Red Carpet Rumblings

Let me get one thing straight; when I pun in the title of a post I wholly expect you to get it. If you're a jumped-up, pretentious wanker, you won't understand this particular post's pun because your brain is far too busy reminding yourselves than the French pronounce it "Conne." Or maybe you're American and you think it's pronounced "Kahns." Let me tell you, there's only one Kahn and his wrath is great.

No, Cannes is pronounced outside of wanky France as "Can." As in, "Tin Can" or the popular tagline, "Can we fix it?"

Now we've got that out of the way, I suppose I'd best harp on about my point. My point is this: I am not looking forward to May 15th, the day I fly off to cover the Cannes Film Festival 2007. Here's why:

1. I will be working non-stop for 10 days
2. There will be a handful of good movies I could quite comfortably wait and see when they arrive in the UK.
3. I will be permanently jealous of everyone with a better-coloured press pass than me.
4. I may well land myself in hot water when I attempt to murder these people.
5. It will be filled with wanky celebrities harping on about how they drive Prius' these days.

Let's be honest, Leo, you might drive a Prius, but it doesn't make you an eco-warrior. It makes you an eco-wanker who'd still rather have a private car than take public transportation. The Prius still guzzles gas, just not as much as an average car. But compare that to a packed out bus and it's clear that you're a cock. For what it's worth, if anything you're denying the people who earn your salary by not taking the bus. Think of all the autographs you could sign and photos you could pose for when you come in contact with the stupid people who actually paid money to go and see Blood Diamond. "Oooh, but I don't like celebrity." Well tough fucking luck. Don't appear on the stage of the Oscars sucking Al Gore's cock, and go do some community theatre instead of a Hollywood movie. You can't have it both ways you pin-faced little freak.

Now this will be my first Cannes Film Festival, and I have a sneaking suspicion it will also be my last. So pretentious it once called itself the International Film Festival (because, let's be honest, France is a world superpower and thus has the right to say shit like that. Oh no, wait, they don't), Cannes accredits more than 3000 journalists every year, some 1500 of which are from France. How very fucking international.

Because the organisers of Cannes know what we all know, that films are made or broken at Cannes and that it is the single most important film festival in the world. Seen Southland Tales? Didn't think so - Cannes hated it. You might have seen Marie-Antoinette but good luck finding someone else - Cannes hated it. So, in order to express this dominance, they've assigned press passes on a colour-scheme basis in terms of your importance to them. White passes are the best but are mostly reserved for Roger Ebert and broadsheet newspapers. And French websites, magazines, newspapers, and trades. Then comes Pink with Pastille. This is better than the next pass down, Pink, because it has a little yellow dot. Those passes go to low-profile journos for high-profile pubs like THR and Variety. And French amateur websites. Pink goes to low-profile journos for publications with a significant readership but without a significant brand. And French amateur bloggers. Then comes Yellow, which goes to support staff and low-profile publications. And French cinemagoers who thought it might be fun to go to the Cote d'Azur for a couple of weeks. And then, if you really suck, you get a Blue pass, which goes to journalists with shifty eyes who look like they might be terrorists. And French bakers.

And then they prioritise the 2000 seats at the festival's biggest theatre for press screenings to the 3000+ journalists based on the colour of your pass. The simple rule of thumb here is that if you want to have a snowball's chance in hell of getting in to see Sicko or Ocean's Thirteen, you best renounce your passport and claim you've always liked garlic and baguettes.

But then you realise that everyone takes this Cannes thing far too seriously. Southland Tales hasn't even had a chance to find an audience (even though I'm convinced it's as shit as that jumped-up codswallop that was Donnie Darko), Sony pulled way back on marketting Marie-Antoinette because of its Cannes reception, that's why no-one saw it, and can anyone remember what won the Palme d'Or last year? Didn't think so. It was The Wind that Shakes the Barley, and no-one saw that either.

In other news, this coming friday the organisers of the upcoming Star Wars exhibition are throwing a party at County Hall surrounded by the exhibits. My first worry is that the invite reads, "May the 4th be with you." My second worry is that the pics they've sent out of the exhibition in Portugal are of such wondrous props as Anakin Skywalker's podracer and the bust of Ki-Adi Mundi no-one noticed in the background of a 30 second scene in Attack of the Clones. Admittedly, they also include shots of Han Solo in Carbonite and the original Yoda puppet, but since those are the only two worthwhile pictures in a stock of fifteen, I fear for the rest of the exhibition. If they don't have lightsabres, I am so storming out of that party. After a few free drinks, of course, and after I've made sure to pick up a goody bag, but people will notice me storming like a trooper, you mark my words.

