Crackerwax

Has it come to this! Has the general public, buoyed on a wave of HD hysteria, become so gullible that they’re going to be fooled by this sort of nonsense.

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6.2 million sub pixels? I’ve never heard such a load of old twaddle in my life. Presumably they’re making reference to the fact that each pixel on an LCD panel is made up of a red, green and blue pixel, or sub pixel.

Your average punter isn’t going to know this though, they’re going to assume that the million pixels, sub or otherwise, is the same million pixels they’re used to from digital cameras and as we all know more mega pixels equals better cameras right!

Thinking about it though this could actually have the reverse effect on the type of person they’re trying to attract, who might not have realised that high definition in television terms is still pretty low in comparison to the sort of resolutions available on modern digital cameras.

True HD (as the marketing saps are now calling 1080p in a desperate bid to make it look as though they weren’t conning everybody with the shitty 720p sets they were hailing as a revolution last summer) looks pretty blocky when you put it up against the sort of resolutions you’ll get from even an average digital camera.

1920 by 1080 versus 3200 by 2400, that’s a twofold increase in vertical resolution straight away, don’t want the punters to actually start comparing resolutions now do we? Six mega pixel versus seven mega pixel looks much better than 1080 versus 2400!

Still most punters don’t care, they assume that HD will make Coronation Street look amazing. The sad thing is though that at the end of the day they just like it because it’s flat and shiny and it’s only because said punter has this outlook that the marketeers can get away with this sort of bollocks.

I’m traveling on the train from Newcastle to Glasgow today and as I do I’m typing this post. How awesome is that?

Ok, I know it’s not the most amazing thing ever, ever, but it’s pretty cool nonetheless and it seems pretty reliable too. I’ve had one freeze in the last twenty minutes, so it can’t be that bad.

From what I can glean by poking around, the service is provided by RealConnect, I’m getting 750kbps upstream and a whopping 6mbps downstream and Google thinks I’m in Sweden. Neat.

Just thought I’d let you know.

I’m really looking forward to Cloverfield, the new J.J. Abrams produced monster movie. From what I’ve seen so far it seems like a fairly well executed piece of schlock, in the vein of all the monster movies I remember watching as a kid.

Hopefully the creature will live up to expectations and be somewhat more imaginative than the 1998 Godzilla. As you’d expect there’s lots of internet chatter around what the creature actually is, with some saying it’s some form of mutated sea creature (yawn) and others theorising that it could be one of the Cthulhu from H.P. Lovecraft’s stories.

I’m hoping for the Lovecraft angle myself, it’d be a neat turnaround to have an origin like that in this sort of film. The whole radiation mutation angle is tired now, it might have worked in the 50s but you’ve got to come up with something a little better nowadays.

Roll on the first of February…

Andy and Spib threw a fancy dress party to celebrate their 30th birthdays. We went along and took photos, this is the result.

Oh yes, I should add that the theme was 1977, which in fairness you’d probably get from most of the costumes.

You’ll notice I reference no one by their real name? This is because I can’t actually remember what half of the attendee’s names were.

You see, I was very, very drunk…

Behold! The three ages of Keef!

I reckon he died about three days after that middle photo was taken but nobody told him. Still at least he’s doing his part to prevent the youth of the world doing drugs, by hoovering them all up every where he goes.

By rights the man should be a corpse by now, not just look like one. In actual fact there’s a specialist dude called David Demko who did a thing about rock stars life expectancy based on lifestyle. Keith Richards was looking to kick the bucket around 52. This was when he was 60.

What a guy!

As far as I can tell Keith Richards was relatively normal up until about, well Christ knows, but I’m guessing he can’t always have been this nut job soaked to the eyeballs on jazz talc who dresses like a voodoo pirate.

The thing that fascinates me the most though is the dynamic between Keith and Mick. In my head it goes like this. The show ends around midnight, Mick thanks the audience and scuttles back stage to count the gate receipts and see how the merchandise is selling, meanwhile things on planet Keith are just starting.

