Whimsical British films
Richard Curtis presents Bill Nighy and some posh actress from Primrose Hill who's in bloody everything in the feel-good movie of the year!
Well excuse me while I puke and shit myself simultaneously.
'Ugh! We don't want Welsh people in there! They're ugly and break things.'
We're capable of much better than shit like this. Withnail and I should have set the standard for writing and ambition. It seems to have been just an aberration.
It's the Simon Cowell effect of making everything a readily-consumable product with no surprises, no shocks, and no taste - the Mars bar ethos.
Money-men control everything, looking at graphs and what does and doesn't pose the highest risk.
The result - complete inertia.
Face like a Puffer Fish
Plastic surgery and lip filler - to the extent you look like you've got an anal prolapse on your face.
Eve Pollard said you either get old naturally or get old and look weird through having shitloads of shit injected up your bum and in your eyeballs.
She didn't say the last bit. That was me.
|Give it to me, bitch!
The ones who appear in the car without saying hello, when you're picking yours up. You stop at their house. They get out and walk off. No, 'Hello Mr Davies.' 'Thanks you for the lift Mr Davies.' 'Goodbye Mr Davies.'
All that money on an expensive education and they weren't even taught manners. Then you meet the parents and it then begins to makes sense.
Parents of the above bastards. Entitlement seems to be a classless thing, but living in SW London for so long and having stepkids at selective and private schools, you ended up meeting these people.
I can feel them, judging me. I only judge on behaviour. It's amazing how even adults feel the pressure to conform socially - that they have to buy into a certain lifestyle and attitude in order to be accepted.
Black SUVs are a must - change every year for an ever bigger, ever 'greener' model. And have the smaller model for the wife. Drive the kids to school clogging up the roads even though it's only 15 minutes walk.
Charmless, social climbers who look down or don't even speak to prols because they are distancing themselves from anyone who who may be at a place where they may have come from and like the abysmal and utterly overrated Michael Caine, are social climbers.
'Don't act as though you know me!'
Things they expect
Geraint'll do it for a beer.
Oh really? You can do my accounts for a beer then. Or you can represent me in court for a beer.
Can I have a half day of business consultancy for a pound?
Sorry I forgot you have real jobs.
The corporate anus.
Is quite the thing for me
Is where I want to be
You keep your Lewy Bodies
I'll have Fronto-temporal any day!
Fronto-temporal Dementia, is where I want to be...
Continues ad nauseam until some random person decides to kill you.
Ideas for TV shows:
Barry Erstwhile and his Magical Tits
Celebrity That's my Prolapse
Cxxt of the Year, Live from Essex!
I just needed to get that out of my system.
I'm actually the sanest man in mid-Somerset.