bare-faced can simultaneously accessorise and brag about their tireless charitable efforts.

Purchasing the Motorola Red phone sends £10 straight to the Global Fund to Fight AIDS, and £130 to Motorola. I daren’t suggest what proportion of this went to the Global Fund to Kit Bono out with a Limitless Collection of Ostentatious Commodities (GFKBLCOC).

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Like Mark Ronson's semi-digested then regurgitated Motown classics? Try this at home, you schmuck.

Special guest contributor Laura has been vying to write something that we wouldn’t instantly send to the recycle bin. Here it finally is.

I’ll start off with something close to my heart. Music. Now rip it out, smash it into smithereens, blend it with coal and salt, then rub it in to my eyes. I’ll be talking about the result.

Mark Ronson.

Recent news from the smug Rah-boy media-type ‘Muzak’ ‘producer’ is that he is doing the same old fucking thing he always does: fuck all. Between excreting soulless rehashed money spinning versions of other people’s hard graft, he occasionally irritates my ears and eyes by appearing on panel shows and ruining them.

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It feels like a Friday, don’t you think? These sort of little gems usually occur on a Friday, anyway! Courtsey of Epic Fail … If you didn’t know the answer, wouldn’t you take the $500k and run?