Keith disappears back stage to a pair of waiting Italian twins, Alessandra and Isabella, snorts whatever he can come across, grabs a couple of bottles of vodka for the journey to the restaurant, where he alights, eats a bag of crisps, has some speed, then leaves to find the nearest lap dancing bar, in which he grabs six girls and gets them to put on a show that would make Caligula blush, after which he polishes off another bottle of vodka before getting the manager to get him a cab and two bottles of Jack Daniel’s to take back to his hotel, he drinks these en route.

After a bit of grout he procedes, against all the odds, to bed each of the eight girls, twice, then at around eight in the morning he eats half a bag of Skittles before passing out in a pool of someone else’s vomit, waking at nine o’clock that night by a rodie hosing him down and is wheeled on to stage to rock out and start the whole process again!

Meanwhile back at the venue Mick spent the night arguing with a roadie, trying to get him to hand over the $3 for the third piece of chicken he took from the catering wagon, pointing out that the sign (that Mick no doubt wrote himself) states two pieces for crew. He then goes to bed. With a Horlicks.

How can they co-exist? Beats me.

Who told Russell T Davies he could write? Voyage Of The Damned is the worst piece of science fiction I have ever seen.

It is uniformly appalling. One of the reasons for this is that it’s trying too hard to do too many things, as a result any messages it may being trying to convey about prejudice or culture, or whatever, come out as heavy handed and obvious.

Davies needs to understand that exposition is not cool, too often in this (and in Doctor Who in general) characters come out with huge slugs of expositional dialogue. There never seems to be any attempt at subtlety, any attempt to just let the audience work out what’s going on for themselves.

It would appear he’d rather just dump massive bits of plot left, right and centre. It’s as if he’s shouting ‘Hey audience! Pay attention! I’m showing you a plot device, it’ll explain something that’s coming up in a bit.‘. As a result you know that nothing is revealed in Voyage Of The Damned without it becoming an incredibly useful part of the plot shortly after.

I’ll be writing more about this later. Trust me…

Here’s something to warm your cockles, a true Christmas classic. David Bowie goes on the Bing Crosby Christmas Special and poor old Bing has no fucking clue who he is.

Through the first few minutes of this video Bing has a look of complete bewilderment on his face. David Bowie could be his window cleaner for all he knows. The modern equivalent of this would be Bruce Forsyth and 50 Cent doing a duet of Little Donkey on Strictly Come Dancing.

Anyway after just under two minutes of stilted and deeply uncomfortable conversation we get to the song. I love it!

Well? Where? Do you know, because I don’t. I’ve hunted high and low and I can’t find a single box of Golden Grahams on the shelves of any of my local supermarkets.

There are plenty of boxes of Curiously Cinnamon, which I assume are what used to be Cinnamon Grahams, but not a single box of Golden Grahams. Of course the emo-hermaphrodite working in the cereal aisle at Morrison’s was less than helpful when quizzed about the mystery, although it did venture into the back to look for me. Which as we all know is code for shuffle off to the back of the shop to mooch around for a bit before returning to claim that they didn’t have any. Which is what it did.

So, no further forward, I was certain the interwebs would hold the answer to this enigma. Fat chance. The Nestlé website still lists Nestlé Cinnamon Grahams but no Nestlé Golden Grahams. Bastards.

(I’m going to take off at a bit of a ranty tangent here but why do they insist on listing everything as Nestlé so and so? I’m on the cocking Nestlé website, I know I’m looking at Nestlé products. Jesus. Get over yourselves.)

It’s a travesty that Golden Grahams have been vanished but Cinnamon Grahams (aside from the sly name change) still exist. I always found Cinnamon Grahams to be too powdery and, well, cinnamony for my tastes. Golden Grahams were delicious, just the right balance of sugar and more sugar. Perfect.

This is all very curious.

It would appear that all trace of Golden Grahams ever existing has been erased from history and I really, really fucking liked them. What happened? I demand answers!

