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ALL NEW: Lost in Translation

18 Jan

giraffeNow, I would never do anything that could be perceived as mocking one nation’s attempt to tackle our tongue; especially when their own language is to most of us as impenetrable as the Queen’s wotnot. Not that many of us would even attempt either. I speak of course, in general, of Chinese and, in particular, the peculiar, baffling and often hilarious mis-translations between Chinese and English we’ve come to know and love as ‘Chinglish’.

Yep, whilst most Brit’s only dalliance with the tonal nightmare of conversational Chinese is ordering a number 37 with Special Fried Rice, the freedom- and fun-loving figures within the decidedly democratic Chinese government like to go the extra mile by translating the country’s signs from meaningless squiggles into holidaymaker helping English; or something roughly approximating it, anyway…

Can anyone else sense giraffe?

Irony Fire Extinguisher

1 ChinglishIronyFireIf you think you don’t know what it is, imagine being an American whose understating of irony largely comes from the ironically off-the-mark descriptive prowess of queen of Canadian angst-pop Alanis Morissette’s Ironic. At best guess, I imagine this exists for the benefit of said Yanks as rapid relief in case irony levels become too much for them to bear – a pressurised metal canister full of whipped cream and burger fat that both instantly cools the mental overload and also tops up lard deposits to counteract the dangerous weight loss they’ve endured waddling from taxis to restaurants. At worst guess? The same thing.

2Incomplete Small Town Coffee

Erm, I’ll come back when it’s finished then, shall we? I mean, everyone has to applaud your commitment to signage, and if it’s just a matter off a seat scarcity and shortbread shortage, I wouldn’t mind too much, but just how incomplete are you? Oh, you still have children building the place? Right, yes, I’ll come back later…

Lovesickness-Carrying Pavilion

3 clinic

Sounds quite sweet, doesn’t it? Like The Tunnel of Love at a fairground or an amusement park for the heartbroken – a place where you’d go to try and mend your achy breaky ticker when your latest lady has stepped on it in her stilettos and left you on your lonesome. It’s not, though. It’s direction to the clap clinic at a Chinese hospital. Although ‘Lovesickness-carrying’ sounds a lot friendlier than ‘STD-ridden-slagbag’.

Deformed Man End Place

4 deformedmanThey’re a civilised lot, the Chinese. Nobody has any wish to have to look at the ugly or genetically mangled, but only in China will you find suicide booths for the fatally flawed to do the decent thing and end it all instead of making us beautiful people physically sick. No, not really, it’s the Disabled Toilets at Chengdu Airport! Though you wouldn’t necessarily arrive at that conclusion; ever.

Fuck Vegetables

5 Fuck-Vegetables1Yeah, damn right! Like the cry of a Tourettes-toting tot being forced to go down on an al-dente artichoke, it looks like the staff at this carnivore-only supermarket have had enough of pale-faced man-cows milling around the meat products and asking where they can graze. Either that or they’re actively encouraging people to fuck their five-a-day; which would be ridiculous; it’s not Japan, you know!

Do Not Defecate

6 dsc00103It’s a fair request, isn’t it? But slightly concerning that it’s a request that has to be made at all. I mean, sure, we’ve all been caught short once or twice and had to hurry past the queues for a McShit, but just how many of us would just release a hostage anywhere? Well, the fact that the authorities deemed the problem bad enough to translate it into Engrish suggests quite a few would.

Racist Park

7 Racist ParkAn all-time classic, if this was in Britain it’d be called Daily Mail Racist Park. But, despite the Nick Griffin-enticing name, this mangled bit of language actually points the way to a foreigner-friendly park specifically set aside for immigrants to The People’s Republic to enjoy Johnny Foreigner days out with their awful, godless, running dog lackey families. Actually, scratch that, if it was over here it’d be more likely renamed as the Daily Mail Centre of Racially Aggravated Assault Excellence.

