I happened across ‘Nuts TV’ last night. I didn’t know ‘Nuts TV’ existed, for those of you not in the loop, ‘Nuts’ is a ‘lads mag’, one of those fucking awful rags that feature scantily clad ‘babes’ (i.e., young girls from Liverpool/Essex with skin like cheese graters and so much plastic stuffed into their birdcage chests they legally require ‘made in Hong Kong’ branded onto their arses) editorial on the one inch punch, features on Danny Dwyer, interviews with Mad Frankie Fraser and thousands of adverts for the hard core porn the trembling 13 year old really wanted but didn’t have the balls (or height?) to whisk from the top shelf in Patels 24 hour food ‘n booze emporium.
Anyway, I arrived upon this confusing pseudo muck last night when running through the channels of my newly installed Freeview box (Until last night the TV in the kitchen was running on analogue and due to the Myfwt smoking situation I thought I’d fork out twenty quid in order to watch Top Gear all the time whilst smoking myself to casualty in peace) and was instantly baffled / infuriated.
I was confronted with a ‘babe’ (that is, a 4-foot high teenager, 6.5 in heels, with white hair down to her sanctimonious arse, vacuous grin backed up by thin air and tits like space hoppers) walking into some beauty spa, not fully undressing and getting a massage whilst she bleated on about getting a massage. That was it.
I was just about to explode with rage about paying my TV licence fee before realising that this had nothing whatsoever to do with my TV licence fee and calmly switched over.
Last night was rather jolly, on leaving work I went up to town to meet Den, Harry and Liam for a few pints. First to arrive I managed to get a table, which is fortuitous in a Covent Garden boozer at 6pm, and greeted my pals as they arrived. I’d not seen Den in an age so we caught up over a few ales periodically darting outside for a tab. The pub began filling with obnoxious film students all full of piss and wind about their ‘edits’ and their feted glorious careers ahead, which will never happen. Ironically Harry is a successful director and remained nonplussed by these nitwits as I gently fumed in my seat, I’m not sure if it was their dreadful conversation and pretentious ‘indie’ clothes that pissed me off or the stark realisation that I was now an entire generation ahead of them. This little nugget of horror hadn’t occurred to me before.
Actually, last night was rather jolly up until that point.
And my back still hurts for fucks sake.