If you too wonder where all the Golden Grahams have gone and want to bring them back click here to get a chance to sign the petition!

I wasn’t looking forward to The Dark Knight. I thought the Bat-bike looked like a ploy to sell toys, The Joker looked sort of strange and was going to be played by Heath Ledger and it all just smacked of being a huge big mess.

Then I watched this.

Fuck me that looks fun, the bit at 1:28 where Batman punches The Joker? Just the sort of lines you want from a movie like this.

As you may have noticed the YouTube version there is somewhat dark and smudgy but it’s worth looking at the HD version because it looks simply stunning.

I’m forever making huge turnarounds on stuff, and this is another one, but suffice to say I am now very excited at the prospect of the new Batman film. What about you?

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The scientists have all got it wrong. There is no super massive black hole at the centre of our galaxy. It’s taken years of observation but I have now come to the conclusion that we have a ginormous shiny football sitting there instead.

I would imagine it to be surrounded by coach loads of aggressive, England shirted fuck wits, shouting half formed lager fuelled opinions at each other on topics as diverse as race relations and tits, all the while celebrating their own inherent manliness by mind-wanking about England’s 1966 World Cup win against Germany, with England played by eleven Sophie Andertons in wet vests.

Football is quite possibly the least entertaining sport on Earth (or in the Universe I should imagine). I’d rather spend an hour and a half locked under water in a steel cage with a shark that’s being relentlessly poked with sticks than go to a football match. If I could get rid of three things, wipe them out as if they had never existed, they would be football, religion and Derek Acorah.

People that like football are a feeble minded, crass, know nothing pricks who, if I had the chance, I’d brick up in Wembley before pumping it full of raw sewage. From Poland. Which would probably anger them even further. A furious tirade of abuse directed at mythical job stealers/scroungers would constitute their last words as they slowly drowned, the warm effluent burbling into their stupid, shouty lungs.

If you want to make football interesting to me you’d have to arm the goalies. I reckon that would make it pretty bloody entertaining. Each goalie would have a high powered sniper rifle and five rounds of ammunition, the only rule would be that you couldn’t snipe the other goalie. Let’s see how many ‘blistering runs at goal’ the over paid thickos that play the game would make then.

It truly is a game for the weak minded, played by the weak minded.

Only this morning Sol Campbell was on the radio demanding that ‘the fans’ stopped hurling nasty abuse at him. You see, from what I could glean, Sol has been involved in some pathetic on-off transfer deal with Tottenham United and Arsenal Rangers or something, and this has upset the psychopaths from both sides.

I can only imagine it to be a bit like going on to a gaming forum and admitting to owning a PlayStation 3 and an Xbox 360 and thinking that they’re both rather good, which on the interwebs would lead to nothing more than much badly spelt abuse by teenagers with mono-mania.

In the world of the football though, this sort of thing leads to you being castrated with a pen knife in an east end boozer. Short of that, and luckily for Campbell, all this cardinal sin has lead to is ‘the fans’ subjecting him to some horrid, horrid verbal abuse.

Please. You’re playing a game that can make millionaires out of men who would have difficulty writing a shopping list, expect a few hazards son. They’re called fans, which is an abbreviated form of fanatic, which if dictionary.com is to be believed means:

fa•nat•ic (fə-nāt’ĭk)
noun. A person marked or motivated by an extreme, unreasoning enthusiasm, as for a cause.

I’d be thankful they’re only shouting abuse and not leaping on to the pitch and stabbing you in the face with screwdrivers.

Then again he earns £96,000 a week, yes that’s right folks £96,000 a week, more money than a policeman earns in three years. He should be slightly less whiny I feel, I’d bet my brain that a policeman has to put up with more shit in a day than he does.

So what if you have to hear some thick, fat bastard calling you a talentless cunt? You’re safe in the knowledge that once the game’s over you can trot off to your twelve million pound Gloucestershire pad to get sucked off by an eighteen year old with the IQ of a satsuma.