Wildlife Is Not Food

8 img_1983Has anyone told Jeremy Clarkson this? Hmm, here we have the crux of the whole food-chain issue – a country famous for eating anything, absolutely anything, to the extent that the only thing with feet or wings they won’t eat is the table, seeing a local casually tucking into a raw Giant Panda haunch is probably only a matter of time. But, given the fact that we’re infinitely more civilised in the English speaking world, why bother translating it? Oh, yes of course, Australians…

Drunk, Insane, Armed

9 img_3537-2010-10-06The newspapers would have us think we have many and myriad problems in this country with drink, drug abuse and violence, but here’s an entry conditions sign for a landmark that makes our ‘problems’ look like a storm in a green-teacup. “No admittance for anyone who is drunk, insane and not properly dressed’ – fair dos, you don’t want Lindsay Lohan ruining it for everyone else. “Prohibit carrying… sword… metal-made electrical appliance… articles which can destroy the tower… articles which disturb common sanitation including unusual smell”. Fuck it, I didn’t want to go up it anyway…

Notice To Tourists

10 edited chinglish02This is all just common sense really: Do not enjoy the views and don’t flirt with the monkeys – some of them have the morals of a mandrill and would do you up the wrong ’un claiming you led them on in the wink of an eye. As to the views, they’re fucking abysmal anyway – call that a mountain? We could have gone to fucking Wales and seen better; and still got fucked up the bottom by a hairy primate…

Food for Thought

11 chinglish_restaurant_signOkay, I think we’re looking at some literal translation attempts here, so let’s take them one at a time:

The temple explodes the chicken cube – Cubed chilli-flavoured chicken

The soil bean burns the beef – beef and potato curry

The water boils the beef – boiled beef

Slip away the chicken slice – chicken breast fillet

Chicken silk noodles – just that

Black mushrooms rape – black mushrooms rape…

Moral Character Room

12 DSCN0232-e1286337146485I’d love to tell you exactly what this is, but the door-staff turned me away every time I tried to get in; even when I tried to bribe them whilst disguised as a sexy nun. I’ll have to consign this to ‘mystery’.

Slippery/Crafty

13 Chinglish5x7imageGood advice for life right there. Not sure it needs to be a permanent wall-fixed reminder of the nature of ‘the slippery’, but then perhaps if we had more signs like this dotted around the public areas of Britain we wouldn’t have let the likes of Bob Diamond screw us over with such ease.

Don’t Litter Downwards

14 dont-litter-downwardsThis may seem like a bonkers order given the predictable nature of the laws of gravity, but stop and think for a moment – this is the Chinese government, the shower behind producing the worst air pollution of any other nation on the planet. There, now it makes sense…

Mystic Yeast

15 6796495939_fc1c60f221_bOkay, you’ve got me. Possibly a sequel to 80’s Julia Roberts vehicle, Mystic Pizza, turning away from the theme of doughy junk food and to the subject of vaginal thrush? Perhaps using new age medicine? Hang on, I need to pitch this to some Hollywood types. Now, who really makes you think ‘Thrush’? Yes, Jennifer Aniston, of course!

16 chinglish_15

Civilized Urinating

Thank you, I don’t mind if I do! After all, no matter how civilised a slash I’ve just had, I still like to get away from the perfume of toilet pineapples and the stench of stale urea and enjoy an olfactory orgasm of fresh air. Sometimes I even remember to do my flies up too. Sometimes.

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Classic Pop Corner: May Contain Subliminal Advertising

2 Nov

What are  words worth? Well, I think you’ll find my rates are very reasonable…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UcqaCVCHgMc

ALL NEW: Hello! Is It Me You’re Looking For?

31 Oct

Apparently not, but that doesn’t appear to stop countless Google Gullivers, cast adrift on the sea on uncertainty that is the internet, persisting on washing up on the sandy shores of my blog, desperately seeking that one thing beyond their mortal reach – Lazy town porn.

Yes, as a responsible cyber-clogger, I periodically like to check up on the calibre of person perusing my pages and, indeed, what it was that led them to me in the first place. Fortunately, thanks to the analytics offered by mein hosts, I can do just that, seeing what country they hail from and the precise phrase they tapped into Google (with just the one hand looking at the results) that pointed them at me. Unfortunately, the reality of that is not so great.

I think it’s fair to say that, looking at the evidence, by and large, I can draw the conclusion that a particular type of ‘person’ ends up here quite a lot. And in case you were wondering just who you might be sharing this very sentence with right now, below is a selection from seven days’ worth of search terms exactly as they were typed in.

