Mac asked: British Prime Minister and professional shitehawk David Cameron poses with some blackface wearing morris dancers at a local folk festival.
Europeans always write in with some bullshit about how they “don’t have the same history of racism” or “you don’t understand what it really means” whenever they do some of their obviously racist bullshit, but one look at these fuckers really drives home the fact that they are some complete garbage.
PS. In THE QUEENS BRITAIN, that shit is called “blacking up.” Wild!
I hate David Cameron. I hate him so much it makes me physically ill to look at his smug, sweaty, non-stick face. If you were to gun him down in cold blood, I’d defend you in court by arguing that you were committing an act of public service akin to removing litter or unblocking a communal toilet. My point is that I really, really wish that this smarming, country-ruining toad was involved in a scandal with racist Morris Dancers, thus ruining the little shit-weasel’s chances at the next election and turning him into a social pariah. Sadly, though, that’s not what’s going on here.
Because, as much as it pains me to correct you when not doing so would hurt guffing toff David Cameron, that’s not why Morris Dancer’s paint their faces black. It’s not ‘blackface’ or an imitation of a race, but dates back to the Celtic traditions in which Morris Dancing has it’s roots. It’s a form of symbolic disguise, purely intended to obscure the players’ identities (why they needed their identities obscured is something you’d have to ask a real scholar- possibly it has something to do with the fact they look and act like prats). Think of it as a really rubbish version of how stage-hands in Japanese kabuki plays would wear all-black costumes to denote invisibility, except that here, it’s not the whole person who is being rendered symbolically non-visible (their garish, daft dancing apparently still has to be viewed, more’s the pity) but only their personal identities.
This has been the Secret-Diary Fact Check Service. Good Day.
As a professional copywriter (shut the fuck up, I actually am), a large part of my job consists of talking absolute bullshit. As a person on Tumblr, a large part of my experience is reading other people’s absolute bullshit, recognising it for what it is (because I do it FOR A LIVING) and then having it hit me that these fucking people don’t even have the excuse that they’re getting paid. And nobody else seems to notice.
You want to know what the worst thing about being the smartest person in the room at any given point is? The absolute, crushing certainty that everyone else in the room is too fuckbone stupid to tell the difference between real intelligence and pseudo-intellectual bullshit.
I could talk with real passion and knowledge on a subject and apply thousands of years worth of philosophical thought to the discussion, or I could waffle and bullshit like a drunk freshman doing a standardized test, and everyone around me will be equally as impressed or equally as contemptuous depending purely on their disposition and not on any fucking ability to differentiate between genuinely smart pronouncements and the usual brand of Ma’s Home-Brewed Arse-Gravy I serve up whenever I cease to give enough of a fuck to talk properly.
Right now, someone out there is reading this going “well, fuck me, I know exactly what he means! Thank goodness someone else said it!” and someone else is reading this going “wow- what a pompous pseud.”
And you fuckin’ know what? I can’t even tell which one of these two hypothetical stooges is right anymore.
Guess where I am (bonus points if you can do it without looking at the title of this entry)! That’s right: I’m in Oxford. With that cute lassie who I mentioned yesterday. Last night we went clubbing. This was a mistake.
Have you ever been inside a club? If “no”, then congratulations, my friend: fortune smiles upon you. If “yes” then please submit a form to the Central Authority with your justification, or face summary justice. As delivered by me, wielding a big hammer.
My justification, incidentally, is that I was there as Cutie’s back-up, and hers is that she got roped into it because someone had to make sure her friend (the only member of our trio who actually wanted to be there) didn’t get groped to death by a pack of jigging molestation-enthusiasts.
I felt like someone’s dad having to play chaperone for a school disco. Yeck.
The point is: clubs are not pleasant places. There’s a certain volume at which music stops being music and simply becomes “noise”, too loud for the human ear to properly interpret. The average club likes to broadcast its tunes at approximately twice this volume.
