NOCTURNAL EMISSIONS....

On the front page of Twitter's home page, it reads "FOLLOW YOUR INTERESTS - INSTANT UPDATES FROM YOUR FRIENDS, INDUSTRY EXPERTS, FAVOURITE CELEBRITIES AND WHAT'S HAPPENING AROUND THE WORLD".

Those two lines i have highlighted in bold above are the two i really want to put the spotlight and focus on in this blog today as i experienced quite a startling and thought-provoking response to a joke about a celebrity i posted up on Saturday evening during one of my regular forays on Twitter.

Never before has a social networking service allowed a person to get so close to their favourite celebrity, its almost like holding a glass to their dressing room door and eavesdropping on them in real-time mumbling to one of their other showbiz friends about how they love using a new iPhone app called "SteFry" because it insults everything you plan to organise in a highbrow Oxbridge-educated voice using an over-intelligent pedantic language user interface.

Personally speaking, i don't mind that famous and widely recognised people are frequenting Twitter, i am sure many of them enjoy the experience of writing a short message and seeing people reacting to it like a wasp would react to a picnic.

For example, let's say @DerrenBrown tweeted something vaguely amusing like "Just convinced the postman that he is posting anthrax to people's house. He is now sobbing on my doorstep. LOL." or something mundane like "My mother just made a typical Sunday dinner, and Songs Of Praise just started on BBC1. This is so predictable." but either way, he will get so many replies from thousands of his adoring followers that they will feel as if they'll feel involved with Derren's everyday existence, and maybe also think they relate to it too.

The range of sycophantic replies would probably read a lot like this:

@2pCoinTits - "Hi Derren, U r so funny xxx"

@NaziSexGoose - "Tell your mum to change channels, but only using your mind powers!".

@BawbagRiotshield - "Dnt lik Sunday dinner n dnt lik Sng Ov Praise.H8 Sundais ROFL xx"

@ComedyShampoo - "Postmen are total shit. RT'd!"

@SatansYoghurt69: "Derren, you should convince the postman to deliver the post in the nude. New idea for your next TV series perhaps?."

Someone will then come along, let's call this Twitter user @RutgerPowershauer who causes a bit of mild uproar when he tweets "Derren, you're rubbish!, you're just Philishave advert version of Paul McKenna!" and this causes Derren Brown's many adoring fans on Twitter to turn into an angry mob who literally want to line up like a shopping queue on Boxing Day to take turns at kicking the offending tweeter in the cyberthroat.

The reaction the fans have to someone who doesn't feverishly sniff their celebrity's every thoughtdump for a scent of rose petals is utterly bemusing, do these people honestly think that their favourite celeb is sitting there reading that tweet thinking "That person doesn't like me, i hope someone tells him off for being a total wankhamper towards me!"?

The main reason i am writing this blog is because i made the terrible decision to dare to tweet a few jokes about John Barrowman and his BBC 1 "entertainment show" Tonight's The Night, a show where the format is like a bizarre crossbreed of Beadle's About and Surprise Surprise, in which John Barrowman rewards "ordinary people" who have done something benevolent like tirelessly raising money for a children's hospice.

John Barrowman will invite them onto the stage to watch him singing a karaoke version of Take That's hit Rule The World, there isn't a dry eye in the house when he does it, which i can only assume is down to the abject horror Barrowman bestows upon them with his sub-par sinking cruise-ship singer routine.

Barrowman then follows it up with a display of his comedy acting skills where he will play a joke on an "ordinary member of the public who spent many hours baking fairy cakes to raise money for Help For Heroes", Barrowman dresses up as a gigantic comedy rolling pin and comically smashes up a charity bakery to smithereens much to the horror of the voluntary staff working there, who he then surprises by revealing himself and then it seems everything is okay because it is all just a light-hearted joke.

That description of his show is slightly exaggerated but the general gist of the show is about rewarding charity workers with the sight of and the sounds that emanate from John Barrowman's skull.

My main offending tweet was in connection with John Barrowman's closing number, a cover version of Phil Oakey's 80s hit "Electric Dreams" where i tweeted - "John Barrowman singing 'Electric Dreams' made me dream about taking a bath and chucking in an electrical appliance." which was a joke that got quite well received by a lot of people who seemed to see the irony of what i had tweeted.

Then i began to be swarmed upon by some enraged John Barrowman fans who clearly were not happy with that tweet or any of the other observations i made on his show, particularly about a man who was far more handsome, far more talented, far more charitable and far more loved than me.

At first, i could only assume that these people were either close friends or relations of John Barrowman who were clearly distraught that someone had the temerity to denigrate his ubiquitous nature of appearing so much on television that he has literally become the television equivalent of the Trojan virus, where no matter what channel you attempt to escape to for solace, John Barrowman is there, staring back at you with a permanent grin and crooning Westlife's You Raise Me Up.

However, they were nothing of the sort. They were "fans", and they were here to verbally scourge me. I was called a loser, a nobody and a shit singer. The latter is one i can agree with because the last time i attempted karaoke, i sounded like Joey Deacon bobbing for piranha fish.

I don't think followers of celebrities on Twitter truly grasp the reality that their beloved celebrity really couldn't give a fluorescent fucklamp if they even exist. As far as they are concerned, they wouldn't care a jot if their fans were thrashing around in a puddle and gouging out each other's eyes fighting over a "special cornflake" depicting their idol's image on it.

The thing that bemuses me is this unhinged behaviour where they feel the need to stand up for their celebrity hero and their supposed integrity, it's like being collared by an army of illiterate Joe Pesci clones telling you that if you keep disrespecting Katie Price, Claudia Winkleman, Russell Brand or John Barrowman then they will come round your house when you are sleeping and put a horse's shoe in your bed.  

It's not just the followers of useless TV celebrities that have maniacal and stupid followers too but i couldn't help but notice that Charlie Brooker's Twitter account would have been inundated with dribbling pseudo-erudite arseclamps telling him that he was a satirical genius on one hand whilst they traded intellectual punches with anyone who dared to criticise the first installment of his new portmanteau series of "dark parables" Black Mirror.

You can usually point those ones out because they'll constantly RT links to pages of the online editions of The Guardian and The Huffington Post as well as tweets by India Knight, Caitlin Moran, Tom Watson MP, Richard Herring and Roger Ebert despite the fact they have no opinion of their own other than the one they constantly borrow from somewhere else whilst pouring scorn at every opportunity on Louise Mensch MP, The Daily Mail, Stoke City FC, Piers Morgan and Monday mornings....which to be fair, are all extremely grotesque bastards, because everyone else who is deemed cool on Twitter is doing the same. 