Look at it with open eyes Campbell, if it wasn’t for the people lining the sides of the football court you’d be a fucking salesman in Phones4U. Every day would be spent desperately trying to sell single mums Pay As You Go handsets on Orange, creeping back to your bedsit to eat a tin of beans, then shuffling off to bed to wank yourself to sleep through a haze of tears before having to get up and do the same thing again, six days a week.

They’re your boss, they quite literally pay your exorbitant wages. You should be rejoicing in your luck and privilege, not cluttering up my radio with your badly articulated musings on your poor little life.

Talentless cunt.

I like baths. No, I love baths. Soaking away all the stress of the day in a lovely hot bath, maybe a quick gin and cranberry, possibly even a bit of Nintendo DS in there too, who knows! Of course a bath isn’t a bath without a bit of something smelly in it. This is where, for most people, Lush comes in.

Purveyors of finest bath salts and associated soapy paraphernalia, they seems to be on every high street now. Simply walking past Lush makes you feel like your nose is being raped by a bar of Imperial Leather. Wrapped in strawberry laces. Wearing Brut.

Ten minutes inside Lush is the nasal equivalent of staring at the sun through a telescope for two hours. Entering one of the stores makes you realise just what a bad idea it is to keep so many perfumed goods in one badly ventilated place. After about two minutes your eyes begin to water, a minute later you start having difficulty breathing, after five minutes you become dizzy and that’s when they pounce and make you buy a selection of bath bombs.

Not only do they get you to buy them, they make you pick them up with your fingers and put them into clear cellophane bags that have openings fractionally smaller then the bomb itself. This only adds to your sense of delirium as you stand there fidgeting with the bag, bath bombs (actually now called bath ballistics, lest people think Lush is part of a radical Al Queada cell) dropping on the floor around your feet. As pressure mounts you become suggestible to the sales assistants chatter and that’s when your judgement goes and you start buying all sorts of bizarrely named shit.

Worse is yet to come though, after making these rash purchases it’s not until you plonk it in your bath and it starts fizzing like a wasp in a Kinder egg that you realise what’s inside them. Not only do they have the sort of aroma that warps space and time it would appear that they’re made by Doctor Who. The amount of shit that comes out of those things is truly astonishing, once it’s done its job you’ll be hard pushed to see your bath for little paper flowers, bits of twig, confetti and of course glitter.

There’s fucking loads of glitter.

I once had a bath with a what was amusingly referred to as a ‘Sex Bomb’ (closest I’ve ever come) and this thing was packed with purple glitter. The stickiest purple glitter known to man. It doesn’t just stick to your bath, it sticks to your body too and you can’t get it off without a bottle of Cif and a scouring pad.

For about a fortnight after I got out of that particular bath I had a slight purple shimmer, people thought I was some kind of secret homosexual prostitute that plied their glittery night trade in perfume factories. People would be talking to me and then they’d get a slightly quizzical look on their face and start moving their head around to get a better look at my pearlescent sheen. It was embarrassing.

So, to cut a long and pointless story short, I now don’t buy from Lush. If you’ve any sense and want to be able to smell subtle aromas and any point in your life, you won’t either.

Allegedely filmed on an Air Canada flight London on December 6^th this video appears to show a passenger, in restraints, freaking out.

Who are all the guys with the passenger telling him to calm down? There at least three of them, the two guys either side and the guy in front. There are others on the flight I’m sure, as at several points throughout the video a number of large chaps walk up to the guys either side and speak to them. The most sinister part is that no one bats an eyelid.

Anyway watch it and see what you think.

What had he done? Was it some kind of prisoner transfer or was it someone who had just wigged out on the flight?

Whatever way you cut it, it’s kind of creepy.

It’s my thirty third birthday today! Yay, go me!

