Archive for February, 2017

We’re back on safe ground this morning as the Scum work themselves into a rage over the idea that wimmin in the Navy will wear trousers on parade rather than skirts.  It’s been awhile since they’ve gone crazy ape bonkers madhouse nutty over some perceived act of Political Correctness, so it’s about time they fruitlessly banged their heads against progress of any kind.  Just another example of how, progressively, we seem to be living in the seventies all over again through the gimlet eye of the tabloids.

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The Arsepress have gone for their usual ‘Agh!  Foreigns!’ headlines as they drag their sweaty, homunculus, toad like bodies over to the English borders and set up an angry front against any idea that free movement is beneficial as they report on May getting ready to batten down the hatches on Fortress Britain and give the UK a reputation for being a bunch of small minded bastards attempting to live in a rose-tinted version of the fifties.  I imagine their journos wake up every morning to a hearty rendition of ‘Tomorrow Belongs To Me’ before they shake their fists at the EU flag before flushing their heads down the toilet for story ideas.

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One point for Political Correctness Gorn Mad and another, as per usual, for Anti-migrant.

Cunt Papers

The Mail: 18

The Express: 18

The Telegraph: 12

The Sun: 6                                                                    

The Times: 5

Cunt Categories:

Brexit Bullshit: 27

Tory Wank: 7

Foreign Aid Madness!: 5

Public Service Bullshit: 5

Anti-migrant: 5

Trump Wank: 4

Be Scared!: 2

Racism: 2

Political Correctness Gorn Mad!: 2

Anti-Labour: 1

 

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Just one this morning and it’s those old bastards, The Daily Mule, as they set out on their never-ending quest to take down another public service.  This time it’s the BBC, and their unsubstantiated revelations that Capita have been enforced with trying to catch 28 people a week who skive off on paying for their TV licences.  So, on a factual basis (taking into consideration that if it’s printed in The Mule you can more or less guarantee it’s a pile of shit, but we’ll give the poor Nazi sympathisers the benefit of the doubt) this is actually a story about a private company – Capita – going after licence fee dodgers and NOT the BBC, but they’re blaming the BBC anyway, because Paul Dacre eats orphaned kittens for breakfast.  Dick heads.

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One point for Public Service Bullshit.

Cunt Papers

The Mail: 18

The Express: 17

The Telegraph: 12

The Times: 5

The Sun: 5                                                                               

Cunt Categories:

Brexit Bullshit: 27

Tory Wank: 7

Foreign Aid Madness!: 5

Public Service Bullshit: 5

Trump Wank: 4

Anti-migrant: 4

Be Scared!: 2

Racism: 2

Political Correctness Gorn Mad!: 1

Anti-Labour: 1

 

the-corrections

The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen – Available straight from the horse’s mouth

Warning: Spoilers

The first time I heard about The Corrections was from a review in Private Eye.  As usual for Private Eye they pissed all over Franzen’s chips in the usual Oxbridge sniggering-schoolboy manner, and not taking their usual disparity for literature as reason to ignore their review I stayed away from the book, which was a big mistake, as it turns out.

I eventually picked it up in a sale in Red Lion Books in Colchester for a reduced sum, and then it sat on my shelf for a good year before I eventually got around to reading it.  I was expecting a painfully earnest study into the American Family, and instead got an incredibly funny study into the American Family.  I have no idea why Private Eye decided a good drubbing was appropriate for this book, as I spent most of the time chuckling throughout its 600 pages.

It’s essentially about a screwed up family and their mothers attempts to get them all together for one final Christmas celebration, but in general terms it’s about a bunch of messed up misfits and how they collectively fail to make any real sense of their lives.  One errant son ends up scamming foreign investors in Lithuanian investment deals, the other son refuses to deal with his overwhelming depression in the face of an uncaring family, and the daughter ends up sleeping with both the benefactor of a restaurant she runs AND the benefactor’s wife.  When laid out like this the story reads as yet another bit of lint picking from the bellybutton of middle class America, but this doesn’t get across how incredibly funny the book is.  Each of the individual characters are clueless in their own way and responsible for their own misfortunes through a combination of ego and selfishness, and it’s watching them stumble through each calamity which provides the main joy of this book.

Corrections also manages a good deal of humanity as well, as the father of the family slowly succumbs to Alzheimers, but it never falls into mawkishness.  After reading this I’ve learnt two valuable lessons:

1.      Read more Jonathan Franzen

2.      Never, EVER, pay any attention to a Private Eye review

The Future

Trump has disbanded the Senate and declared himself Supreme Ruler of the United States, backed by Russia.

In the UK, Parliament has been overthrown and Farage installed as Conqueror For Life.

