Jeremy Sprake

I’d be the first to admit that I’m not the most cuddly and nice kind of person.  Given that there are some things that move me that are quite odd.  And not the significant kind of thing, I’d hardy put a feather in my cap for being moved by 9/11 or Bryan Robson’s tears when we lost at Liverpool in 1992 (yes they are both as sad as each other, fortunately I was making jokes about one of them within 24 hours of the event.  Bryan Robson’s tears will never be funny.)  Tonight however there was a new one on me – for some reason I was watching a catch-up show on the people from the deplorable BBC reality show Airport.  Before I go on I must admit that i was an irregular viewer of said show but it made Jeremy Sprake – and I hate him.  This is not something I think makes me rare because I think he’s mainly considered a cunt.  I’m sure you think I’m digressing here, as is my want, but I’m not because it was concerning this pointless blob of flesh that my most recent emotional awakening occurred. 

 

To set the scene:  Sprake was shown attending a fundraising event for air ambulances.  As the celebrity, I think that needs adding – because he’s well shit and you might just think he was there.  He was shown talking to camera saying how if anything good had come from his stint in the limelight it was that he could add his patronage to the things he believed in.  Oh really?  And it’s not just an excuse to squeeze whatever light remains in the lime of reality infused pseudo-fame (you fat cunt)?  It seems an awful co-incidence he lends his patronage to a fairly local small charity who probably couldn’t attract anyone better, or was Kenzie busy training for his celebrity Ludo match with the guy who played the postman in Keeping Up Appearances (you know he’s say “your mail Mrs Bucket” and she’d say the name is Boooou-quet then do that face she did when someone did something to offend her sensibilities).

I did digress then.  But i’m coming back on route now.  So Sprake is at this fundraiser and he’s signing some autographs  after his rousing address and some old man says “I’ve never met a celebrity before – can you sign it to Stephanie, please?”  And this is what almost broke my heart.  This man thought Sprake was a celebrity, this poor old fool was indebted and humbled by the presence of a fat, camp fool who was on television several years ago.  Grateful for an autograph from this mistake of modern fame. And it was this awe, this gratitude, this sense of being humbled that made me think ‘how bad is this man’s life that he is made to feel like this meeting that twat?’.

So that in some way shows that I have a heart.

Sasha – Beauty Queen at 11

I didnt really accomplish much today worth writing about, so I thought in the interest of writing something I’d ‘review’ a grotesque piece of broadcastgram vomitted onto BBC3 tonight, ‘Sasha – Beauty Queen at 11′. Fucking hell this was bad. Should I be ashamed of myself for watching it? Should the makers of the documentary be ashamed of themselves for making it? Should the BBC be ashamed of them self for broadcasting it? Yes to all, maybe – but as you might expect the person who should be covered in shame is the parent of the titular pre-pubescent beauty queen and she wouldn’t know shame if it approached her wearing a t-shirt with the slogan ‘I am shame’ on it and declaring proudly “I am shame”- in fact she would just think it was another idea of what fame was in her tiny mind and tell it how fantastic she was.

She told the crew, and other people how great she was. Sometimes she would dress it with a statement about how great her daughter was, but it was always a thinly veiled way of telling people how great she was. Towards the end her mouth said “She’s my daughter, I produced her. She’s got to get her looks from somewhere.” Perhaps the viewer saw this an admission that the child had a good looking father. No, they knew it was this cunt-ific beast fluffing her extraordinarily deluded mind.

The ‘focus’ of the programme seemed to be named Sasha after her mother’s love of sashes. She proudly declared how she had once modelled at a car show and had had to wear a sash. And they had let her take the sash home and keep it. This seemed to be a turning point in the cunt’s life – how could she get her hands on another sash. Obviously repeating the action of how she had got this holy grail wasn’t the answer, she would get pregnant and raise someone who when she had reached an appropriate age of 11, she would dress up like an adult woman and parade her like some QVC presenter on some bizarre paedophile shopping channel where people sell their own offspring. So disturbed was Sasha that her role model was Jordan. I suppose there are worse people to be like. There is always someone worse though isn’t there unless you’re like Hitler or Jeremy off the Airport show. So lets not crucify Katie Price but lets not allow 11 year-old girls to be want to be like her.

A probable low point was when the cunt took her daughter to a modelling agency in Manchester. Her pep talk to her probably nervous offspring? “Don’t get accepted at this agency and you’re grounded – you’re fucking smiling at everyone”. And why would you do anything but? Of course the agency rejected her because they want 11 year-old girls to look well 11, innocent and childlike and not like some bizarre baby-faced crack whore from Atlanta.

The journey ended with a trip to America where Sasha won a few trophies in an American beauty pageant. Sasha was a little gutted she wouldn’t win money or presents “but you can win a sash” argued her mother. She won a sash once and it solved all her problems. Her son walked away with a few trophies, including two awards where he was the only contestant – fortunately for the audience he still performed to justify the trophy. And of course there was a happy ending of sorts, Sacha won a few trophies for secondary reasons ‘Best expression of confusion’ or some other such pointlessness but she didn’t win the main award and she is left a life of waiting 15 years until she has her own 11 year-old to ruin. Predictably the cunt stole the show with her putridness when the list of prizes available was relayed to her by someone from the pageant she stopped them to ask “what is congeniality?”. NOT FUCKING YOU.

