Chez Moi

So young Max is not going to continue blogging for Guardian. What a shame! After the vitriol that followed his introductory post, the poor lad will not be posting furthermore. The Travel Editor posted a follow-up piece on Feb 15, explaining the editorial decision behind allowing the trip to go on the site as well as pooh-poohing any claims of nepotism. Well that went well with the punters, I tell you. The great British public had a rollicking time commenting on that piece, with phrases like “shame on you, Editor” and “where’s the blue pencil” appearing with some regularity.

There was also a comment from ‘Maxdad’ that went as follows:

“As Andy Pietrasik’s blog hasn’t mentioned the fact Max won’t be writing any more blogs, I thought I’d bring all those heroic internet warriors the good news. Max’s trip (which he paid for himself I’m afraid - sorry) has got off to the worst possible start and he’s feeling pretty grim so that’s double good news for the brave warriors. You may like or dislike the blog but the cruelty is shocking if quintessentially British. Obviously everyone in his family is very hurt for Max so that’s a bonus. I won’t be reading any more smug clever dick comments but feel free to kick me around the field a bit now - just please leave Max alone. He hasn’t actually done anything wrong and you have your wish - he won’t be writing any further blogs.”

Ah my heart bleeds! The comments he got were miles better than the ones bloggers get at the hands of trolls. And some of them were perfectly legit too, IMHO.

What I do not understand about these kids ‘finding themselves’ is why justify the horrendous expense of the trip under the guise of a learning experience or a social service-type one. Granted, you learn so much by living amongst different people and different surroundings and the perspective you get is invaluable. So go on a working holiday. Go to a place where people are screaming for the bare necessities of life, pull up your sleeves and get stuck in. Build them toilets, help construct houses, eat the same crappy food they eat - that will be a revelation.

Going off to Goa and Bangkok, hitting the top spots with an odd peep at the real suffering world every now and then, well, what good does that do? Better just go on a month’s holiday, live it up and don’t dress it as anything but a holiday. After all, if you’ve got the money to do it, then what’s the harm?

But what’s this faux interest in suffering capitals of the world, like India and Thailand? What’s wrong with good old community service in the estates around UK? There are old people living on their own in absolute squalor who would be glad of the company of a young 19 year old lad, who can drop in and stay for a chat and make them some tea in the process. And maybe do their weekly shopping or trim their weeds.
Not cool enough, I suppose.

Oh well, there goes my planned entertainment for the next few months. Sigh. Hopefully something more entertaining will show up on the horizon soon.

Jordon - sorry, we are supposed to call her Katie Price now, to go with her new demure, non-smutty image. She is, after all, trying to reinvent herself as a serial writer and a children’s author. Which moron decided to let her loose on the influential minds doesn’t bear thinking.

For those of you who don’t know who she is (oh you lucky, lucky sods!), she’s a Brit glamour model, who married former pop singer Peter Andre and has been alternatively baring her bod and having his babies. She’s also trying to shed her glamous puss image and become a wholesome personality. She ain’t having much luck with it, I should say. During the launch of her recent book at the Waterstone’s outlet in Central London, she showed up in a supergirl type outfit, complete with hot pants. Not a look a children’s author would like to sport, now is it?

Well, true to type, she resorted to her usual shenanigans - she lifted her hands and guess who popped up to join the party?

What amazes me about this character is her releasing her THIRD autobiography!!! I mean, word fails me to learn that not only has some one commissioned her to write an account of her life but gone on to update it a further two times. Really!

One cannot have an article about Jordon without a mention of the other skanky mank, Jodie Marsh. So here is she, in her ‘wedding gear’. The picture says it all, doesn’t it?

I really despair for the British society that these individuals are the celebrities who are flying the Union Jack and are having young, impressionable children looking up to them. What has the world come to?

 
I spent some jolly 10-minutes reading about young Max, 19, who’s off to India and Thailand, in a bid to discover the world and himself AND blog about it for Guardian. Normal? Harmless? Well, the entertaining commenters (451 at the last count) thought not, especially as it seemed more and more probable that Max’s daddy might be the Guardian’s travel writer. Comments ranged from a fairly normal ‘tut, tut’ to more vociferous ’shame on you, a pox on you!’ kind of curses. Most Brits are getting their knickers in a twist over the gross unfairness of it all and the obvious nepotism. Like I said, pure entertainment.

