“Joey came on, got a good tackle in on Nasri. Then the guy sliced him down. That’s what happened and that’s what I saw, which is what I was upset about,” the Newcastle manager said.

I'm not going to absolutely batter Joey Barton for his tackle on Samir Nasri, because to be fair I thought it was a decent tackle. The intent was there to injure the player but the fact is he won the ball fair and square. I'm sure if it was a different player making the tackle then nobody would've said anything.

I've seen the Samir Nasri flick on Barton, and he was rightly booked, but Kevin Keegan is totally over-exaggerating with his comments, and was out of order confronting Nasri at the final whistle. Fair play to Gallas for sticking up for Nasri, I just wished he'd knocked Keegan out.

I used to like Keegan, but he does seem to turn into a complete berk when the pressure gets to him. If he'd have got a point of the game yesterday then he would've kept quiet, but the fact is his team got well and truly owned and he's making excuses for his diabolical management skills.

Has Keegan ever performed well anywhere as a manager? The bloke really is useless, but always likeable and useless. Now he's a useless wanker.

I must give him credit for one of the greatest live TV moments of all time though.

But, at the very least, Labor should show some concern for the minimal levels of wellbeing generally supported by worker solidarity. So what the hell does Morris Iemma stand for?

Obviously less than slightly left talkback DJ Mike Carlton. Carlton refused to submit his weekly column to Fairfax for their weekend edition of the Simply Moaning Herald because of strike action by journalists opposed to mass sackings. So he has been (at least for now) sacked.

What does Morris do? As strikebreaking scab labour, he exploits Fairfax's need for wordage with yet another worthless diatribe about the wonderful benefits of delivering publicly built and owned utilities into private hands.

Because he runs what should be one of the most manageable states in Australia, but can't think of any other way to screw more money out of the inhabitants.

Because he is a dick.

The kind of dick that has made an unelectable State Liberal Party look like the best thing that could now happen to New South Wales at the next election. And everybody seems to know this except for the New South Wales Labor Government.

Who didn't even think to charge Parker Brothers $15 billion for the right to stick Sydney on a Global Monopoly board. Even though Morris was so proud. Of his Monopoly.

"Nowhere to be found"? Indeed.

I'm a VJ, journalist, ex-academic who shoots guns, watches porn, does Israeli self defense, swims, works out and reads comic books.

I can speak basic Japanese, French with smatterings of Italian and German. I can read hiragana, katakana and hangul.

I play computer games, do 2d and 3d animation, started a PhD in docugaming and read player manuals for RPGs for fun.

From the age of 23, I have been in middle management in interesting jobs. I ran the night desk of The Age Online, taught online Journalism at RMIT - where I ended up running the department. Now I work for Leader newspapers as their online product guy.

I wear $1500 suits, speak with an affected slur around my S's and right now am listening to Fila Brazilla

I am on the cool fringe of nerdism, and there ain't a lot you or I can do about it.

I also find it difficult to relate to most people - either I'm on fire conversationally, or I'm a stunted growth in the corner. This often depends on my level of lucidity.

I suspect I may have mild autism. I find it hard to get emotional about most things.

I have done a lot of things, but there are a lot more I haven't.

These include:

• Live overseas
• Seduce a random stranger with words (I'm kinda married, so that's as far as it would go)
• Direct a film that wasn't for Youtube release
• Write a novel
• Chessbox
• Write a blog for more than three posts

And many more.

This blog is about rectifyign this. Starting with the last point.

After that, I will prosecute you under Amendment 18 of the United States Constitution, which calls for not less than 10 years of incarceration.

This is after I launch an investigation through Whois and harass your ISP, who files the complaint at the highest priority in the /dev/null queue.

Things I've learned in the last 24 hours:

Yes, every fucking idiot on the planet seems to be an active user of Livejournal.

The worst offenders get jobs at companies like Red Hat.

My dad can beat up your dad.

My penis is so big that I have to carry a permit.

A visitor fell into the cordoned-off piece, sending it crashing to the floor and breaking into hundreds of pieces.

