Shakira's hips don't lie.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If I were a girl- I wouldn't write whiney songs about boys!

Beyonce has a new song out. Yay! The bootylicious one has taken time off from gyrating in hotpants to tell us menfolk exactly where we have been going wrong, and just why we shouldnt treat women as sex objects. Give us hell B!



Apparantly, there was a controversy when it turned out the song had been written by every hormonal schoolgirl, who discovered the boy they fancied had been making out with their best friend at the school disco, ever. But, thanks to some strongarming from good old Martin Knoweles (allegedly), that particular hurdle has been passed. The song is o.k and actually quite hummable, it just all seems a bit flat, and this kind of angsty pop rock has been done a lot better by pink, but Beyonce's popularity and the sellable lyrics mean this will be a huge hit and will no doubt be played endlessly at the aforementioned discos that started the whole thing. That's subversion, and you can take that to the bank.

Skinny Genius.

I have spent the past week in the capital of Great Britain, and between riding the tube and spending vastly inflated prices on drinks, discovered, to my horror, that London is absolutely nothing like the Monopoly board. Another cherished childhood institution is exposed as a dirty lie. I was expecting, nay hoping, for a London full of talking dogs, road ships and walking top hats, but there were none. I spent hours trying to find Go! and collect my £200 but, after wandering around for the best part of my weekend, the best I'd been offered was fellatio from an emancipated street whore(I gave him 50p and sent him on his way). Strangely, unlike I had been led to believe, London is not a perfect square, where every street is neatly lined up next to each other in an easily negotiable fashion, but a jumbled mess of tubes, intersects and skinny jeans. It was walking around Camden, with my childhood dreams already in tatters, when I realised: London is infested with skinny jeans- they're everywhere! I honestly don’t know how this current trend of silly emo hair, t-shirts large enough to live in, and painted on jeans has crept it's way into the upper echelons of society, like some form of fashionista chlamydia, but it has. If we should be lambasting Russell Brand for anything, and let's face it we should, it should be for skinny jeans. I am personally more offended by the silly fashion sense of impressionable, unimaginative, teens, trying to craft a unique identity by aping the first person they see on T.V, than the harassment of an old man over his sexually delinquent granddaughter, although, admittedly, this may be more my problem. Take a look at this:



This man is clearly a bellend. Yet he is, inexplicably, everywhere. Why? What has become of society when, in London, I can find thousands of despondant, imaginatively-retarded teens, willing to trade any semblance of their own personality to imitate him, a cynically manufactured XFM/E4 hair monkey, yet not one walking top hat? Unbelievably, it goes even further: Take a look at this shifty character:



He is exactly as annoying and talentless as the above moron, but with the added bonus of a silly voice, sort of like Windows XP compared to regular windows or TWAT 2.0. It's as if T.V and radio bosses sit around a jeans shop in Camden and give every tenth customer their own radio show. It has to stop. It's getting out of hand. Nobody wants another Terry Christian but that's where we're headed. Both of these presenters are famed for their irreverent wit, but, between them, they have managed to make me laugh as much as a cat with aids has(once, if you're asking, but again, this may be more my problem.)I think all T.V and radio presenters should be completely anonymous, then rather than picking people who are trendy or "speak to their audience", we could have presenters who just speak clearly. We could have a whole T.V schedule of anonymous, masked T.V presenters, who speak with wit and candour, but then the whole schedule might begin to resemble an Al-Queada recruitment video. Actually, I haven't thought this through. It doesn't change the fact that Alex Zane is a twat though.

The X factor (again)

I'm addicted to the X factor, I know I shouldn't be but I just can't help myself. I mean, it really is everything that is wrong with, not just television, but society at large and I should, technically, rip out my eyeballs and eat them rather than watch it, but I just can't bring myself to do that because a.)I'm trying out atkins four years after everyone else and don't want to introduce carbs into my diet, and b.) It would mean I would miss the X factor. Its like T.V heroin and I just cant help myself.
This series is brilliant, and by brilliant I mean shit, but irresistible shit. Dermot O'leary introduces us to the show and I am the only one who has noticed how unbelievably bad he is at presenting: his dull monotone delivery, dead eyed stare at the camera and fat patronising head leave me wishing for Kate Thornton, which can never be a good thing. Dermot has simply become background irritation to Simon's preening and the whole thing might as well be presented by a fridge, quite frankly. This week was one of those pointless big band weeks where everyone pretends to like swing music even though they really don't. No one like swing music; it's shit, and besides, no one on these shows has ever been able to sing it properly. Swing music should be sung by an old misogynist, dripping of whiskey, who will go home after his performance and slap his wife around, not one of Jamie Oliver's sperm that, somehow, has taken on a life of it's own. The Judges take their seats and this week Simon will be playing the part of particularly sleazy David Hasselhoff. The show is kicked off by Laura White who despite looking and sounding like a burly transvestite is told her performance was brilliant and unique. Dannii has said she has a unique style, but thats not true just go to Bangkok there are thousands like her. The whole show is going along swimmingly until Alexandra performs candyman dressed in a sailors outfit. This is hands down the gayest performance in the history of reality T.V and Louie, unsurprisingly, is almost giddy. All of the acts seem to meld in to one as they boringly sing boring songs to judges who look, quite frankly, bored. Thats unfair to Diana, however, who is quite cool and unique and should really win the show at a canter, but will probably be voted off next week in a head to head with fetus boy. The show is unfathomably long these days, and the mixture of boring cabaret acts and stilted banter bring up uncomfortable meories of Children In Need. In part two the 12 finalists(minus Ruth and Daniel) sing hero, why doesn't Simon just call it American Idol and be done with it. On the subject of Ruth, how annoying is Simon's insistence she sing everything in Spanish? It's obvious he only does it because it gives him an erection; I know he's getting on a bit, and it's probably quite a rare occurance, but the poor girl doesn't need that. Anyway, after about three weeks Dermot announces that former Pontins blue coat Scott is on his way, and, despite the fact he was shit, everyone is shocked, Louie even cries, and so does Dannii, but it's hard to tell. It's okay Simon says the standard was high this year, plus he can always go back to Pontins (That might not be true, however, as I've been to Pontins this year and the standard is high there too.)So there we are, the X factor is over for another week, Diana really should win and Simon really need to buy a shirt with a top button. Despite my grievances I will be tuning in next week, just to see how much more like American Idol it can become before Simon Fuller tries to sue them again. O'leary out.

