Mme Sarkozy tenuously connects us all

Whoa, hey! Is this thing still here?!

Only kidding, folks: you’ve not been forgotten. We’ve just been incredibly busy here at The Twaddle HQ (in the sleepy county of Gunpointshire). At least, Gardner has.

Being a rookie journalist and all, he’s been spending his days plugging away tirelessly, deep in the bowels of the Journoplex. At the moment, his office …well, he doesn’t strictly have an office, really. It’s just a desk.

…

OK, so he’s got a pile of old pizza boxes he uses to steady his laptop, in lieu of any real office equipment. Anyway, that’s in the lower sub-basement of the Journoplex—where all the the junior news-botherers begin their broadcasting careers. It’s well grotty down there.

Deep in the lowliest, mankiest parts of the world’s journalistic hierarchy—that far down—the walls are unplastered, and the girders that barely hold them up have almost rusted away to nothing. Journalists: rubbish at architectural engineering.

Further up the ’Plex (as all the trendy young journos are calling it), wonderfully oblivious to the structural instability below, live the bigwigs—your Rupert Murdochs and your Huw Edwardses: journalistic royalty. And they’re treated as such: the floors are even numbered “92”, “93”, “Rageh”, “95”…

The further up you go, the shinier, spiffier and metallic-sheen-ier it gets. That, of course, is where Gardner wants to be going, and why he’s spent the last few weeks trying to attract the attention, approval and eminence of all those lucky people further up the reportage pecking order.

—The ones whose windows have a nice view of the sky, and some trees and things; instead of his backdrop of slimy sewer gunk, raw fossil fuels and rat crap. And whose windows have glass.

See-through glass.

In order to curry favour with the Journoplex’s upper echelons, then, he’s been investing all of his time in being furiously and resolutely distracted by Nicolas Sarkozy’s wife.

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I, meanwhile, have been paying attention to world events. I’ve seen enough scripted television dramas—and what is life if not a scripted television drama?—to know that seemingly-unrelated concurrent events are always related.

And then there’s that bit when all the loose ends come together and tie up neatly just before the credits roll. Now, I’m not suggesting that you’re gonna wake up next Friday to find the sky covered in scrolling text, compressed to 47% of its supposed size in order to accommodate a massive picture of Adrian Chiles’s face, and interrupted by a voiceover describing this evening’s edition of The One Show—that’s quite unlikely.

But hear me out.

On the 13th of July 2001, Beijing was named as the host city for the 2008 Summer Olympics. Four years later, a pungent slap was delivered to the collective face of the French by London becoming the venue for the 2012 Olympics.

Come 2008, the Chinese government is under international pressure over its relationship with the people of Tibet (…to put it mildly). 2008’s Olympic torch relay, in which a flame is symbolically carried around the world by a succession of former athletes and Blue Peter presenters, as an evocative symbol of both the Olympic Spirit and the Third Reich, arrived in London this week.

It was met by angry mobs of peaceful protesters, angrily—but peacefully—protesting, in mobs. Their logic being that if the relay is disrupted every ten seconds, Chinese state TV won’t be able to show it off and censor the outside world’s reaction to the Tibet situation, without someone having to push the big, red, star-shaped “Censor Me Hard!” button every ten seconds. Eventually, that person’s gonna get bored and/or tired, and unilaterally abandon the whole censorship approach. Or something.

In addition to this well-meaning—albeit non–censorship-penetrating—disruption of its journey, the torch was also met in London by our fearless leader Gordon Brown.

Or not. ’Cos if Tony Blair taught him one thing (apart from “no, it’s still my turn”), it was that spin is crucial. You have to be seen to be doing something that looks—to a Sun reader—like it’s probably the best idea at the time.

And that means going “Yeah, China! How ’bout some Tibet? Eh?!” loudly, in capital sans-serifs, next to a picture of Nicolas Sarkozy’s wife’s knockers looking “statesbooblike”.

But the Olympic Games are nothing if not a brand—not even Formula 1 can out-sponsor an Olympiad. The International Olympic Committee would never have let Murray Walker within a 500-mile radius of a Grand Prix, because his surname carries connotations at odds with the ethos of motorsport.