I’d just like to say to thank you to everyone for getting me a delicious set of gifts, which included:

• Guitar Hero III
  Rocking out to the Xbox 360 groove!
• It’s Alive
  Ramones DVD of practically all their live outings. More rocking out!
• Blade Runner: The Final Cut
  The five disc DVD special edition, with some really, really cool freebies in it!
• Blade Runner: The Final Cut
  The two disc Blu-ray edition. I’m a lucky boy.
• Massage Vouchers
  Not that kind of massage.
• Pasha De Cartier
  Lovely smelly man-perfume.
• Champagne
  Thanks to Lou and Andy for that one!

It’s been a fab couple of days leading up to it all. I really enjoyed it.

As a callow youth I used to read Commodore Computing International. It was a very serious magazine, not at all like Zzap64!, although it did have one thing that Zzap didn’t and that was a regular column written by Jeff Minter.

As a rule I’m not a big fan of Jeff Minter’s games, but I am huge fan of his style. Living in Wales, eating curry, loving the ungulates, wandering around in the rain, going to the pub, I think you get the picture.

Anyway back in the March 1988 issue of Commodore Computing International, Jeff wrote an article set in the far away year of 2001 that filled we with tingly feelings about the future, so like the geek I am I’ve scanned it in for you all to read.

Jeff Minter finds tea – the drink not the smoke – mind blowing stuff, discovering fantasies of strange futures for Commodore, Atari and even HAL from 2001. What will he think of next a computer called PG?

Quarter to two in the middle of a windy Welsh night, and I have decided to leave off writing the internal-sequencer module for ‘Space II and bring you this. The Bug Which Prints Zeros Forever will just have to wait until tomorrow morning. Right now, I have just assuaged the raving dreaded Munchies with a sarnie followed by one-third of a cream-and-jam pie, and I’m just washing the lot down with a really good cup of tea. Tea. Wonderous substance.

All that is strictly beside the point, however. What I’m going to waffle about this month stems from some thinking I’ve been doing, and something I’ve been reading, too. The reading was an article about Alan Kay, the guy from Xerox who went on to Apple and there worked on the Lisa and Mac interface, you know, the pointers-and-windows stuff we all have nowadays even on the humble ‘64. It seems they had a lot of that stuff running at Xerox, back in the ‘Sixties for God’s sake, on flight-sim hardware! And here’s us thinking that Intuition’s such a brilliant hack, and how come nobody ever thought of doing it that way before – and all the groundwork was done 20 years ago! After reading that article, the thinking ensued – I fell to thinking: what have they got in the labs now? What’s cooking in the Apple labs where they’re using a flipping Cray to design the next generation of user interface?? And what would it be like to have a computer with such an interface? So I came up with the following spoof review – of a personal computer system you might buy to kick off the new millennium with – and I thought I’d lay it on you this month, instead of the usual 68000-worship…

Extract from Your Supercomputer magazine, 21/12/2001
EXCLUSIVE: PREVIEW of the Atari ‘Discovery’ computer system!..

We have been fortunate enough to be invited to the headquarters of Atari where we were shown the new Atari ‘Discovery’ machine, which should be released this month. Atari have been working on this machine since the early ‘Nineties, and now that superconducting chips and ‘processor memory’ (the logical development from the Transputer systems of late last millennium – ALL memory within a ProcMem-based system is capable of performing a variety of processing functions upon whatever it contains) are available, the design has come out of the labs at Atari and onto the streets. Well, we think Atari are going to freak a LOT of people right out with this new machine. Here’s what we saw…

(Your Supercomputer hack, Zippy the Chiphead, takes over the story)..

I got to Atari not quite knowing what to expect. Atari have been very quiet since they bought Commodore several years ago, and despite evidence of some activity in their research labs little has been known of what they were working on. After admiring the quaint little display of antique STs in the entrance lobby (did we ever really put up with pixies so large you could actually see them one atatime?)Iwas ushered into a large, comfortable room in which there appeared to be just a large desk and one of those amazing hydraulic chairs which look like they belong on the Star Ship Enterprise. No monitors, no disk drives, not even a fan. After a certain amount of confusion, I was assured that the desk was, in fact, the Atari Discovery computer.