What was even more hilarious is this kid’s take on India. He’s ’scared shitless’ of the place, right? Then why’s he going there? Good q. He has to take a gazillion shots / pills to be deemed fit to travel. As soon as he lands in Bombay, he’s gonna take of ‘pretty sharpish’ to Goa, and civilization, to ease himself into the land of snake charmers and elephant rides. Ooh, what a lark!

I tell ya, economic boom, one of the world’s viral job markets, exporting some of the best brains to all parts of the world post ever graduation day and still, the world’s yuppies still think we sleep on nailed beds and have pet monkeys. Tut, tut! I tell you what, I bet ol’ Max would probably piss himself the first time someone speaks to him in English. It may not be the Oxbridge he is used to but hey, totally serviceable, mon. I, for one, am going to bookmark his blog and keep visiting. If not to keep abreast of what shenanigans he gets up to in Goa or Bangalore, most def for the bollocking he’s going to get in the comments section.

Good times, people.

A friend forwarded me this hilarious article from Times Online as it would appeal to my quirky sense of humour. Well, hell, it did. It is so droll I loved every word of it. How can you not, when you find beauties such as this:

“about discovering how comprehensively a mixture of hot
water and detergent can reduce banknotes to an indecipherable squidge of
papier-mâché, while leaving tomato-sauce strains entirely intact elsewhere
on said garment.”

or,

”
Nor about realising that I may need to work until I am 89 because my pension
has shrivelled to the size of a hamster’s testicle.” Amen to that, ol’ man!

He sagely adds “Still, far be it for me to complain about
the state of Britain. Not while I wear this wristband, anyway. I’m giving it
until lunchtime, incidentally, then it’s going in the bin. The strain of
being so bloody nice is making me feel ill.”

I can sooo get behind that sentiment tho’ no one in their right minds would ever accuse me of being bloody nice! Go on, read it - bet it will make you crack a smile!

Well no one can come up with a more outraged squawk than the Mad Momma but as she has implored us desi bloggers in merrie England to not take it lying down, well, how can I ignore the invitation?

What am I blathering about? This - the Communities Secretary Hazel Blears’ ‘Immigration pack’ that is inform an immigrant how to behave on landing on British shores. Simple things like don’t go touching the nice woman at the tube station, put the trash out, spit in the street or *gasp* play loud music. Why? Coz the locals are doing enough of it and please don’t add to the mayhem, there’s a good chap.

I think someone should tell this to my neighbour opposite. He seems to think that every Saturday comes around purely for him to test the strength of the concrete blocks our buildings are made of and proceeds to spend most of the night pitting some high decibels at it. Or the rest of the idiots who cannot read the words that say ‘please do not dump your cycles and old washing machines here - that’s what the Council’s £30 collection facility is for’ and proceed to happily chuck any old crap in the bin area, which means I get the bill!

Drinking and driving? How dare you, you pathetic immigrant? How dare you entertain that notion! Take the train and go to any of the bars in Romford or Basildon instead, where the delightful chavs would give you more than your money’s worth by puking copious amounts of beer and other assorted gunk and round off the show by showing their tits.

I am so tired of reading everywhere of the Brits who have thrown opened their doors and are knitting out ‘Welcome’ sweaters for every immigrant foisted on them. Why the hell have I been spat at and told home on a regular basis? And what about the snooty sales women who are all nicety-nice spreading sunshine and cheer all around but clam up and give Mt Rushmore a run for its money the minute they see my mug? Or - this is one of my favourites - how about the chemist down the road who paid no heed to me when I stood outside her door in the cold for 30 frigging minutes, wondering when she will open up, only to find her outside explaining to the first white person that came round that as the pharmacist wasn’t in, she cannot prescribe medicine and so sorry and all that - and finished off with a sneer in my direction? Sadly lacking in the spirit, wouldn’t you say?

Yeah give us behavioural packs all you want, sweetie, but let’s stop pretending we are housing paragons of virtue here. The number of louts and ‘lads behaving badly’ that you see around the Town centres and High Streets come weekend have to be seen to be believed. Immigrants like us pay more in tax than idiots like that lush Holly, now seen on Ladette to a Lady, who proudly says she spends her dole money getting trashed every weekend and behaving like nothing human can possibly can. Getting sozzled on every occasion and showing her knickers to all and sundry, well if she remembers to wear them in the first place, are all such sterling behavioural examples, ain’t it?

Whilst I am not claiming that all Indians are gold medal winners when it comes to behaving well or that every single Brit is an ill-mannered lout , I am offended that this sort of pack can be handed out to people and one expects us to be what? happy? If that isn’t smug and patronising, I do not know what is!