Hey, what do i know?. I'm neither cool, hip nor famous. I don't have a Guardian column or a BAFTA nor do i have my own Saturday night entertainment show so who the hell do i think i am posting up such bitter and twisted opinions about bloody beautiful talented people eh?.

Thanks for reading.

Kris("a fucking nobody loser unfamous prick"  © Twitter, 2011)

 
2011 has been the year where tabloid journalism is now regarded as one of the more redundant and futile professions in the UK, almost as much as the writing job i am currently undertaking, which involves me trying to ghostwrite a sex guide in crayon for Wayne Rooney to recite verbatim for an audiobook version which aims to help depressed panda bears find the motivation to want to engage in a species-rescuing bout of reproduction.

Just like that forthcoming audiobook, or an album's worth of collaborations from Lou Reed and Metallica, the revelations the public have been hearing from the Leveson Inquiry have not made for easy listening.

Paul McMullan, former deputy news editor for the News Of The World, took to the stand this week and laid bare a litany of illegal and unethical practices tabloid journalists used to obtain information about various people to shockingly pejorative effect, everything from hacking phones to bribing police officers, to even apparently posing as a teenage rent boy to entrap a "paedophile priest",

I can only assume that for the latter endeavour, McMullan used monies from his NOTW expense account to buy himself a "Frankie Says Relax" t-shirt and an HMS Plymouth sailor hat to prepare himself for such a demanding but stereotypical role.

Another salient point that he made at his testimony was that it seems that the role of the tabloid journalist isn't as fun as it used to be by all accounts, as he relayed stories of high speed car chases that sounded like the paparazzi equivalent of Dick Dastardly pursuing an A-list celebrity pigeon.

Which as McMullan described as being "great fun.....well, until Princess Diana died anyway".

It's always a bit of fun until someone gets hurt, or is pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.

The whole cringeworthy affair made McMullan sound like he was describing a shit bonus level in a video game written by and starring himself called Oxygen Theft Auto. 

He then uttered a comment which prompted so many jaws to drop that OfCom could've potentially been inundated with dentist bills rather than complaints; "Privacy is the space bad people need to do bad things in. Privacy is for paedos; fundamentally nobody else needs it."

That particular statement was like listening to a blink and you'll never believe it excerpt from an odious sewage stream of DVD commentary accompanying a clip compilation show called "Tabloid Hacks Spurt The Sleaziest Things".

So, in short, what McMullan thinks he means by that statement is that if it is "in the public interest" and is considered "newsworthy to their readers and consumers" then this undoubtedly means "you or anyone else have no right to privacy whatsoever if someone wants to read about you and every single thing you do in your everyday life"......I think.

Answers on a postcard please, you privacy-wanting fleshbollards.

It's safe to say that the "Privacy is for paedos" line might yet turn out to be a disturbingly and wrongly resonant message written on the epitaph where the freedom of press in the UK dies a death. 

With every single statement though, it seemed McMullan was intent on not just digging himself a hole but to drill his way through the entire Earth and split it in half like a planet-sized Terry's Chocolate Orange.

If it didn't seem like it could get any worse, McMullan then achieved a new nadir in his testimony that deserved just as much opprobrium as his previous statements.

He defended the hacking of murdered teenager Milly Dowler's phone because it was what "any well-meaning journalist" would've done - deleting voicemail messages and giving her parents the false hope that she was still alive?

If he believes that he personifies what a well-meaning journalist should be then i dare say that Pol Pot must be considered a well-meaning doyen of Utopian communist ideals in the circles he travelled in, the only difference being that McMullan doesn't have a few acres of bamboo fields to systematically dump all the lives he has destroyed into.

It really is difficult to pinpoint where the likes of Paul McMullan might stoop to but hearing his testimony gave me the distinct impression that if the fee was modest enough, he'd throw bleach into your children's eyes just to get a reaction from you because he suspected you of being a "paedo", or worse.....a paeditrician.

Incidentally, we all knew from the Select Committee hearing in August that when those individuals deeply involved in the many phone-hacking scandals that the NOTW are now synonymous with that there would be revelations coming out that would look so sickening and ugly on paper that Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen would happily paste them onto the walls of a dining room.

The most surprising thing about that Select Committee was that Rupert Murdoch actually turned up. For years, we've been told that this man is a master at mind tricks and media manipulation in a way that makes Derren Brown look like a door-to-door bogus caller trying to sell "cheap affordable winter heating" to vulnerable pensioners.

However, this seemingly arch-nemesis of democracy and harbinger of right-wing doom looks like a yawning moon face from a silent movie drawn onto a damp carrier bag who denies all knowledge of anything at all, despite the fact he mounts more daily smear campaigns than a hunger-striking political prisoner in solitary confinement.

Not only that, we also had Rebekah Brooks, who is essentially just a human menthol cigarette wearing a clown wig, was arrested alongside Andy Coulson and whom have also both denied knowing anything much about phone-hacking, which McMullan's testimony contradicts entirely.

The only salient and pertinent thing we truly learned from that entire Select Committee appearance was how hard his wife Wendi Murdoch can punch a fat man in the ear.

Needless to say, with many more witnesses and statements to collect from the Leveson Inquiry, i don't suspect we'll hear anything tantamount to journalistic maiming like we heard from McMullan, which despite the uneasy and disturbing feelings his testimony gave, i also think it shed light on a code of practice that could rightly be called a "dark art".

I think what we got shown on Tuesday afternoon was McMullan holding up a grubby cracked mirror at ourselves and letting us see the ugly reflection of what we've become as a nation of gutter-snorting gossip addicts who need to find out every single detail about someone "in the public interest" no matter what the supposed news is.

Whether we like to admit it or not, tabloid journalism does cater for the tedious and prurient interest people have in finding out useless transitory stories like if Vole-Faced Pop Drone #4 really did have shuddering loveless alleyway coitus with Pig Foetus-Faced Pop Drone #8 last week while Vole-Faced Pop Drone #4 is now shunning her to nestle his head drunkenly inside Llama-Faced Pop Drone #3's tits because deep down, the average ordinary punter on the street wants the glamour, fame, recognition, money, sex, power and attention that everyone else secretly craves and the only way to get it is to seemingly have the media cut off a big piece of your human identity with a metaphorical chainsaw to get it.

Just thank yourselves lucky Rupert Murdoch didn't get full control over Sky, otherwise we'd have been tweeting about a 24 hour news channel dedicated to showing upskirt shots of Charlotte Church's knickers and unflinching static camera shots of the catflap on Hugh Grant's front door.