The 9ft totem called Christina was one of five totems by Costa Rican artist Tatiana Echeverri Fernandez on show at at the Royal Academy.

The gallery was initially closed after the accident on Saturday afternoon but later reopened.

Consultation between the artist, curatorial team and art handlers had taken place took place as to how to best protect the works.

The barriers were arrived at as the best option.

The Royal Academy of Arts said: "the Summer Exhibition 2008 had got through its busiest period and it is particularly disappointing that this has happened on a fairly quiet Saturday afternoon."

It added that the Royal Academy was now "arranging for a conservator to come in to assess the damage so that we can inform our insurers".

BBC

I bet whoever did it feels a right bellend.

I love that his letter is riddled with mistakes and that he signs off with "All the best" after berating the subs for a good 13 pars.

My mum's bloke is related (by marriage) to the Corens. Giles is a cock of the highest variety.

I do hope the Times told him where to go.

"This coffee totally better be good because I'm a total starbucks freak" he said, every inch of his wankerness glistening in the afternoon sunshine.

An occasion such as the above requires a set of these within easy reach:

Put on 1 stone in weight with the amount of stuff I am drinking..... and I eat eat eat eat and drink drink drink and I am depressed... but what the hell.. nobody cares, so why should I!!!!!

The minimum wage in the UK doesn't discriminate against gender lines, if you are under-skilled or just unlucky, it doesn't matter whether you are a chick, a prick or a chick with a dick because you are still going to earn exactly the same crappy hourly rate as your counterparts.

[vodpod id=ExternalVideo.615726&w=425&h=350&fv=clip_id%3D1242458%26server%3Dwww.vimeo.com%26autoplay%3D0%26fullscreen%3D1%26md5%3D%26show_portrait%3D0%26show_title%3D0%26show_byline%3D0%26context%3D%26context_id%3D]

The film itself was fine. The last 20 mins are a bit flaky and they missed an opportunity to do something really interesting with their (actually well-played-out) twist. Smith does his usual straight-talking, wise-cracking everyman, except this time he’s a tortured, alcoholic reluctant superhero with a chip on his shoulder that Bill Gates would be proud of.

The public think he’s an asshole, the villains are out to get him and even those he saves plan to sue him. With a warrant out for his arrest, his only thankful victim – I mean rescued – is a PR man who decides to set about changing Hancock’s public image. But that means one thing: jail.

It sounds like fluff but there are gleams of depth in there somewhere – it’s just a shame the makers didn’t go that extra step and make Hancock as well-rounded as he could have been. Maybe in the sequel, eh?

Story of the evening:
In the queue into the screen, my sort-of-step-bro (SOSB) and I found ourselves in between Alison off Big Brother (the large black lady who now presents for This Morning) and Anita Roddick’s daughter. Roddick did a double take, “I know you…” she said to Alison. I was about to make a quip about not thinking someone like her would watch such crap as BB (especially something as crass as BB3), but then Alison said that she’d been over to her house to interview her mother. “Yes, yes that was it,” she said, looking at me too, as if to include me in the conversation. She obviously thought Alison and I were buddies. I smiled back, kinda liking the association with a Z-lister (hey, celebrity is a drug, even if it is the skanky skag rocks equivalent).

“Yeah…” continued Alison, “six weeks later – she was dead!”
SOSB and I cringed. I shrank back, desperately wanting to disassociate myself with Alison asap – oh how the public turn!
“Er… I’m sorry?” said Roddick.
“Six weeks after our interview was when your mum died,” carried on Alison, at the top of her voice. “Gutted I was. Gutted. How are you anyway?”
“Still quite heartbroken actually,” said Roddick, turning away and finding a seat – as far away from us as possible.

BB4’s Alison: definition of a tactless godbshite, ladies and gents.

Must be terrible to be the child of someone famous sometimes.

