Tuesday, July 02, 2013

Your Righteous call to prayer is the voice of my Righteous indignation

A hat. Some time last week.
It's a well known fact that INTERNET FACTS are usually written down in uppercase and preceded by the word "FACT", but in the interests of legibility and so it doesn't seem like I'm shouting, you'll please indulge me as I temporarily break firmly held internet rules.

The phrase "..or I'll eat my hat" was coined back in the 19th century by an English gentlemen known as Mister Edward Steerburgen who, by trade, practised the unusual (and unprofitable) career combination of both millinery and confectionery design and manufacture. His recently released range of edible chocolate hats were, all things considered, both a financial and fashion disaster - so Steerburgen sought to introduce his newly invented phrase into common parlance to offer individuals losing a bet a delicious cocoa-laden consolation prize. His range of chocolate hats became a huge success, Steerburgen was awarded a medal for being England's biggest Cleverclogs by the Queen in 1896, and the rest is history. As we all know from experience, no sweet shop worth its salt (a higher relative sodium content can be found in white chocolate) is complete without a display of NestlĂ© Sombreros, Kinder Alpine Hats or the ever popular Cadbury Trilby or Dark Chocolate Galaxy Stove-pipe.

And I'll eat my chocolate hat If I'm wrong about this -

There are a group of people who irritate me even more than people who claim they’re boycotting something/somewhere they've never used/attended (Re: The Boycott Browns group that managed to get more members than the bar itself has ever seen customers - with the actual Boycott crowd complaining outside for about a week and a half.  That's commitment, Holmes) and that's the type of person who says that they’re boycotting something when they clearly have no intention of following through that threat.

Mr High-Blood-Pressure-Bright-Red-angry-Face (and his wife) love nothing more than to angrily stab at the power button on their laptop/computer, pace angrily around the room muttering swears and a series of phrases ("This Country..", "Never would have happened if..", "Bring back National Service") beneath their breath whilst slamming their fists down on furniture and/or household pets and then when the familiar and welcoming sound of the start-up music from Windows greets them (♫ doo DOO de DOOOO ) , slamming themselves down onto their chair (Boy, that's a lot of slamming) and launching into a furious tirade.

The sort of things that if they were covered on Points of View, would be read aloud by somebody doing a vaguely over-the-top regional accent. Usually as someone from The Valleys (as in Wales, not the God-awful reality show that makes reality bleed).

The nations morals plunge as sharply as Hollys neckline. THIS will be the
downfall of society. You see? EVIL, EVIL BREASTS. 
From all the furore made on the BBC you would be forgiven for thinking that as part of her role of presenting The Voice Final last Saturday, that Holly Willoughby had performed a live strip tease whilst noisily fellating Will.I.Ams microphone.

Hang on. Just holding on to that thought.
Right, as you were.

Now If I were to watch The Voice it's likely that my main focus of complaint - were it to affect my life in any way, shape or form, which it doesn't - would be over the overall content of its fucking predictable artificial sob-story led competition format, and not that I happened to see approximately one third of each of Holly Willoughby's breasts. The quality of my life has not been in the slightest bit diminished by the glimpse of an edge of both of Holly's glorious orbs - In fact I'll go out on a limb and say that seeing them has in fact made my day a lot happier than it otherwise would have been. And thanks to so many people complaining about them that it made the National News - If they hadn't, I've have never have known about their guest appearance in aforementioned outfit in the first place. My eternal gratitude.

But it's made a hundred or so angry Daily Mail Readers boycott the Voice, and in one or two cases - if you believe them - the BBC itself.

(Although it was genuinely life-affirming and reassuring to see the BBC do one of those half-hearted apologises you give to idiots, as in "We're sorry if it caused you offence".  You'll notice what is key about this is they're not saying "We're sorry we offended you" but their apology is in fact a coded way of saying "We're sorry that you're so small minded, petty and have so much time on your hands you're concerned that Last of The Summer Wine isn't on anymore and that we don't force our female presenters to wear a Burqa, fuckwit".)

3 a.m. yesterday.  At 3 a.m.
And on the topic of the Burqa...

It's a PROVEN INTERNET FACT that the Call to Prayer sounded by Mosques ("Which don't even have any English proper words in it like Jerusalem does and stuff") is in fact a coded transmission of lists of critical infrastructure targets, bomb making instructions and orders to make Findus Crispy Panakes Halal and is such that only trained Muslim ears can understand and interpret the stream of data. If you recorded it onto a tape cassette and loaded it into a ZX Spectrum, it'd show a picture of a Minaret, or something *. Probably.

As part of Ramadan, Leftie collaboratists Channel 4 will be broadcasting the Muslim Call to Prayer for 30 days. And as part of their abhorrent and ongoing #CreepingSharia scheme to fundamentally undermine the British way of life (or the regular broadcasting of Hollyoaks, at the very least) they'll be doing this at 3 a.m.

3 fucking a.m. That time of day that you rarely see these days that only exists to stop 2 a.m. being any closer to 4 a.m.

Big deal, right? You'd better believe it, sunshine. I can't work out for the life of me whether the Daily Mail crowd are more angry over the fact that it's happening, or because it means they'll have to set their alarms especially early so they're up in time to listen to it and get annoyed by it.

I've never been all that bothered by our local church ding dong merrily-ing on high the bells at 10 a.m.on a Sunday when I'm trying to, erm. research pictures of Holly Willoughby for blog posts, so a short program hidden away at 3 a.m. will make not a blind bit of difference to my existence. Not a jot.

So, we have a handful of people boycotting Channel 4 as well. A fair amount of people idiots who've never seen a remote control saying there should be a way of stop certain channels being available on telly as well. Clearly the sort of people who jab randomly at the buttons until pretty colours and distracting sounds emerge from the magical moving picture box.

But here's the point of my argument.

Once the baying mob put anything in writing (however poorly spelled or however poorly reasoned their argument), they should be legally bound to it. And that applies for everything.

We should have frogmarched Phil Collins, Frank Bruno and Jim Davison to Heathrow Airport back when they threatened (in the Sun Newspaper, of all places) to leave the country if Labour were ever elected. I'd have fucking packed their bags for them, if it would have helped.

TV License Vans should keep a list of these so called Boycotts and use their magical technological jiggery-pokery to not only work out whether you're watching telly, but if you're watching a channel or show that you said you'd never watch again - and should be given legal permission to come into your house and kick the screen in on your telly, stick a bill for wasting their time on the fizzing sparking remains and tell you to grow up and that now you've got something to fucking moan about.
* This is what you get. Scientifically tested, and not at all made up. Honest.

(And to all those who'd point out that I've spent a whole blog post moaning about people who moan should be fully aware that I'm being all "meta" and that. So shush it up).

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