The Olympics’ professed ideal of “One World, One Dream” (and I’d be genuinely unsurprised if the IOC complained about my unauthorised use of their slogan here) is adhered to relentlessly. It would harm the Olympic brand—and purse—if the 2012 host was seen to be anything but a Barney the Dinosaur–grade best fwend (yes, with a W) to the current Olympic brand-wielder.

And so Gordon needs to be seen to be huggably friendly with, and sternly critical of China—simultaneously. Too stern, and he’ll arouse the ire of the IOC, and make investing wadloads of cash in Britain (and Scotland) seem imprudent. Too friendly though, and at the next election he’ll be even voted-outer.

If only there were some way he could covertly disrupt the Olympic flame—perhaps make it look like bad luck that its journey was impeded. Or maybe it wouldn’t even arrive at its destination at all…?

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Back to 2001: (yeah—he was really thinking ahead, but with Tony around, he had no choice;) on the 20th of November, planning permission was granted for a fifth terminal at London’s Heathrow airport. On the 14th of December, less than a month later, there was an annular solar eclipse.

Not really relevant, but it happened nonetheless.

This Terminal 5 idea had been knocking about since the 1980s, but it was only finally approved in 2001, just a few months after Beijing was awarded the 2008 Olympics.

Fast-forward back to 2008… —Fast-forward forward to 2008… —In 2008: Terminal 5 has been built, complete with its revolutionary new baggage-handling system (so we’re told). And on the 7th of February, there was another annular eclipse, though again, that’s not really relevant.

The new terminal was scheduled to open for business just a week or two before the Olympic torch hit Britain: long enough beforehand to make sure that any delays to its opening had been resolved, but not (evidently) long enough to work out all the kinks in that revolutionary new baggage-handling system.

Trillions—literally trillions—of suitcases, briefcases, miscellaneous cases of other kinds, and all sorts of exotic luggage have been delayed, misplaced and lost since Terminal 5 opened.

Now: I don’t know how the Olympic torch is supposed to be leaving Britain. But if a revolutionary new airport terminal designed for international flights had just opened, and I were in charge of deciding, it would be flying BA.

…once they’d found it again, anyway.

The lengths we go to to construct tenuous puns...

The Twaddle HQ's grounds, as you may be aware, are vast. In addition to the HQ itself we have a number of satellite outbuildings, each with its own specific function.

Obviously, we have a kennel for the Hounds of Love—the Kennel of Love. We were only supposed to be looking after them for Kate Bush for a couple of months (while the Futureheads were busy filming their own cartoon), but she still hasn't been back round to pick them up. We think she might've got distracted in the meantime, trying to recite the digits of π. So anyway, the Hounds' Portakennel became a permanent fixture.

We've also got a mini-village–type thing for the beloved El Twad HQ dinnerladies. It currently holds the European record for “most restaurants per head of population”.

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Just recently, we unveiled the latest addition (though we're not entirely sure to whom we unveiled it—while conducting the ceremony, Terry Wogan seemed understandably bemused; mind, he usually looks similarly bemused during Children in Need)—our own, purpose-built, private cinema.

We've got it rigged up to play a non-stop 24-hour-a-day mix of A Fish Called Wanda, Monty Python (about 75% of which consists of the Parrot Sketch; much of the remainder is taken up by the Lumberjack Song, and the rest is just the phrase “he's not the Messiah—he's a very naughty boy” on a loop ...interrupted at random intervals by the Spanish Inquisition), and a plethora of warm-natured BBC travelogues.

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We call it the Palin-drome.

Ba-dum-tsh!

W trufax #31

—facts about George W Bush that are absolutely, definitely true.

#31: in a futile attempt to broker a Middle East peace treaty, he once attended a football match between Arsenal and Crystal Palace.

Fat kids banned

The country is currently in the midst of a nationwide obesity epidemic. It has recently spread to urban areas, affecting towns, cities, villages, hamlets and macbeths all over the United Kingdom. And even in Scotland.

Aaaaaarrgh!

