Is Boris Johnson for real (and I don’t mean that in sassy-black-woman-speak “fo-realll”)? Every time I turn on the TV and see his face I expect the skit to end and to hear laughter from a live studio audience. Not the case. I have nothing against the man himself, in fact, I love him. However, I do have something against the people that voted him in. I left asking myself whether his election is the same reason why until Sunday, “Jedward” were still contestants on The X Factor—is it all just to piss off Simon Cowell?
England is a testament to the power of the cellular phone. Why are you all so obsessed with voting? It is rather ironic considering that virtually none of you will be voting in the next election but that every single one of you breaks out your cellphone, sorry—mobile, to text The X Factor that Jedward is awesome or to tell I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here! that you think Katie Price should be the one crawling through mud infested with rats and cockroaches and maggots and hopefully the Clap. Whoever said democracy is dead needs to have a look at the text message transcripts of women aged 13-34. Hey Labour, want to save money in the next election? Why not close down ALL the polling stations and instead hold the election on TV with a nifty little number down at the bottom for people to phone in to or text.
– For Nick Griffin (BNP), text “I Don’t Like Black People”
– For Gordon Brown (Labour) text “How Do You Spell His Last Name?”
– And for Nick Clegg (Lib-Dems) text “Don’t Fuck This Up”
Forget what you know about the English election process and dig on this: Each respective party leader can give a live pitch to all of Great Britain (BBC can have the rights, of course) and a panel of judges can give them feedback. Then we would need to decide who the judges are. Simon Cowell would be the obvious choice for Head Judge. David Beckham would, of course, have to be thrown in. And, for diversity’s sake, why not Dizzee Rascal? He has a face that just screams ‘politics’. Of course, we would then run the risk of electing Nick Griffin on the basis that Simon Cowell called his face “annoying” and the rest of you decided to vote BNP because Simon was being “too mean” *sad-smiley*
There are times as a journalist where I feel the urge to use my writing powers for my own amusement instead of any given reader’s, specifically professors at this junction in my life. This is one of those times. While I should be catching up on shorthand and/or transcribing interviews for an assignment, I am instead left pondering the following:
You English are no smarter than Americans. A friend once warned me that “you’ve never met a stupid girl ‘til you’ve met a stupid British girl.” This much was abundantly clear to me after, when asked where I was from, I told a girl “Bermuda… it’s in the Atlantic”, to which she responded “Is it an island?” At this point I took the opportunity to tell her that no, it is not in fact an island, rather it is the 10th continent. Best follow up question ever: “Near Russia?”
On a different note, the weather here makes it extremely hard to live the joyous social life I am accustomed to, specifically drinking heavily on patios. Thanks to Health and Safety regulations, it is illegal to smoke inside a bar, sorry—pub, and a cigarette break has turned into a game of “Lets See What the Weather Man Was Wrong About This Week.” One second it’s raining, the next you are all clamoring to the beach to try and rectify the loss of any colour in your epidermis that may have occurred whilst hiding from said rain. Which leads me to my next point.
Since when has it been against the rules to take your drink with you to the smoking patio? I know for a fact, Mr. Bouncer, that at 2:00 in the afternoon I can enjoy the sweet taste of dry gin on this patio whilst sucking on my nicotine stick, so why can’t I do the same at 2:00 in the morning? Oh, is it because of the mess that is caused by drunk people smoking? Remind me again when it became uncouth to have Martini-Wars and throw dry gin and/or vodka on each other in a playful fashion. Oh, no such thing you say. SO WHY CAN’T I TAKE MY DRINK UP THERE? Tosser…
Finally, with no patios to get Oprah-intervention drunk on, and weather that is more confused than a teenage girl with an elongated clitoris (are tranny jokes still cool?), my life has turned into what a recluse would call, “mildly entertaining”. “Living on the edge” has been severely downgraded to a game I play while watching the BBC iPlayer in bed called “Fart or Shart”, in which I guess whether or not the impending flatulence will be accompanied by a twosie. Most of the time it’s not. Most of the time… no wonder I don’t have a girlfriend.
WHAT TO DO NOW?