Naturally, where I can I’ve tried to help… or at least try and understand…

Amish Tits
As far as I know, these are salty cured meat knuckles sold by the side of the road in Pennsylvania.

The search for Amish Tits unearths a typical sampler depicting some Amish types and, of course, Lara Croft Tomb Raider and her unfeasibly large chest.

Sex in a luxury Jacuzzi
I like the inclusion of the word ‘luxury’ – it suggests that this fastidious pervert won’t have sex with strangers in just any old cheap Jacuzzi. My kind of bloke.

Hobgoblin Cake
Progressive rock group from the 70s whose greatest hit was a four hour epic on ice based on the very least popular of J.R.R. Tolkien’s books, The Annual Accounts of Mordor.

Fat bloke in Jacuzzi
Probably the same bloke from before checking how well he’d be received in said hot tub sexy time.

Sewer overflow cartoon
Because eventually the kids grow out of Disney.

Caravan sex
Disappointed fat man formerly thinking of Jacuzzi jizing now clearly lowering his sights.

2000 anorexic models
Make one ‘to scale’ model? For those days when 1999 anorexic models just can’t get it up.

Amish and where all the hoes at
He may not have mastered the workings of the search engine, but he knows what he wants well enough.

Cracked canoe beer bottle
My Native American name.

Dick ellershaw and ebay
The legal lap dog of the famous-name-portable-convenience manufacturer (see here) and eBay. Selling second-hand shitters?

Cock slag
One from my teen audience there.

Models gone anorexic
Ah, Russell Brand, welcome to my blog!

Jacuzzi orgasm
After crushing rejection the fat bloke’s given up on the idea of sex in a luxury Jacuzzi and is now happy to settle for a bit of self-service in a public spa.

Captain America golf cart float ideas
Yep. I’ve some of them.

Mexicans. Doing typically Mexican things.

Things that Mexicans do
Although stereotypically labelled a lazy race, you’d imagine there would be many other sites citing the activities of Mexicans that appear before mine. Apparently you’d be wrong.

Laugh mannequin
A non-sex sex doll for the man who just wants someone to find him funny? Is that you James Cordon? And have you been trying to cop off in a Jacuzzi?

cartoon the journey of a cheese sandwich through your digestive system
Wait, this sounds like me. I’m sure I followed it up with charcoal relief of a tin of Spam on a busman’s holiday up the rectum, too.

lazy town porn call the cops
Becomes self-aware at 02:14 am Eastern Time… half way through a tawdry tug over a kids’ TV programme.

pooh fucking piglet
Oh Jesus, what’s wrong with you people?

unfeeling robot
What he really wanted to Google was ‘wife’.

The robot wished it was unfeeling; but it felt everything he did to it….

fit pikey girls
Define ‘fit’, Mr Gadd…

glory hole wall of cocks porn
It’s important to cover as many bases as you can when conducting your search to ensure satisfaction.

Pritchard Media Tour: Part One

5 Aug

It occurs to me that it’s been a while since I could be bothered to post anything, so to make up for this utter lack of blog faeces-giving, I thought I’d give an unprecedented insight into my world.

Like opening the doors on Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory but with less chocolate and willy wonking, you’ve won a Golden Ticket, a Golden Ticket that takes you on a journey, a journey behind the scenes here at the magical Pritchard Media Factory. Pritchy Witcha’s Media Factory, I guess … actually, no, forget that, it sounds rubbish.

Some call it the TARDIS, some my Fortress of Solitude, to others it’s the Palace of Glittering Delights, to Josef Fritzl it’s too easy to escape, but to me it’s that place where I spend no less than 26 hours a day, sweating over a hot keyboard and milking out word-strings of varying degrees of interest from the very teat of fact.

But enough from me, go now with my two Essex Ooompa Loompas here and marvel in open-mouthed wonderment as you head behind the scenes at the most successful freelance writing/editing company ever in this house…

The Console

The very heart of the creative dream machine, from here ideas are formed, works of wordy art written and flogged off like cheap hookers or unwanted children, and porn is observed.

Let’s look around:

A) The Swear Box. Far too small to account for even an hour’s casual cursing, the Swear Box is now only called into use for the really bad words that I emit when I catch sight of stories about the Daily Mail, any TV talent show with ‘Britain’ in the title, the abortionate issue of such programmes, people who are too short, people who are too tall, fuckers with faces, swear boxes and, of course, blogs.