Last October, meanwhile, The Law™ was changed so that people under the age of 18 could no longer purchase tobacco. This has made it somewhat difficult for those people to smoke cigarettes—apparently this was the intention.

Lots and lots and lots and lots of medical research has shown that smoking can cause deadness, which currently suffers from a very high mortality rate in NHS hospitals. By preventing under-18s (officially referred to as “kiddywinks”) from smoking, the Government intends to make fewer kiddywinks dead.

It seems to have worked: since last October, absolutely no kiddywinks at all have smoked anything, except for one thirteen-year-old from Runcorn who mistook a cigarette for a Fireman Sam lolly. Unexpected side-effects of the ban have included the obsolescence of the popular incredulity-expressing phrase “What are you smoking?”.

Similar legislation, regarding under-18s drinking alcohol and under-16s engaging in intercourse sexytime, have resulted in near-zero wankeredness and herpefication rates respectively.

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So, in an attempt to repeat the successful eradication of kiddywinks' naughty behaviour in these areas, and as part of his “vision for Britain (and Scotland)”, Gordon Brown—our sunny-textured Prime Minister—has introduced new legislation designed to “meet the rising aspirations of health standards in Britain (and Scotland)”.

To enthusiastic applause he told the House of Commons today: “We will not reproduce obese children, and will legislate to prevent them”. From this October, it will be against the law for children under the age of 18 to be overweight or obese.

Bathroom scales are to be electronically limited at 155 lbs, and shops will be prevented from selling clothes intended for children of a specific age to younger, fatter children. Schoolchildren's plastic chairs will also be required to abandon much of the structural integrity they have gained over the last decade by reverting to a flimsier design.

In line with the other three naughty behaviour laws, businesses caught disobeying the rules will face fines of up to €1000; they will also be issued a Kiddywinks' Naughty Behaviour Order. Health campaigners have described the move as “an ungainly step in the right direction”.

Homonymphobia

Life throws up so many trends and styles these days that we've ran out of words to describe them. The result is that other normal day-to-day phrases are under fire, nay, being bummed by the hippety-hop definitions that have now been attributed to them. Of course, in our wonderful world dominated by sex, drugs and wanky pop "punk" (and who the shitting shit are +44?), they only really tend to carry those themes. Well, not wanky pop "punk" (seriously though, who the shitting shit?).

Below is five of these which have been popular of late.

Waxing lyrical

Singing whilst engaging in sexual intercourse with a candle.

Ant 'n' Dec

Literally "Ant on Deck", by which "Deck" means "penis" and "Ant" means "ant". A major trend, apparently.

Kill two birds with one stone

The male gets catastrophically spliffed up, has sex with two women (or ducks) then murders them. A niche market.

Boning

Simulating sex with a laboratory skeleton that is dressed like Bono whilst eating Bonio dog treats, listening to Radiohead's "The Bends", watching an ongoing crime series featuring David Boreanaz and wearing clothing similar to Dr. Leonard McCoy of Star Trek fame. Widely practised in the Home Counties.

B.B.C.

Ingesting a dose of amphetamines, then taking Mandrax (or Ritalin) and closing by smoking cannabis. Supposedly makes you more racist and, strangely, London-centric.

Is your child doing it? Or your gran? Or you, accidentally, as a slave to trends?

Dirty Sods

Remember when punk was the Sex Pistols? & Buzzcocks? & Siouxsie and the Banshees? Nope, neither do I—I was born in 1985. But I'm aware of the fact that this was once the case.

I've seen too many TV cock-up clip-shows not to know about when the Sex Pistols went on Bill Grundy's mild-mannered daytime chat show (with Siouxsie Sioux among their entourage) and used a naughty word. Then, prompted by a none-too-sober Grundy, used it again.

The nation was shocked, appalled and outraged at these nasty, rebellious punks with their brightly-coloured, stupidly-shaped hairstyles. “God Save The Queen” did dirty things with the top of the charts (which, at the time, meant something), despite—or perhaps partly thanks to—being banned by the BBC and all self-respecting broadcast institutions (which, at the time, included ITV).