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 4:33 PM | Permalink | Comments

Oh yes, I have done it. I have scored the exclusive of the century. Oh yes. What you talking 'bout Willis? Not Willis, he's in Die Hard 4, I'm talking about Bond. James Bond. Not Samantha Bond, even though she is in Bond. Or at least she was until Barbara Brocolli was all like, "OMG REINVIGORATION PLS K THX."

So they reinvigorated Bond by casting a glum bastard and getting rid of all the fun bits. Otherwise it was the same fucking movie, and if you didn't see that you're all morons. I went right out and bought a Sony Vaio laptop before booking a flight on Virgin Atlantic because I don't cave to peer pressure; I am product placement's bitch, and Casino Royale did it soooo subtly.

Anyway, the point is, it made enough money because everyone said, "Well it's kinda different, go see it," so of course they're making the next one. But no-one knows the plot yet. EXCEPT ME! And everyone who's about to read this. Smuggled from within Sony Pictures by an agent operating on my behalf, this is the official treatment.

PRE CREDITS SEQUENCE: Bond ENTERS. He looks MYSTERIOUS. He makes an UNDERCOVER DEAL but, ohnoes, someone RECOGNISES him. He SILENCES them with a flick of his SILENCED WEAPON.

Bond: That's them silenced.

The audience LAUGHS, becuase that's supposed to be funny. Bond does BLUE STEEL. He makes an EXIT but on the way TRIPS a TRIP MINE and an ALARM starts blaring. Several Russians/North Koreans/Arabs/Londoners (delete as applicable based on whoever's most despised as filming begins) start CHASING him. There's an EXPLOSION and lots of people die. Then he gets on a VEHICLE of some kind and outruns them before another EXPLOSION signals the start of the...

CREDIT SEQUENCE: DANCING GIRLS DANCE SEXILY WHILE SHOOTING ALL MANNER OF WEAPONRY AND GENERALLY BEING ALL LESBIAN TOGETHER.

Singer: He carries a gun... 'cos that's what heeeee doeeesss.
He only carries it to silence the dooooovvvees.

MORE DANCING GIRLS GET THEIR GAY ON. MAYBE THERE'S SOME COMMUNIST STUFF BECAUSE WHY NOT.

Singer: But he knows when heeee waaaaalllks, Just how heeeee talkkkks.
He's a motherfucking spy 'cos that's what he foooorrrkss.

MORE GIRLS AND PERHAPS A SCENE WHERE ONE COMES OUT OF OIL BEFORE THE REFRAIN.

Singer: These lyrics are mad, but I'll sing them anywaaaaay 'cos one thing I know is I'll...

MORE GIRLS LEAD US INTO THE CHORUS.

Singer: Die Tomorrow. Bond 22. I'll dieeeeee tomorrow. Bond 22. This is BOOOONNND 22.

Fade to: Dancing girls in a club in someplace in the world (see how we're justifying our writers' salaries Barbara?). The CAMERA pans OUT to reveal BOND. He spots a girl he likes played by SOME HOT ACTRESS AT THE TIME OF SHOOTING or possibly BARBARA WINDSOR. He does LA TIGRE.

Girl: Oh Mr. Bond, I presume.

Bond: No, wait, you don't know that...

Girl: Oh, I'm sorry. Who are you?

Bond: The name's Bond. James Bond.

Girl: Well Mr. Bond, it seems I have been seeming to be expecting you.

Bond: My weapon is ready.

Girl: I'll bet is it. *cheeky laugh*

Bond takes out a terrorist and the MUSIC SWELLS. Copyright, 2007, James Arnold or someone.

Girl (con't): Well, Mr. Bond. It seems you know just how to use that fine tool of yours.

Bond: Oh, I think you'll find I know just how to stick my COCK in your HOLE.

Girl: Oh, Mr. Bond. Be less obvious.

Bond: Sorry. I think you'll find I know just how to stick my gun in your holster.

Girl: Oh, Mr. Bond.

Bond takes her roughly in the hay. He does FERARI.

Girl: Oh, Mr. Bond. Another pun!