All major cities have been walled off, and small bands of rebels fight to survive in the wastelands of the US and England.

The Story So Far: PUNCHFIST! has teamed up with his American counterpart, IRONBALLS! just as news that Donald Trump is coming to visit the area where a machine for punching genitals is being constructed to subjugate the forces of revolution.

Now read on…

A thundering of heavy wheels.  The steady beat of the battle drums.  High pitched cat calls and random shots.  Trump was coming to town.

The convoy consisted of a tank at each end, and between them a ragtag collection of muscle cars and gas guzzlers overflowing with rednecks and angry looking men with no necks in business suits, and in the center The Trumpmobile – a mobile palace, decked out in gold, bristling with firearms and adorned with pictures of a smiling Trump helping the crippled, giving money to Jesus and punching Mexicans.

In the center of the mobile palace was a gold room, and within the gold room sat Trump in the corner, playing with a set of car keys which he jangled merrily in front of his uncomprehending face.

“This is so, so good,” he mumbled, eyes glazed over.  “Shiny.  Shiny light.  Shiny light of Christ.  Kill meskins!  I did a poo in my pants.  So good.”

The door opened and a gibbering, homunculus, unshaven, drooling sewer creature – leaving a trail of slime – lurched into the room.

“Bannon!” cried Trump, hefting his enormous bulk upright as his tiny hands flailed like the arms of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.  “The machine for punching balls?  Is it finished?  Have we got any Muslims we can test it on?”

“All is well, Master,” drooled the creature as it dripped bile from the suppurating pores which covered its body.  “Soon the world will know of how mighty your genitals are in comparison with all the flat pancakes which will be left after we let THIS fucker loose on the world.”

“Laugh at the size of my junk, will they!?” roared Trump, frothing at the mouth as his eyes started to spin in opposite directions.  “Just because all the women who’ve ever seen me naked spent the entire time doubled up in screaming laughter whilst simultaneously pointing at my penis doesn’t mean I have a microscopically tiny wiener, no matter what science says!!”

“Your genitals are massive,” soothed Bannon.  “But I fear we have more important matters to attend too.”

“Are you saying my dick is not the most important matter in the world?” said Trump, eyeing Bannon.  “And, hey, just because the image of Putin with no shirt on gives me funny feelings in the trouser area does not make me gay.  I love women.”

“Of course you do,” said Bannon obsequiously.  “Shall I cancel your Putin lookalike masseur.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Trump.  “Now let’s get on with these matters of state.  I’m a busy man with so, so many things to do.  I need to keep building this great ‘Murica and make it strong.  So wonderful.  How’s the border wall with Mexico coming along?”

“I fear trouble, your Extreme Wonderfulness,” said Bannon.  “After the last insurgency, we built the wall from 12 foot to 23 foot, but the bastards have gotten their hands on 24 foot ladders.”

“Those sneaky darn Meskins!” simmered Trump.  “Never mind!  Bring me a baby to eat!”

The door burst open behind Bannon and a gibbering ginger baboon hopped in, screeching and slapping the ground with its simian hands.

“What’s that, Spicer?” asked Trump.  “We’re approaching the factory?”  Trump tried to rub his hands together in glee, but his arms were too short to get near each other around his gargantuan body.  “Time to get sexy with the machine – I mean, time to inspect the machine.”

In the lead tank sat General Dwight D Bastardburger, Head Of All Trump Militia, eyeing the military industrial complex through the view port.  The complex was a mess of smoking chimneys and featureless grey buildings, bordered by a thick steel wall.

“Careful, men,” he growled into the comms mic linked to the rest of the convoy.  “If there’s gonna be trouble then this is where –“

“PUNCHFIST!”

An explosion tore through the muscle cruiser behind the lead tank, sending a fireball rolling into the air and scattering shotgun toting rednecks all over the place.

“A ding dang doo!” cried Colonel Balls T Itchynuts, the second in command.  “They’s got themselves a-this here raidy thang.  I married ma mother!”

Bastardburger hit the emergency alarm and the hooting sound of Trump whining in a high-pitched voice resonated throughout the convoy.

“IRONBALLS!”

Another explosion tore through the column, blowing up the utility vehicle in front of the rear tank, scattering angry besuited right wingers to the four winds.

“The goddamn libtards have cut off our retreat!” yelled Itchynuts.  He scooped up the comms unit.  “Get those goldurn rootin’ tootin’ doors a-open, ya hear me, numb nuts!” He unholstered his sidearm and clambered for the turret.  “No ding dang snowflakes a gonna kick ma ass, goddamn cleche it!”

Bastardburger grabbed him and hauled him down.  “Ya darn fule!  That ain’t no normal snowflake!  That be PUNCHFIST!”