At first sight the computer appears to be a large, black monolith, perhaps six inches thick, mounted on suitably high-tec legs. On sitting down to the machine you find that the whole surface can be tilted so as to be at a comfortable angle for the user. Of course, I sat down at the machine and felt a little foolish, I kept looking for the mouse and not finding one! I reached out a hand to touch the surface of the monolith, and got my first surprise: the Atari logo appeared in the middle of the smooth black surface. It looked just as if it were painted on, except for the fact that it was doing the most amazing colour-cycling. The image was startling to a computer user used to looking at monitors – even the highest- quality monitor cannot render graphics which look like they were printed images. This was my first encounter with Atari’s new display technology – the ‘screen’ is composed of millions of tiny beads which change their colour according to what image is being displayed. The beads are opaque, and if viewed by ambient light, it appears that the surface of the monolith just changes colour. It doesn’t shine, like a monitor, because unless you turn on the backlighting if it’s really dark, the colours you see come from reflected ambient light just like they would for a piece of paper. The effect is uncanny.

On the Discovery, the whole upper surface of the monolith functions as both screen and interface to the computer. When you rest your hands upon the surface of the machine, it comes to life: after the Atari logo has been displayed the monolith changes into what appears to be a fine wooden table with a couple of bits of paper lying on it. (Atari assure me that the user can configure the default desk surface to be whatever he likes, so if you favour cracked Formica instead of walnut veneer, you can have it). The surface of the monolith feels faintly resilient: in fact it is a highly-accurate touch-sensitive surface capable of distinguishing between the lightest touch and the heaviest pressure. Operating the system is totally instinctive, as I found out: just reach for one of the pieces of paper and drag it towards you, and that’s exactly what happens. You can do anything you could do with a normal piece of paper: turn it around a little so as to get a better view, slide it over or under another piece (depending on how hard you press as you slide) . . . of course you can’t make a paper aeroplane out of it, the screen is still only two-dimensional! Examining the paper, I found that it was headed, in a neat hand-written script, ‘Atari HAL operating system Version 0.9’. (The script is again user-configurable, so if you’re into Epson Dot-Matrix circa 1984 on some kind of nostalgia trip you’ll get your way).

Underneath the main heading was a list of sub-headings; running a finger down the list highlighted each in turn and – a neat touch this – increasing pressure of the finger on an item caused the whole surface of the desktop to ‘zoom in’ on the selected area. Very useful for reading the small print. Tapping an item in the list results in another piece of paper being spawned – the paper and desktop look so real that seeing another piece peel itself off is quite startling a-d weird. I generated a sheet headed ‘Demos’ from the parent sheet, and received a written list of the available demos on the system. Simultaneously, a variety of familiar objects appeared on the desktop: a pen, a paintbrush, a globe (spinning, too)
These objects can be grabbed, moved around, and tapped on in order to get them to work. There isn’t enough space here to fully describe all the demos; the highlights included such things as a WP package upon which you could write with a finger, or by ‘typing’ on a representation of a keyboard painted on the desktop, or by using an empty fountain pen upon the surface of the ‘paper’ on the desktop. There was an art package which was operated by using real paintbrushes on the desktop surface – the surface can detect even minute changes of pressure – proper painting, but with all the advantages of computer graphics.

I liked the Lightsynth program from T.E.A. (a new software company calling themselves True Electronic Art) upon which some remarkable effects are possible by using both hands and that remarkable pressure-sensitive surface. Perhaps the most fascinating program was World, a logical extension from the flight-simulator: linked to a large database of world coordinates, the user can ‘fly’ to any point on Earth at any speed and view the surroundings at any scale; of course a lot of fine detail is lost as even with gigabytes of core you cannot digitise every point on the planet, but advanced fractal techniques are used to generate detail. I went to Machu Picchu in the World simulator and found the fractal rendering of the rough Inca stonework to be quite convincing. At the moment World is empty, but the designers promise an update featuring animals and plant growth next year. The company producing World, Dave Bowman Associates, tell us that there will be a companion program, provisionally entitled God, which will allow the end-user to create new planets to explore using World. Generating a convincing planet should be possible in about a week using the new software.