Bond: Pun, pun my good lady. Pun, Pun.

CUT TO: Sweden or someplace. An arms deal goes down. Bond does BLUE STEEL again, but not before taking out some terrorist people. He meets JeSuis, an evil arms dealing motherfucking.

JeSuis: Oh, Mr. Bond. Allow me to introduce Punanita.

Punanita: Oh, Mr. Bond. Charmed.

BOND is angered by her evil. He does some more FERARI.

JeSuis: Now, Mr. Bond. If you'll excuse me, I must take over the world. But not before I explain my motivation to you. You see, my father...

This goes on for AN HOUR OR SO. EVentually he leaves and Bond does BLUE STEEL as he walks out. Then Punanita rescues him.

Bond: But I thought you were evil?

Punanita: No, I'm good.

A gun clicks. Girl is standing behind Punanita.

Girl: I'm evil.

Bond does FERARI. He presses a button on his watch. Girl blows up.

Bond: I guess she learned all about explosive fisting...

Punanita: Oh James...

CUT TO: Sex.

FADE OUT.

How fucking reinvigorating.

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 12:01 PM | Permalink | Comments

Y'see, what I did in the title there was take the name of a famous book, in this case Of Mice and Men by Dan Brown or someone and plunder, rape and pillage it, subtly changing stuff so you wouldn't notice, to describe this post about a book which does the exact same thing.

That book is called Eragon, and since it was bought by my Great Corporate Benefactor, I guess I have to struggle through it before the movie comes out next week and I have to interview a bunch of people I've never heard of before. And Jeremy Irons.

The plot revolves around a young farmboy called Eragon, who discovers he has magical powers when he's forced into a conflict he has no knowledge of. He must go on an epic journey to defeat an evil Empire ruled over by a dark king called Galaborotorixia or something. He has help, of course, in the shape of a wizened old master called Brom, who teaches him the ways of the Dragon Riders, of which he becomes. Along the way he meets up with a roguish briggand called Murtagh who is a bit grumpy because, why not? Then he rescues a beautiful elf called Enya or something and they meet up with a group of resistance fighters called the Varden. A big battle happens. The end.

Do you see what I did there? Let's try again.

The plot revolves around a young farmboy called Luke Skywalker, who discovers he has magical powers when he's forced into a conflict he has no knowledge of. He must go on an epic journey to defeat an evil Empire ruled over by a dark lord called Palpatation or something. He has help, of course, in the shape of a wizened old master called Obi-Wan Kenobi, who teaches him the ways of the Jedi Knights, of which he becomes. Along the way he meets up with a roguish briggand called Han Solo who is a bit grumpy because, why not? Then he rescues a beautiful princess called Layla or something and they meet up with a group of resistance fighters called the Rebel Alliance. A big battle happens. The end.
The book was written by a sickeningly pretentious 20 year old who started it when he was 15. It was published not because it's quality literature like The Secret Diary of Abi Titmuss, age 24 1/2 or Jordan: My Story (featuring My Breasts, a pop-up center spread), but because his sickeningly rich parents have their own publishing house and homeschooled him as they took him on a grassroots book tour on which some proper publisher saw dollar signs in her eyes and bought the book purely so she could market it on the fact that he started writing it when he was 15. My cat could've written a more original novel and she died this year at the ripe old age of 8.

Following the Lord of the Rings mould (because why plagiarise one source when there are two to be raped and plundered?), the characters do shit loads of walking, always talk in exposition and are fighting fit if they're men, ethereal if they're elves and miners who drink if they're dwarves. There's even a race of ugly brutes called the Urgal who have a superset called something else I don't care to remember, just like the Orcs and Uruk-hai. For good measure, there's even some Nazgul action in the shape of the Ra'zac.

Christopher Panini, or whatever his name is, essentially just saw a bunch of cool shit, put it in his book and then got lucky because he's a precocious little wanker. I know this because when he talks of his writing he says sickeningly humbling things like, "Wow, I really envy that [insert authors name here] guy; you really know how to pace your work random-author-who-isn't-me. Oh, that I might learn from your brilliant ways." Also, he includes sentences in the book such as:

"And thus, Eragon did look upon the egg and noticed that cracks started to appear on the surface. Lest I doth shine on the shingled beaches of my youth once more, thought Eragon, I would nots look upon such a glorious sight as this again in all my years upon the hard-soiled Earth on which I walk. And then at once there was a great flash of light, and he did see it and it was good; a dragon, stout and true. "Holy shit," Eragon didst say then, "I will call it Safira and we will be inseperable forever even though I have absolutely no experience raising a 20-foot-tall fire-breathing creature. Because I'm clever like that. Also, if you keep reading, I take my shirt off later."

