Man Torture

I thought my Achilles heel had been discovered by the Elster. Greys Anatomy was bad, and I figured there could be nothing worse than being forced to sit and suffer through this this whiny dross. Until now. I knew it was coming. She had been to see it not once, not twice, but thrice at the local multiplex. My mother loved it, her mother loved it, all her mates loved it, and it was all I heard about for weeks. Not only was the best of CD bought, but she actually bought the soundtrack of the movie, sung badly by the cast. To top it all, just in time for Christmas, the DVD has been unleashed. No longer can you hide from it by avoiding the cinema, or faking illness, as it now resides in houses throughout the land. Two words, my friends, that should send a tingle of fear sprinting down your spine.

Mama Mia!

I knew it was coming. And I new she would pick a time when I was at my weakest. After a heavy session around Otley, I skulked downstairs, and settled into my hangover chair, to be met by a sound, that to me resembled a cat being strangled with barbed wire. But I was wrong. It was Meryl Streep, in dungarees murdering an Abba song. The movie continued to play out, as a fluid, that was once my brain, began to seep out of my ears. Julie Walters and some American bint sang a song under a bathroom door, to Mrs Streep, as I began to wonder how long the bleach under the sink would take to kill me if I drank it all. Of course the Elster could see straight into my soul, and told me stop spoiling the film for her. I tried to work out how the Hell she knew what I was thinking, when a noise froze my blood. It was surely the sound of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, breaking free form the pits of Hell, signalling the end of times. I cowered under a pillow, as I prepared to meet my maker. "For the last time stop it!" snarled the Elster, as the realisation dawned upon me that it was not the rapture, but Pierce Brosnan, warbling away for all he was worth. I slipped into a coma at this point, only coming around several hours later, vaguely aware that Streep had married Brosnan, and now in possession of a pathological fear of anything Swedish. The next time anybody tells you the world would be a better place if women were in charge, refer them to this movie. From what I can now gather, the female population of the planet think anything can be sorted out by cackling loudly, and then belting out an Abba tune. I shiver just thinking about it.

But the tale doesn't end there. I fully admit, that now and again I can sit through a musical. Hell, I think the Sound of Music is great. Nuns and Nazis? What more do you want? But this is different. I spread the information as quickly as I could. The first pair I warned were Crespo and the Right Honourable Shouty. Crepo seemed to take in my warning, but I got a shock when the Shoutster said the words I thought I would never hear a squad member say. "I liked it" he piped up, and even admitted going to the cinema to see it! I told him he should be ashamed of himself, and he should have his testicles confiscated. For the rest of you, at the first sign of anybody putting the disc in the DVD player, I suggest evasive action. If like me, this proves to be impossible, I prescribe lashings of lager, followed by a viewing of the Great Escape, to regain your equilibrium.

There Goes Thursday Nights

The new Greys Anatomy series starts on Five tomorrow. I bet it still sucks cock big time.

Grey's Anatomy: An Update

It still sucks cock, big time.

Why Sunday Nights Suck

I love Sundays. It is the only day of the week that I never have to work. There is almost always a football game on. If I choose to spend the whole day on the sofa with a hangover, I can. Afternoons in the pub are great. Sleep ins. These are just a few of the things that make this day the daddy of the week. But there is one two hour period of this day that sucks worse than seven thirty Monday morning. It features the suckiest of the sucky T.V. shows ever shown, and to top it all off the Elster loves it. Two words to strike fear and loathing into the Europeans heart; Grey's Anatomy. From eight o'clock this whiny, overbearing piece of shit is tuned into by the Elster religiously. If this was not bad enough, they show it in double episodes, so it goes on for two hours, which to me frankly seems like an eternity. Some waffly old trout gets hung up on all kinds of wishy washy garbage, aided and abetted by some bird who has a face like a slapped bottom, some supposedly half wit lovable buffoon, and a beef cake love interest for the aforementioned whiny trout. It is absolute and utter tosh. A sample story line. Some guy goes in for surgery and they find a bomb in his stomach. Seriously. One of the whiny ones colleagues decides she doesn't want to have her baby because of this, so refuses to give birth and holds it in. The half wit gets his end away. Police move guy with bomb in stomach because the operating theatre he is in has gas pipe that will destroy the universe if it goes off. Lots of people cry. One guy swallows hard and doesn't cry. Tinkling sad music sung by whiny sad singer plays. More people cry. One women swallows hard and doesn't cry. Crisis averted, woman has baby, everybody cries, while sad tinkly music sung by sad whiny singer plays. As bomb is moved it goes off. Credits roll. I contemplate slashing wrists while in warm bath. Granted Eastenders is without a doubt the worst abomination ever broadcast, but the Elster doesn't watch it, and I am out most times it is on. Back to Sucky Anatomy though. I cannot think of one redeeming feature of this series. The voice over at the end, when whiny does some kind of philosophical voice over about the nature of man, has got be be the most cringe worthy, stomach churning, lost the will to live, who actually writes this bullshit script moments on the boob tube. Believe me this is wank of the highest order. Avoid at all costs.