People are Basically the Same Part II

Nothing brightens up a morning trudge to the tax office quite like Daniel Craig having his humourless brooding aura pierced by a micro cock making sweet fuck with his conk. Wonderful stuff.

People are Basically the Same

I’ve gone on a bit about how sometimes the cultural and liguistic differences of Rome have me either flummoxed or exasperated or just plain upset. But sometimes you’re reminded of just how similar we all are, deep down. Today was a classic example; I was waiting for the metro up to San Giovanni when I spotted what was ostenisbly some sort of insurance advert. Only I looked a bit closer and saw something glorious:

You just can’t beat a good cartoon cock drawing, can you? Notice how they draw the comedy member just like what we do, with neat lines referring to both the helmet and the eagle eye of this particular cherry leaving you in no doubt about what’s up. And although they do get minus marks for no comedy spurting of spunk, our graffiti-ing heroes garner a good 8/10 for making me laugh very hard in front of a load of bemused commuters. It’s a winner, no?

Bring Me the Head of Chelsea’s Marketing Department

As someone who has a season ticket at Chelsea in his name, I still get the occassional promotional email sent to me from the club. Usually these take the form of ticket promotions, or things happening at the ground (player signing sessions and what have you). Every now and then though, a piece of diamond-encrusted corporate balls will drop into your inbox; is this the most poorly timed message ever?

Now I don’t know about you, but quite apart from the cringe-worthy headline, asking people to go quote hunting for mortgages right now might not be the sort of thing you want attached to ‘your brand’ right now, no? Spangles has just taken a 6% hit on the valuation of her (in the process of being sold) house, and she’s one of the lucky ones, so you’ll forgive me for thinking that far from being a charitable, jolly FIVE GRAND GIVEAWAY, this is in fact Britannia’s way of using a football club to try to increase traffic to their website, snatch a few hapless souls into giving them large sums of money and help oil the grubby wheels of a struggling industry in the process. It’s pretty ugly stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree, and I’m not just talking about the image of Mike Riley showing a red card to a large, overdue utility bill.

‘Your home may be repossessed if you do not keep up repayments on your mortgage.’ You know what? I think we’re quite aware of that already, thanks very much.

Italian TV: Tacky Vision

Picture the scene: a chiselled hard-bodied specimen of a man takes the stage. The lights are low, enhancing his high cheekbones and pearly white pearly whites, while his rippling shimmering torso is peeking through his skin tight, open to the belly button shirt. The low throb of a funky house record rumbles underneath, while our hero is crouched in his pose like a well-groomed funk panther. Before you know it the lights have gone strobe on your ass, six girls in boots and skin tight PVC shorts have bounded onto the stage legs-a-kicking, while the main man himself leaps into the air and gets his freak on – never before have the studio audience seen a pair of leather trousers and a haircut work a crowd like this, and they’re loving it, clapping along to the plodding, pedestrian beat of a tune that is the signature sound of the suburban All Bar One. They bring their perfomance to a (teenage fumble in the back of a Ford Orion) climax, grinning and panting heavily into the camera, taking every second of the barely-deserved applause, before the floor manager cuts back to Camera One and Jeff Stelling says; ‘thanks guys, now over to Oakwell, where Chris Kamara has news of a dramatic twist in Barnsley’s favour!’

Thankfully you in the UK don’t have watch your glorified vidiprinter filtered through light entertainment toss, but that’s not the same over here, oh no. Every Sunday Quelli Che il Calcio brings in the socres as and when they happen, but because it focusses solely on Serie A (the other leagues play on Saturday), they have some serious time to fill, hence yer previously mentioned dancing queen. Think Soccer Saturday mixed with Britain’s Got Talent and you’ll have an idea of just how horrid it is. Half the time the presenter Simona Ventura was bigging up her own stint on L’Isola Dei Famosi, the Italian equivalent of I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out Of Here! A show that upon watching proved to be  just as tacky and pointless as the British version. Although at least one of the stars is Vladimir Luksuria, the world’s first transgender MP, which is a damn sight cooler than Joe Pasquale and Gemma Atkinson. Miss Luksaria by the way, is the least convincing woman I think I’ve ever seen, nothing like those confusing trannies you used to see on Ricky Lake, or if you were really desperate for a she-male fix, Maury Povich.

But I digress. What is interesting about football shows over here is the amount of airtime women have on them, and I don’t mean by adding a photogenic face to a smooth link between highlights packages. Women are often either hosting the shows, providing analysis, interviewing players other sorts of terrifying freedoms that in Blighty would surely result in the very fabric of society having a flowery girly pattern sown onto it. Which seeing as Italian society is incredibly sexist in ways that you wouldn’t even imagine (Spangles once spoke to a woman who upon returning from London was racked with insecurity about her looks because men didn’t openly sex pest her in the street – seriously) is a trifle odd. You see it in the stadiums as well; there are loads of young women in the Sud, who know all the songs and go just as crazy (and swear just as much) as their male counterparts. Not once have I seen lechy behaviour there either, despite the fact quite a few of them are particularly diverting.

I don’t have a conclusion, other than something vague about the match being a release from the chains of being a worker drone or housewife and therefore melting the impose gender barriers that confine and oppress us all, but such cod-sociological piss water will not infect my personal space. Instead, take a look at this video of the show from Sunday just gone, where British pop mediocrity Estelle bashes out a little number.

I mean, what the fuck?

Lego Wasn’t this Good When I was Growing Up

Sometimes the creativity of others really knocks you back. When I was a kid Lego was a vaguely pointless tyo that involved you building a truck – and then looking at it. As presents go, it wasn’t exactly up there with my Ghostbusters HQ, which came complete with a pot of foul smelly gunk that was supposed to be ectoplasm from their slipperly apiritionary buddy slimer. Suffice to say my discovery of the sexual practice of bukkake put all that into a bit of perspective. Now I don’t know if you all have checked out Brick Shelf, but if you’re a bit of a saddo liek me then you might want to. Here’s a couple of my own personal favourites, just for you.

First up, it’s everyone’s favourite deranged despot, Adolf Hitler. How you say, blackly comic?

Next up, it’s Vladimir Lenin, looking for all the world like a character from a Soviet Thomas the Tank Engine. ‘No,’ said the Communist Controller. ‘The Revolution doesn’t come until until October’. Hohohoho.

But my all-time favourite lego must be this wheelbound playa;

I don’t think he needs any introduction, does he? I can almost hear his digitised voice telling me that I am… a… very…. bad… maaaan. Yeah, so I’m burning in hell, whatever.