Put it this way; Alex Pettyfer (for it is he) turned down the role of the 15 year-old boy-rider Eragon and then went and accepted Stormbreaker. If you saw Stormbreaker you will know why that previous sentence shows just how crap the film is bound to be.

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 5:22 PM | Permalink | Comments

Like most people, I believe what I see on television. Churchill can save me money on my car insurance, Ross and Rachel are so meant to be despite the fact that she's a cash-hungry temptress waitress and he's a rich doctor of museum stuff, and Karma balances out the good with the bad and visa versa.

Yes that's right, I'm talking about the fictional mysticism invented by the creators of My Name Is Earl. Except, I'm talking about a different sort of Karma. 'Cos unlike Earl's Karma, in which he does something good and is rewarded with goodness, my Karma involves me GIVEN something good and then having something bad happen to screw with me.

Example; I get some amazing news. If you're important to me you know what this news is already and if you're not important to me it's because this news means I don't need you any longer, you worthless bottom-feeders. So anyway, that comes in and I develop some kind of weird itis. Not isis, like the ancient-Egyptians, but itis as it, "It is so painful." I have to miss a stack of interviews and a screening of The Last King of Scotland, which I really want to see.

To add insult to injury, one of those interviews was with my wife-to-be, Gillian Anderson. So I'm thinking, "Good job, Karma, you NAZI. Something good happens to me through no fault of my own, and now I don't get to start my love affair with my future wife." And Karma's all like, "Oh no you did not just call me a nazi." So along comes friend-who-spills-stuff to bring me cup-'o-soup and Strepsils. Guess which one of those he spilled.

So, long story short, my life is about to change but I can't even process that right now 'cos I feel like shit and my carpet smells of powdered chicken.

Karma hates me. Well you know what, Karma? You're SHIT in My Name is Earl. Everyone knows Randy gets the best storylines, and you're just transparent and one-dimensional. Not to mention predictable. Go fuck yourself. The pleasure will force you to cut off your penis as a "balancing act." Prick.

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 12:35 AM | Permalink | Comments

Red Carpet Rumbler is officially won over by the social networking bullshit. Was it MySpace? Obviously not. Was it Friendster? Definitely not. Was it Facebook? Oh no. Was it SuperFriendSpace? That DOESN'T EXIST.

No, it was last.fm, a site I only discovered existed this morning because, apparently, I'm slow to pick up on these things. All-the-G's, as mentioned earlier, clued me in during routine Mix-CD discussion and right now I'm listening to a custom streaming radio station made up of songs I like and songs that sound like songs I like. The internet is full of wonder.

Go, sign up, before I come and find you and FINISH YOU.

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 5:46 AM | Permalink | Comments

Yes, folk, you totally read that right - Madonna, aka Looselegs, has totally revealed to the Red Carpet Rumbler the name of her new adopted baby. In an exclusive interview, to be serialised EXCLUSIVELY in The People, The Sun, The Daily Mail and The Independent on Sunday, and soon to be turned into a book, "Madonna: In the word of the Father" and a major motion picture starring Clint Eastwood as Madonna and Jamie Foxx as her adopted child, and also a viral campaign in which users will be asked to guess the weight of Madonna's child, Looselegs has spilled all and I have a cut of the interview EXCLUSIVELY on RCR before it spreads wide. Like Looselegs' legs. YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST:

RCR: Madonna, it's lovely to sit down with you.

LL: Thanks Red Carpet Rumbler. You're a true inspiration to me and a real friend and I only wish I was as amazing as you and we're friends in real life and you have my private mobile number and keys to my private mansion for use whenever you want.

RCR: That much is true, but so much gets written about you that even I, a close personal friend of yours, have a great deal of difficulty seperating fact from fiction.

LL: I know, it's difficult being you, even though you are amazing and so much more
discerning, sexually, than I could ever be.

RCR: Again, true, but my question is: I've been reading reports about your African lovechild adoptee, and yet I've been hearing denials from your camp so I don't know what to think. Now that we're here, in this interview situation set up so you could answer the question I'm about to ask, I thought it would be a good idea to ask you just where the truth lies; are you adopting a African orphan from Wales?

