The Sun seem to have been holding a subtle 'Spot the difference' competition...
Early on this week, one of these pictures was being decried as an abuse of an English Hero. It was, apparently, a disgrace that he could be hi-jacked by a group of people celebrating their own minority beliefs.
Later in the week, one of these pictures was being held up as a celebration of how an English hero is backing our bid to host the 2018 World Cup.
Am I alone in not really seeing why they are different?
Apart from the obvious things like having a Conservative PM, Phil Collins and porn that takes too long to download, I realised I have some irrational hatreds.
And one of them is interviews with fictional characters (Ethan's old interviews with action figures stands as an exception to this mind you).
I hate when I see on a magazine cover something like 'Exclusive Interview with Homer Simpson'. Or 'Alan Partridge speaks'.
I only realised how this annoyance had turned into a full on, bile filled out and out...um..outrage, when I turned the page in Total Film this afternoon to see an 'interview' with Pussinboots from the Shrek movies and actually found myself getting angry.
What a complete and utter waste of ink and paper. I want to cunt in the fuck each and every so called 'journalist' involved.
So, I'm spending a happy Saturday afternoon, sitting in the sun, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee and leisurely reading through The Guardian. I have a go at the Scrabble puzzle in the magazine, have a flick through the sports section and pick up The Guide. I enjoy the piss take of the new Pepsi ad, read through The Hot List, laugh at Charlie Brookers preview of Spartacus: Blood and Sand (particularly enjoying the description of the scene where he chops so many limbs off his opponent that it looks like he's fighting a 'CGI lasagne') and then, what's this?
A fucking interview with 'The Black Smoke Monster from Lost'.
my afternoon ruined.
And to make it worse, I don't even actually know what on earth that is.
I’m on the tube on the way back from work, minding my own business, reading my book and I notice the man opposite me, with his can of beer (it’s been illegal to drink on the underground for about three years, but I don’t bother mentioning this) staring at me.
I tried to ignore him, but eventually he spoke…
‘My name is Daphne Fairfax’ he said, which may have come as a surprise to the other passengers, but fortunately I am smart and remembered the title of the book I was reading…
‘So, what’s that about then?’
So, I thought I’d tell him.
‘Well, Daphne Fairfax was a fighter pilot in the second world war. She managed to fake being a man throughout the whole war without getting caught until she fell in love with Douglas Barder. It’s a funny story, she would have got away with it, but she got drunk in the mess one night and made a pass at him. He didn’t like the fact that a man was coming on to him and he hit her over the head with one of his false legs. It’s a good book’.
He seemed satisfied and as we were near my stop I stood up and went and waited by the door, with my nose firmly back in my book - The autobiography of British stand up comedian Arthur Smith and named because of his famous opening line ‘My name is Arthur Smith, unless there is anyone in from the Streatham tax office, in which case my name is Daphne Fairfax’
But I do so hope Mr beer drinking man carried on believing me once he’d sobered up, cos mine is a good story, no?
I have written before about stupid things I have done to myself. Standing behind the rear tyre of a car as I tried to push it out of the mud it was stuck in, stabbing myself in the forehead with a pencil while demonstrating how close I had just been to accidentally stabbing myself in the forehead with a pencil, seeing my shoelaces undone and thinking I better do them up before I trip over them then tripping over them...
But I beat them all now.
I was laying in bed last night, happily reading my book when I started to get annoyed by a moth. I brushed it away a couple of times, started to think that I was going to need to get up to deal with it when it landed on my duvet.
So I went to hit it with my book.
A good hard whack.
And then in that milisecond you get between hurting yourself and the pain receptors in your brain reacting I realised where it had landed...
I eventually fell asleep with aching balls and a moth that I am sure was mocking me.
"In the papers there is a story about a doctor who built up so much student debt that she works as a call girl on the side. This many people haven't been left fucked by their doctor since they arrested Harold Shipman."
No, really, I do. I love page 3 of The Sun, just not for the reasons you may assume. I mean, don't get me wrong, I have take no displeasure from seeing pretty, nubile young ladies staring out of the pages of my newspaper while being photographed in exotic locations with their breasts on display, but somehow, when you're 36, finding yourself staring at the naked chest of 'Poppy, 18, Birmingham' has a way of making you feel slightly uncomfortable in a way that it didn't when you were, say, 26...
No, the reason I love page 3 is the brilliantly straightfaced yet tongue firmly in cheek text that accompanies the pictures, 'News In Briefs', where the pictured young maiden holds forth with her views on the days big news stories. I mean, here's Poppy's (19, Birmingham), views on the first ever solar night flight:
'Poppy thinks it's fascinating that a solar powered plane has flown through the night. "We've come a long way since the first solar cell was created in the 1880's. Photovoltaic production growth has averaged 40% since the year 2000".
It's been a week since the world cup ended and three since ENgland's humilating exit, and in all that time I have no heard one single football related joke that has made me even think about possibly laughing.
Not, I hasten to add, because I have been wallowing in pity and dispair at the state of England's football team (I have Southend United to fulfill that purpose), but because the jokes have been, without exception, unrelentingly shitty joke.
Until today, and I genuinely laughed out loud when I read this one:
Emille Hesley got a job as a zoo keeper. On his first day he was given the task of cleaning out the tortoise enclosure. The head zookeper said 'it will take about an hour, and off Emille went, mop and bucket in hand.
An hour passed.
The three, four, five. And Emille hadn't returned.
The head zookeeper went off looking for him, only to find him sitting on a bench, head in hands, next to an empty tortoise enclosure. He said 'Emille, what happened? Where are all the tortoises?'
Emille said 'I don't know, I just opened the door and "Woosh"...'
So, Peter Crouch slept with a prostitute
<o> The prostitute then sold her story to the papers. In the interview she claimed that the Spanish football team were arrogant and treated her like a whore.<o></o>
<o> I mean, I guess I can sympathise with the woman who has sex in hotels for money. I used to serve food in hotels for money and hated it when people treated me like a waiter.</o></o>
I'm walkig under the bridge at Waterloo, just finished rolling a cigarette when I hear 'Got any spare change, Bruv?'
I carry on walking, I've got to that cold hearted point where I can't even be bothered to apologise to everyone that askes me for money on my way to and from work.
Then I hear again 'Bruv, hey Bruv'
I ignore it
Again, I ignore it. I assume I am getting abuse for not giving him any money, people have done it before and people will do it again, so I don't think it's an overly cynical idea.
Then, really load 'OI!!!!'
The bloke walking towards me says 'Mate, I think he's trying to tell you you've dropped something'
And I have to walk back and pick up my tobacco from in front of the begger. Muttering a shame faced 'thank you' as I do so. And still not giving him any money because that would just have been...well...weird...wouldn't it?
And I hate myself for the rest of my journey home.