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Fast-forward twenty-odd years: wanky pop bands like Fall Out Boy and +44 jump up and down a lot, make vacant-looking faces and use the odd swear-word in an effort to distance themselves from their prospective fans' parents' sensibilities. (& occasionally name themselves after countries' international telephone dialling codes.)

“Omfg loool”, the kids say to their friends; “there well cool”. And so—apathy of “there” versus “their” versus “they're” aside (the former is easiest to type)—the kids become enamored by the wanky pop “punk” bands and buy their records. Or download them, or something. But then they buy their hoodies. Upshot: wanky pop bands get money, fame and all the hair gel they could ever want.

Hooray for cynical marketing!

And I have proof (or evidence at least) that this is just cynical, child-embezzling, marketing spiel designed to line the pockets of the music cabal: The Honda Civic Tour.

The Honda—fucking—Civic—fucking—Tour! (The previous sentence was an attempt to express my incredulity at the entire concept; this sentence is an acknowledgement that it probably failed.)

Now, it may be funkily styled and actually look quite cool; the young-uns of today may actually be buying them in droves; & it may even give your granddad a little fright the first time he sees one; but it's still a fucking Honda Civic. Rebellious it is not. Honda are no free-spirited, authority-eschewing, The Man-it-to-sticking automotive Guy Fawkeses.

I'd even be so bold as to say that they are The Man.

And that where self-proclaimed “punk” bands should be sticking it to The Man, instead they're playing a series of bloody concerts paid for, organised by, & advertising The Man. And that they should have the piss taken out of them for doing so. So:

Aaaaaahahaha! ...Pillocks.

(Hey, let's just ignore the fact that the Pistols have recently performed on many a mainstream late-night American chat show to promote their current attempted come-back, shall we? Or at least let them off this once—even punk legends have to pay for the electric.)

It was so nearly called a “kirn kru”

It's been a busy month here at The Twaddle HQ... what with all the... stuff happening.

...OK, apart from Sir Jean Charles de Menzies resigning as leader of the Liberal Democrats, it's actually been pretty dull (and even that was quite tedious). And so it is to August that we must turn to provide an entertaining narrative, when, despite usually being located just off the A19—a few stops away from the Batcave on the number 23 bus—El Twad HQ found itself in Edinburgh, right in the middle of the Fringe Festival. (OK, maybe not quite right in the middle.)

One of our beloved El Twad dinnerladies had gone out to buy supplies for the El Twad canteen; much to her surprise, though, upon opening the HQ's grand oak front door, the luscious pastures of the HQ's front lawn were absent. In their place was a big road, full of Scotsmen, Scotswomen and Scotschildren, in addition to one or two Scotsrickshaws. Dashing back inside to inform us of the news, she noticed a large sign above the door, reading “Bank Of Scotland”.

—which was weird, because we don't have a large sign above the HQ's front door. Perhaps we should get one.

Intrigued, we decided to take a stroll down the Royal Mile, to peruse the many, varied street performers plying their wares for public enjoyment. But, we thought, a mile's a long way. And we're lazy. So instead, we headed to the garage and fired up the Twadmobile.

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The Twadmobile's an old VW van that's been running on chip fat ever since we saw an item on Top Gear explaining that you can basically just shove a barrel of vegetable oil into a normal diesel engine and it'll still go.

As usual, we had the dinnerladies cook us copious quantities of chips, and shooed the bloody Hoobs out of the back. They seem to think it's their Hoobmobile and insist on borrowing it all the time to interview children about everyday phenomena for their “Hoobopedia”. It took us a while to figure out quite what they were doing—for ages we thought “we're off to see the tiddlypeeps!” was a confession of their mental health status. We still reckon they've just got a cute name for Wikipedia.

Tip: with copious quantities of chips available, Hoobs are easy to lure.

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Whilst driving down the Royal Mile in the Twadmobile, we came upon an old Scotsbloke, who was singing a traditional Scots song, about Scots, and Scotsness. Intrigued, we pulled over to listen, much to the relief of the pedestrians sprawling all over the road, many of whom we'd run over, and of the police, who were keen to prevent the Twadmobile from driving along the supposedly “pedestrian” street (though we were quite enjoying the entertainment and found it far from pedestrian).