LL: Wow, I totally wasn't expecting that question even though I had been told it would come up and, in fact, requested such as the purpose of this informal chat which is actually an interview for major media. The good news is, your cheque - which I totally didn't realise you were giving me and now that I've mentioned it on the record I'll be donating 50% of it to an African orphan from Wales of my choosing, that being my African orphan from Wales - has totally cleared and I can confirm that, yes, I did have meetings with the African Prime Minister, Mr. Mandela, about lovechild adoptees and I have, in fact, bought one from the African branch of Ikea. You have to assemble it yourself but it only cost 10% of the price of a regular African lovechild adoptee so I'm quids in.

RCR: I'm shocked, even though I can now quite clearly see that you are carrying said African lovechild adoptee under your arm as though he were an overnight case or plush duvet. So I guess what the world absolutely wants to know, and I'm curious too being that I'm a curious person who's paid to be so, is what is his/her or their name or names?

LL: Well, in fact, it is a he and his name is Co Donna-Richie.

RCR: Any particular reason for that name?

LL: Well my trio of children, or tripod if you like such terms, are now Lourdes, Rocco and Co, or Lourdes Roccoco which, incidentally, is the design scheme I've chosen for my new penthouse in Bangalore which is a really up-and-coming place with many celebrity hangouts including Burberry and Raj's Indian Diner.

RCR: Why did you adopt an African when everyone knows the up-and-coming place to adopt children from is Yemen?

LL: I did make a trip to Yemen but unfortunately the one I really wanted, to match the drapes in my new Bangalorian palace, was out of stock. But more important I'm a set trender and people hear the name Madonna and they think "Cheap Slut" first but then they think "Set Trender and Fashionista Iconoclast." Also, what a lot of
people don't know about Africa, is that there is a real poverty crisis there and
my good friend, Bono, suggested that the best way I could possibly fix said
crisis, which plagues me on a nearly second-by-second basis, would be to steal
one of their children and raise them with my two biological children far from
his natural home while kitting him out in all manner of fashionable ensembles
and carrying him on my arm as though he were a fashion accessory to premieres
and all manner of shindigs.

RCR: Some claim that this is a cynical move, designed to rob your long-suffering husband, Guy Richie, of his manhood by suggesting that he is infirtile.

LL: *laughs* Oh Red Carpet Rumbler, who is my dear personal friend and not someone I've just met, would that this be the case. No, in fact, what a lot of people don't know about Guy Richie is that he had no talent before he married me and now he has even less because I am a talent-sucking harpy from the Clatuu nebula. Guy has much penis but I like a bit of variety in my life and, alas, he only fathers white children. Have you tried taking a white child to the cinema to witness a World Premiere with many paparazzi and fine journalists from the print and online press while wearing a black Chanel suit? I long to wear such outlandish and risque clothes and I really needed a child to go with such attire.

And you can read more of this interview, in which Madonna discusses such topics as the most fashionable way to sport your clitoris, her languishing career, and that tough time in her life during which she found herself addicted to Frosties, in all the places I mentioned ages ago.
But seriously though, folks, why is Madonna famous? She was shit in the 80's, she was shit in the 90's and she's even shitter in the 00's. Her music sounds like what one imagines it would sound like if you dragged a cat over a field of broken glass and children's tears and people only dance to it when they're steaming drunk. Or if they're from Ipswitch. And if I were from Ipswitch I would kill myself but not before taking out the people of HISTORY for creating such an unimaginable cesspit of nightmares. In this shocking photo of Looselegs, I reveal an until-now unseen high-resolution detail that you all need to be aware of:

In other news, Madonna has just signed up to play The Childcatcher in the newly revamped version of the classic - but shite - musical, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Suddenly that title has a whole new filthy and wrong meaning. She will also be the threat in a new series of 24, in which Jack Bauer has only 24 hours to stop Madonna from releasing another single and killing the world through noise.

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 7:03 PM | Permalink | Comments

OK, so there was this movie released two years ago about these two stoners who wanted burgers so bad that they went out and got some. And on the way they did a bunch of strange shit and it took them the whole movie to get burgers. Last night I had that exact same experience except there were no hijinks to be had.