**

Oh and on a side note, I realised the other day that I can rattle off every BB winner in order:
Craig, Brian, Kate, Cameron, Nadia, Anthony, Pete, Brian

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

As per my wife's request, I'll be keeping track of exactly what I've done today:

5:30 - 6:30: Wake-up, read the newspaper, browse the internet and check emails

6:30 -7:00: Walk down the street, buy Muay Lok magazine and breakfast (Khow mun gai - chicken over rice with broth)

7:00 - 8:00: Eat breakfast, read Muay Lok, try and figure out four fighters from a show 6 weeks ago

8:00 - 9:00: Meeting with the wife

9:00 - 10:30: Out for coffee and to pay my cell phone bill since for some reason I was unable to do so online like I normally do.

10:30 - 11:30: Downloaded and reviewed a show from Thailand to figure out which fighters fought in it.

11:30 - 12:30: Read - browse the internet for information

12:30 - 1:30: Walk down the street to buy a Pepsi and some chicken to make chicken sandwich with. Read, check out photos from an online gallery.

1:30 - 2:15: Read Maxim article on the hyena men of Africa, search for submission guidelines for Maxim. I have never been able to find any of their submission guidelines which makes it a little difficult but not too much so - I'll need to call them tonight as I've got an idea I'd like to pitch.

2:15 - 2:30: Prepare VSH player to record Oleydong's fight. It's the next best thing to being there. Fixed sound problem; my wife taped the last fight, Veeraphol's, and unfortunately there was no sound. This is now fixed.

2:30 - 3:00: Browse online art galleries / check out what my photos look like when they're filtered

3:00 - 4:30: Watched Oleydong Sithsamerchai vs. Junichi Ebisuoka (17-11-3, 7 KOs)

4:30 - 5:00: Ate dinner (rice with egg)

5:00 - 6:30: Wrote article for the Phuket Gazette newspaper

6:30 - 7:00: Walk down to 7'11, get a Pepsi, some cooking oil for the wife and some Cocoa Crunch cereal for the kids (their favorite)

7:00 - 8:00: Read Irrawaddy Magazine / Browse the internet and read

8:00 - 9:00: Review The Ring ratings and the alphabet ratings, final edit of Boxing Digest article (Sahaprom - Malinga) and The Fist

9:00 - 11:00: Watched TV, relaxed

11:00-11:15: Called Maxim, pitched idea

11:15 - 12:30: Watched TV, relaxed

12:30 - 12:35: Responded to some British wanker's not so smart-ass comment

Sleep

That's it - that was my exciting day. Like I wrote before, sometimes the life of a journalist is great - fun, relaxing, full of unique experiences, near perfect. Others, well...other's it monotonous.

Gordon Brown has defended the use of CCTV, ID cards and the DNA database - saying they protect civil liberties.

In a speech to the IPPR think tank, the prime minister said they helped ensure people's right to live free from crime.

...In his speech Mr Brown said it was time to write a "new chapter" in Britain's history which would both protect citizens' security and individual liberties.

(from the BBC report on the speech)

STOP PRESS: Downing Street plans to send a research team to the moon on a factfinding mission into the possibility of securing the longterm sustainability of the British cheese industry through interstellar expansion. Now that's thinking outside the political box, baby!

Pathetic.

I say this guy, despite the claim of there being more than one author, for one simple reason: it’s one guy. There is no difference in style or attitude between any of the personalities writing - it is identically bad throughout.

I can’t claim to have found this guy, though; that honour, such as it is, belongs to Lottie, who recently stabbed him in the eye with her post called Speaking for All Men; she is also the one who first noticed the rather obvious lack of difference between the so-called writers’ arrogant, misogynistic little screeds.

This guy is brimming with hatred for women as autonomous individuals outside of the confines of what he deems attractive; they appear not only as objectified individuals with diminished agency as is common in a lot of misogynistic thinking, but as non-individuals. They are not only objectified - they are objects, sterile things with no more value than a car, and no more chance of being seen as human.

This is not to say that the pictures of women are what do this. The guy could be posting pictures of scantily-clad women all over the place, and I wouldn't necessarily object – so long as they were acknowledged as being people. Sexual pictures of people are not a bad thing per se and don't cause anyone to do anything, whether good or bad, the rather spurious and desperate connections claimed by some notwithstanding.