The Scotsbloke regaled us with the ancient tale of how the kilt, traditional Scots non-skirt attire, was invented: one fateful morn, many a century ago, a Scotsman (possibly an important one—we're not really sure) was visited by the King of Scotland. Unfortunately, when His Majesty arrived, our plucky hero was in the shower: “Aw, craaap!”, he exclaimed in his entertainingly broad Scots accent. Quickly, and not wanting to annoy the King (for fear of beheadings and such) he donned the only thing he had to hand that remotely resembled clothing—a towel.

When the King inquired of him “What the hell's thaaat? Is that a skerrrt?!”, our hero resorted to his love of Lilt to concoct a suitably believable nonce word to describe his alleged garment. (It should be noted, however, that the Lilt of the time wasn't quite the same “totally tropical” carbonated beverage we know and love today—it was primarily a non-alcoholic variation of grog.)

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Enlightened, we performed a textbook three-point-turn, deftly proceeding into roadspace no sooner had the pedestrians eagerly relinquished it, and headed back to the HQ. Once we'd negotiated the snaking, velvet-roped queue that had inexplicably formed in the garage, we parked the Twadmobile, emerging just as the Hoobs scoffed the last of their chips. They listened intently to our story of the Lilt-loving, towel-wearing Scotsman, then scurried off to add to their Hoobopedia.

Musicians are liars.

I met with Lovefoxxx the other day, and took her up on her offer of making love and listening to Death From Above 1979. I had hardly taken my shirt off by the time the bodyguards came in to remove me from the premises.

Feeling sorry for myself, I travelled to New York to ask Talking Heads if they were interested in some casual suburban arson. Similar outcome - they certainly weren't up for burning down the house. What the hell is wrong with the music world?

I didn't stop believing though, as Journey once told me, so I pushed for one last meeting. Sadly, INXS didn't need me tonight, and told me to just keep walking. Twunts.

Restraining orders are shit.

And to think that the only musician to tell me I'm the best friend that they've ever had is dead. Seems that Fred's passing held me back from stopping him now.

Note to other fans out there: Run DMC don't enjoy you masturbating at their concerts, even though they themselves promote beats to the rhyme.

Scenes from advertisements that everybody should hate with a passion #4

See if you can spot where this one goes all implausible:

1. Man waits in rain.
2. Woman arrives.
3. Man and woman greet each other awkwardly.
4. Man leads woman through rain to car.
5. Car pulls away.
6. Woman compliments car.
7. Car stops.
8. Man proposes to woman.
9. Woman accepts proposal.
10. Woman and man exit car together.
11. Voiceover man interjects:

The new Kia cee'd with a 7-year warranty—now that's a quality commitment.

See how the voiceover bloke is cleverly ambiguous as to whether he meant a commitment to quality, or a commitment that is itself “quality”?

The latter applies to the jovial little tale depicted in the advert, but the former also relates the company's dedication to being really rather marvellous.

“Lol!” an advertising executive exclaims. “That's both affably witty and expresses our dedication to being really rather marvellous! The punters—sorry, our community will love it! Hooray for us!”

Enter the literary foil of an ardent customer within earshot: “Hang on a minute. That's just a tenuous pun—equally, you're likening the car to a risky, life-altering, poorly thought-out, spur-of-the-moment promise.”

“Stfu! ...Sir.” retorts the bigwig.

“And what's with the stupid name? —all lowercase, superfluous apostrophe... Are you trying to look painfully trendy? ...so that a couple of months after buying it, the owner will try to hack the name off the back and thus invalidate the seven-year warranty?”

“We r veh modrn!!” insists the ad-man.

“Besides, do you really want to depict a woman agreeing to marry a man she's just met, mere moments after covering herself with his cee'd?”

The Kia cee'd—now that's a rash decision.

Failed Spin-offs 2: Tom Cruise Control

Yet another compendium of TV programmes that were just too rubbish to actually get on the TV.

