The revolution televised on youtube

38 years ago American poet Gil Scott-Heron claimed “the revolution will not be televised, not be televised, not be televised” but it appears the revolution has been broadcast on youtube for a period of nearly two years. Its appearance has surprised many top political analysts in Washington, who have marvelled at its lack of commercial sponsorship and ‘people on the street looking for a brighter day’. Yet for one year and nine months the revolution has not captured the public’s attention and barely raised 600 hits. Among its viewers, Kevdogg89 commented “this is gay” whilst Twinkletits added “lmao I’m so drunk right now” later revealing her bra size to be “32 Delicious”.

After the more popular success of a viral video depicting teenage boys sexy dancing to Justin Timberlake, the revolution was removed from the site altogether.  Many have agreed that Timberlake’s proposal to ‘bring sexy back’ is a much ‘hotter’ revolution, and has better potential tie ins with corporate giants Macdonalds . A revolutionist, who did not wish to be named, commented that the American public wouldn’t recognise a revolution if it ‘trimmed their nostril hairs with a guillotine,” and added that they should “go ahead be gone with it.”

Investigative journalist Joseph Carter, who discovered the revolution whilst surfing for porn, commented “some of us have been waiting all our lives to see this, and it turns out…wait…have you seen this thing with the guys dancing like total dicks? This is brilliant!”

The new revolution is three minutes 52 seconds in length and does not mark the dawn of a new era.

 

Judge to rule on stock market surrealism

News Clipping: 20/11/08

Judge Bernard Ashbury Giles has concluded the hearing on stock market surrealism and is set to announce his verdict on December 15th. Judge Giles is deliberating the case brought by the accusant Mrs Doris Green, a shop proprioter from Swansea, that the world economic system “doesn’t make any sense,” and with its abstract numbers effecting the livelihoods of billions of people is “bloody surreal”. Prosecutor Arnold Johnson put forward the case in which he had to prove by definition that the stock market is; 1. of, pertaining to, or characteristic of surrealism. And, 2, that it has the disorienting, hallucinatory quality of a dream; is unreal or fantastic.

On the first count Johnson described the stock market as being like an “enourmous bulky elephant on long spindly legs” invoking imagery of surrealist artist Salvidor Dali. Johnson stated that although the elephant looks “fascinating in freakish way” in reality the creature would be “silly” and not the best model to base an monetary exchange system on.

For the second count Johnson focused on the stock market’s apparent “humanity” in its reactions to world events. “Numbers aren’t sympathetic, they can’t empathise with victims of war in oil rich countries or the price of bread in poor countries. Numbers are fixed symbols to indicate exactly what they indicate and no more. A six will never be a nine, unless you turn it upside down, of course”

Immediately following Johnson’s statement the stock market took a sharp 3 point rise across the board as brokers turned all sixes upside down.

In the defence team, prime numbers 7, 31, 59 and centre heptagonal prime 34,651, contravened with their argument that the FTSE Index and Dow Jones were “where they lived” and that they and all other numerical beings deserved “a quantifiable amount of happiness too, for god’s sake.” They placed the value of happiness at an inflated £68.35 per share.

Judge Giles will reconvene the court for his verdict ten days before Christmas, which, should he find the stock market guilty, will be cancelled.

 

Music interview by Michael K Viles

Interview 18/11/08

Legendary muso journo Viles may have discovered the next Lilly Allen

Sitting in a greasy spoon cafe in Glasgow’s East End, Janey Adams is remarkably down to earth for a young 16 year old who’s about to hit the scary heights of pop sensation. Adams first came to fame in this interview, when she caught the attention of veteran music journalist and interviewer, Michael K Viles. Viles, a celebrated and award winning critic, first became aware of the soulful musician through an online social network site in which she describes herself as ‘ a party animal, who aims to please. And the voice of a Glaswegian Beyonce.’ As I sit down to gorge on the fatty Glaswegian breakfast, Adams takes a cigarette outside and seems to wistfully breathe in the mean city’s landscape of high rises and sewer pipes. I am instantly reminded of Joan of Arc, young, suple and yearning for something higher in the depth of degradation. As Adams sings in her sure to be hit I’m a Mufa Bubalicious, “I ain’t American but I know the speak, I’m a mufa bubalicious, trendsetting biiitch.” By the time I chew through the grit in my sausage, Adams has finished her cigarette and is sitting across from me where I see the anger of several generations of working class running through her blood. First I ask her about her music, the rawness of which is like a powerful giant of angst, plundering through fields of beat roots and electronic sheep. “I dunno, i’ve not got it from anybody, I’m like, just being myself, like” she says with virginal innocence. “I just want people to listen to me, coz like, it’s like I dunno.”

