Tag Archives: daily mail

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…

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ALMOST NEW: What’s In A Web Name?

10 Jan

As you know, it’s still early days for the Internet and, wisely, most people are waiting to see if it has any of the longevity of Ceefax before getting involved. So during this test period the ‘Web’ – as the kids have taken to calling it – remains a bit of a bleak, hollow nothingness.

Sure, you can gain free and easy access to all the bukaki dwarf filth you or the subject can stomach before vomiting your eyes out, you can hand over your bank details to as many Nigerian Princes, Euro Lottos and Pyramid Schemes as it takes to see Debtor’s Prisons reintroduced just to send you to one, and you can waste what remains of your life poring over the banal blogs of freelance hacks desperate for some kind, any kind of attention, but ultimately there’s nothing of any real interest out there. Or, to use a Top Gear-ism, is there? Well of course there is, otherwise this post would be not just an abuse but an absolutely Rwandan-style genocidal onslaught of the term ‘pointless’.

As ever the richest open vein of blood gobbing entertainment on the Internet comes from extracting the urine from the misfortunes, misadventures and missing-the-other-side-of-the-cliffs of others. But whereas lesser blogs would now just point you towards YouTube clips of air-gulpers getting maimed or, better still, killed in countless amusing, undignified and, if possible, pant-soiling ways, not me. No, instead I’ve conducted the minimum amount of research necessary to dig out for you a collection of online idiocy that goes to prove that many of those with websites really shouldn’t have websites at all and that you really can find anything online. “What’s in a name?” wrote Shakespeare back in the awful old days. Well, Billy, have a look at these beauties…

Experts Exchange (www.expertsexchange.com)

Yes, what is in a name? Well quite a lot if Experts Exchange is anything to go by. A website that comes packed with tips and advice from the great and good on all walks of everyday life, such as finance and job seeking, you’d imagine this was an amazing online resource put together by the web-savvy for the greater good of all. Oh, hang on, www.expertsexchange.com? Expert Sexchange? Oh, it’s just somewhere you can get advice on gender reassignment and gawp at naked pictures of the genitally confused! Imagine getting those two concepts mixed up.

That said, it’s hard to imagine just how such a complicated cock-off procedure could be done virtually, but that’s why they’re ‘experts’ I guess.

Mole Station Nursery (www.molestationnursery.com)

Given the sheer volume of child sex offenders that have been plucked out of pre-school care facilities of late, you would have thought you’d think long and hard over all connotations of your web address before settling on one, even if it is just for your harmless gardening, plant and landscaping business based somewhere called Mole Station, wouldn’t you? Well you might be that careful, but not Mole Station Nursery who just went charging straight in like a crazed crack-fuelled nonce in an all you can eat playground buffet: http://www.molestationnursery.com.

No matter how much you need to get your hands on a hardy begonia and how innocent of understanding you are, we’d steer clear of Molestation Nursery at all costs, because all that Gary Glitters is clearly not Internet gold, and when the pleb at PC World has a nosey through your history when he’s supposed to be fixing your computer, this is going to ring alarm bells. And then sirens.

Amish Online Dating (www.amish-online-dating.org)

Nothing inherently wrong with the name here, but I ask you for one moment to sit and consider the contradiction: the Amish – a people famed for spurning all forms of technology in favour of a simple farming/quilt-making/Harrison Ford-hiding life set somewhere in the 18th century. They ride around in carts, raise barns and love moustache-less beards, but the most famous aspect of the Amish is that aforementioned absolute aversion to technology. So, what’s this? But of course, it’s an Internet dating site dedicated solely to people who list their only acceptable technological possessions as a horse and possibly a straw hat. Possibly the loneliest online dating site since Susan Boyle’s www.BoyleInABag.com

Pen Island (www.penisland.net)

This is so stupid that I’m inclined to believe this site was named such on purpose in a bid to draw as much attention as possible like an ADHD child with a drum, but regardless, Pen Island is your one-stop online store for all your calligraphic needs. There are standard pens, retro pens, light-up pens, fountain pens, custom pens and even laser pointer pens. That’s pens, pens, pens, people. All on a special virtual island that, depending on the way your brain processes these things, is either called Pen Island or Penis Land. The latter sounding more like the direction Disney might have taken if that cartoon stuff hadn’t worked out – “The Hardest Place on Earth”.