 

 

13 July 2008

Start as you mean to go on they say, and that is not necessarily a good sign where my producivity is concerned.  Four days in to my daily blog and I have managed two and one of those is the one I’m writing now which I’m presuming I complete and manage to press publish.  C’est la vie – only its not what I want la vie to c’est.  I want to start writing!  I have already semi-agreed to write a short film for someone (incidentally a short film script is one of the many thing that exists in the entirely unwritten format in my head, its another winner though) and I want to get some of the mush in my head on paper.

I have a semi-excuse for not updating the blog as I was at home for a couple of days to share my birthday with them.  Only its a poor excuse as my niece has a PC and it is indeed where I wrote the first one.  Not only am I an inconsistent blogger, I’m a weak excuse maker who immediately reveals his weak excuses to be lies, what a shambles.

 

It was a not unpleasant couple of days back home, it was hardly a full family gathering:  my father is an eternal absentee at all but the most necesary events (he was at my graduation and I think he was at the meal we went to for my parents’ 30th birthday – but that could have been something else[I dont mean the individual there was something that maybe wasnt my father, I mean the event was maybe something other than their wedding anniversary]).  What a long and frankfully uninteresting, pedantic aside.  Where was I?  Oh yes, it was my mum, my sister, my niece and I for the meal at my sisters as my brother remains in Bradford (not where I’d chose to set up my life but he has his own choices to make. It was quite nice food and the rest of the night involved a few bottles of lager and watching Big Brother with my sister. Jesus, I could be

 the gay brother.

Last night I met up with my very good friend Tom for the last of my birthday drinks.  The few days have taken their toll on my body.  I now feel like shit and am sure tomorrow is going to be a horrible return to work.  Aren’t they all though?  Anyway, me and Tom discussed his long discussed sci-fi epic-in-the-making Timeballs aka/subtitle: Timeshards.  Tom has apparently been researching it again lately and I threw dinosaurs into the mix last night and, well I cant say anymore because it will ruin the movie.  What with this and Spring Break I have a couple of projects on the go.  We’re talking big box-office here.  And all pathetic fantasy of course.

As ever I was mainly relieved to be leaving Stalybridge.  I am not ashamed of where I come from and there are a lot of fine people in Stalybridge.  That said there is a lot of fucking scum.

Footnote the kebab shop around the corner from my sister – Food Spot?? at the bottom of Mottram Road does a mean chicken kebab and their chilli sauce is of a good hotness if you like your kebabs spicy.

Turning 30

So a few people have asked me already “what’s it like to be 30?”.  First of all I know that is by some a bit of a phatic way of asking about my birthday etc, but I think there is a serious smidgen of intrigue from some people.  The best reply is that I feel the same as I did 2 days ago but now when someone asks my age they get a different answer.  Seriously though, does it have an effect on some people?  ‘Landmark’ ages such as this are more of a beacon that you look forward to, in the ‘I hope I’ve played linebacker for the Denver Broncos by the time I’m 30′ or ‘Jesus I cant believe Babylon Zoo will be around when I’m 30′ (sadly only one of these is a truth.  I digress.  30 used to be more of a landmark but people also only really got married once, had kids, didn’t like black people and thought women deserved a slap if they spoke out of turn. Times have changed, and so have things – admittedly some for the better but some for the worse [Nowadays it is THE MAN who would get the disaproving glance if he punched his wife in the face in the middle of a shopping centre for doubting his word.  Bit nonsensical that really - back in the day when spousal striking was acceptable a man would never have been in a shopping centre, moreover his wife would never have thought to disagree with her husband.  Yeah, we all miss better days.]

 

You see this is something I’m going to try and do every day, 30 was a beacon.  “I’ll start a daily blog like my hero (well not really a hero but I damn like the fella) Richard Herring.  It will get me writing as I’ll do it every day without fail from my birthday.  I suppose i shouldnt be too harsh on myself for not starting it on the day itself, everyone deserves a break from a not particularly taxing daily task when they havent really started it and its a day when they’re not really doing anything and have plenty of time on my hands.  Anyway it would have just been a load of wanky stuff trying to posture the consequences of entering Decade IV and then wanking on about starting a blog and then reach a postmodern bit where I’m actually writing about the thing I’m doing and not knowing where it will go but probably petering out in the middle of…………

(Hardly the middle of a sentence PB, practically the end and you know it.  You fat cunt).

Anyway, so I had a really nice day and got some terrific presents and I’m immensely greatful to everyone involved in providing the happiness.  I went to watch Hancock as part of my day – not the best film I’ve ever seen (that’s The Dark Knight and I’ve not even seen it yet) but far from the worst.  Maybe the negative reviews set a low bar but maybe the reviews were overly harsh because it had little pretensions of being too much more than a popcorn flick.  Well it did, to be fair so that’s not really a valid point by me.  There was a character study in there but it didnt overwhelm the film and it provided an emotional centre to the flying around and superhero antics.

Anyway I cant be bothered with too much more and half of my family have walked in and started to annoy me.