Catching up on all the news from across the pond, I was not surprised to read that British TV viewers under the age of 35 are “chatterboxing” whilst watching Coronation Street and eating packets of tripe flavored crisps (last time I was over there and bought a packet, there was no more than four crisps in it, and it cost about ten quid).
Apparently, most of the shows are so bad, the young whippersnappers can fire up their dole paid for iToys, then go on Twitter and Facebook to moan about it to all their brain dead friends, who are watching the same shows. Why not just pin a picture of Simon Cowell on the wall and throw darts at it?
Talking of bad TV, I’ve just read somewhere that Engelbert Humperdinck will be representing Britain at the Eurovision Song Fiasco. Is that thing still going on? Is Engelbert Humperdinck still alive. Although, he’s probably done a Cliff and has a picture in the attic with snakes and sh*t growing out of his head. Anyway, my money’s on the Lapland, throat warbling ensemble, with their heart pounding rendition of “A Reindeer Love Song.”
Speaking of animals and sh*t, I see that The Wizened of Oz’s BFF, Rebekah Brooks has taken a break from killing off retired police horses and got herself arrested AGAIN! I wonder if the picture she’s got in the attic has short straight hair. I’ll lay money that if she gets done, Rupert will be like… “Rebekah who?” As for Cameron’s old school chum Charlie, word from my spies at number 10 is that the PM is now claiming he went to a council school in Clapham. Cor blimey.
Finally, now that my home town team, Manchester United is out of Europe, I read somewhere that all those bloody foreigners on the continent can take the plastic covers off their furniture, while restaurateurs are trying to figure out what to do with the chip mountains and gravy lakes had stockpiled. No word on tripe.
Speaking of tripe, did you see that Facebook is now claiming that EIGHT MILLION brands now advertise on the site. I don’t think there are EIGHT MILLION brands in existence, are there? I would call that hyperbole, if I knew what hyperbole means.
The old nag was ready for the knacker yard anyway!
Oooops!!!