Therapist Finder (www.therapistfinder.com)

Either way this website is a boon to society. It’s either an essential online facility for people suffering from all kinds of mentalist problems from depression to anxiety, the stress of divorce to problematic child behaviour, or it’s a sinister sounding database that the police turn to in times of investigative desperation. “Open The Rapist Finder, Officer. Punch in these details: dressed as a clown… used a balloon animal… was heard to grunt ‘Here comes, Zippo!’ at the moment of release. Ah, there he is!”

Okay, so we already have a sex offenders’ database to turn to when yet another glam rock star turns bad, but this really is quite specific. Plus, surely this treads on the toes of the Daily Mail?

Who Represents? (www.whorepresents.com)

Well, make your mind up. You’re either a virtual resource for celebrity hungry Scorchio magazine types to find fodder for their next front cover and for overpaid politicians to source minor-celebs to pose with during election times, or you’re an online knocking shop for the lonely to browse a selection of naughty ladies prior to hiring their talents for them of their friends to enjoy like some kind of cyber pimping service.

Personally I find the former and the images of tittle-tattle magazines and/or Lembit Opik posing with weather girls it brings with it more abhorrent.

Go Tahoe (www.gotahoenorth.com)

Continuing in the realms of receiving a stranger-fumble in return for a sack of cash gushes forth this little beauty from the slap-dash minds at Lake Tahoe’s tourist board. “Lake Tahoe – Experience it All!” begins the homepage, spewing fuel onto the red-hot hooker fire. But then, for some unexplained reason, it goes all off piste and starts banging on about skiing, ice skating and snowmobiling, dropping all mention of northern hoes like they’d gone out of fashion. But then, perhaps like all that winter sports stuff, ho-ing has a season too? Ah, yes of course, Hoseasons Holidays – now it all makes sense…

“FRIEND”SHIP ENDS IN FRAPE

7 Jan

Police warned again today over the inherent dangers of e-meeting people over the Internet after it was revealed that one in ten was now a victim of frape. The latest fuckwit to come forward describes how she had been aware of being followed by her would-be attacker for some time, but never considered how serious intentions towards her were. For security reasons her identity has been protected. “She always seemed harmless enough,” our cretin told reporters via Instant Messenger, “Okay, I had no idea who she was, but some of her Tweets were so hilarious! And she was following so many people how could I have known she’d single me out?

The virtual online relationship had latest over two months before things took a more sinister turn. “By this time we’d moved onto the next stage and become Facebook friends, and I was even considering inviting her to join me on LinkedIn, but then, one day, she took exception to one of my status updates… and that’s when I began to become concerned.”

Dirty laundry, public

She continued: “I can’t even really remember what I’d said now. I think I’d quoted something from the Daily Mail which I’d agreed with… but she clearly didn’t. Firstly she questioned my intelligence, then she turned quite rude and, finally, it just became a mass argument punctuated by pure abuse. I was horrified – it was all on my wall, for everyone to see. It was all I could do to keep replying and help perpetuate the public humiliation. After a few weeks of this I unfriended her and thought that was the last of it.”

But the worst was yet to come. “It’s one of those things you never think will happen to you. You know it goes on, but you never imagine… not even in your worst nightmares. She was one of only a few dozen people I’d shared my Facebook password – emmawest34 – with, so it must have been her. I came home one day and the fuse for my lights must have gone as the house was completely dark. Naturally the first thing I did was get my phone out to write a funny update about it, but when I logged in… that’s when she’d struck. And now, now I’m no longer emmawest34 – my username and password are the same, incidentally – but just another victim of frape.”

Furry cup

Ending the I.M press conference, emmawest34 declined to reveal the precise details of the frape. But a simple search on Facebook revealed it was: “I drink from the furry cup” followed up by a simple “Hot-cock sandwich”.

ENDS

ACTION FIGURE NEWS: Jobs For The Boys (And Geeky Girls)

3 Jan

Life in plastic, it's fantastic. You can brush my hair, undress me everywhere. That's enough.