It was the end of a pretty shit day which included Ashton Kutcher, so it’s possible I was on a bit of a downer. On my way home from Kutchercide, I was reading thelondonpaper (because spaces are so 1997) and, in the middle of rush hour, charged into one of those “caution: slippery floors” signs. There’s no greater irony in this world than falling over a sign warning you not to fall.

So I was already pretty pissed off and I got home, watched the last hour of Taxi Driver on NTL on demand, and fell asleep. Woke up at like 9 and pissed about for a bit, trying to ignore the fact I was hungry. When I gave in, at 12 O’clock, I had a massive craving for Big Macs.

I desperately needed the taste of generic meat product right then and the only thing that was going to satisfy me was a Big Mac. Like you know how Jesus desperately needed to get crucified and rise again to take punishment for the sins of mankind? That was kinda me last night, only I didn’t want crucifixion, I wanted burgers. Jesus had days just like that but they got edited out of the bible in the 1860’s. It’s a big conspiracy and it’s documented in this true-life book called The Whopper Code.

I knew I had two options; jet to the McDonalds drive-in 5 minutes from my house and hope they were open, or go without, ‘cos my car had run out of petrol and I wouldn’t have made a longer trip. So I thought, fuck it, I’ll play it safe, fill up, and hit that one on the way to the one I know is open 24 hours in Greenwich, 20 minutes away.

So I filled up, £30, and headed to get my goodness. Turns out that McDonalds doesn’t open all night so I started off for Greenwich.

Now the Greenwich McDonalds is north of the river, and I’m south so that meant going through the Blackwall Tunnel. So I’m driving to the tunnel and it’s in sight when all of a sudden I see a red light. I thought it was weird ‘cos it was a pretty fast-moving dual carriageway (with slip roads) at that time of night and it’s so congested during the day that they don’t really need lights. But I thought nothing of it.

Two minutes later and I hear a voice. Now this was not the voice of God. I know this because God once asked me if he could steal a cigarette and I remember him sounding just like James Brolin. The voice was coming over an intercom system on the walls leading up to the tunnel. Now, I don’t like to point the finger at people when it could be entirely coincidental, but I’m pretty sure one of the people who work at the Blackwall Tunnel got bored one night and thought, “Fuck it, let’s blast some Aretha over this fucking thing.” ‘Cos, you see, when the voice started speaking it sounded like gravel. Not footsteps over gravel, gravel itself. Like if you could imagine a scenario in which gravel could talk, it would sound like this cat on the intercom system.

Ten minutes later and he’s on his fifth announcement and you can tell he’s getting pissed off because for the first time he’s actually legible. “Would the HGV Vehicle in the first lane please drive onto the sliproad as you’re too big for the tunnel.” Trouble was, the HGV driver was this fuck-off big Village People-esque trucker from fucking Germany with a giant handlebar moustache and an understanding of no English word longer than “punt.” So he doesn’t move.

Meanwhile gravel Aretha God voice is getting pissy because he’s not moving and calls the police. He urges drivers to get out of their cars and tell the dude to pull over but I’ll be fucked if he expects me to abandon my 1989 Honda Civic at 12:30 in the morning (yeah, I’ve been waiting twenty minutes at this point, but I’m still British) to tell a German truck driver who looks like he might either beat me or bugger me if I gave him half the chance to move on.

Now we’re in London, which is probably one of the smallest counties in the country in terms of surface area, and we have our own police force because there are so many people here. We also have police forces that deal specifically with fucking loitering so I’m almost certain we’ve got a lot of the fuckers. But somehow, for some strange bizarre reason, it takes a squad car a further twenty minutes to materialise, at which point I’m seriously concerned gravel Aretha God voice is going to have some kind of embolism.

I catch some of their conversation and the truck driver says he does the journey in the same fucking truck every single day and has done so for the last three years. Not a single one of the policemen sees the big fuck-off supertruck right behind him who was, in fact, the one who set off the traffic lights. But with innocent Village Person truck driver out of the way, the lights turn green and I go through. I look in my rear view mirror. The fucking supertruck is sparking against the roof of the tunnel. This country is full of incompetents.

So at that point I resolve to get through the tunnel as quick as I can and hope to fuck no-one gets stuck behind supertruck when he gets to a bend in the tunnel and gets proper stuck. And as I see the North of London for the first time, at 12:50 (oh I’m not joking) I’m thinking “Holy hell, I need me one of those fucking Big Macs right now.” Fortunately the McDonalds is only five minutes from the tunnel so I’m there pretty sharpish and I’m waiting in my drive-in line. Is there a fucking attendant? No, otherwise this story would have a happy ending.