Thanks for reading,

Kris

Yesterday, if you didn't bear witness to the storm that heralded a cataclysmic event which Nostradamus either didn't predict in his many doom-laden quatrains, or which he just simply couldn't be arsed recording onto a parchment with his trusty quill then here is what happened......

For last night, Jeremy Clarkson blurted out an off-the-cuff statement he made no attempt to defend on The One Show, which of course sent the Twitter outrage-o-meter skyrocketing so fast that the resultant apoplexy has now reached an altitude somewhere between Heaven and Xenu's second holiday villa.

He made the glib suggestion that public sector workers who were on strike over pension cuts should be gunned down in front of their families.

Personally, i was more surprised Jeremy Clarkson didn't suggest those people be forced into stripping naked and doing five laps on a penny farthing around the Top Gear test track, while Clarkson catapults burning caravans at them.

I dare say that James May and Richard Hammond would be hovering above in a helicopter sniggering while they kick kidnapped Socialist Worker representatives out of the door and sending them plunging to their deaths.

Of course, i jest. The most alarming thing for me wasn't what Jeremy Clarkson said but the fact that anyone was actually watching The One Show and taking it seriously.

I always thought The One Show only existed for hospital patients to waste time staring at while they waited for their evening visitors to arrive, much like a Magic Eye picture where they eventually see Matt Baker and Alex Jones trapped inside the world's most underwhelming discotheque.

Twitter then kicked into top gear, and please pardon that pun because its certainly not intended, with everyone clambering over themselves to express their anger, where many called for his immediate sacking from the BBC, however i was more disappointed that no-one suggested he should have his many driving licenses revoked as that would really fuck up his television career.

Whenever anyone says anything stupid and offensive, Twitter goes on the offensive against the offensive with wildly myopic abandon, where it's akin to a moralising infantry trying to fight fire with chilli powder.

There seems to be no delineation anymore between people having a perverse desire to be looking for a modicum of offence and those wanting to climb to the plateau of the moral high ground and shout about their disbelief, to which the collective apoplexy eventually all blends together and gets repeated ad infinitum within a myriad of similar-minded angry diatribes about the same subject, shit pun-filled jokes and a borrowed seventeenth-hand link to an MPEG file of a cute cat playing swingball with a crow which bored office workers will point and coo at for the best part of two hours, undoubtedly until a columnist for The Daily Mail blames immigrants and gay people for petrol shortages and then Twitter explodes in self-righteous ejaculation of cathartic outrage again.

Everytime i log on to Twitter these days, i do expect to see a picture of an unconscious Twitter Fail Whale covered in bruises and blood and connected to a dripfeed, with the words "TWITTER IS OVER-ANGRY. PLEASE TRY AGAIN WHEN PEOPLE ARE LESS ANNOYED." daubed on the wall behind it in liquid morphine.

Twitter has certainly allowed hate to be magnified to almost comical proportions sometimes where thousands of tweets being posted about one subject can cause derision to "trend" to an almost pandemic capacity, even now people are still shuddering with collective rage about Jeremy Clarkson making an apology about being a bit of a berk but of course, it will be someone else who finds themselves in the crosshairs of the Twitter Offence Police's armed response team next week as they literally unload every moral bullet in any other direction other than a worthy target who actually deserves them.

I'm not telling anyone how to think or how to conduct themselves or even what to say on Twitter but it is just disappointing that such a meaningless story took precedence over the newsworthiness of this country's public sector workers on the streets striking over pension cuts because a coalition government no-one voted for to run this country can't find a solution to a problem they caused.

Thank you for reading,

Kris

Everyone who had the pleasure to have known Gavin will know that he was blessed with many great traits, there is literally an inordinate amount, almost too many to mention, I think that’s perfect testament to the man’s personality and character and why we are here today to honour and respect Gavin.

You could literally take your pick. Generosity. Tolerance. Honesty, Trustworthiness, Respectability. Intelligence. Eloquence.

You name it, Gav ticked all the boxes. But his best trait for me was his sense of humour.

Working the nightshift at ComputerCab was very quiet and monotonous at times but whenever Gav was in, he was always great fun to be around and there were never many dull moments. Gav always had a witty remark, humourous observation and a joke whenever prompted by myself and vice versa, I’d do the same, it was almost like a comedy duo at times. That’s how we survived through the night on our shift pattern, through our banter and humour.

However, me and Gav tended to abuse our positions a bit at times, we would take many unsanctioned cigarette breaks together, we’d procrastinate to the point where we’d just get everyone else to answer all the calls and bookings coming in and sometimes, we’d go outside into the car park to have a kick about with a football for about 45 minutes just because there wasn’t really much to do for most of the night, even though we weren’t meant to.

Gav wasn’t very good at football though. All I can say is that Gav’s attempt at kicking a football is best described as if you try to imagine a one-legged pirate trying to kick a balloon around a frozen lake whilst wearing a diver’s flipper on his good foot. I’m sure you’ll get the picture I am trying to express.

Despite not being very good at football, Gav didn’t care, he was always there when there was fun to be had and always made an effort to contribute to the happy moments we all experienced working there together.

The term “life and soul of the party” sounds like a cliché sometimes but in this case, it couldn’t be further from the truth where Gav is concerned.

Despite all the laughs and joy we had working together, when things weren’t going so well and times were tough, Gav was always someone who would be a calming influence. You could always rely upon him, you could always confide in him because he was trustworthy, honest and dignified.

If you were feeling bad, Gav would usually make you feel better because he was always on the same wavelength as you and always understood you. He always listened and was always sympathetic to your feelings and thoughts.

Sometimes I worried about Gav though, particularly when I made him laugh.

However you always knew the signs whenever you said something a wee bit shocking, which was usually the level of humour on nightshift, he would seize up like he had just stepped barefoot on a discarded light bulb, gasp deeply as if he was being breathalysed by an angry policeman after trying to drunkenly ride a bicycle up a very steep hill, he would then stare at you with a shocked look on his face like he had just unknowingly startled a wasp’s nest and then proceed to laugh harder and longer than anyone else than probably anyone I’d ever met, often to the point where he would cough and splutter like the exhaust on a faulty tractor.

I think the worst instance of this was when we were at some bar in Aberdeen for a work’s night out, we were in a pub called The Wild Boar in Aberdeen and Rocky 4 was showing on one of the television screens. This prompted me and Gav to have a discussion about the state of the Swedish actor Dolph Lundgren, who plays that mental boxer in it called Ivan Drago.

