I Call This A Scoop

Perez Hilton is going to be all over this shit soon but I’m all like “I gots the goods first”.

Here is Justin Bieber. I don’t really know much about this kid other than blah blah, pop music, blah blah, teenage girls, blah blah, stampedes, blah blah, LOOK AT THE HAIR.

But then look again…

There you have it. Boobs. Proof that Justin Bieber does indeed have a vagina.

Update 28/04/10: Last night, my boyfriend said I dropped the ball by not calling him Justin Boober anywhere on this post. He was right, although I’m going to go one better and say “blah, blah, joke, joke, Justine Boober!” Zing! How do you like them apples?

I Want My Prime Minister To Be Able To Look, With Both Eyes, In The Direction To Which He Is Speaking.

That lovable rogue and BNP party leader, Mr Nick Griffin, and his right-hand man Something Somethingson were secretly filmed displaying themselves as the – shock, horror! – vacuous racists that any person with a clue already knew they were. Cop a load of this, whities and darkies alike:

I think we need to bring up the elephant in the room here.

I don’t know if anyone has noticed but I’m a ‘person of colour’. The colour of fried chicken, hippidy-hop and crystal meth if you’re a part of the BNP. Half Nigerian to anyone else. Sort of like this…

…but with lighter skin and longer hair.

In light of this totally shocking outburst from Fatty and Oldy, I toddled along to the BNP website to take a butcher’s at their immigration policies which just consisted of, as I really already knew, a few different ways of saying ‘GET THEM OUT’. For example:

‘Review all recent grants of residence or citizenship to ensure they are still appropriate’.

This is lame with a capital ‘Nick Griffin is a cunt’. You just know that if Boss-Eye McDepthIssues were to become PM (LOLpleaseneverLOL) that he would assign every legal immigrant a rapist and pack them off to their ‘respective countries of origin’.

But then I got to thinking, my brothers from another mother, what would the UK be like without all the vibrant multiculturalism? Aside from the fact that people who have passed the test need a medal just for caring/answering questions about county population and the year legislation was passed allowing women to divorce their husbands (really, who wouldn’t need to Google that up?), I’m-a thinking a lot of things would be missed.

This is where I was going to do a ‘Things We’ll Take Back’ list, but all I can think of are jokey jokes about asking for your PIN number and that’s really not helping the cause. Instead, I’ll just make you a deal. In return for you not voting BNP, I’ll figure out a way to ship Gina Yashere off to Nigeria. No one wants her around.

I mean, just look at that face.

Reading Tedious Bollocks So You Don’t Have To.

I think I speak for the women of Britain when I sit and say, “I wish we could all be more like Vanessa Feltz.” She’s an institution and known by us all (and that’s not just because she’s too big to overlook – BOOM BOOM! LOL! No, seriously, I jest).

Did you know her first kiss was with DJ Pete Tong when she was 12? No, neither did I. That might not be true as I only had a look at her Wikipedia profile. Did you know she studied at Trinity College, Cambridge? Only English (POW!) but she still left with a first class honours degree.

She had a wonderful education and then went on to marry and breed. She writes some stuff, presents some shows, gets divorced because she chose cake over her husband and goes all Loony McMentalcase on Celebrity Big Brother. She claws herself back from ridicule (well, as much as she can), writes some more stuff, presents some more TV, shacks up with a man who has no personality but is ten years younger than her, wins some awards (HOW?) and seems to always crop up.

Love her or loathe her she’s had a fairly eventful life and, by that, I mean much more eventful than mine, thus far, which has been BIRTH > EDUCATION > BOUGHT A REALLY GREAT DRESS > TODAY and you’d think she might just be qualified to give a bit of advice to the British public as part of a magazine feature, wouldn’t you? Yes you would! And, my gosh, she does a great job.

This week, in Reveal, I found myself just taking a moment to put down the magazine and stand clapping at Vanessa. She took ‘helpfullness’ to a whole new level. This was the problem:

My toddler goes to a playschool and I’ve become quite friendly with one of the other mums. We spend time at each other’s houses while the little ones play. She’s always been very warm and she constantly throws her arms around me. I felt very comfortable with her until she casually mentioned that she’s a lesbian. Is she hitting on me? I’m not gay and I don’t know how to deal with this.
Ella (who is clearly a dick) from Devon.