Slinky and the Brain

An ordinary ten-year-old boy dies after his brain is impaled on a popular stair-descending toy in a freak accident. Unknown to the rest of the world, his brain is alive and well, existing in a symbiotic relationship with the Slinky. Together, they plot to take over the world from their hideout in the cupboard under the stairs.

Captain Planet (first draft)

Not technically a failed spin-off, but an early outline of what was to go on to become one of television's most popular franchises.

Captain Planet follows the daily life of a planet—who has risen to the rank of Captain—as it orbits its Sun, and spins on its polar axis once a day.

She-Man and the Mistresses of the Universe

Legendary superhero He-Man undergoes gender reassignment surgery to become She-Man, “The Most Powerful Wo-Man in the Universe”, and battles the evil Skeletoria in an Emmerdale-style catfight.

The Iraqoons

Ralph, Bert and the gang go head-to-head with Saddam Sneer, whilst promoting a Communist agenda. In Iraq, oil drills you!!

Dad's Arm

Arthur Lowe stars as Captain Mainwaring, whose right arm develops localised schizophrenia and begins uncontrollably performing the Nazi salute at the most inopportune moments. Mainwaring struggles to hide his affliction from Sergeant Wilson (John Le Mesurier) while maintaining order in the Home Guard.

The series ended after only one episode when Mainwaring's secret was exposed due to an oversight by the script-writer, and his fellow soldiers were obliged to execute him as a Nazi sympathiser.

Tin

The adventures of an intrepid young Heinz Baked Beanz can who, along with Captain Hadd, Professor Calc, Thom and Thomp and his faithful dog Sn, investigatively report from all over the world.

Round the Twister

Supernatural Australian children's drama—sponsored by Hasbro Games—about the Twister family, lighthousekeepers who resolve disputes with a friendly game of Twister. Every game is invariably won by the lurking ghosts.

Murdoch, She Wrote

Angela Lansbury defects to Sky One.

Watt on Mars

Friendly, inverted-eared alien Watt tries to lead a normal life among humans on Mars. Unfortunately, there are no humans on Mars. Watt returns to his home planet at the end of the first episode.

The Animals of Newpence Forest

As a result of inflation brought on by the decimalisation of sterling, the anthropomorphic animals of Newpence Forest—led by Neil “Dr” Fox and a badger called Moses—must embark on a treacherous journey to Light Beer Park (in Israel) where eternal salvation awaits them.

Saved By The Hell

Mr. Belding, Screech and the whole gang are condemned to eternal damnation for their sins.

The Moyles Family

Popular BBC Radio 1 DJ Chris Moyles and his family sit in their living room watching television, smoking and farting in this hyper-real comedy.

Malcolm in the Piddle

Frankie Muniz stars as Malcolm, who takes up a job in an old folks' home.

The Diamonique Maze

QVC's first foray into gameshows sees Richard O'Brienique guide a team of gullible teleshoppers through a labyrinth of imitation materials. Zones include Mediævalique, Industrialique, Oceanique, Aztique, and Futuristique; the more Diamonique balls the punters can collect in these zones, the more time they will have to collect QVC gift vouchers in the Diamonique Dome (later rebranded “The O2”).

MoreR

ER spin-off produced exclusively for More4.

Pocoyomoloko

Essentially identical to popular children's programme Pocoyo, following the adventures in a nihilistic/zen white plane of an improbably bouncy young boy, a bipedal pink elephant, an asymmetric duck and miscellaneous easily–computer-renderable geometric shapes; but with the addition of Moloko the Russian milkman (complete with his catchphrase, “In Soviet Russia, milk drinks you!!”), Wufa the lime-green alsatian, and an orange velociraptor called Susan. Hugh Laurie lends his voice as the narrator of the new characters.

40

Action drama following the forty days and forty nights Jesus of Nazareth spent in the desert; told in real-time.

Get Your Own Black

The legendary Dave Benson-Philips presents this game show in which kids compete against a bossy and/or embarrassing adult, to avoid being gunged and win the presenter. DBP said of the show, “the replayability factor was seriously under-considered”.