So I circle the restaurant (during which I see a guy eating the face of a woman in quite the most revolting manner you could possibly imagine) and park up. I walk to the front door of the restaurant and it’s locked. So I go around the side and I see some people inside. I knock on the glass. “We’re closed,” comes the message. FUCK. OFF.

This has taken ten minutes, so by the time I’m back in my car and I’m circling the restaurant again to leave I see the couple once more and, I am not fucking joking, she’s sucking him off. This sight knocks me somewhat so I realise I’m driving past them really slowly, but they make no effort to cover up or tell me to fuck off or anything. I get a good look at the guy and, I’m telling you, Grant Mitchell is alive and well and getting fellated in Greenwich. And he has the smallest erect penis I’ve ever seen in my life. And I watch a lot of porn. When you look like me you have to.

So I nearly crash the car on my way out because I’m incredibly shocked that I’ve just been forced to endure a sight I didn’t want to see. I mean, I didn’t wake up and think “fuck it, I really need to drive to Greenwich to watch an ugly dude get fellated by a prostitute,” (she so was, by the way...) all I wanted was a bit of beef and some fucker decided it wasn’t going to be in a Big Mac.

I drive home and they’ve shut a lane of the Blackwall Tunnel southbound for engineering works so I spent about 20 minutes just trying to get back south of the river. Where people don’t get sucked off in public. I pull into Sainsbury’s, which is open 24 hours, and I do a weekly shop, including some of those microwave beef-burgers ‘cos I’m REALLY hungry at this point and I have less than no energy to cook. I come home, heat up the burger, and that’s when I realise that God really, really, really hates me. ‘Cos that sight I witnessed back in Greenwich puts me completely off my appetite.

Long story short, Weigh Watchers now wants me to front their new campaign; “I lost weight on the seeing-ugly-people-get-blowjobs-in-public plan.”

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 7:45 PM | Permalink | Comments

Now now, surfer dudes, I have some super-top-exclusive OC news for all you cool kids out there who like The OC, starring Mischa Barton, Rachel Bilson and two guys who no-one is interested in.

Clarissa Cooper is coming back... YOU HEARD IT RIGHT! Mischa Barton is set to return to the show she got fired from because everyone realised how many mindless drones she brought to the user figures! And I have the very first exclusive publicity photo from her return, in the Season 4 finale episode!!!!1

L to R: Marissa Cooper (Mischa Barton) is greeted by Seth Cohen (some guy) in the Season 4 finale of WB's OC on the CW.

But seriously, though, folks, how shit is she? I mean, the twig in the above still could do a more convincing job than her. In fact, equating to her to a twig deals a serious insult to the twig itself.

More to the point, is there a shitter show on television than The OC? I've just been watching a handful of episodes from Season 3 because everyone I know watches it and I thought, "They must see SOMETHING in it" but it turns out that no, it's shit. They're all called stupid names like Marissa and Seth and Sandy and Shanique and they're all white. Even Shanique. What kind of post millenial society are we living in where the best teen soap opera is made up of a bunch of rich white kids who think that the only way to escape a jail sentence is to sail away to Hawaii or somewhere else that doesn't matter? Some dude's answering machine is like, "Hey, it's 2005, you know what to do." IS IT? 'Cos last I heard rich black guys did actually exist. As did poor people.

This show's idea of diversity revolves around one desperately pretty character who goes to the same school Marissa gets forced into when she gets kicked out of her posh school for shooting someone. IN SELF DEFENCE. Anyway, aside from that ludicrous plot-point, Marissa's friend's uncle is a fisherman, 'cos they're poor, y'see, and he thinks that, instead of going to college and gets a degree, he's just going to become a professional surfer and get lots of sponsorship. AND THIS IS WRITTEN IN ALL SERIOUSNESS.

The OC is a blight on our society. It should be banned for crimes against humanity and its creators should be shipped off to Guantanamo Bay, 'cos they're the real terrorists.

But if we do ship Mischa Barton to Guantanamo, can I just ask, pretty please, if someone could arrange to have her torture video up on YouTube? A world of people are just dying to see it.

Posted by Red Carpet Rumbler at 6:38 AM | Permalink | Comments