However, that's a tangent. What I really want to discuss is the disgusting pile of hatred recently vomited up by Mr Thoughtful, as he calls himself in this particular incarnation, on the subject of marriage and prostitution.

This is pretty revealing stuff – Mr Thoughtful seems to be under the impression that all women are scheming and manipulative whores who want to trick men out of their rightful inheritance of free and unbridled sex with no consequences while trapping them in marriage¹.

The post in question, regarding the supposed superiority of prostitution over marriage (at least, I think that was his point; coherency doesn't really figure high on this guy's list) deals heavily in this topic. Leaving aside the rightness of legalised prostitution, this is pretty sickening stuff; I'll be addressing Mr Thoughtful himself throughout, because, well, he needs shouting at.

I guess that I need to throw my two cents on the Eliot Spitzer affair (pun intended).

I think you've materially overestimated what your opinion is worth here, and the pun sucks.

I’ve never been a big fan of marriage.

I'm sure women everywhere will be hurt beyond all belief by this news, given what a catch you are.

In fact, I’m convinced that it is nothing more than male slavery (more on that in a later post).

This is just... stupid. You might have a point, if men were socially disadvantaged by marriage or rendered unable to do what they desired by law or the usual circumstances of marriage; they are not, however. Calling marriage as we in the West know it a form of slavery is the ridiculous kind of thing I expect to see from Radical Feminists² and misogynists, and you certainly don't disappoint on that front. Men only rarely suffer any kind if disadvantage from being married; statistically speaking, what happens is that a lot of guys get an unpaid maid who works incredibly hard for not much in the way of reward, whether in terms of gratitude or monetary compensation. Marriage all too often condemns women to a life of domestic drudgery; and even if they later re-enter the workforce, their chances of achieving well-paid or fulfilling jobs are often miniscule because they've been out of the workforce for an enormous length of time. So, please, don't even dare call it male slavery, not when this situation persists, when some people still insist that the home-marking partner contributes nothing to the success of the marriage.

But look at it from poor Eliot’s side. He wakes up every morning next to that same plain looking block of wood also known as his wife.

First thing is that this is a deeply unpleasant thing to say about Mrs Spitzer in and of itself; she is not a piece of wood, and your attempt to dehumanise her and turn her into an unfeeling object undeserving of human consideration is duly noted, you scumfuck.

The second is that if he were that unhappy with his wife, there were options; there's marriage guidance counselling, or even divorce, and while New York State admittedly doesn't have no-fault divorce, it's not exactly a difficult thing to obtain, either. Seriously, stop making excuses for him.

You might have seen her standing next to Eliot looking like a hurt puppy while he apologizes for his misdeeds. But think about it for a minute. Could you really see her as someone who straps her freak on in the bedroom?

So... Wait a minute, let me get this straight: because she doesn't fit what you call attractive, she has no right to be hurt because her husband broke his marriage vows and betrayed her? Wow. I'm just so glad that you're not in charge of anything more significant than your own underwear drawer. This goes back to the dehumanisation I mentioned earlier – she doesn't fit his template of what's attractive, so she's not even human anymore.

Didn’t think so. So Eliot wants a little excitement in his life. He’s tired of looking at the same ragged dishtowel that used to be the hot young babe he fell in love with so long ago.

Maybe he ought to tell his wife, first? Maybe, if he's got any pretensions towards being an adult human being, he ought to actually discuss that he's not happy with her? And frankly, if his love falls away because she got older, he never loved her or deserved her in the first place.

You know that ploy that women use to trap men into marriage. Long, flowing hair. Make up that is perfectly applied. A body that is slender and athletic looking. Wild monkey sex on numerous occasions throughout the week.

Right, because women are just queuing up to marry guys who are selfish, looks-obsessed and fixated solely on sex. They're just lined up around the block to trap you into a sexless marriage where they steal from you and get fat. Because, as we all know, women hate sex and are just after money. And they get fat. Right?

Ugh. Just reading this guy makes me feel ill. Not only is he deeply and obviously offensive towards women –we've already established that one- but he's also pretty fucking offensive to me as a man.

Now?