X Factor

I fancy Diane Vickers



That is all

I can see you dancing with Irish eyes.

I don't need to tell you that this:



is fantastic.

This got me thinking, however: Is there anything on earth that can't be improved by an Irish cover version? and the answer is no. Think about it - everything is better when you add fiddles and penny whistles. Take the Corrs (not like that): They managed to transcend bland pop/rock music, naff videos, and an ugly brother, which is some doing, as he really wasn't a looker. They rode the crest of a harmonic Irish wave into pop superstardom (sort of). If you need any further proof that Irish music improves everything look at this:




See Shane McGowen agrees that Irish music improves everything, he used it, and actually managed to improve Christmas. So suck on that Catholics.

T.V. dinner for the soul.

I watch a lot of T.V. And I mean a lot, if you think you watch a lot of T.V. you are wrong, I watch T.V. in a similar manner to how Muslim fundamentalists watch the sky, or how John McCain watches his heart rate, in a perpetual state of waiting- waiting for something to happen. It never does of course, but the thrill is in the chase. The reason I'm telling you this is because I'm not happy, and I think T.V. could be the reason why. I feel bad for bad-mouthing T.V. as its been the source of much of my education, pleasure and personality for much of my life - I feel like a foal rejecting it's mothers teet, as I no longer want milk but feel like tasting champagne instead.
But nothing on T.V. makes me happy I am just constantly dejected and sad, which is why I've decided there is no such thing as feel good T.V. Any show that claims to be feel good is ultimately quite dark, as if all of T.V has been made by Frank Capra. Think about Neighbours- you're supposed to think wow, look at those people: all loving and getting on together. What a wonderful neighbourhood; but what you're really thinking is look at all those beautiful fuckers, and all their sunshine I just wish Harold's extra chin would turn around and devour the lot of them. The Pride of Britain awards, you're meant to revel at the remarkable resilience and courage shown by children in the face of extreme misfortune, but really you're left feeling sick to the stomach as celebrity after celebrity manages to turn their triumph into advertising space for their own self publicity, all the while realising just how little in comparison you've achieved in your own life. The fact that in the current climate of Britain the poor children are likely to be the victim of knife crime on top of what they've all ready suffered is a sobering and depressing thought. The very fact that people like Chantelle and Chanelle are on T.V., and that I know their names (as you do too, don't lie to yourself) and am able to differentiate between them, is enough to make you despair at what Britain currently deems as worthy as a reward. T.V. used to be my friend, but now it's just an annoying presence in the corner of my living room, constantly reminding me of how dreary and depressing real life is, while showing me stories of how nonentities that have appeared on Big Brother are enjoying the endless highs of being a Z- list celebrity. It's probably not true, but it still feels like a kick in the bollocks. The fact is that trash T.V. exists for a purpose- it allows us to hold public figures up to whatever barometer we deem appropriate, we can either laugh and smile in a superior way at Jordan when she whores the last vestiges of her private life for money, or when Kerry Katona announces that she will give birth on T.V, or we can feel anguish and jealousy because we weren't afforded the same privilege and worship them as modern day chav monarchs and sit in wonderment at their burberry blooded privilege. T.V can either be our window looking in at the world of celebrity, where we shiver in the cold waiting to be fed the left over scraps from their table, or it can be our window looking out; Where we laugh haughtily at those who sacrifice any shred of dignity and respect just so they can appear outside our window, as we hold them up to be figures of ridicule and dinner party anecdotes we use to amuse ourselves, the choice is ours. T.V is a democracy, and in the current climate of Britain thats actually quite a comforting thing.