I merely said “Dolph Lundgren looks like what might’ve happened if Sue Barker had indulged heavily in solvent abuse and anabolic steroids”, not the funniest joke but I really should’ve timed it better because Gav was midway through drinking a glass of whiskey and coke, and he almost choked on his drink trying to laugh.

And there was me, having to pat Gav’s back and burp him like you would do a newborn baby. When he got his breath back, he called me a rude word beginning with b and ending with d.

What I am getting at is, everyone has their own memories of Gav and I can bet that each and every one of you here all have good classic ones yourself and you’re remembering them right now as if they happened yesterday, you always had great times in the wee man’s company, even when he used to quote philosophers like Kierkegaard, Nietzsche and Sartre when for example we talked at length about how the world must feel being misled into thinking that the way to open up diplomatic relations with volatile countries is to ply their ambassadors with trays of Ferrero Rocher.

I think I can speak for a few people today who worked with him at ComputerCab that the main thing they will remember most about him will be his penchant for wearing salmon pink shirts which in some occasions, were so loud in colour that they could break the sound barrier. In my good friend Richard Irvine’s case, it will be myself and Gav constantly giving him stick for looking a tad like George Michael.

However one of my main resounding memories of him was when I first met him, he waltzed into work one night sporting a ponytail and wearing a suit jacket and white shirt,and because it was too good an opportunity not to take at the time, I asked him if he he came first in the “John Travolta in Pulp Fiction Lookalike Contest”.

Poor Gav, he went and clipped the ponytail off a week later. Sorry for that one mate.

I think we can all safely say that I, like many of us here, was very happy, privileged and honoured to have had Gav as a friend, a colleague and a sidekick at work.

He will be missed very much by myself and everyone here today.

Our loss is God’s and Heaven’s gain.

Goodbye and God Bless you wee man.

(download)

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It's with great regret and sadness that i write this blog today paying tribute to my dear departed friend Gavin Fern, whom as a lot of you know was a person i was campaigning tirelessly on Twitter to help locate via the #HelpFindGavin hashtag since his disappearance in November 20th 2010.

I am sure Gav wouldn't have liked to have read a tribute bogged down with cliches but he was a genuinely lovely guy whom i worked with on nightshift a fair bit, and whom was just as good as taking stick as well as dishing it out with some wit and verve, much like myself in that respect. I used to refer to him as "Frodo" now and again because i thought he looked a bit like a hobbit, and i remember one instance he'd been late into work because the bus schedules were a bit behind, and he came into work dripping wet due to the rain outside and dumped his bag and took off his jacket, breathing heavily and looking flustered.

I said "Crikey Gav, were the buses not running in Middle Earth today or something? was it Sunday service in The Shire?. You look like you've been out all night searching for a magical ring in the pissing rain!".

To which Gav, said in his own polite but cutting way, "with the utmost respect and in the nicest way possible, go fuck yourself up your Orc arse!".

He used to take a lot of stick for this penchant he had for wearing salmon pink shirts, particularly from myself and my friend Richard Irvine, i remember one instance where he came into work, threw off his coat and i said "Hey, i recognise you from television! Not sure which name to call you again though, is it Justin? or is it Colin?" to which Gav said "Look, I'm only wearing this shirt to stop Sandy(a slightly homophobic friend of our's on nightshift) from fancying me".

It was little moments and quips like that from Gavin that really made him a joy to work with. I am sure lots of people will be recounting their stories of the wee man but in a lot of instances, trying to truly appreciate his wit and banter was a case of "You'd had to be there at the time to really appreciate it" because simply reading about him on this blog doesn't do the wee man justice where his brilliant sense of humour was concerned. It's more so now that he's gone, you begin to remember all the things he said and all the things i said to him where literally night after night, we'd make each other as well as the fantastic people we worked alongside on that truly special shift pattern that only people with certain personalities and characters can do howl and laugh long into the night just to keep ourselves from the abyss of boredom.

I used to indulge in saying quite shocking things to gain a cheap laugh, and Gav would usually sit there to my left doing this strange wee action before he eventually buckled in laughter, it was like he'd been shocked by a bomb going off in a bin, stare at you like a startled cat, then silently begin convulsing and then laugh. You knew everytime he did that, you'd got him again.

That was usually the way i'd like to gauge my humour on nightshift, by making him shocked so much that he couldn't help but laugh at what i just said, and he was a wonderful barometer for that but the problem with it was that the wee man now and again could steal your thunder, he'd become such a great partner-in-crime that he got so good at throwing out insults and jokes that there was a fear he was going to go solo like Dudley Moore did and become better at them than you were so it became almost like a competition at times.

The best way to describe our act on nightshift would be like Peter Cook and Dudley Moore's Derek and Clive sketch, i'd be Peter Cook's Clive and he'd be Dudley Moore's Derek. It's such a bloody cliched description but it's the best one i could come up with, mainly because i was so much more foul-mouthed than Gav was because Gav didn't need to be, he had more verbosity and eloquence than i did, Gav read books about philosophers and existentialist writers, whereas i read the Viz and comic books. Strange dynamic i know but it bloody worked on nightshift and if i could turn the clock back all those years to experience it all again, i would because he was a joy to spend time with for eight hours a night in a boring and bombastically beige-coloured call centre.

I remember another favourite victim of our's was a Scouser called Mike Roberts. I remember he used to come in every morning and look dischevelled and tired, and i'd usually say "Alright Mike, you'd been out burgling houses and garages again?" and Mike said "You know, us Scousers aren't all criminals, you're being a bit racist there" to which Gav said "Mike, Scousers aren't a race, Liverpool is just the place where petty crime was invented".

I hadn't seen Gav in person since 2008 and last year when i was planning to go down to Glasgow for a gig, i had messaged him on Facebook a few days earlier to see if he wanted to meet up, unfortunately he'd been on some training course down in England and missed my appearance in the city he now called home and said to give him a shout next time i was in town, to which i said "see Gav, if you weren't so much of a corporate c*cksucker, you would've had more fun getting pissed with me" to which he said "I know, i am still recovering from the trauma of being surrounded by living breathing Powerpoint programs".

Gav also seen my Dimbledance video and he messaged me to tell me "That's one of the greatest things i've ever seen, even if your shite attempts at dancing makes you look like a moth trapped in a lightbulb".

If i want to do anything with this blog, i wanted to express how humourous and hilarious Gav could be, as that is the best way to remember the wee man, and it's the way i will always remember him, even now i can imagine him sitting to my left in that call centre while we ripped the piss out of our favourite victim Sandy during the night.