“PUNCHFIST!”  A third explosion tore through the column, tearing the mobile lynching truck into smouldering parts and blasting a phalanx of hooded Klanners to the dirt.

In front of the colony the gates of the industrial complex started to creak open as the rednecks, Nazis, Klanners and Wall Street Bankers started to return fire at the unseen enemy.

Itchynuts opened a viewing port and fired off a couple of shots.  “I cayn’t see th’ goddamn enemy, dammit goddamn!” he roared.

“They’s bein’ sneaky and hidin’ and not facin’ us likes real men,” said Bastardburger with a quiver of fear in his voice.  “Damn them snowflakes.  It just ain’t fair using PUNCHFIST! against us!”

Outside PUNCHFIST! and IRONBALLS! watched from their spider holes at the head of the convoy as the gates of the industrial complex finally juddered open and the preocession started to lurch forwards, snaking around the burning wreckage as the revolutionary forces took pop shots at the retreating caravan.

“Now is your chance!” roared IRONBALLS!  “Find that machine and destroy it.”

PUNCHFIST! held up his fist.  “I shall not rest until my fist has punched many of the enemy.  PUNCHFIST!”

“IRONBALLS!”

“PUNCHF –“

“You’d best go,” said Spodworthy from beside them.

“The virgin is right!” yelled PUNCHFIST!, and scurried out of the spider hole, keeping low and sneaking through the open gateway whilst the forces of Trump were occupied with firing randomly in odd directions.

As IRONBALLS! watched PUNCHFIST! disappear into the industrial military complex, he couldn’t help wondering if their plan would work, and why Jaffa cakes weren’t technically classed as biscuits.

CAN IRONBALLS DESTROY WITH GENITAL PUNCHING MACHINE!? WILL IRONBALLS EVER DISCOVER THE JAFFA CAKE CONUNDRUM!?  DOES PAUL NUTTALL HAVE A REALLY SMALL PENIS (YES)?

Tune in next week folks for episode six of

PUNCHFIST!

 

After another short break so the staff here at Sortitaht Towers can go out and subvert the democratic states by speaking The Swears at dignitaries and tabloid staff, we return to find things much as we left them, mainly with the two main right wing offenders in the gutter press churning out the same old testicles with nary a pause to check the facts, because that would be FAR too time consuming when their journos have better things to do, like wanking and crying.

First up we have The Mule and their One Cunt Crusade to demonise the NHS and public services in general because they want to privatise everything and turn the public services into a private enterprise because a nurse once laughed at the size of Paul Dacre’s genitals.  It’s the only reason that explains headlines like ‘NHS Cuts 15,000 Beds In Six Years’ – a Daily Mail ‘fact’ which is already being disputed even before it came off the press because the Daily Mail hate facts as they tend to get into the way of blind prejudice.

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Speaking of which, I see The Arsepress are up to their old tricks again of sitting in the corner and sulking because the UK haven’t revitalised the corpse of Hitler and made it Prime Minister Of England.  Today it’s more wacky fun-packed shenanigans revolving around Brexit, where the thinking baboon’s toilet paper has decided to print the gibbering noises emanating from the mouth area of pudding faced bucket of wrinkled cocks, Phillip Davies, regarding the Brexit.

For those who don’t know, Davies is involved with the anti-union Freedom Association and the low tax pressure group The Taxpayer’s Alliance, and once questioned why it was offensive to black up.  He’s basically one of these ‘everything about equality is political correctness gorn mad’ wankers, and thus the ideal propagator for the views of the Arsepress and the shaved gibbons which make up their readership.

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Everyone who reads The Daily Express and The Daily Mail has a microscopically small penis – FACT!  Even the women.

Anyway, points today are awarded to Public Service Bullshit for The Mule’s‘ expose into making shit up about the NHS, and Brexit Bullshit for The Arsepress and their decision to give a platform to the sort of person who counts by slamming their dick in the fridge door.

Interesting to see the two cuntiest papers duking it out for the top spot.  It’s a neck and neck race into a quagmire of turds, ladies and genitalmen.

Cunt Papers

The Mail: 17

The Express: 17

The Telegraph: 12

The Times: 5

The Sun: 5                                                                               

Cunt Categories:

Brexit Bullshit: 27

Tory Wank: 7

Foreign Aid Madness!: 5

Trump Wank: 4

Anti-migrant: 4

Public Service Bullshit: 4

Be Scared!: 2

Racism: 2

Political Correctness Gorn Mad!: 1

Anti-Labour: 1

 

Only one paper has ploughed the depths of utter-bastardness today, and it’s those old sewer dwellers, The Arsepress, with another hair tearing, spinny eyed, frothing abuse of a headline, once again whinging on about migrants.  This time it’s the usual old knob about migrant workers.  I remember an article in The Graun a few days ago about how businesses were investing in brown trousers because of the lack of employees due to migrant workers leaving because of the atmosphere of unbridled racism propagated by Brexit (don’t whinge, Brexiteers, about this not being representative of the Brexit voting masses, because it fucking well is.  Otherwise racist attacks wouldn’t have skyrocketed by 300% after the fucking referendum, ya daft twats).  And now we get The Arsepress having a sulk over the figures, which they’ve probably pulled out of their arse if they’re previous form is anything to go by.