B) Pipe. For pondering purposes and, in the event of video conferencing, making a point.

C) Phurba. Tibetan Buddhist ritual knife. For reasons I find difficult to explain here.

D) WWII German Stick Grenade. Family heirloom from the period my grandfather dabbled with fighting for the other side.

E) Rear-view mirror. Even locked in your own impregnable office you can’t be too sure there’s not some whey faced goon, teen hoodie, Raffles-alike or evil clown behind you.

F) Sugar-based sustenance. Mostly Jelly Babies.

G) Magnifying glass. Used in the study of unidentified things found attached to either the furniture and fittings or myself.

H) Walther PPK/S. In the event of items seen in E) becoming tangible.

The Observation Platform

Through the reinforced shutters lies the white light of death from the moment nuclear Armageddon came to Colchester, frozen in time for me to gaze upon solemnly, mourning the loss of flavoured milk. This is the area in which I concentrate most of my looking, occasionally I flick channels to check on the state of the locals. It’s not looking good for them.

Let’s look around:

A) The Black Box. Beyond the Sheffield tones of my Artificial Intelligence virtual assistant, JARVIS Cocker, this is the only source of my aural inspiration. Except when Steve ‘Alan Partridge’ Lamack is on, or the empty headed drone of Nemone is covering for someone, then I put my headphones on and listen to something else until they go away.

B) Loose change. Conveniently bagged so that I can hurl the whole sack at passers-by instead of individual coins, thus saving time and effort.

C) Digital camera binoculars. Because neighbours need to be watched.

D) Discombobulating Oscillator. All in the name, really.

The Archives

A) Robert. So named not because of Robert Plant, that’s just one of those freakish coincidences. There to remind me that, in Britain, you are never more than a metre away from the terrors of nature. Also there to provide oxygen in the event of a full system lock-down.

B) Dictionary/Thesaurus. Because sometimes the internet is wrong.

C) Suspended globe. Because sometimes Wikipedia is wrong.

D) Randomly acquired figures of a selection of gods (yes, and a terracotta warrior) so that I can hedge my bets with that whole afterlife thingie.

E) Guitars. A complex series of riffs are played to signal to the household that coffee/a sandwich/cigars/hard liquor is required to help work through a tricky article on, say, horse-highering technology.

Blimey, this hatchet-faced harridan came out of nowhere! Okay, the boys are off now to drink cheap cider and fumble with some local slappers down the park, so she’ll be continuing the tour tomorrow. It’s time I also went to the pub to catch up on news and beer, so wait here with this feast for the eyes until I get back. Go on, go with her. Just don’t touch her. Or let her touch you…

ALL NEW: The Spying Game

29 Jun

Pimp My Spies: The Scarlet Pimpernel pretended to be an ineffectual imbecile, unlike modern spies that don’t have to pretend.

Spies: love them or hate them, you probably don’t know any. And if you do and you’re not a spy yourself, the spy you know is a rubbish one. At least that’s how it used to be, from fake hapless fops in the courts of the kings through to poison-tipped umbrella wielders on Waterloo Bridge, spies were anonymous shadow-lurkers that nobody ever knew about until it was too late. What’s more, not only did you never know about them, you never heard anything about them either, due mainly to their job description comprising two basic rules: a) don’t attract attention and b) Failing a), deny everything. Nowhere in their invisible ink contracts did it ever state that they should do their utmost to get slapped all over newspapers and the Internet like so much z-list celebrity Heat prolapse.

But that was back then, and despite all that seeming to work quite well, what we know these days is that spies are everywhere, like thinly concealed racism in the Daily Mail, Australians in Earl’s Court or ‘Diamond’ Bob Diamond’s bounds of immorality. In fact, it seems you can’t flail your arms wildly in any direction these days without hitting at least three; they just keep popping up out of the woodwork and getting more exposed than even Linsday Lohan’s keckless kebab. Whether they’re saucy Russian redheads in New York or hapless, bloated whistleblowers possessing all the sex appeal of a fox-exhumed corpse, it seems the world of espionage has never been more alive… or more out in the open.

