Random Scramblings

I have an idea for a social networking site: Mugbook. Bare with me. Ok – you got a name, but huh, what makes this different? I hear you gasp, well let me tell you, paupers. Facebook, Myspace, Bebo and the rest of ‘em have millions of members between them. Billions, probably. And each and every member updates their profiles addictively, adding every last detail of what they are doing, from farting to masturbating. They even add pictures of themselves. Their posey smug faces stealing precious pixel spaces on your computer screen. You sit there, typing away at your hobbies, your favourite films, movies, books, and hairstyles, trying to make yourself sexy to the rest of them, who, don’t kid yourself- are doing the same thing! You then go on a crazy witch hunt through your friend’s pages, and sigh when you realize they have 6 more friends than you. Competitively you race to find six randomers, hopefully you have at least spoken to them before but if desperate Dan takes over you won’t decline anybody. Mick the milkman gets an invite. So does that sleazy toerag Jenny who you absolutely loathe. Forget your English coursework, there are people to add out there, chances to secretly admire that classmate who has caught your eye without them knowing. And that’s the fun of it.

But with Mugbook you can sit back and let the computer do it all for you. The government will control it all. Everytime you go past a CCTV camera those dapper controllers at HQ will snap you, be it munching on a ham sandwich outside of Greggs or vomiting outside of a taxi 2am Saturday night. Oh how your friends will laugh. And you won’t have to tirelessly look for friends, as we will automatically add anyone you have shaken hands with, glanced at, or even stood beside in the toilet cubicle. We’ve got it covered. Ofcourse there are the negative points. Drop litter for instance, and a fine will arrive in the post the next day. Parked on that yellow double line and thought you got away with it? Shame – the wardens are on your back, they have seen the footage, and will see you in court. And don’t for one minute think you got away with smoking that sneaky fag when you were meant to be typing up those invoices last Monday, your boss has been notified, and wants to see you in his office Wednesday morning. Don’t even try to say you are ill, the flu detectors your employers installed will soon discover your true intentions. Oh yes.

So don’t bother with Facebook, Mugbook is starting a revolution. You don’t know it yet, but you’re already registered, free of charge. You don’t even need a password. We didn’t ask for your permission, and we will be passing all your information to third parties - but look on the bright side! Pervy Alan from next door has just become your friend and is having a long look through your pictures. Alas.   

Howard Littler ☺

Despite ten years of boom, UK limited is now close to bust. Although it is big banks, airlines, and fat-cats that we hear about on the news, it is the small local businesses that have been hit the most.

The people that are to blame seem to be 1) banker types taking unnecessary risks and borrowing money to people who cant afford to pay it back. These are now the guys who are walking away with wheelbarrows of money in bonuses, and then, inevitably, there is 2) the government, who allow the banks to do this, and are now spending your taxes to bail them out.

People everywhere are deserting the Labour government and being alienated by ?that shifty looking? Gordon Brown. It seems that David Cameron and pals are the only people profiting off this when everybody else around here are on the bones of their backside.

How is it that in times of social squalor i.e. when government intervention is needed and people need help the most, it is a conservative government that is most popular?

Copyright Steve Bell, Guardian.co.uk

Ok, so yesterday I, along with billions of couch potatoes worldwide who also had nothing better to do, watched in amazement at the closing ceremony of the Olympics in Beijing. Flipping acrobats, world-class dancers, hundreds of sparkling, smiling and singing Chinese ladies along with fireworks that would make Guy Fawkes soil his pants brought an end to the 16-day-long 40 billion pounds worth of record-breaking Olympic TV gold. With the disappearance of the symbolic flame came what was advertised as an ‘18 minutes preview of the 2012 Olympics’, which just happens to be located in our capital city of London. After unsurprisingly unspectacular speeches from the Olympic officials, and a recognizable theme tune we call the national anthem, Boris Johnson, London Mayor, was handed the Olympic flag. Looking characteristically scruffy with an unbuttoned blazer and pot belly showing, he awkwardly struggled to hold onto the pole whilst spontaneously combusting. The camera, zooming out from Boris’ unzipped flies, then panned across to the 2012 London Olympics logo; simultaneously causing thousands of epileptic fits worldwide. Ouch.

British viewers in particular were waiting with baited breath: what would London organizers do to top the Chinese’s efforts? Synchronized explosions? Jaw-dropping death-defying stunts? Remote controlled alien gymnasts with webbed feet? Unfortunately not. We got a London double decker bus. You ‘eard. A blood-red double decker fucking bus. The Chinese are still laughing now.

But this was not a normal London bus. After 5 minutes of waiting it would open up, sort of. And what would come out of it? ‘Some girl who won x-factor and a 60-year-old guitarist’, not my words, Huw Edward’s in fact. Accompanying Leona something or other was some bopping hoodies and a guy in a wheelchair, holding an umbrella. Because buses and umbrella’s are so London. You know in those Remmel beauty ads you see on TV? What Kate Moss really means when she says “get the London look” is to go on a bus with an umbrella. Yeah! Put that in your pipe and smoke it Beijing.

Am I being naive? See I thought most people hated public transport. Never on time, downright rude bus drivers and that’s not even mentioning the chavs on the back of the bus blasting 50 pence and shizzle-mizzle tizzle out of their ipods and smoking spliffs. And as for umbrella’s, what does that symbolize? -Bad Weather, that’s what. Nuff said.

Finishing off the less than jaw-dropping 18 minutes was the less than jaw dropping David Beckham. What’s he gonna do?! I hear you gasp – Kick a football that’s what. What else was you expecting you fool? Oh and there was some girl in her undies playing a violin. Don’t ask.

So, as you may have guessed, I was not over-impressed with London’s 18 minutes of fame. They can’t organize a piss up in a brewery those guys.