Yoghurt, yoghurt, yoghurt, yoghurt, yoghurt, yoghurt, yoghurt, yoghurt, yoghurt! NEVER has such a bland product had such an appropriately bland spokesperson. McCutcheon IS yoghurt, but with significantly less culture. Chipmunk chops really does excel in the kingdom of the bland. She's a colossus of tedium, a Dizzy Gillespie cheeked interest vacuum who makes vapid garden meddlar Titchmarsh appear to be the reincarnation of Peter Ustinov. Just utilise the good bacteria to quell the significant vaginal discomfort and leave. Leave everything, disappear, stop trying to do things, any things, just go somewhere, and stay there, concentrate on the one thing you can do, breathe and look vacant. Can you do that Martine? Please yes? Good. Now stop dripping herring yoghurt on my carpet and fuck off.
So, i've been a customer with this lot for over 10 years (since they were ntl), and frankly, i've had e-fucking-nough. This may seem like a list of petty grievances and possible bordeline racism, but bear with me, i'm explosively ragey!
1> I've had the same (ntl branded) remote controls for my shit, unreliable tv box FOR TEN FUCKING YEARS! TEN YEARS! They're worn smoothe! There are no fucking numbers on them, they don't work half the time and they're driving me up the wall, accross the ceiling and back down the other wall at such a rate i'm being flung into the earth's fucking core! I know this sounds petty, but when a toddler DEMANDS the channel is changed, the excuse of "controller's not working again" doesn't wash. There will be tantrums!
2> My mother in law pays less than us, and has a lovely shiny new v-box, at no extra cost, with a hard drive, and responsive channels and services. We need to pay near on £100 for this, plus an extra fucking £11 a month. CUNT OFF! Do you have any idea how much you're already squeezing out of me you wheezing fuck monkeys?
3> And this isn't going to sound good to some. GET SOME PEOPLE WHO FUCKING UNDERSTAND ENGLISH AND CAN FORM SENTENCES IN YOUR CALL CENTRES! Eight wrongly transferred calls to equally clueless departments! My call this afternoon should have taken 10 minutes, instead it took over an hour and a half, and i am now purple, throbbing and about to explode. And NOT in a good way!
4> Why does it cost me another arm and a fucking leg to cancel the shithouse services i'm now regretfully receiving? You're shit, let me go somewhere that isn't shit, get out of my cunting life you vampiric flangeholes.
I am now going to lay down in the semi darkness, drink coffee, smoke fags and hope somehow that the whole of virgin media sponaneously combusts.
I am at a loss to explain my incredulous rage. I love the World Cup me. I fucking love it. I make no apologies for it, deal with it, I'm hopelessly involved. I'm in over my head. I am drowning in facts. And i FUCKING LOVE IT!
Now i need to be clear. I hate adverts at the best of times. Opportunistic ads that cash in on the prevailing social phenomenon of the time, can suck my fetid bellend. To this end, the cunts at Carlsberg have overstepped that mark by a HUGE chalk.
Their "If Carlsberg did teamtalks" advert has pushed my brain to the very corner of aneurysm. For starters lets list the helmets cavalcade of cunts they've talked into appearing shall we!
Steve Davis. (Past it pub sportsman, essentially an irrelevence) Steve Redgrave (There is nothing this man won't do to avoid spending time with his wife, leave the closet you boat faced shitehawk, and for fuck's sake, all you did was sit down and move your arms. If you want to impress me, wank off a golden eagle, for kicks!) Trevor Brooking (Scored with his head once) Psycho (get a grip man) Ellen FUCKING MacArthur (I had to look this up, as i thought it was a small boy, and my ire at her is far too great for a bit in parentheses i can tell you! FUCKING SHREW FACED TEAR SYPHON). Kelly Holmes.(She won two gold medals you know, that's what she's good at, running. This would be a good memory if she didn't keep fucking turning up on every half baked celebrity does a sport show, stiltedly reading lines and pretending to understand what the fuck is going on. Imbecile) Carl Fogarty. (Bike riding young old Steptoe. The bike did the work, you just sat on it and pretended it was a 100 mile per hour penis) Clive Woodward. (Southampton fans must love this bit. You look like an even less in touch version of William Hague. This makes you some form of ubercunt. Get your egg chasing fingers out of football you weeping priapism) Ranulph Fiennes. (Well done posh bloke, you can wander off into dangerous places and leave your family wondering if you'll ever come back alive, or with requisite fingers and toes. Tell you what, stay at home and stop being such a personality devoid seeker of danger at the expense of those who invariably rescue you or end up having to cope with you when you get home. Going to the poles and losing fingers doesn't make you a hero, it makes you a fucking tool, a fucking tool with fucked up semi stump hands. CUNT) Jeff Stelling. (This saddens me, i love Jeff) Kasabian. (I can't start on this one, i won't ever stop) Soccer AM's Tubes. (WTF?) Soccer AM's Rocket. (see above) Ian Botham. (Oh FFS!)
and then, the worst part...."FOR SIR BOBBY!"
*blood asplodes with boil*
The reason for my anger?
THEY'RE A FUCKING DANISH BEER COMPANY! WHAT IN SHITFIDDLING PISSWIZARDRY HAVE THEY GOT TO DO WITH ENGLAND? WHY ARE ALL THESE BLITHERING TWATSWORDS APPEARING IN THIS? DO THEY NOT THINK I, SPECIFICALLY ME, HATED THEM ALL ENOUGH ALREADY? TAYLOR, I THOUGHT I COULDN'T LOATHE YOU ANY MORE, BUT YOU HAVE SURPASSED YOURSELF YOU SWEATY TRIPE FACED GLAND GRENADE.
Seriously, i'm fuming.
I would gladly piss into the eyes of everyone involved, then scoop their eyes out with cervical smear devices, fill the cavities with the minced offal of their offspring, and set the lobsters onto them. THE FIRE LOBSTERS!
I need to lay dowm.
And laugh at the French making an epic aching ball of it all.