Thou Shalt Not Worship False Idols

False idols like Katie Price. It’s clear she’s an idol to almost all of the fake-tan-sodden girls featured on Snog Marry Avoid; let’s face it, basically every lass up there. UP NORTH. These 13 year old kids are also trying to look like her – and they haven’t even got breasts to augment yet! Even some men regard her as worthy of worship – this transsexual on This Morning actually looks quite like her, unfortunately. Once upon a time, Peter “superimposed abs” Andre worshipped her too, though his position as her manslave has now been usurped by that thick-necked idiot Alex-The-Cagefighter-and- “Actor” (recently in the most abhorrent, disgusting, appalling excuse for a film I have ever clapped eyes upon a trailer for – Killer Bitch – highly controversial due to its multifarious nasty porny scenes, especially one in which Alex Reid rapes a disabled woman after pulling her out of her wheelchair). Who wouldn’t respect Katie – she clearly chooses her men well, and carefully cultivates that classy image of hers as a career woman and a loving mother. Look at the launch of her latest super-respectable Equestrian clothing range, for example.

Would you let your children near this desperate misguided skank in hotpants for any amount of money?!

That’s it, slightly-taller kid on the left Close your eyes, or she might poke them out with her grossly oversized titties. However, repulsion and vomit-filled buckets aside, you’ve got to respect Katie just a little bit for soldiering on through the storm of scorn, to sell her books about herself and Ken Peter and ponies, selling clothes for riding ponies, buying ponies, doing stuff with ponies..(god knows what she’s done with ponies). She may be an idiot Barbie lookalike, but she is worth about £40 million. That can’t hurt (nothing hurts when you’re 80% plastic). So maybe she is a legitimate idol for young women (and men) – rolling around in cash cackling and squealing like the Wicked Witch of the West with her fat little whinnying ponies? Come to think of it, I can sit here and bitch all I like but she’ll have the last laugh in 20 years’ time when she is made fully plastic and entirely encrusted with pink diamonds, controlling an empire of biscuity-scented orange robot killer WAGs and installing her son Harvey with laser eyes, whilst her whole family wipe their bums with £50 notes.

More musings on idols later… I’m going to go out and get some fake lashes, half a ton of fake tan, bronzer, and as much cement-based slap as I can lay my greedy little hands on. Then two footballs, and a pea-brained footballer to make a blind son. I’m a skint graduate fresh out of a respectable uni – but if I have to lower myself intellectually and morally while conversely pumping up my boobs in order to get a quid or two in this evil post-recession wasteland, then goddamn, I’ll do it.

A Brave New Blog…and an unduly harsh judgement of twitter

I’ve decided to start a new blog, as blogging is what aspiring journos do, and the others are too embarrassing to be revisited. I have come to the realisation that journalists are like performing arts students in their constant search for approval and recognition from all and sundry, every Tom, Dick and Harry. Hoho. So this is my own attempt to grab at the straws of life to slurp for some juicy opportunity. In this vein, I have also revisited my Twitter account (begrudgingly..I used to call those who tweet twats or twits, then decided to see what all the fuss was about) and signed up for various other novel social network/blog type internet services, like the intriguing Plinky. The problem is, I can see myself getting bored of all of these “microblogging” tools rather quickly. What is Twitter but a scaled-down Facebook with less capacity for hardcore stalking sessions? Twitter is Facebook with ADHD; for those who demand an even more incessant connection to “friends” on the interwebs, an IV drip of its babble and banter. This lacks the blissfully creepy capabilities of Facebook; who doesn’t enjoy compulsively clicking through entire photo albums of the “friends’ you refused to be genuine friends with at school, to judge their drunken gurning or to condemn their poor life choices? Twitter is no match for Facebook when it comes to exposing idiocy, cock-up and scandal, which is what we all really want to see (hence the popularity of sites such as FailBlogLamebook and of YouTube memes such asthis). We all love to indulge in a bit of schadenfreude – a pretty dark concept, admittedly:

scha·den·freu·de

[shahd-n-froi-duh] satisfaction or pleasure felt at someone else’s misfortune.

Evolutionarily speaking, this is probably a result of the influence of our “selfish” genes – I seek to succeed in life and reproduce, therefore any setback of yours is hilarious to me; including the times when you “take a tumble” like poor Scarlett from the video linked earlier, or if you’ve crashed your car and had your left thumb replaced with one of your big toes. Hahahaha, loser. As long as it’s not affecting me, I’ll have a good chuckle. Before you nice chaps crucify me, this is obviously not always the case – I do have sympathy for some, including Scarlett, even if I do find her tumble quite funny.

Back to my point. I don’t think Twitter has enough going for it to keep me interested – it seems to be just another platform for self-promotion and glorification, which is all fine and dandy (despite being a tad sickening) if you’re the kind with the wit and confidence to come out with something crazy and hilarious every two minutes. It’s an ongoing digital popularity contest – are you funny enough? KER-AY-ZEE enough? Spontaneous and sparkly enough? I don’t know if I am, but I might try to find out, at least for a week or so before I find Prison Break series 2 more interesting again. If you’ve read this it’s your duty to “follow” me; HERE. Please. I love you. And if you do I get to self-indulge and pretend to be a 21st century, digitally competent and eternally witty messiah, followed devotedly by you folk, my lowly disciples. In return I’ll miraculously turn your water into RIBENA and let you kiss the rings on my pudgy little fingers. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?