Despite lacking the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound, swing from a web or go all green and ape-shit for no well-defined reason, an all-new action figure of Apple out-of-action man, Steve Jobs, has been unveiled by creepily crazy Chinese toy Company Dragon in Dream. Standing 12-inches tall, the iCEO Mini is the perfect likeness of his Jobsness, complete with turtleneck and jeans.

Why, you ask? Well I’m at a loss when it comes to explaining that, but the Daily Mail is outraged, describing it as “poor taste”, so I’m all for it.

Due out at the end of Feb for a whopping/bargain US $100 (depending on your take on this kind of cack), snap it up now before they sell out. Or don’t, there’ll probably be a smaller, slimmer, better version out in six months anyway…

ALL NEW: Judging A Book By Its Cover

15 Dec

You can never judge a book by its cover – it’s an age-old expression as popular as “speaking as a mother”, “I’m not being racist, but…” and the all-time favourite “I was just following orders”. Used primarily by mouth-breathing, Daily Mail reading, walking clichés in an attempt to explain their stunned amazement at having made yet another colossally arse-brained misjudgement, you’ll find it tacked onto the end of all manner of spluttered admissions such as: “I bought the latest Dan Brown novel as the picture on the front gave the impression it wouldn’t be a steaming pile of hackneyed arse-gravy…” or “I voted Tory because I thought Cameron had a trustworthy face and George Osborne certainly looked just the man to get us out of this recession…” and of course “That nice Herr Fritzl from number 22 never looked like the daughter-in-a-sex-dungeon type…” etc.

But not only are these drooling arse-clowns wrong, so too is the very expression itself. Starting out as a desire to simply shut someone the hell up by finding an example of one book you could instantly judge by its cover, what happened next was a Facebook update-clogging horror that was akin to riding the very tapeworm of text through the rotting, deepest bowels of literature, as excremental example after example hit my computer’s screen as though hurled at it from the inside by some kind of furiously masturbating digital chimp.

Here’s just some of the fetid folios I found floating through the sewer of storytelling. Oh and I think it’s fair to say that I made my book-cover-judging point unencumbered by any form of subtlety with this little lot…

Exhibit A: Clash of Star-Kings (The Night The Stars Fell And The Spacemen Rose)

Sci-Fi/Fantasy was always going to prove a rich hunting ground for crap covers, manly due to the generally abysmal subject matter knocked out by the lonely fat geeks that write this kind of trash. But look at that cover – a lizard stands before a big stone head, terrified by the sight of its own hand… and the fact that someone has dressed it like ‘people’. What can we immediately glean from this cover? That Clash of Star-Kings (The Night The Stars Fell And The Spacemen Rose) is in fact so bad that the bloke charged with creating the cover art would rather take the piss than be paid.

Exhibit B: Who Cares About Disabled People?

Yeah, who fucking cares! Oh, I see. Perhaps Who Cares ‘For’ Disabled People would have been better fitting, Pam Adams? Also we see from this cover that in this otherwise completely white family the disability appears to be ‘being black’. Jesus, Pam, you just know no limits do you? Also, while we’re at it, who’s the little fella floating on his right shoulder? Is that the ‘friend’ that tells him to burn stuff?

Exhibit C: Dildo Cay

What need I say about the mighty organ that is Nelson Hayes’ Dildo Cay? It’s a thrill a minute, etc. And in case you almost missed it, there it is on the clifftop, in all its massive, unyielding, white glory…

Exhibit D: The Little People

Nazi leprechauns with whips. Yes, leprechauns, but not just any old leprechauns! These are the Jewish victims of some particularly unusual Nazi experiments. And they live in a hotel in Ireland. A hotel currently counting amongst its guests a bickering American couple and their nymphomaniac daughter, plus the German Odd Couple –  he’s pure Aryan Nazi, she’s a Jewess who lost her whole family in the Holocaust! Prepare for laughs aplenty. There was a sequel: The Little People go to Band Camp, but it wasn’t as well received. Neither was the Lucky Charms marshmallow tribute.