Hair that is short and easy to manage (when she decides to do something with it). Little or no make up which exposes the imperfections, creases, winkles, etc. Ten to fifteen pounds that gets strapped to her ass and thighs every year.

Hey, asshole. Real people get older and mature. That's something that adults realise and accept as part of life, and some of us even embrace it. Wrinkles are a badge of pride, a sign that you've been through life; they're often formed by laughter or frowns, they can be a sign of character. I'll give you a minute to go and look it up, chief.

And sex?

Maybe on your birthday.

When she’s in the mood.

News for you, son. You don't have a right to demand sex from anyone, even from your wife. Hell, especially not from your wife – this is someone to whom you have supposedly made a loving commitment. Demanding sex doesn't fall under that heading.

Poor Eliot didn’t have a choice. His wife pushed him off that cliff.

You've got to be fucking kidding me. Talk about your archetypal victim blaming! "My wife nagged me until I couldn't help but kill her, Your Honour." "She was asking for it."

Eliot Spitzer was an irresponsible jackass who couldn't keep it in his pants. Quit blaming his wife, shithead. She's not accountable for his lack of self-control.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m convinced that most married men will cheat on their wives if there is absolutely no chance that they’ll get caught.

Speak for yourself. I love my wife.

We can’t help it. It is our divine right to plant our seed in fertile ground. We must have sex otherwise our heads will implode. This basic concept is part of our DNA. Who are you to argue with the evolutionary process?

Agh! The stupid, it burns! These goggles, they do nothing! Ack!

This is just more of the same crap we see from other rape apologists – men are lustful beasts who can't control themselves, and so shouldn't be held to blame when they stick it anywhere they please. Fuck off, you shit. If we're all such evil brutes who can't control ourselves, we shouldn't be held to blame for rape, right? If they didn't want to be raped, they shouldn't have inflamed our uncontrollable passions.

Fuck you, you fucking fuck. What the hell is wrong with you? You've just dehumanised the entire species; women are just sperm vessels and men are raping animals.

Eliot did what any normal man (with a shitload of money) would have done under the same circumstances. He just got caught. And every single guy across this country had the exact same thought about Kristin…

…damn she’s hot.

Except the guys who love their wives and girlfriends. And the gay ones. And the asexual ones. And the ones who wouldn't visit prostitutes. And the ones who don't find her attractive. I'm sure that even you might be getting the picture at this point. You don't get to just erase the majority of male humanity by claiming that only rapists-in-waiting like you get to be men. We are better than you, and you don't get to push us out of the picture, you creep.

Go and play in traffic, you shitty excuse for a human being. You disgust me.

And likewise, there are certain things you can always rely on in these tasks. Certain cock ups you know that will always happen – no matter what happened last year, and no matter how closely the current flock watched the series, or how capable they are.

Last night was the advertising task. Every year the same old same old. Every year one team goes off on a whim of whimsy, artistic creative bollocks, throwing money at a luscious campaign and sitting smugly in the boardroom, thinking they’ve nailed it before having their faces rubbed right in the shit like some naughty puppy by Sralan. Every year, one team stumble upon the right way of doing it, whether it’s because of budget or lack of creative thinking – not because they actually stopped to think of what was needed for that task (as has actually been the case in most of the tasks this year, which is why I’ve not really engaged in it as much. No flair, no flair!).

So last night, Alex’s team went off on one with their Atishus (which is such an obvious idea for a brand something makes me wonder why it’s not been used before), while Lucinda-I’m-Crazy-Me! trailed behind them bitching and moaning and generally being unhelpful and very un-teamly. Much as I dislike Lee and Alex (even though Alex is a fittie) I did have to side with them on this one. Lucinda was doing everything she could to bring the other two down (not something Sralan needs in his company – he does that very well himself, thanks) and also ensured her place in the boardroom if they did happen to fail. No, far better to do what Lee and Sophocles (I’m calling him this now as he is truly a great philosopher of our age) did and be as matey as you can with your Team Leader thus ensuring you can a) escape the boardroom or b) stab him in the back once there.

