(no subject)

I want to go on a SlutWalk.

I'm almost certainly going to create a virtual one in the Cumberverse. Not just as an excuse to get Berglind & her miniskirts out again.

A Message From Lord Sugar. Hear Ye, Hear Ye!

A Message From Lord Sugar

I don’t like bullshitters. I don’t like time wasters. I don’t like scroungers. I don’t like Scousers. I don’t like Cockneys. I don’t like Mockneys. I don’t like David Hockney. I don’t like knock-knees. I don’t like knee socks. I don’t like pop socks. I don’t like Top of the Pops. I don’t like lollipops. I don’t like Lollipop Ladies. I don’t like Dinner Ladies – the people, or the sitcom by Victoria Wood.

I don’t like Victoria Wood.

I don’t like Babes in the Wood. I don’t like babies. I don’t like rabies. I don’t like babies with rabies. I don’t like scabies. I don’t like scarab beetles. I don’t like beetles. I don’t like The Beatles. I don’t like The Rolling Stones. I don’t like The Stone Roses. I don’t like Cadbury’s Roses. I don’t like Quality Street. I don’t like Fry’s Turkish Delight. I don’t like Stephen Fry. I don’t like Stephen Frears. I don’t like Ray Mears.

I don’t like Tears For Fears. I don’t like fear of the unknown. I don’t like Tales of the Unexpected. I don’t like Masters of the Universe. I don’t like Defenders of the Earth. I don’t like the Ministry of Defence. I don’t like the Ministry of Love, but then who does?

I haven’t actually read Nineteen Eighty-Four, because I don’t like dystopian science fiction set in the 1980’s. Similarly, I don’t like the alternate universe bit out of Back to the Future Part II where his mum’s got the massive norks, but I do like the bit where Michael J. Fox plays Johnny B. Goode and Chuck Berry hears it on the phone.

I don’t like Michael J. Fox, but I do like Chuck Berry. However, I don’t like Nick Berry, strawberries or Bury St Edmunds.

I do like Noel Edmonds. But I don’t like the idea of him being made into a Saint.

I don’t like the All Saints. I don’t like St Albarn’s. I don’t like Damon Albarn. I don’t like Dr Alban. I don’t like All Bran. I don’t like Alpen. I don’t like Alpine ski retreats. I don’t like Ski Yoghurt. I don’t like anything with the word ‘ski’ in it. Skiffle. Skittles. Don’t like ‘em. Semi skimmed milk? Fuck off.

I don’t like full fat milk, either. I don’t like Dairy Milk. I don’t like Terry’s All Gold. I don’t like Terry Nutkins. I don’t like Squirrel Nutkins. I don’t like the Tufty Club. I don’t like nightclubs. I don’t like Club Tropicana, even if the drinks are free. I don’t like Tropicana. I don’t like Sunny Delight. I don’t like Kia Ora – I disagree with the anti-crow sentiments of its advertising campaign. Not that I like crows. I don’t like crows, or rooks, or ravens. I don’t like John Craven. I don’t like Countryfile, I don’t like paedophiles, I don’t like Filofax. I don’t like Ceefax. I don’t like Teletext. I don’t like subtitles. I don’t like Sub Editors. I don’t like living in a yellow submarine. I don’t like yellow. I don’t like blue – the primary colour or the boy band or the Derek Jarman film.

I don’t like Derek Jarman. I don’t like Derek Griffiths. I don’t like Richard Griffiths. I don’t like Nick Griffin, but I don’t think I’m alone, there. I don’t like Griffins, or Dragons, or Unicorns. I don’t like Unipart. I don’t like Kwik-Fit. I don’t like Kwik Save. I don’t like Safeway. I don’t like Netto. I don’t like nets. I don’t like nests. I don’t like hives. I don’t like chives. I don’t like Slaughterhouse Five. I don’t like ‘Bring Your Daughter To The Slaughter’. I don’t like daughters. I don’t like sons. I don’t like being sent daughters when I asked for sons. You’re not suited for the rage of war, so pack up, go home. You’re Fired.