Captain Burgundy and the Minestrone

After the limited success of “Captain Scarlet and the Mystermen”, Gerry Anderson went back to the drawing board to create a new hero. Even indestructibler than Captain Scarlet, only Captain Burgundy can stop the evil Minestrone from turning the world's oceans into a vegetable- and pasta-based soup.

Ralf Schumacher

Clearly.

W trufax #26

—facts about George W Bush that are absolutely, definitely true.

#26: he was named in honour of George Formby, Walker Texas Ranger & Shepherd's Bush.

Scenes from advertisements that everybody should hate with a passion #3

Gloria Hunniford. You bitch.

AXA Guaranteed Over 50 Plan really takes the biscuit as well as your gran's money. I hate the tables of funeral costs that they propose, saying the average funeral costs will be well into £2,500 by 2010, just to make sure that you'll feel guilty enough after you die to buy your own coffin and spend cash on church rental costs.

Hell, why don't they extend their welcome gift policy?

1. What about this beautiful carriage clock, with built in personalised death timer?
2. Perhaps £30 in gift vouchers for Rob' Hardware Store to buy speciality rope or knives only?
3. Or this DVD player worth up to TWENTY POUNDS with this free DVD, Kill Yourself Now and Get Your Hard Earned Money to Your Kids to Bury You ASAP with Gloria Hunniford

Sounds more true to AXA's intentions to me!

New Zealand's really gone and done it this time

It seems that Universal Records, the country of New Zealand, popular rappists Akon and Sisqo (remember him?), and pretty much everyone else in the world have lost The Game.

Yes, the just-to-piss-you-off-ly named rapper's actually gone completely AWOL. I'm starting to think he's been planning this for a long time.

W trufax #65

—facts about George W Bush that are absolutely, definitely true.

#65: he hasn't yet noticed that Tony Blair has been replaced by Gordon Brown—he thinks he's just been pronouncing his name wrongly all these years.

Channel 4 news presenter uses the F-word at lunchtime

Earlier today, on one of the many fifty-twelve–inch plasma TVs we have knocking about at The Twaddle HQ, I was watching Channel 4 News at Noon, presented by Krishnan “1990s Newsround Legend” Guru-Murthy.

The final item was about “many” employers having employed (lolpunlol) software filters to restrict their workers' access to Facebook and other such “social networking” sites. Their “reason” (read “excuse”) is that these sites “distract” workers.

Now, any way you look at it, employers who filter access to Facebook are admitting to being really, really shit.

• Maybe their recruitment and firing method is so far from the mark that they end up with the vast majority of their workforce being inherently lazy.
• Perhaps the work their employees are being told to do is soul-sapping, life-draining and tedious beyond redemption.

Hmmm.

• It could be that their discipline procedures are so shite that the employees can't be trusted to forgo using a website when they're told to, even on penalty of sacking.

(Though, to be fair, that last point probably boils down to one of the other two.)

Clearly, the employees aren't using Facebook because they're bored by their work, unmotivated and uninspired, and have an unfulfilling job—that they hate—at which their bosses treat them like children. That couldn't be it. Nope. Definitely not the case there. Boy, would I look foolish if I suggested that!

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At the end of the programme, as usual, Krishnan looked down to his laptop. I detected a glimmer of a wry smile.

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Oh, yeah—the “F-word” is F******k.

Music videos are harder than you think

Here at El Twad HQ, and after much larking about with the Hounds of Love near the A19, we decided to make a music video. Setting a target of 10 days to make a spectacular, it took us 9 of them to pick a topic - Twad Brew. After much assessment of the product at hand, including around 10-15 glasses of "testers", we found we were too rendered to make a song, never mind music video, and promptly collapsed.

However, we found an unsigned band who could: The Schema, with their new song "Those Rules". After ten days, their music video was created - and it's a belter.

On the Lavatorial Etiquette Differences Between the Traditional Genders, or: Leaving the Toilet Seat Up—the Logic Behind the Laziness

Let's divide the populace into two roughly-even groups based on their gender and make sweeping generalisations about each group and its relation to the other, shall we?

So, Men leave the toilet seat up after urinating, because they do so while standing. Women, however, who urinate while seated, become infuriated by this, because they need the seat down, and so have to lower the seat prior to urinating.