Sorry Sandy but looking back, i am sure even you were even glad you got the piss ripped out of you by such a witty and lovely individual like Gav was.

I think it's best to end this blog with one of our best pranks on Sandy where i asked Sandy "if you were one of the people in a village, and you had to wear a uniform to fit in, which one out of a cowboy's outfit, a biker's outfit, a sailor's outfit, an Indian's outfit or a builder's outfit would you wear?". Sandy didn't cotton on to the joke but Gav instinctively knew where i was going with it and Sandy asked "If it's a sailor's outfit, would it be one somebody would wear if they were in the navy" to which Gavin said with a straight face "Aye, you'd definitely be In The Navy Sandy" and i then ruined it all by blurting out "Aye, Sandy, and you'd also have some fun at the YMCA as well dressed like that too" to which Sandy eventually twigged, laughed and said "You pair of fucking bastards!".

Again, a classic case of "you just had to be there".

R.I.P Gav, Goodbye and God Bless mate.

You may be gone but i will never forget you, and neither will anyone else who had the pleasure to have known you.

NEURO XXX

Last night i glimpsed a vision of the future where the BBC's most popular TV channel would be Points Of View 24 where Terry Wogan's disembodied head would sit inside a jar upon a mantelpiece reading out the endless diatribes of people wishing to complain about literally everything there was to moan ad infinitum about, to which the energy of complaining would then be harnessed to a power grid in order to keep the country moving.

This week on Twitter has led me to think that this vision of the future isn't all that far away because it seems that everyone is clamouring over each other like fucking dung beetles on a mountain of steaming shit to have their opinions heard and read by anyone who bothers to give a damn about them.

Two Daily Mail articles this week have caused controversy. One where Liz Jones wrote some pithy piece about what must've been going through murder victim Jo Yeates' mind as she was walking home on the night she was brutally raped and murdered, and the other where Melanie Phillips decided to put the boot into gay people by saying they have an agenda which is forcing homosexuality upon children via the school system.

Both were incredibly moronic pieces of journalism but the obvious and incandescent message which is flashing before my eyes in five hundred different colours, spectrums and intensities is "The Daily Mail".

Are we actually taking this newspaper so seriously these days that being outraged by a newspaper aimed at people so right wing they're literally clinging on to the precipice of the flat version of Earth they think they're inhabiting?. 

If that wasn't enough to send people's skulls bursting at the seams to let their brains escape outside for a comforting post-apoplexy cigarette then along came Andy Gray and Richard Keys of Sky Sports' Super Sunday Football fame to break the illusion that they were fervent believers of the legacy of Emily Pankhurst by saying some disparaging comments about a female official at a Premiership football match, presumably because she was killed by being trampled to death by a horse, where there is much more likelihood of her being crushed to death by a donkey - Peter Crouch, for example, trying to celebrate a goal he has scored with his chin.

The only way Andy Gray and Richard Keys will now be able to crawl back any credibility will be if they perform a pitch-perfect(don't pardon that pun) tribute to Queen's I Want To Break Free video in public while they do the hoovering, ironing and washing up inside a football stadium full of feminists.

This weekend past, the British Comedy Awards handed out some pyrex ornaments to people the majority of the country didn't think was funny and in this instance, Miranda Hart walked away clutching three of them and once again, this caused many people to complain that she wasn't funny enough to have such honours lavished upon her.

Presumably, the people complaining about Miranda Hart's sitcom consider it to be too highbrow for their tastes, being that Miranda Hart is actually 15"2 in height. I still think Miranda Hart's best comedic role was playing Al in Police Squad, the police officer who is so tall you never see his face in shot.

Channel 4's new topical show 10 O' Clock Live was also another harbinger of the Moanocalypse as what people hoped would be a biting satirical axe-swipe at the Coalition government and British politics merely turned out to be an abortive attempt at a circle jerk of such smugfaced proportions that Stephen Fry's entire comedy career can now be consigned to the Christmas cracker joke factory due it being way too "broad" in terms of humour.

My point with this blog is that all of these subjects aren't fucking important but yet people will continue to complain endlessly, strongly and as loudly about how offensive they are to their moral conscience in their hordes in the vain hope that someone will actually give a shit about them because it makes them feel better to be part of an imaginary collective army armed with Twitter and DigitalSpy accounts against a common enemy of injustice and immorality, when instead it would make more sense to not give such nonsense like The Daily Mail any publicity whatsoever because the more you ignore it, the quicker something like The Daily Mail will become an irrelevant and antiquated monthly newsletter for the right-wing dribble-spattered cuntbarrels who hold on to such beliefs that homosexuals and immigrants want to break into their stately homes and messily skullfuck their bigoted earholes.

I hear you say "Yeah but if we don't complain about The Daily Mail then we'll just be letting them say whatever they want about anyone they want, it's not right that they have the right to do that" to which i will say "It is their right to do it, even though their opinions are invariably shite ones. However, i am going to exercise my right to not listen to your opinion, The Daily Mail's opinion or anybody else's opinion, whether it be a left-wing or a right-wing one, a liberal or a Conservative one. I have my opinion and it's not tainted by a need to align myself to any particular faction so i can feel part of an entity. I'm a stubborn, nihilistic cunt who believes only in himself. Now fuck off before i beat you to death mentally and physically with my misanthropy."

People just need to focus their energies in the right places instead of wasting time on such depressingly redundant people and subjects like the ones above that i just mentioned, instead of waiting to leap on to the Offended Bus at the very first opportunity.

This may come of a real shock to you but your endeavours to bring about this Utopian concept of a Daily Mail and Andy Gray-less world devoid of stupid comments and opinions won't go away.....because you're wasting time making stupid opinions to counter them.

You're no doubt reading this blog and thinking "yeah but we don't care about your stupid opinions anyway" so please allow me a moment to bypass your opinions and complaints and tell you to go fuck yourself because i couldn't give a sugartits-shaped shit about it(which i think is the only opinion of Mel Gibson's i'll ever steal).

Oh, and don't forget that Big Fat Gypsy Wedding is on Channel 4 tonight. There's something else for you to complain about but please, don't come running to me if they ran away with £1000 of your hard-earned cash after tarmacing your driveway and leaving it looking like a tribute to Shane MacGowan's mouth.

Have a lovely day

Neuro xxx

Once again, i am finding myself writing about Twitter on this blog again. Why?. Well, tonight i, along with many other people, watched a new TV series on Channel 4 called Big Fat Gypsy Wedding and poked fun at it.

It seems that most of us were meant to watch this programme as an insightful documentary about travelling people and their sacred and traditional values about marriage, which involved selecting wedding dresses which were so gargantuan in size and so garish in colour that any passing UFOs might view them as beacons to make a safe landing on our planet.