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Anyway, we’ll chalk this one down to Anti-migrant, because The Express are total and utter shits and Richard Desmond is a gibbering turd.  Fact!

The Mail: 16

The Express: 16

The Telegraph: 12

The Times: 5

The Sun: 5                                                                               

Cunt Categories:

Brexit Bullshit: 26

Tory Wank: 7

Foreign Aid Madness!: 5

Trump Wank: 4

Anti-migrant: 4

Public Service Bullshit: 3

Be Scared!: 2

Racism: 2

Political Correctness Gorn Mad!: 1

Anti-Labour: 1

 

 

scanners 

Scanners by Leon Whiteson – Good luck finding THIS in the shops!

Warning: Spoilers

Novelizations are a much-maligned force in the literary world, mainly because half of them are cheap knock-offs designed to cash in on the film’s success, or they were back in my day.

See, back when I were growin’ oop we didn’t have videos, DVDs or streaming.  If you were a child in the seventies the only chance you had a seeing a film like Alien was when one of the three terrestrial channels in the UK deigned to show the film, usually in a brutalized form where all the gore had been cut out (although, to be fair, when ITV first showed Alien it was uncut).  Your only recourse to finding out how the film evolves was the novelization, and being the massive film fan I was I ended up with stacks of the buggers, all of which were then dumped over to the charity shop when I left home, which is a right pisser as my imported copy of Halloween which I picked up in a second-hand book store is now worth a couple of hundred quid.  Balls!

The downside of this was some novelizations were brutally awful, and in some cases, full of downright bullshit.  Alan Dean Foster’s version of The Thing is a mish-mash of the original script and the John Campbell novella and written in the flat, emotionless style Foster is known for, which I have always found painfully dreary.  I know Foster fans who refute this, but to me Foster’s style lacks dynamic and, most of all, a love for the language which can elevate even the most tawdry Guy N Smith.  At least Smith is having fun when he writes, whereas Foster seems like he’s slogging towards the next paycheque.

Amongst the gems which I had were Squirm, Blue Sunshine, Inseminoid (a classic gore fest of a novelization which bears absolutely no relation to what happens in the film), The Brood, Deerhunter (an extremely short version of the three hour film) and Scanners by Leon Whiteson, which has the rare privilege of being awful and good at the same time.

When Whiteson sticks to the original screenplay the level of writing is fine.  But since a screenplay is very short, and even the shortest novelization needs some filler, Whiteson deviates from the dialogue to pad things out, and so you get this strange, mutated experiment of a novel where the mood of the book is suddenly ruptured as Leon gets inventive and tries to cram in his own cak-handed conversations, and once or twice even gets into the minds of his protagonists, which ends up as a bit of a shitfest.  For anyone who’s seen the film the novelization mainly comes across as someone pointing at the screen and describing what’s going on, and only a fool would expect anything else.  But even the worst piece of literature can have some redeeming values, although saying that The Bite – a pseudo cannibal Mad Max travesty which appears to be have been written by an excited four-year-old – and The Mall – a painfully dull made-up-as-they-went-along horror about consumerism which presents its arguments by shouting at you and banging you over the head with a tin tray – are both pieces of utter crap.  Seriously, avoid these books.  It’s not so much the terrible writing style or the ‘who gives a fuck’ attitude to plotting, it’s more that both books are so bloody dishonest.  The Bite should have been a mean, nasty, vicious little sci-fi horror written in a Cormac McCarthy style, but with extra blood and guts, and The Mall should have been a Cronenberg whip-smart bite out of commercialization.  Instead both books skimp on the horror and the action and just wander around in circles, avoiding offending anyone in case their mums find out.

The redeeming point about Scanners is a scene where our heroes are trapped in a hallway by two guards, who they scan.  One guard thinks he’s about to shoot his mother and the other manages to get off a shot and thinks he’s blown a hole in the world.  For some reason this part of the scene – destroying the world with a single bullet – has stuck with me over thirty years later.  And this is the reason why I try and give everything a chance, regardless of whether it’s deemed literature or not, because you never know what gems you’re going to find sometimes.

Except The Bite and The Mall.   They were shit.