Note the symmetry of this arrangement: Men raise the seat before urinating if Women have used the toilet immediately before them; Women lower the seat before urinating if Men have used the toilet immediately before them.

But Women are unhappy with this arrangement, symmetrical and fair though it is, and seek to change it. They want Men to raise the toilet seat before using the toilet, and lower the seat afterwards, even if Men use the toilet immediately before or after them. Women, then, will neither raise nor lower the seat at any time.

Men, however, do not wish to deal with the toilet seat after urination. Before, Men will quite happily deal with it, as necessary preparation for the impending urination. Afterwards, though, Men are satiated and have no further use for the toilet. Men will ignore it and its seat, whatever position the latter finds itself in.

If the seat is down upon their arrival, and must be down when they leave, but may be in any position during urination (which it may, as who's watching?), Men will usually choose not to raise the seat prior to urination, because that would necessitate lowering the seat afterwards. Men do not wish to deal with the seat after urination.

Thus the position in which Men leave the toilet seat is overwhelmingly likely to be the same position the seat was in during urination. Men are not famed for accuracy during urination. Men who leave the toilet seat up are therefore doing a favour to anyone who may want to sit on the toilet seat at a later time.

Tried drugs? If not, work for the Maltesers Creative Department.

I received an Easter egg last April/March/month which Paganism defines as Christ's death/rebirth, which was very nice. Tasty and such. Looking for the token 3-question crossword or dot-to-dot puzzle on the back, I was sad to find a lot of text and a series of surreal drawings of miscellaneous animals enjoying a messy picnic. The words explained the eerie goings on:

George [dragonfly] is flying to Richard's [rabbit] house because today is the day of the Maltesers Meadow Round Picnic. Everyone has been busy for days making round things to eat and drink.

At the Round Picnic everything has to be shaped like a ball.

Richard thinks that Round Picnics are the best because all the food rolls all over the plates and the picnic rug and everywhere.

George is really excited because it's quite windy today so the Round Picnic is going to be even more fun when the wind makes all the food roll even faster and further!

Only now, do I realise as I type this word right here, that this is shameless self-promotion for Maltesers themselves. I'd failed to negotiate the link earlier as I'd devoured the innards of the cardboard cocoa plant sarcophagus in a matter of seconds.

Regardless, what the hell is Mars playing at? What round food is there, and why would you actively encourage children to eat it - on PLATES - on a FIELD - with ANIMALS?

You know what comes in round form? Horse sedatives. And Persil tablets. What would you do if your child was chasing ketamine across a windy field having had the hors d'oeuvres of biological washing liquid already? Easter egg manufacturers: stick to shit quizzes. Please.

Scenes from advertisements that everybody should hate with a passion #2

"You've got a frieeeeennnnd!" muses a friendly-looking bearded chap at the end of the AA's advertisement showing their legion of yellow-coated engineers around the country engaging in Krypton Factor-esque treks to solve car problems. The main bloke's got a good voice too. The advert's a little weird, but largely bearable. What's the problem with it, then?

I have no problem with the AA's adverts - no problem, that is, if they had them without that idiot with the icicles on his beard. He looks like he just doesn't care. It's physically impossible to get icicles on your beard. I certainly wouldn't like a Yeti lookalike servicing my car should it break down. I hate him - irrational, I know - but I hope you look at the image below, or on your screens, and repeat the exact phrase on said image as I do every time I see his miserable icy face. He's an idiot, and winds me up no end.

It's OFFICIAL!

Yes! The Germans in El Twad HQ have been up all night using their "Baby's First Science Kit" (not to be confused with "Baby's First Scientology Kit" which is far more expensive), and after several über-tests (which only Germans can perform, might I add) - two things have been discovered that will shock the world.

1. Hartlepool is at least 1,000 times better than Darlington; not the previous 400 as once thought
2. The centre of the universe has finally been placed: once thought to be an unknown given that the entire universe is expanding at all places equally, it is finally found to be at Port Clarence, Teesport. A government diagram for this natural phenomena has been unearthed and is displayed below.