Literally hundreds of people have already listened. Adams boasts 317 friends on her site and has attained accolades through comments like ‘aye, that’s braw’ and ‘fkin right, by the way’. Amazingly it hasn’t gone to Adams’ head. As she sits and nervously chews on her nails like a lamb who’s about to metamorphose into a wolf, I wonder how to coax her out of her shell. I offer her a drink. “A can o ginger” comes the flat response and when it arrives I’m surprised to find that the ‘ginger’ is nothing but a sickly sweet orange pop. “Wouldn’t you like something stronger?” I ask, appealing to her wilder side. Adams starts to scuff her shoes on the laminate flooring, but says nothing. This girl is dark, I think, and decide to hit her with more penetrating questions. “So if you were Amy Winehouse” I say “would you go to rehab?” This has caught her attention. Adams screws up her face in consideration, her mouth forms a perfect pout as she mulls over my excellent question. “I think she’s a good singer, but she’s also a bit of a dick”. Spot on, I think, and probe deeper. “And Razorlight” I say, baiting the trap, “would you?” Adams looks inquisitively with her baby doll eyes, “Would I what?” she throws back at me, I catch it “would you….light their razor?” I chuckle at my own wit. “What the fuck’s that’s supposed to mean?” Oops, looks like I’ve touched a nerve. But then its time for Adams to surprise me. A mobile phone rings out to the tune of Happy Euro-core DJ, Scooter. There is much embarrassment on my part, when I realise the tinny beats are coming from Adams pocket. It seems Adams isn’t aware of my awkwardness and cooly answers with a “yeah I know, I’ll be home in a minute”. “You’re being ironic right?” I interrupt, dumbfounded, but Adams is distracted, “I’ve got to go home, mum’s got the tea on.”

This is uncharacteristic of the young Adams, who should be the ‘party animal’ she promised to be. How does she expect to progress through the industry with introvert activities such as having ‘tea’ with her ‘mum’? She should be hob knobbing with journalists, working the room, glad handing and glad nosing with the best of them in the back room lav. As Adams puts on her pink puffer jacket over her svelte boob tube, I realise I’m not ready to end the interview yet. “Don’t you want to be famous?” I ask threateningly, “Don’t you know how this works? I’m a well regarded journalist for fuck’s sake!” Adams doesn’t answer but backs away towards the greasy cafe’s wall, where I easily corner her with my massive bulk. “Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you fucking know who I am?!” I leer. Adams cherub face flushes pink, and those penetrative eyes which are reminiscent of early eighties album art, fill with water and smudges her purple mascara. For Christ’s sake, she looks like a bad version of Prince’s infamous Lovesexy album cover, but with more clothes. “I want to go home” she mumbles through glossy lips. “I don’t think you know how this works, love” I explain to Adams, “You do right by me, and you’ll be on Never Mind the fucking Buzzcock’s this time next week!”

Adams uses all her strength to physically shove my overweight torso out of her way, and as she flees out the door, I contemplate the fame-hungry culture that is so wrong with Britain’s youth today. Interminable tv shows and internet virals have cultivated a generation of talentless tykes in their bedrooms, fanning the flames of the great God of Vacuousness. Who is Janey Adams anyway? Who the fuck is she? Another upstart desperately clinging to the hope of getting her tits out in Heat magazine? This is exactly why this country needs critics like Michael K Viles to chew through the grit like a Glasgow sausage, and spit out the inedible bits of bone marrow. Fucking X factor, pop idol bollocks, I’m surrounded by wankers. Nothing will ever be as good as it was in the early 90s, Britpop has killed everything.

 

Irony: the hottest look this season!

Fashion and Lifestyles Column by Carman Dewberry 01/11/08

In this age of electronic instant access, it seems unlikely that one can go on a date (with Jimmy Choos glued in place, and Chanel stinging your nostril hairs) without knowing every ounce of information about your beefcake in waiting. Everything today is digital, so just as you’ve snapped open your blackberry to map out the perfect route to the newest guacamole bar (cocktails include avocado volcano- yum!), you can also explore the mind map of your intended prey. Google is the obvious place to begin, but school records are also an easy email away: “Dear Bumington Academy, I am writing a biography of [insert hunk o'chunk's name here] and would be grateful for any records, theatrical videos or art projects you may have, blah blah blah”. If these yield no info-confi (confidential information), then further digging can be done with the help of your Government. Befriend a civil servant- this will only cost a couple of avocado volcanoes and a quick feel of your touch screen- and suddenly you have access to tax records, mortgage payments, marriage certificates (eek! If any!), children or criminal records (same thing if you ask me, both have life sentences!) bank accounts, dental records and HIV test results. With all this info you will be able to compile a thorough profile of Mr Mysterious and bind it into a black, worn leather binder (like the ones from Harvey Nicks, a scream at only £49.99) and keep it safe on your teak stained, walnut cabinet shelf with marble engravings, (Vogue, winter sale £1559).