There were also more disturbing customs such as "grabbing", where a boy would literally wrestle a girl into submission in order to gain some kind of affection in return from them, to me it looked like a glimpse of what might happen if John Leslie ever participated in a series of Strictly Come Dancing.

I digress though. It seems that a few people, including myself, were accused of making "racist comments" during the show. I made one joke where i said that i wouldn't be able to impress a gypsy girl into marrying me because i wouldn't know how to lay tarmac on a wardrobe.

This absurd tweet caused two people to more or less label me as a "racist", which bemused me because i felt that the cartoon-like context of the joke was completely lost due to the mere mention of the word "tarmac", which apparently is now a derogatory racist term to describe a job that a gypsy might do, which i garnered from the fact that every summer, i get travellers knocking on my front door asking me if i'd be interested in having fresh tarmac laid down on my driveway.

I am assuming it's racist because tarmac is black.

In the same instance, the mere mention of a caravan was yet another apparent "racist" hot potato because rumour has it that gypsies tend to have a preference for living in one, which may i stress is a complete myth - they tend to actually live in a two-wheeled house you can tow with a car or van.

Regardless, myself and some other people commenting on the programme were being accused of a form of "casual racism", mainly by people intent on taking the moral high ground despite the fact they weren't even watching the fucking programme itself and were only intent on jumping on a bandwagon because they had no opinion of their own other than to feign moral outrage over something they had no intention of viewing themselves in the first place because someone else was saying the same thing.

I rip the piss out of television a great deal on Twitter mainly because i hate it, and regardless of who is on television, i usually poke fun at them and the show they're on so to stop any more accusations coming my way, i am going to make it all real easy for you - I'M A TELEVISIONACIALIST.

Oh and one more thing, for a few weeks I did wonder what "New Twitter" was and it's becoming clearer by the day now.

It's slowly becoming a haven for pompous pretentious egomaniac cuntoloids driven by the delusion that having many thousands of followers makes their opinions, gags, thoughts and humour more relevant, more worthwhile, more important and more amusing than everybody else's where in this world of microblogging, they're either the VOICE OF REASONABLE REASON or an armchair comedy Zeus who literally shits out golden nuggets everytime they tweet.

Most of the time, these same people act as some kind of self-appointed barometer for how they think everyone else should feel about certain issues. For example, if someone with 9000 followers says Frankie Boyle is a cunt, woe be tide you for even having a differing opinion on the man's comedy. You will be mentioned before everyone, shunned, unfollowed and blacklisted forever by the zero tolerant Twitter police acting on behalf of their cult leader.

Little did you know, Twitter is all about fitting in, blindly following the popular crowds and agreeing and celebrating everything they tweet because you literally have no fucking earthly clue how to form your own opinion on a matter whereas they have an inkling of the right things to say because someone more famous and popular than them said it before they did.

You'll no doubt be sitting at home reading this and saying "Yeah but Neuro, this just sounds like sour grapes because no-one gives a shit about anything you say on Twitter, or on this blog, or anywhere you fucking loser!" and you know what?, you're probably right but let me leave a message for your cult leaders:

Enjoy your global race for popularity and recognition amongst the core group of people whom use Twitter because they literally have nothing else to do with their fucking life apart from eat kettle chips, drink Ribena and go on Twitter.

If you think you're in any way an influential character then please take a moment to go have a look in the phone book and find your name in there sometime, you'll see lots of names around your name. Go flick through the entire book while you're at it.

There are millions of names of people in there who literally couldn't give a fuck about anything you say or do on Twitter so please, do yourself a favour and go fuck yourself.

Sorry to burst the fucking bubble and shatter the myth that you're not popular, not influential and that your endeavours to try to save and entertain the world mean absolutely fuck all to the majority of the country. 

I guess me choosing not to indulge in your pointless race for popularity must make me a "racist".

There you go, you fucking outed me at last.

LOTS OF LOVE

NEURO XXX

At the end of last week, a rather unpleasant incident occurred on Twitter which once again spurred me into pondering the influence the celebrities on Twitter have over people on the site. I don't need to go into too many details about the particular incident in question as anyone who uses Twitter regularly will know i am making reference to the one involving @Sharongooner and @DuncanBannatyne.

For an abridged version of events, the whole thing goes a bit like this -

Sharon tweets a pun which makes reference to Duncan Bannatyne's wife. Duncan sees pun and threatens to sue Sharon for everything she has - her television, her laptop, a knitted Ziggy Stardust doll and an autographed nudie 2002 calendar featuring Freddie Ljungberg. Twitter turns into a shuddering cockjoust between every keyboard-tapping bawbag who took an interest. The dust seemingly settles. Duncan's followers then decide to throw pixellated chunks of shit at Sharon's face. Sharon locks her door and boards up her windows to barricade herself in from the hordes of Bannatynozoids. The End.

OK, that's my version of events but most of it is a true account of the events which occurred, particulary the bit about Duncan Bannatyne's followers rallying up to have a go at Sharon because they felt aggrieved at the fact she had the downright audacity to curl a big brown cable of punnery at Bannatyne's doorstep and tried to scramble away laughing like a poltergeist of Sid James who has just drawn an ectoplasmic depiction of a smiley-faced cock on Barbara Windsor's dressing room door without reasonable riposte or retort...from them, in defence of Duncan Bannatyne, of course.

This leads me to believe that the culture of celebrity has went beyond fever pitch but descended into downright biohazardous stupidity of almost pandemic proportions where some slack-jawed zombie livestock using the site to painstakingly follow their favourite celebrities also feel the need to act as Internet lynch mobs on behalf of them too.

Do these people genuinely believe that the celebrity they're following really gives a tangerine toss about the Pyrrhic victory they're attempting to gain on behalf of them by sending verbal abuse to the recipient?. Do they honestly believe that as a result of their endeavours that celebrity is going to suddenly begin following them on Twitter and engage in daily conversations with them, and then offer them a job?.

Of course they don't, trying to gain a psychological explanation for such behaviour is as fruitless and forlorn task as trying to toilet train Dappy from N-Dubz properly and stop him shitting into his own hat, probably a complete non-starter nine times of ten of the time.

Duncan Bannatyne has 189,000 followers on Twitter and i'd hazard a guess that about 188,870 have about as much chance of ever being acknowledged by the man himself on Twitter as they have of buying a blood diamond-encrusted vibrator formerly belonging to Naomi Campbell at their local jumble sale.