So with all the fuss at the moment surrounding outted Norwegian ISI spies in Pakistan, UK spies coming up smelling of Cuban cigars in the latest round of who tortured who fingerpointing, and a particular suspicious stone in Moscow being turned, not to mention the forthcoming release of the disappointingly titled new Bond movie Skyfall (Surely You Only Ever Loved Skyfall Twice Again?), I thought it was time to turn turn my eye in the latest in my line of increasingly random articles to the world of espionage.

Spies Like Thus

Famous fictional spies have been popular for discreet donkey’s years, from everyone’s favourite international sex-pest James Bond to prematurely senile, problem-past facing Jason Bourne, from serial clock-watcher Jack Bauer to Alias’s Electra-complex battling Jack Bristow and, well, anyone else with the initials JB in between. Makes you consider Godfather of Soul James Brown in a whole new light, doesn’t it? Abseiling down a building in the dead of night, silent except for the flap of his flairs and cape, crashing through a window and forcing countless Soviet baddies into a get-up to the death. That’s the light I’m seeing now anyway. Come to think of it I may have a TV series here on a par with my Lighthouse Family detective series.

But beyond the seemingly lazy initials reliance, literature and not so literature is littered with countless other stars of spookdom, including the likes of the BBC’s Harry ‘Human Resources-bothering’ Pierce, little tinker George Smiley (the world’s first espionage emoticon), Ethan ‘Issac’ Hunt, Napoleon Solo (initially called Han Bonaparte), John Steed (a particularly furtive horse), Harry ‘Hairy’ Palmer and, of course, Secret Squirrel.

However, as Paul Ross would probably say if he was presenting a TV show on the subject for some lesser channel, fact is often stranger than fiction…

Bond sets his sights on his next conquest

Now before you get whipped up into a frenzy of anticipation, let me stop you there, as fact is not often stranger than fiction at all. In reality fact tends to be far more tedious than fiction due mostly to it being just that – fact. When it comes to the real world of espionage you’re less likely to see one of the intelligence community’s brightest and best ducking around in a mini-helicopter in some sun-drenched exotic location and far more likely to see them stumbling drunkenly out of a London tapas bar after leaving a laptop-full of the nation’s deepest, darkest secrets in the eatery behind them.

David ‘XXL’ Shayler – so miffed was he at nobody ever suspecting he might be a spy, the blubber blabbed.

And as to them having the suave, sophisticated sex appeal of, say, Roger Moore as James Bond, well the reality of the British spook is more liable to turn the stomach than the head. I refer you to David Shayler, the former MI5 man who cack-mindedly forgot the first rule of secret keeping: keeping secrets. Shayler was caught out passing confidential files that seemed to insinuate the Security Services had been investigating people on the sly onto that last bastion of national security, The Mail on Sunday, which promptly published an explosion of self-righteous outrage at the idea of such a surreptitious organisation being at large in the country. Here’s Shayler now. Look at Shayler; what woman could resist?

SIS (MI6) headquarters -just like any other building, blending in, disapearing. Nothing to see. Move along.

But this might just be a British Intelligence issue. After the Berlin Wall came down it seemed we’d won the Cold War by default and to celebrate the SIS went bonkers and decided to spend around £300-million on a brand new inconspicuous headquarters made out of Lego. Which was fine at the time with the Ruskies seemingly out of the picture, but then extremists started nicking planes and exploding randomly in the streets, forcing both MI5 and MI6 to look to the coffers for new staff. Bollocks, they’d spent it all on Babylon-on-Thames and could only afford the likes of Shayler.

Russia’s New York City Gal Anna Chapman. Yeah, I’d have told her anything she wanted too.

Meanwhile, in Russia, the country that was supposed to have lost, they suddenly had roubles galore, cash enough in fact to not only fund Polonium 220 flavoured slap-up sushi in London but also to recruit and train spies that not only remember not to hand secrets to newspapers, but also look like her there.

Following the  shambolic Shayler’s impressive espionage anti-success, the top cloak and daggerists at British Intelligence decided they need to try a different tack. Realising they could no longer rely on the kind of people they could afford they looked instead to something more stable, something more solidly dependable, a real rock if you will. And here it is.