That’s hilariously silly on all kinds of levels. I mean, who even writes into magazines anymore? HELLO! Hasn’t she heard of Yahoo! Answers? Anyway, that’s not the best bit. The best bit comes in the form of Vanessa’s first sentence in her answer paragraph. I love it. I love her.

Vanessa’s answer: She might fancy you. On the other hand, she might not.


Seriously. That’s just marvellous.

My Mum Met Chat Roulette.

I introduced my mother to Chat Roulette the other day.

I’ve never been one to have regrets as every experience helps to shape the person you are but, without a shadow of a doubt, it was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made to not take screen shots.

Chat Roulette is not something I really care about. Like everyone, I pissed my pants in delight over watching Merton (of YouTube fame) serenade everyone with his piano but webcams terrify me. Mine is integrated into my laptop and I dislike it. I find it sneaky. It just looks really suspicious and I have been known to cover it up with  masking tape just in case it’s secretly turned on and is broadcasting me live on the interwebz. That’s probably just my paranoia being extreme as opposed to my webcam giving me indication that it’s a living organism, but whatever – you can’t be too careful.

So, after she chugged a cider and lime, she was all “let’s see this new craze! woo” and I was all “uhh…” and she was all “COME ON!” so we plonked in front of the webcam and logged on…

…To see the most obvious looking meth head I’ve ever seen sucking off a chubster. Mum screams. Next.
An old man wanking. Mum screams. Next.
A fat woman juggling her tits. Mum screams. Next.
A group of twelve year old boys. Mum screams. Next.
A group of twelve year old girls. Mum screams. Next.
A doll. Mum screams. Next.
A really, really hairy minge. Mum screams. Exit.


It was a total let down and, actually, very awkward. I spent 22 years avoiding watching programmes that have a bit of kissing in when I’m with my mother, so to see multiple clunge wiggling around was a truly terrible moment. As I didn’t take any screen shots, I drew a little picture of what happened:

Next episode: My mum meets goatse.

El Oh Vee Eee.

Volcano, schmolcano.

The sun is shining and it’s warm enough to wear a top with no sleeves (NO SLEEVES, PEOPLE), exercise has released endorphins and someone is bidding on my terrible clothes I put on eBay. In short, life is peachy today.

Adding to the happiness is being in love.
Being in love is making me happy.
Being happy is making me creative.
Me being creative is giving you these treats; for I, Allie, have written a deep and meaningful poem. About love. Enjoy.

Thank you. Thank you very much.

I’m here all week.

You Can’t Spell Fart Without Art.

If you ask me to name some artists that I love, I tend to stumble and fall after naming Bansky and Lord Rolf Harris, although I do like to spend a lot of time mooching around galleries oohing and aahing loudly with my thumb and forefinger pertinently cushioning my chin. I like the type of contemporary art that most people scoff at for being pretentious and stupid – like  Tracey Emin’s My Bed.

My favourite art installation I’ve seen was in Southampton Art Gallery and it was a room full of white balloons, from floor to ceiling. I could come out with junk about its presence and deep meaning but I was about 12 when I saw it and was too busy being all “WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE BALLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONS” while running through it and taking static-affected hair to a whole new Don King level.

My favourite artist is a chap called Jack Vettriano and I like him because he is a bit naughty. Actually, no. He’s nawty. Hang on – no. He’s nAwTy. He mainly paints the most wonderfully provocative BDSM-y themed pieces and I feel dirty just looking at them.

I particularly love this:

A Very Married Woman
While, from the name of the piece, you can hazard a guess at what is going on; I always like to think Hunchy McVest has  just ruined the moment by a doing a little fart and the woman is all like “TIMOTHY, what have I told you about eating too much fibre? I AM PUTTING MY BRA BACK ON” and he’s all “Stacey, I’m so sorry for trying to push your head under the duvet but I’m still standing to attention” and she’s all like “does my hair look nice up like this?” and he’s all like “WOE”.

That’s what this piece says to me.