However, such is the influence of celebrities on Twitter that it would be easy for someone like Duncan Bannatyne to tweet "Hey guys! Any chance you could all drown your pet in a bath full of curry and Twitpic it with the hashtag #Duncanscurrypethomicidedream please?" and you can bet images of mindless shitsicles would be posting up pics of themselves holding aloft the damp steaming corpse of their lifeless pet would come flooding in whilst Duncan sits in his study, laughing uncontrollably as gorges on a breakfast of oven-roasted aborted baby panda bear foetus which was both extracted by hand and hand-cooked by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall.

That last bit was a mere jest before Duncan somehow manages to read this blog and threatens to sue my arse into a black hole in space.

Sometimes i honestly believe that the people who follow the likes of Philip Schofield or Richard Madeley in their droves really are just mindless zombies shuffling through their lives in the vain hope that one day one of their tweets makes that emotional connection, for example do they honestly believe that one day @StephenFry will tweet back "Hello old bean!. Just urinated on the seat of the disabled toilet at Waitrose for some self-merriment. How's your day been sir?" and engage in a lengthy conversation with them?

It's that do-eyed abandon that these people follow these celebrities at that mystifies me, whether it's that vicarious thrill of being able to be given a glimpse into these people's glamourous lifestyles, or to serve as some kind of aspirational barometer where if you became famous yourself then you'd get 400,000 followers one day and people might give a shit about what you ate for lunch that day, i don't know what the reasons are but all i know is that through observation, celebrities have made Twitter the success it has because people are literally clamouring over themselves to interact with celebrities, or in this case, literally harangue and harrass someone on behalf of that celebrity if someone had the gall to go tell that celebrity they're a bit of a shuddering prongscabbard.

How far and how deep can this power of a celebrity resonate with their followers?. I'm no celebrity myself and i've never ever managed to get more than 2000 followers on Twitter on the two spells i've spent on the site since it started so i know i have no influence over anybody on the site nor would i want to have any because with influence comes responsibility, and i don't think i am being churlish in saying that out of the many millions of people who use Twitter, there are a lot of impressionable and easily-led people who look up to people like Duncan Bannatyne and he should've acted with some responsibility instead of going public with the whole sorry scenario that occurred.

But what more do you expect, you're a thunderous chunk of twatdribble of a man on TV, why change your persona for Twitter eh?. Well, don't we all play a character on Twitter anyway?. I'm usually a kind, reserved and decent gentleman in real-life but on Twitter, i'm a bit of a bell-end who tweets nothing remotely useful to society at all other than snide comments about celebrities and politicians. You either follow my stuff on there or you don't. Do i care? No, i like to think there are more important things to worry and think about.

In that instance i will leave you with a thought about Twitter, my take on it is that the delineation between real-life and "Twitter life" has become blurred, it's either a fantastic global bellowfest of brilliant people or it's an asylum for the lost souls of maniacs where the thoughts and feelings of everyone is collected and collated to be placed inside some time capsule where when it falls and burns around us all and when an extra-terrestrial race of beings visits our smouldering wreck of a planet, they'll uncover this time capsule and open it up to read our contributions to the world via Twitter and probably conclude "No wonder it all went to shit".

Have a nice fucking day :)

NEURO

Last Wednesday, me and my friend Richard Irvine began recording the first podcast in our Sons Of Apathy series and we mused upon the subject of "The Future", when i say "The Future" i don't mean our own futures but "The Future" as in the future of mankind and our world and what we thought it might look like and what it might feel like to live in.

We're both in our early 30s so we were both brought up on a diet of sci-fi films and television shows which captured our imaginations, dreams and visions of what we'd expect "The Future" to look like in the 21st century.

We're ten years into the 21st century and it's been disappointing because nothing's changed. We still have to wait for trains and buses to go to work, we still have to hoover the carpet by ourselves, we still have to assemble shelves from scratch and we still have to put our rubbish in the bin for examples.

I thought everything would be simplified. Commuting to work wouldn't be a hassle anymore because you'd put on an anorak with a propeller on it and fly to work. If you had lost your house keys then you could pop a pair of contact lenses into your eyes which would have x-ray capabilities so you could look under your couch without having to mess up the cushions. Instead of buying bags of frozen food from the supermarket, you'd just buy packets with atoms inside them which your microwave would shoot a gamma ray on and you'd have an instant roast chicken. If you fancied watching a film, you'd just press a button on your thumb and watch The Godfather from a TV screen surgically implanted in your thigh.

Other things like instead of having a real dog, you'd just take your cyborg labrador out for a walk. Or if you fancied going out for a pint down the pub, you'd go down to your local bar with your best mate - a bloke who is half-man half-crow. If you wanted to go out for a bit of exercise, you could float up into orbit for half an hour and go for a space jog.

Nothing's changed much. In fact, things haven't changed so much that people like buying "retro" and "vintage" stuff now. I wouldn't be surprised if you start seeing Microsoft adverts of people saying things like "My name is Steve, and I'm a Hermes typewriter".

The only main difference to our culture now are we now have more portable devices to "help us communicate better", such as the ubiquitous mobile phone which allows us to send texts or e-mails or even update our blogs and Facebook/Twitter accounts instantly with information about ourselves.

The only thing that the mobile phone has contributed to society is to literally cut out the middleman which is human communication itself by stabbing it to death, chopping it into quivering bloody pulsating giblets and then dumping the pixellated body parts in a cyber truck lay-by somewhere desolate off the information superhighway.

We don't have to bother with each other now. In the Neolithic age, the primordial grunt was how mankind communicated with one another and as evolution progressed, the grunt eventually transformed into language and we've got to the point now where we don't need language again because nobody wants to talk anymore, why talk when we can just type out a conversation?.

My vision of "The Future" is a largely silent world where all you hear is typing as well as the occasional bleep because people have just updated their statuses to tell everyone they're bored, or tired of typing.

Television is no different, daytime television is chock full of programmes about people buying antiques and selling them off to the highest bidder. The obsession with the past is prevalent throughout, people love Strictly Come Dancing for example but most of those dances were invented by dead people who didn't have much in their lives apart from eating powdered egg, growing moustaches and dodging German bombs.

Television in "The Future" will probably still have programmes like Bargain Hunt will be presented by a robotic version of David Dickinson where he will take other robots around to antiques fairs and be looking for the highest bid on an iPhone4 that was dug out of a nuclear bunker, or an android version of Tony Robinson will uncover an Xbox 360 in an archaeological dig.