But with all this data, ladies, I’m sad to say there’s one thing virtual reality can’t vet: his sense of humour. As my loyal readers will be aware, my rollercoaster, passionate relationship with Mr K (which in case you’ve been hiding under a rock, looks like an amalgamation of all three Mr Darcys; Colin Firth, Matthew Macfadyen and Lawrence Olivier) is a turbulent affair. If you remember in earlier issues, 787, 788, 789, 791-801 inclusive, I wittily described my man the humorist, and his remarks which have sailed dangerously and breathlessly close to the wind of ordinary people’s boundaries. Nobody was out of the firing range when Mr K was around, deftly swinging his sardonic sword and spearing everyone from the “jib jibs,” “apple stinkers,” “belly swelters,” and “sugar tits”. I’ve always taken this with a pinch of Marks n Sparks sea salt as nobody was ever harmed by the name calling, especially not those deaf jib jibs. Yet things changed last night when Mr K escorted me to the Ub Lub Club. As we were about to take advantage of a couple of famous Rub-a-dub Ub Lub Club cocktails (deliciously drizzled in soap and cherries) a couple of Flim Flabs walked in. Now, to be clear, dear readers, I have no issue with Flim Flabs, in a perfect world they should be allowed to flim and flab as much as their flabber’s heart flims. Mr K, however, was off his bean bag in a flash and before I knew it had grabbed the Flim Flab and was giving him a jolly good flimming. For a moment I couldn’t think of the correct etiquette. What was one to do? And then I remembered the cover of this month’s Fash-Slags magazine which announced the ‘in thing’ this season: ‘irony’.

Having seen an episode or two of a Ricky Gervais show, I knew all about ‘irony’. ‘Irony’ is when you can say or do anything you like, as long as you don’t mean it. The space between the intention and the action is where you will discover the secret, silent joke. As Mr K slammed the Flim Flab’s head into a pint glass and shouted “eat it! Eat it, you bloody flim flab!” I reflected on the nuances of this astonishing comedy performance, and couldn’t help let out a little laugh. He was being so de rigeur! By the time a crowd had gathered around, in horrified silence, I was laughing hysterically. The hip slips of the Ub Lub fashonistas totally didn’t get it! It was only when I cried out “he’s being ironic!” did Mr K’s amazing repartee even raise a smile. Sure enough, after the joke was explained, the Ubbies wasted no time in splitting their sides. The laughter was so loud it almost drowned out the fading Flim Flab’s gargled screams! And that, dear reader, is how I found out through real, non electronic experience, that I was dating the hottest comedian in town!

 

Scientists prove ‘sex’ does not exist

News Clipping: 28/10/08

Scientists in Manchester, UK, have proved after 3 years of coordinated research, that sex is a myth. The project, headed by Dr Edward Healy was initiated after Healy (22) confessed to fellow scientists that he had never witnessed, or been party to, the act commonly referred to as ‘booty scrimping’. “I’d been suspicious of this myth for a long time” states Healy by telephone from his bedsit, “it was so prevalent in books and films that I assumed it must be real but then I considered ‘there’s a lot of dragons in films too, and they aren’t real…’” Buoyed by the enthusiasm of his colleagues, the prematurely balding Healy set forth constructing the $52,000 experiment to catch once and for all what Healy entitled “that elusive sex dragon”.

Heading up an all male team, Healy’s research primarily involved identifying a member of the opposite sex, labelled “inflated chest-men,” to inquire if they would enjoy partaking in “ejaculatory, bumpy hugging.” The results were overwhelming. “After three solid years, not one of the inflated chest-men agreed.” says Healy emphatically “The media would have us believe that we’d ‘struck out’, but as informed and rigorously educated scientists, we can conclude that it’s a hard, throbbing fact; nobody out there is getting laid.” Healy claims the revelation will discredit many in the media world including Russell Brand (“if sex is a dragon, Brand must be a wizard”) and “that buff, young upstart” Daniel Radcliffe among several others.

But what does this research imply for theories of baby production? Healy is less sure. “That’s going to be my next research grant,” he says, having already successfully secured another $52,000. “My hypothesis is when a man loves a woman very much, he stares into her belly button for a prolonged period of time, he thus inseminates the egg, possibly with the help of tiny laser beams from his iris.”

Healy is currently looking for participation from married couples, a group he refers to as “ring-bearing liars”.