Stone cold killer…

Cunningly disguised to look just like the average Russian rock, as remarkable as it may seem this fake David Shaler (one for the geology fans there) managed to do exactly what the fleshy version had so spectacularly failed to by spying on ‘the other side’ without giving itself away at the first sign of a journalist. What’s more it managed to do this sitting by a Moscow footpath, transmitting intelligence to passing British agents undetected, until 2006 when an FSB agent (the smiley new face of the KGB) kicked it over one day while literally leaving no stone unturned in his search for pesky capitalist spies… pesky foreign capitalist spies that is. Naturally, we denied all knowledge, keeping stony faced despite video evidence of British ‘businessmen’ picking it up, tampering with it in a most un-rocklike way and, on one occasion, simply carrying it away as though it were the most amazing rock ever. Which it was.

Fortunately, the cover of Sergeant Shrub remains in tact.

The ultimate result of all this has been the tit-for-tat turfing out of supposed spies left, right and Iranian-mental, Russia using the evidence of My Pet Rock to kick out British diplomats while the US instantly began a wholesale clear out of the Comely Comrade and her chums, while even Canada recently joined in to remind everyone of their vital role in the world by rounding up, moose-tying and riding no fewer than four Russian ‘diplomats’ right outta town, all of which, while it may have led to all out nuclear war a mere couple of decades ago, is now seemingly laughed off as though those involved had admitted to all charges via Twitter, ended with LOL and then all had been forgiven.

Lead by example

Spycatcher. A book that may as well have been called “Shh, Don’t Tell Anyone, But…”

But then you can’t blame the field operatives themselves, as the spymasters are no bloody better when it comes to being masters of spies. Starting with former Assistant Director of MI5 Peter Wright who back in 1985 published Spycatcher – a harmless kiss-kill-bury the corpse-deny everything-retire-and-tell chronology of 5 that named all its principle officers, detailed Wright’s own work on uncovering a Soviet mole in MI5, blabbed on about MI6’s attempt to assassinate President Nasser of Egypt during some barny over a canal, and included an expose of techniques, ethics (eh?) and even electronic technologies used to catch the ‘bad guys’ as an added bonus. So that was never going to cause a problem was it? Secret shit hit furtive fan, seemingly to the genuine surprise of Wright who, by this time, was wisely living in Tasmania.

But then he was only Assistant Director of one of the world’s formerly most respected security services, so how was he to know you have to keep the secrets not only after work but once you retire too? I blame HR.

Fancy a Stella?

Nobody higher would ever make such a monumental cock-up would they? Who? Stella Rimmington? The first female DG of MI5? The first DG of MI5 to have her name announced in the press and her photo published? The same Stella Rimmington who, during her time as head of The Security Service from 1993-96, turned the whole secret shebang into one big media love-in? There she is, pretending she’s Judi Dench. After stepping down in yet another unwarranted, unspy-like blaze of publicity, she went on to scribble down her own memoirs like someone with nothing to hide and then reinvented herself as a novelist, knocking out fictional spy novels the way Charlie Sheen knocks out hookers with titles like Dead Line, El Topo, At Risk and, presumably, Water Board, as though trying to revive the acting career of Steven Segal all on her own.

Yep, turning the whole concept of espionage on its now well-above-the-parapet head, all this publicity seeking and light-shining into dark-for-a-reason corners was always going to end badly. How badly? When you picture your own death, do you imagine slipping away peacefully in a comfortable bed with your entire family around you? Or do you like to picture your corpse being discovered locked inside a holdall in a bathtub in Pimlico? If it was the latter, seek help now.

More bondage than Bond.

Gareth Williams, a code breaker from GCHQ on secondment to MI6, a man who, previously, you would never have known anything about, hit the front pages when he’d failed to turn up at the spy office for several days and was found stuffed in a bag, padlocked from the outside, sat in his own bathtub. Suspicious circumstances, perhaps?

The whole charade was played out in the public eye with tests run to see if Williams could have possibly locked himself inside the holdall in the bath, but without anybody asking why, if he could, he would. Ultimately, it was concluded that someone else must have been involved. Sherlock must have been cripplingly constipated.

Of course, while we all feel for Williams’ family, the question has to be asked: why was he not just disavowed, buried in a building site and the whole thing covered up,or something, as you’d imagine it would have been handled back in the good old days of the Cold War? You can only imagine it was interference and threats of written warnings from Barry Smallcock in Human Resources again.