I read an article about the Russians planning to build a "cosmic hotel", and i thought "What's the point of having a bed and breakfast in space?",

The adverts would read "EAT A FREEZE-DRIED ALL-DAY BREAKFAST OF SAUSAGE, EGG, HASH BROWNS AND BAKED BEANS WITH A WONDERFUL VIEW OF THE MOON" and i thought "I could do that here, at night, from the comfort of my own house, without the worry of zero gravity".

Where's it going to end? Putting a Burger King drive-thru onto the surface of Mars? a B&Q on Neptune? a Tesco Express on Pluto?.

Such ideas will just encourage businesses and companies to out-source everything out into space too, i envisage that call centres will move outwith India and be moved into space so when you need to ring up a customer helpline to renew your car insurance, you'll probably end up being put through to an astronaut with an Indian accent.

Maybe i expected too much of "The Future". I'm 31 years old now and there's nothing much different from 10 years ago.

Coronation Street and Eastenders are still largely using humans to act out the storylines and plots in it, there isn't an extra-terrestrial in it pretending to be Phil Mitchell's cousin nor is there a tentacled one-eyed xenomorph pulling pints behind the bar at the Rover's Return.

Newspapers are still around in a paper format but you still can't read one underwater.

Rich tea digestive biscuits still look the same. They lack a personality. They could at least put the smiling face of someone famous on them to modernise them a bit, like Simon Pegg or Sophie Ellis-Bextor for examples.

Terry Wogan still wears a toupee.

"The Future" is disappointing.

All you have to look forward to is a New Twitter layout, a film about Facebook and iPhones #5-#30.

NEURO

It's been a while since i've blogged about anything, circumstances in my life have changed somewhat and my time on the Internets has decreased a tad, therefore my Twitter activity has lapsed a bit and i've been out of the loop on the various topics and subjects the rabid denizens of Twitter chew and digest into 140 digestive lumps or less everyday.

There's never a day that goes by on Twitter where there isn't some form of controversial subject that either seeks to divide people into apoplectic fartmobs who'd be willing to literally goad and cajole someone into literally dashing their ashamed head into their laptop until their head bursts like a carry-out full of brain matter, or it can rally people together to combine a colossal forehead of justice with which to headbutt the system into saying sorry for being such a establishment of a shit to the people.

This particular story concerns someone whom i think of quite highly in the Twitterworld and whom i've had many joyous occasions of interacting with on the site - @HumphreyCushion.

I'm still utterly perplexed and confused as to the motivations behind this witch-hunt sparked off via a blog post written by the right-wing blogger and full-time horseshit machine Guido Fawkes "outing" Humphrey as a "benefit scrounger" in response to another blog post written by a Tory MP who has had more potentially catastrophic bombscares than Wile E. Coyote has ever experienced in his lifetime, the calamitous Nadine Dorries MP, who claimed to have received a letter from one of her constituents about a "political/personal tweeter" who had amassed over 35,000 tweets within a six month period.

Dorries' initial blog relating to the subject contained a flimsy diatribe against people she deemed to have a "Twitter addiction" and how they possibly can't have jobs if they find the time to tweet that much.

I've suffered from severe depression recently due to me being unemployed for most of this year, i was claiming benefits and was also largely house-bound for almost seven months, i found Twitter and Facebook as well as this blog i write as outlets to keep my mind occupied and challenged to stave off the mood swings and maudlin behaviour i was experiencing, i was also actively seeking work around that time before eventually deciding to go back into further education.

Stigmatising all unemployed people with such labels because they "tweet too much" is utterly ridiculous, and from my experience of the job market this year, it's been extremely difficult for me, even as an able-bodied person to get a job, be it full-time or part-time.

The fact of the matter is, there aren't enough jobs for the unemployed in this country to fill and the salaries for the jobs that are available are mostly minimum wage positions which most people couldn't possibly make any kind of living on, the attitude i experienced from a representative at my local JobCentre was "You're expected to take any job you can get or your entitlement to benefit could be affected", which certainly reflects the attitude of the ConDem coalition towards the issue.

I digress...

After Dorries posted up her initial blog, the Conservative-supporting blogger Guido Fawkes, in not an overly ironic sense, decided to stage his own attempt at a gunpowder plot to topple Humphrey, both personally and politically, by naming her as well as posting up a picture of her in an article, which you can read here -

http://order-order.com/2010/09/30/nadines-twitter-scrounger-expose/

Dorries then wrote a subsequent blog saying the following:

"The left wing Twitterati have apparently gone into overdrive today, and so they should. Guido informs me that his expose claims to be a Labour activist web site organiser for Bedfordshire - or something similar, AND she writes adult entertainment - nice lady.

For the purpose of clarity, let me point out the following.

If you are genuinely disabled, or like my mum, retired and love to use the internet to chat to friends etc (she makes me look like a luddite) then that is fantastic and I wish you many hours of pleasure.

If you Twitter all day, every day about claiming disability benefit in one tweet whist arranging a night out in the pub in the next. If you tweet about claiming six months rent from the social fund whilst tweeting how bad your hangover is and if you stride into political meetings and shout the odds with energy and enthusiasm with no sign of any physical disability and if you claim to work for the Labour party and write porn at the same time as claiming your disability benefit - then don't expect someone like me not to a) inform the authorities and b) tell you to get of your Twitter and get a job."

Why was @HumphreyCushion targeted for the scrutiny of Dorries?. Was it personal?.

The glee expressed in that first sentence certainly suggests such guilt.

Her paragraph where she talks about her mother also suggests that age-old defence in damage limitation where you say "some of my friends/relatives are disabled"....and yes, i really do believe Nadine Dorries is that stupid to indulge in such trite and moronic behaviour to save face.

It's no secret to anyone who knows Humphrey that she leans so much to the left that i would personally nickname her "The Leaning Tower of Twitter" but does her political tweets cause that much paranoid curtain twitchery that someone, dare i say it, see her as a "threat to ConDem coalition policies".

No disrespect to Humphrey but i personally don't envisage her as being such a threat to the state that a supposedly influential right-wing cheerleader like Guido Fawkes feels the need to expose her now.

Does this mean Humphrey will now have to go underground, whilst occasionally making grainy videotapes sitting inside a cave and bellowing threats making reference to her forthcoming "Humphrejihad" against the "monochrome sexless formica-skinned penguin mutants of Westminster"?

In conclusion, what Humphrey does in her own time on the Internet has absolutely fuck all to do with anyone else, and nor should anyone make an evaluation on her physical/mental capabilities by merely counting how many tweets she can post within a day.

I look forward to her balaclava and camouflage avatars with haste.

For @HumphreyCushion

Your pal,

NEURO

xxx