Over on the other side was where the comedy value lay last night. Raef and Sophocles – two frustrated actors – went off on one, declaring their love for the theatre (and adverts – just to press the point, thanks for that, Raef). Raef quoted Sebastian from Twelfth Night (the blandest of Shakey’s characters, which speaks volumes methinks), but then couldn’t go on because it would get too emotional – he might have even wiped away a tear, I don’t know, I was putting on my slap at the time. Thanks for sparing us that, Raef. An actor of your calibre should use their talents wisely. Meanwhile Sophocles did his Fagan. Hey, Lloyd Webber – I think we’ve found your Nancy…

Falling further into luvvie land, the boys called up Sian Lloyd to see if she’d help sell their tissues for them. Nope, nothing to do with coughs and colds because of bad weather. Or hayfeaver. Or sobbing into tissues because your weird ugly MP boyfriend has just gone off with a Cheeky Girl. No it was because ugly singleton Sian is apparently really wholesome. This surprised a giggly Sian, who had a naughty glint in her eye when suggesting how utterly un-wholesome she is. Hun, I rilly don’t want to know. *gags*

So to the boardroom, where a smug Raef/ Sophocles (to be honest these public school boys all look the same to me) started slagging off the other team’s ad, while Alex and co shuffled in their seats, clearly embarrassed at the clunky, clumsy way their tissues – sorry A Tishus – had been shoved down viewers throats (hey, there’s another idea for a campaign! With super models and everything! I’m wasted here, I really am). “I mean, I know the brand has to be clear and that…”
“Do you?” Interrupted Sralan
“Wha?” Came the rabbit in the headlight answer.

And that’s when the axe fell. Raef’s team had spent too long posturing and posing and hanging out with flabby-lipped, clicky-mouthed weather girls – actually, I refuse to call her a girl. She’s not a girl, she’s a hag – weather hags to notice that their product was a tiny box on the bottom left corner of the screen. So it was a shopping spree for Lee, Lucinda and Alex and the greasy spoon for Raef, Michael and the other two. Raef made the vital mistake of relying on the others not to stab him in the back. As soon as he uttered the words, “We’re not going to lie are we?” you could almost see shadows of the others, sharpening their blades behind him.

But it all went smoothly until Sophocles (our Great Thinker) got backed into a corner. “Everything that you liked, I did Sralan,” he chirped like that kid you hated in nursery school because he was always kissing ass (and had snot dribbling into his mouth). There’s something utterly repulsive about someone who bags all the praise because they think it’s good personal PR. If I were Sralan, my bullshit detector would have gone into overdrive. I’d’ve asked Sophocles exactly what he thought I’d liked about it (and thus what he’d done). I was also quite appalled that, at this stage, that girl (Claire?) didn’t chip in with what she’d done while the other two were off playing Spielberg. After all, “Behind every successful man, there’s a successful woman, ain’t that right, Claire?” She was clearly trying to let the boys dig their own graves, but it irked me nonetheless.

So Sophocles shifted the blame on to Raef, who as project leader had to go. I think even Sophocles was shocked that his, “don’t look over here, look over there” tactic worked as he shuffled off to the house, dramatically declaring to the others, “I don’t want to talk about it! It upsets me so!” *hand to forehead* “Raef has gone, that’s all you need to know!” (Need a tissue, Sophocles?) Of course, he was conveniently forgetting that, yes, Raef had gone, with his own throbbing genitalia rammed right up his arse.

Ahem. The UK tissue market is worth millions of pounds, says the VO. And according to Alex’s team, most tissues are used by women. Er… You sure about that Lee? I’m sure Michael and Raef get through a fair few on a daily basis (and that’s not counting evenings). But hey, we can’t advertise that, can we, no matter what shock value Lucinda wants. Tossers Tissues. Has quite a nice ring to it, doncha think?

Well as previously remarked gormless, northern, clotheshorse Aggggggynes Deyn look's like a rodents spayed genitals. However, has anyone noticed that Daisy Lowe (secret love child of Gavin Rossdale and Pearl Spam from defunct Britpop troupe Powder; and now gym-slip girlfriend of overly-priveleged DJ/wanker Mark Ronson) also resembles something from the animal kingdom?