Bourne Again

So, with the most secret organisations in the world now utterly exposed by ‘transparency’ rules, Julian ‘It Wasn’t Me’ Assange, the newspapers and their own rank incompetence, what is the future of the intelligence community? Does it have one? Clearly the only person with the necessary information required to answer that is Rupert Murdoch, and he has no solid memory of anything, apparently.

All I know is, if he passed on secrets to the MoS, lost his laptop in a Tapas bar while pissed, scribbled down the nation’s secrets in a tell-all novel, and got replaced by a robotic rock prior to winding up in a holdall to heaven, I would not pay to watch that Bond film again. And I’ve seen Die Another Day three times…

Stuart Pritchard will return in… Skybar. Probably. If he can be arsed.

Me Update

21 Apr

I know what you’re thinking: “Other than the Jesus thing he took five minutes to cobble together the other week, Stuart’s been a bit quiet on the old blog front, hasn’t he? I wonder what he’s been up to that’s more important than venting his spleen online and providing me with something other than staring slack-jawed at the TV to do? I also wonder what he’s wearing?”

Well you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve been busy earning some of that crust I often hear referred to by editing the oracle of all things Audio Visual and Install that is SVI magazine, alongside reviewing apps and doing the news-felch for the Life of Android website – both brilliant resources for people who count ‘words’ and ‘pictures’ amongst their favourite things. Also, something tight with not too many buttons.

But be reassured that they’ll be more bile hitting the blog soon with a rather ripping piece on Spies currently being hand-fetched by pail from the well of words. You would have had it today, but I’m tired and apathetic now and need a pint.

In the meantime, here’s a story from that last bastion of fact, The Sun, about a woman named after a fish who woke up a lesbian: http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/4268089/I-was-lad-madthen-woke-up-from-coma-as-lesbian.html

ALL NEW: Jesus Christ!

6 Apr

Yep, it’s Easter, the point in the Christian calendar when we shake our fists angrily at Romans (or Jews if you’re Mel Gibson), nail people to trees and then eat chocolate eggs for largely inexplicable reasons. It’s also a four day weekend and, therefore, an excellent excuse to get and then stay drunk – thanks Mr Christ!

But, despite taking the holiday days anyway, there are many who don’t really believe that a baby was born of immaculate conception, was handy at woodwork, turned water to wine, did something equally nifty with bread and fish, and spent weeks in a Perspex box suspended above the ground in London with no food, water or toilet. They’re unforgivable heathen scum who’ll burn in Hell for all eternity with members of all other so-called religions, so they’ll get theirs alright!

After all, how can you not believe in someone who just keeps turning up in the most unlikely places? I mean, we’ve all had the face of JC rearing up at us once or twice, haven’t we? For me it’s normally whilst in the throes of orgasm. Which often makes me we ponder over just how much he looks like Bin Laden. Weird. Anyway, if you haven’t yet looked upon His divinine fizzog, here’s a few clues as to where you might catch Him…

The Tea Towel of Turin

Presenting the miracle of ‘Squint Hard Enough and You Can See Brian Blessed’

The Banana of Fife

Jesus loved this lady later.

Cheesus Sandwich of Nantwich

Father, Son and Holy Toast.

The KitKat Christ

Finally connecting Christ with chocolate.

Saviour Fishes for Me

The Jesus Stingray that took Steve Irwin to ‘a better place’.

Leg of Lamb of God

What’s more He died for her shins.

The Savoury Saviour

Yes, it seems your best bet for eye on Christ action is grilled cheese sandwiches.

Pizza His Body

Or in a three-cheese pizza. There’s a theme here.

Proof of Purchase of God

Jesus not only saw you buy that copy of Underaged Shaven Dwarf Horses, He has the evidence.

Holy Sock, Batman!

“Jesus was a black man. No Jesus was Batman No, no, no, no, not at all. That was Bruce Wayne ” – Hymm 132 by Black Grape.

Writing, Wall, On The

How do you deal with that? Do you paint over Him or just have him starring at you constantly, judging you like some Simon Cowell?

That’s enough of that now. Yep, I’m off to the pub to see if I can spot Jebus at the bottom of a pint pot. Merry Easter!