Exhibit E: Time Ninja

This is not a book, it’s a nine year old boy’s sex dream. A Hoola Hoop time-travel car, a badly drawn ‘ninja’ with flaming farts, too much rawk for one hand, and an Andy Schoepp belt, plus some kind of robot that’s probably called The Violator. This is the most awesome thing ever. If you’re a nine year old boy. Possibly younger.

Exhibit F: “The Rifleman”

Mother of God… Wrong in every way, the cover of “The Rifleman” suggests many things, the most prominent being that this kid is going to be badly saddle-sore later. “Put the wood down, Mark. All the way down…” Look at his face, the poor bastard knows it too. Feel sorry for him? Well, there are worse scenarios for a young boy to have to endure…

Exhibit G: DC Comics. Superman Action Comics

No matter how savagely you bite that pillow, son, it’s not going to provide much comfort once you’re on the receiving end of some ‘Superman Action’.

Exhibit H: Toilet Training the Retarded

Due to the fact that I have no wish to appear all Ricky Gervais I’m going to merely reproduce the following review from Amazon.com:

 This review is from: Toilet Training the Retarded (Paperback)

what to do with poop get on hands. what mongoloid mean no index. why author use so many adverbs and pseudo intelligent wordings. “enclose excrement in cloth textile and reconcile in waste receptacle”
YOU ARE NOT BETTER THAN ME!”

Enough said.

Exhibit, where are we up to? I? Peek-a-Boo Jesus!

Jesus Creeping Christ. Yep, the Son of God loved to play games with kids, with this tome focusing on how He died, disappeared from his tomb and reappeared alive again with a cry of “Peek-a-boo!” He also had a penchant for dressing as a clown and making balloon animals. Messiah Fact. Go on, Jesus, show em the one with the marble in your hands!

Exhibit J: Cooking With Pooh

Just plain silly. Never heard it referred to as a ‘cookie cutter’ before though.

Exhibit K: The Penetrator: Mankill Sport

Remember what I said about Clash of Star-Kings (The Night The Stars Fell And The Spacemen Rose) way back at the start of this painful odyssey? Times it by 100 for this literary classic. His name is Mark Hardin. Hard-in. He’s known as The Penetrator. That’s Hard-in and Penetrator. Remarkably though, this is not porn. It’s not chick-lit either. Or even just ‘lit’. Given the sub-heading of MANKILL SPORT, I think its safe to guess at the target demographic here. After all, for the dangerous loner in your life this cover has the lot: The words ‘Hardin’, ‘Penetrator’, ‘Man’, ‘Kill’ and ‘Sport’, a picture of a bloke with a gun, another with a spear and a naked woman looking all coy about being caught up in a shrub. Oh and a killer bear coming right at you! Raoul Moat considered it a ‘must-read’.

The Penetrator: Mankill Sport won the Booker Prize in 1967. No, not really.

Exhibit L: Circus of the Damned

I think I went to this once when it came to Colchester. Not as entertaining as Zippo’s, not as pretentious as the Cirque du Soleil. Check out the barnet on that badly drawn bad-boy! He’s called Jean-Claude and he’s the vampire master of Anita Blake, who’s a vampire/vampire hunter (bit of a conflict there, that’s the mastery of the written word Laurell K. Hamilton has). She tries to kill him, but he fancies her so doesn’t try to kill her back, apparently. So he quite literally doesn’t know whether to f*ck her or fight her. It’s not much of a premise to base an entire book on, is it? Hang on, is that Dave Vanian?

Exhibit M: Identifying Wood

Are you still reading this? Ah, X Factor must have finished.

Hmm, metal, metal, grass, tin foil, hat, wood! Yes, it’s wood!

Exhibit N: The Good Old Days

Yep, the Good Old Days, back when women would stare in distant horror from the doorway of their shack while lesbians with shattered limbs roamed the land on barely-worth-the-effort stilts. If those were the Good Old Days, you can stick em.

Which is where I’m going to leave it. There are many more of these abortionate efforts out there, but I’m all judged out now – judged out to a whopping Louis Walsh-reading of 258%. Plus, aside from proving my point, all I’ve really succeeded in doing is putting myself off reading books ever again. I wonder if you can get any of these on the Kindle…

NEXT: Many a Mickle Does Not In Fact Make A Muckle.