That's right! She's the spit of a pekingese!

Me

Να εισαι ταπεινος, ησυχος και μαζεμενος μου ελεγε η μακαριτισα η γιαγια μου. Και ετσι προσπαθω να ειμαι. Ενα ντροπαλο και συνεσταλμενο ξανθο αγορι. Προπαντων στη νεα μου δουλεια, προσπαθω να περναω οσο το δυνατο πιο απαρατηρητος, ειδικοτερα γιατι εχω πει τις απειρες μπαρουφες για να με παρουν, ακομη ειδικοτερα γιατι ειμαι φιλοξενουμενος σε μια μοντερνα ξενη χωρα και δε θελω να προκαλω με κανενα τροπο.

Με αυτο κατα νου λοιπον, σαβουριαζα το μεσημεριανο μου, μαναχος και χαμηλοβλεπουσος σε μια γωνιτσα. Ξαφνου ερχονται και καθονται στο τραπεζι 8 παλαιουρες μανατζερς, και Γιαπονεζος αφεντικο και μια γυναικα.

Αναπουεκτα αρχιζει κουβεντουλα.

 Μανατζερ1: This is Alex (υποκοριστικο του Ροκαβλον..) he is new, he is in my department.

 Me: Hello (χαμηλωφωνα και χαμογελαστα)

 Μανατζερ2: Where are you from?

 Me: From Greece..

 Manager 3: How come you are in Denmark? A woman right? Χα χα ολοι μαζι σε πολυ ευχαριστη και και   φιλικη ατμοσφαιρα.

 Me: xa xa.. Yes, xa xa You know what they say.. (σε αuτο το σημειο εχω την απολυτη προσοχη ολων)

 HAIR FROM A PUSSY CAN PULL A BOAT.. Xa xa xa xa.......

.

.

Ησυχια...

.

Και συνεχιζω ακαθεκτος

You know,..from a…(και αρχιζω να δειχνω τη βουβονικη μου περιοχη).....

....

.

But from woman, sorry ( λεω στην κυρια στα αριστερα μου)...pulls a boat...

you know?

...

.

Σιωπη... τουμπεκι ψιλοκομενη, ολοι πισω στο φαγητο τους, ουτε κιχ..

.

Victory. Γοητευτικοτατος και εντυποσιακοτατος.... Ατσαλακωτος τελειωσα το φαγακι μου και εφυγα κυριος. .. Παλι καλα που δεν αμολησα επικη κλανια φευγοντας να γραψω ιστορια.. Αφησα το στιγμα μου. Τωρα ειμαι η ο ανωμαλος Ελληνας που τραβαει τριχες απο μουνια, η ο γελοιος φαλοκρατης Ελληνας με τη σιχαμερη αισθηση χιουμορ. Ιts a win win situation. Rock n Roll

Σκατα

Α ρε γιαγιακα

But, whatever; it's called a carnival rather than anything else, and we'll all just have to live with that, won't we?

You may have gathered from all this that I'm not totally fond of the concept, and you'd be right. It's basically a way for people to make nice with each other while they reuse ancient pages for things besides chip papers. It's one thing to do link round-ups of stuff you've found interesting, but carnivals seem just an excuse to recycle old material. While doing air kisses. Mwah. Mwah.

To register my disdain for blog carnivals, I've decided to start the first* anti-carnival. It will be dedicated to one particular theme, as are carnivals, but with one important distinction - instead of heaping praise and friendship and mutual linking, it will be a cavalcade of abuse and scorn and disdain raining down upon the arseholes of the internet, of which there are uncountable numbers.

Which, coincidentally, is the theme; the full title will be the Anti-Carnival of Arseholes and Douchebags, with a strapline of Fuck You, Internet.

I will be taking applications from now until this time next week, with the aim of publishing the anti-carnival a week from Friday; all are welcome to sneer at whoever deserves it, although there is already a little list sitting on my desk. Figuratively speaking.

Nothing is off-limits - pick anyone you want. The only stipulation is that said person must be obviously and provably an arsehole or douchebag.

Go get 'em.