I can only mention a few of the remarkable demos in my limited space here; expect proper reviews in later issues. After my ‘hands-on’ with the Discovery, I talked with the Atari bosses about marketing and pricing of the new machine. Amazingly, the whole system will only cost you #.

Extract ends, ‘Your Supercomputer’ magazine, 21/12/2001

Who knows?

Anything can happen.

Well, I think I’ll just print this out and shamble off to make myself another cup of tea. Tea. Remarkable substance….

I can’t begin to tell you how cool that was to me when I was thirteen.

Games™ and their appalling proof reading.

I’d always thought that writing for a magazine would mean that you had a good grasp of the language you were writing in. Look at this from the Gmaes™ review of Guitar Hero III.

The bit underlined in red is unforgivable. What sort of people do they have writing for them, glue sniffers?

I just cannot understand why it is that Gmaes™ never spot these errors before they go to print. what does their editor do? I can’t believe for one second that the entire magazine isn’t proofread before publication? I mean, really?

Come on, I know timescales are tight in the magazine business but fundamental errors of grammar like this shouldn’t happen, let alone be allowed out there in the published magazine.

Still, I could of really loosed my temper over there disregard, this as to stop.

Today is the birthday of my father! This is him (on the left).

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Happy birthday Daddykins!

I’ve had a few poll responses from people in the Nordic parts of the world. That’s right the Nordic parts.

I don’t have any Scandinavian chums, so I’m confused as to how you’ve found my site, no one comes to my site without me bullying them for weeks into visiting it!

Intriguing, if you’re out there let me know why and how you happened to find my site.

This is our friend Miguel. He doesn’t like having his photograph taken, although I suspect you’ll pick that up as the slideshow progresses.

I’ll say one thing for him though, for a small fella he doesn’t half move quick.

Word Up, or Word Soup as it now insists on calling itself, is quite possibly the most fun you can have in a pub. I’m serious, don’t push me on this one it’s fucking awesome.

What’s more, in news that will send shockwaves through the Dean household, I’ve discovered that it is available on the PC! Your dream has come true my friend you can now play Word Up in the luxury of your own home!

Click this link to go to the site!

Yawn, fucking yawn. Why do the BBC bother? BBC One has become a never ending stream of gardeners, period drama, dancing shows, cooks and unfunny comedians.

£11.29 a month in licence fees and this is all I get? Imagine if SKY demand that by law everyone in the country had to subscribe or face a criminal fucking record. Outrageous and outdated.

Have you seen Last Of The Summer Wine? Expletives fail me in my attempt to vilify this program, this so called comedy, aimed squarely at the middle class, Laura Ashley wearing, lazy minded inbred arses who’s TV only has BBC One, BBC Two and OFF , with their piano playing children and their four by four Jeeps used exclusively for driving said precious sad eyed children back and forth from school.

Only pausing occasionally to mount the pavement with their hazard warning lights flashing so they can get some more money from the cash point in order to fund their next sojourn to Sainsbury’s, to buy whatever shite it was Jamie Olivier was cooking on the TV the night previously, so they can claim to their overblown arrogant fuck wit friends that Jamies recipe’s are divine, as if that buy proclaiming the fat tongued wanker ‘King of Cookery’ they somehow know him and spend weekends in Italy with him stuffing their stupid faces with buffalo fucking mozzarella and olives

In actual fact they lead exceptionally under fulfilled lives with nothing but chintzy furniture, the occasional sweet sherry and the prospect of early retirement stopping them from killing themselves and their family in an orgy of knives, blood and piercing screams. Where the only lull would occur in order to give them time to grin manically as they carve up their children, repeating the phrase ‘Daddy loves you’ over and over again before collapsing into a blood soaked pile of dismemberd family members, sobbing and all the time wishing they’d done more with their lives than spend Sunday evenings watching turgid shite like this.

Fawlty Towers was good though.