The people, by and large, seem more interested in simulating sex by grinding up against one another than in actually getting anything out of the music. It reminds me a bit of the Fremen Orgies described in Dune… which would actually be kind of cool except that literally everyone in a club is a fake-tanned freak of nature who couldn’t commune with Shai’Hulud if handily supplied a thumper and a stilsuit.
Then there’s the smell. Though come to think of it, that might have been the people as well.
I have looked into the abyss, and not only did it stare back, it played 1980s pop at me.
My follower-count has started dwindling, down from 1000 at its peak to 996 at the time of writing. A temporary set-back or the first sign that my three-year dalliance with minor online celebrity is coming to an end, taking its final bow and aiming for the nearest cliff like a majestic fucking lemming.
It’s probably only the first one. Let’s be honest: I ain’t going anywhere for a long time yet.
One reason for it may be that my Fat Acceptance and Fat Admiration posts- the reason the blog ostensibly exists- have been fewer and further between these recent months.
"But why aren’t I getting a blog post tonight? And what’s all this rambling about follower-count got to do with it?" I hear you whine out your face-hole. Well, gentle jerkoff, I’m glad you asked.
The reason you’re not getting a blog tonight is because I’ve got a hot date tomorrow with a very beautiful woman. What that has to do with the lack of on-topic blog-posts is that I may feel inspired to write more of them again someone in my life. That’s a thing, right?
Well, you won’t find out tonight, I’m afraid. Off you fuck.
Asked by Anonymous
I’ve got a date tomorrow, so not bad.
I am forever astonished by the ability of fandoms to get upset over ships. Especially when people in the same fandom get upset over each other’s ships, as though it’s a competition.
Y’all know these people are fictional, right? There could be fanart of them collectively banging a cactus and it would make literally no difference in the grand scheme of things. There’s room in this life for all ships, however unlikely, mismatched or blatantly non-canonical.
My point is, it might be a good idea to chill the fuck out, guys. This is something you do for your own weird sense of fun and/or sexual gratification, right? Well, what the fuck does anyone get out of it if you make it all into a big online punch-up?
Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for the occasional pointless internet dick-slapping contest, but I genuinely can’t fathom the reasons behind the levels of anger generated in fandoms over this stuff.
Maybe it’s just that I’m 23. Maybe I’m just too old and grey and fossilized to get it. Or maybe it’s that you lot need to lay off the caffeine and consult a medical professional about the joys of Ritalin. One of the two.
You know what Doctor Who needs to do more of? Backstories for its weekly monsters. You used to get a lot of carefully-devised baskstory in the Russel T Davies years, with nice big chunks of exposition being used to explain where the creatures came from and what motivated them. That seems to have diminished a lot since Steven Moffat took over, and while there are things I like about Moffat (I’m not in the camp that believes his tenure has ruined the show), I do think this is one characteristic of his time as showrunner that has damaged the program.
You see, a big part of drama arises from conflict, and depriving the monsters of complete backstories, motives and explanations makes conflict less meaningful and, in consequence, the show less dramatic. You can’t have meaningful, exciting conflict without some understanding that the thing your hero is in conflict with is a complete being, entire unto itself. Without this sense, it feels less real and its hard to take the struggle between the two forces seriously. Hence, the dramatic impact of the show is weakened.
That being said, it does seem like the show is moving back towards a heavier focus on the monsters… it’s just not quite there yet. With Mummy on the Orient Express, the nature of the monster- though shrouded in mystery- was pivotal to the plot and unraveling enough of it was the only way to stop the creature. This gave the sense that it was a fully-realised being; that it’s purpose and sense of menace were real things even if we didn’t necessarily understand them. Meanwhile, the secondary villain with motivations that could come back to haunt everyone at a later date kept things multi-layered and feeling much richer and more in-depth than previous episodes.
On the other hand, though, you still get episodes like The Caretaker, where the monster of the week is just a big shooty robot thing and nobody seems especially interested in why it was built how it got to Earth or anything, and it’s really hard to get into those episodes.
I want to see a real shift away from the soap opera nonsense they seem to be filling bits of episodes with and a proper return to the RTD-era-style unraveling-the-monster’s-mystery-stuff that’s starting to creep back in. I know what humans are like: I see them every day- I want to see a study of the fucking monsters!
TRIGGER WARNING: Fatphobia in the media.
So, let’s talk about Secret Eaters. Or better yet, let’s talk about the uniquely vile breed of show that Secret Eaters belongs to, because I’m really just using that particular barfcast as a standard to symbolise its ill-gotten ilk because it’s the one I saw an advert for most recently. If you haven’t heard of it, don’t worry: you don’t have to know the specific format to know the type. It’s one of those shows where a manic, probably-unstable dietician-type (who looks like she’s snorted enough Cocaine to get Bojack Horseman off his tits before coming on) sets about showing fat people their eating habits all in one go (some programs use a montage, some use a big table piled with the food- in either case, the idea is to make it look disgusting by throwing it altogether instead of admitting that people don’t eat their entire week’s food in one go and, actually, any food tossed together, shot from the right angle and given a menacing soundtrack will probably come out looking less than appetizing). Having ‘exposed’ the fat folks’ eating habits, the perky-crazy dietician then goes onto “help” (read “brainwash”) her hapless victims into changing their ways by getting them incredibly emotional about something they probably didn’t give overmuch thought to before (on account of not being batshit crazy). The dietician-y woman is pleased by the change, the formerly fat people are momentarily tricked into thinking their lives have in some way improved and then the credits roll, just in time for viewers to avoid having to think about how some nice people were made to hate themselves just so they could lose weight and make a hack TV presenter look fleetingly heroic. Yuck.
Whenever I happen across TV like this, my brain bypasses whatever idiot dunce-speak is actually seeping from telly and just hears the message instead. And the message is always the same. Shows like this always say the same thing: “News flash! People like food! You: do you like food? Then you’re disgusting! Hate yourself for liking food! Hate yourself because we tell you to hate yourself! Do you hate yourself a lot yet? Don’t worry! We have the solution to your self-loathing! We’ll put you on a diet that will fix this hatred we instilled in you by making you thin! Warning: don’t think too much about how you wouldn’t hate yourself in the first place if it wasn’t for us and the insidious social messages we built on! That wouldn’t make feel-good television and might expose us for the fraudulent, loathsome charlatans we are! Have you lost weight yet? Good! Now you’re happy! Wait, what’s that? Your lives are still a bleak farce governed by the paranoia over your body image we helped cement in you? Whoops! Too late! The credits have rolled, so it’s not our problem!”
I hate programs like this. They leverage malicious social conditioning to bring out feelings of worthlessness in their victims then present themselves as heroic for offering a solution to the problem they just created. They broadcast misery and defeat for entertainment and they pretend it’s feel-good TV because the hapless marionette they abused to make it is a dress-size smaller by the end.
It sickens me. I despise these programs more even than I despise the government’s current patronising “change for life” bullshit. More than I despise that particular subspecies of self-styled personal trainer and workout guru who always crops up online trying to sell their shitty service by bullying fat people. More than I despise clueless fatphobic bigots on Tumblr, even- which is going some, since I sometimes have to deal with those cunts personally. And do you want to know why programs like this earn top billing on my Angry List? Because they don’t even believe in the shit they’re doing.
All the other people and things I listed earnestly believe they’re doing the right thing. They’re wrong and stupid and should be dropped off a cliff at the first opportunity, but at least they actually have a conviction of sorts, however warped it is. Programs like Secret Eaters don’t even have that excuse. They’re mean-spirited, vindictive and malicious and they do it all just to fill up a desolate early-evening time-slot on the TV: it’s purposeless time-wasting that just happens to fuck with people’s lives in the process, and it’s that- the way the people damaged aren’t even the target, they’re just fucking collateral- that really makes me sick to my core.