Tuesday, 31 August 2010

Blog's First Moving Day.

This blog is now on http://alexandrascomplaints.wordpress.com/

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“Paris Hilton ‘arrested with cocaine’ in Las Vegas.” Really? My god.




This weekend I took it upon myself to catch up on recent world events, current affairs, natural disasters and what not with a little clickety click on the old BBC news website. The headline left me shocked and enthralled. (Notice the sarcasm dripping from this sentence, dripping everywhere, all down the page. Drip drip.) It seems America’s sweetheart is at it again, do her wild partying ways know no bounds? Goodness this one is out of control, I thought to myself, whilst wondering whether to shoot myself in the back or front of head in protest to the fact that the exploits of Miss Hilton are again occupying my busy mind. This would be a sure fire way to put an end to all reports on what Miss Hilton and her band of birdbrained bimbos have been up to this week, I think. Really, Paris Hilton? On BBC News? The news of the actual, real BBC? Shit
It never ceases to amaze me that Paris Hilton is still considered a ‘celebrity’. She is not deserving of such status. Do people like Paris? Has she a fanbase? It seems people must be interested in her. Why do I know who she is? I don’t want to. Things like this make me worry for humanity and the soulless, rapacious capitalists we have become. Then I have a biscuit and it usually cheers me up. 


Paris’s claim to fame is that she produced a sex tape, apparently not on purpose. That and her father owning a hotel or something. These are not reasons to document a persons life in the international media. These do not warrant a report on what Paris Hilton orders at Starbucks, or what Miss Hilton is wearing today. Stories about Miss Hilton make me want to set fire to my magazine and rub the ashes into my eyes so that I might never again bear witness to the thoughts and musings of this cretin. You may think this a strong reaction, but it is fully justified. Miss Hilton is a twerp. As if this wasn’t enough justification let me share with you some of the ramblings of the peroxide twiglet herself so that you too might share in my indignation: 
“The only rule is don't be boring and dress cute wherever you go. Life is too short to blend in.” 
Great advice here from Paris, spreading her bountiful wisdom about with some kind of giant butter knife. Clearly she felt the need to inform her public that it is good to wear nice clothes. Sterling advice. Throw away your romper suits everyone! We must dress cute!

“No matter what a woman looks like, if she's confident, she's sexy.” 
Not such good advice from Paris. She is stating, as if fact, that all women are sexy if they have confidence. This is a lie. Ugly women exist. 
“I don't really think, I just walk.” 
Here Paris is demonstrating outstanding self-awareness. Presumably she meant this in jest? Oh, sweet irony. 
Oh and lest we forget, Miss Hilton has her very own catchphrase,“that’s hot.” Which she uses to describe most things. Imagine her two brain cells clanging together as she thought that one up. Must’ve been exhausting. 
Enough about Paris, BBC News. I hereby request more news on those lovable Chilean miners, please. Another song perhaps? 
From Alexandra

Sunday, 29 August 2010

All the Football, All the Time.






In England there exists a game, it is called ‘football’ and it gets people all worked up. I believe it’s been around quite a while and seems a fairly popular game currently. Notice how the word game is in bold, so as to emphasise the fact that it is a game, and not a determinant for life, the universe and everything. Just so you know.  

(Google Images)
Here is a football. 

There are several problems with this game, aside from the fact that many do not believe it to be just a game
Football is very time consuming. I imagine the football fan must be a tired person. This game is happening all the time. I would be wondering how the football fan could keep up with all the football, if it weren’t for the shedload of football orientated television programmes created to aid him in his struggle. There exists a channel entirely dedicated to football news, they call it ‘Sky Sports News’. It has a desk with a man sitting at it, or sometimes a girl (she will always be easy on the eye), who read out the news as if imitating a real news reader. This is not news. This is a game, where someone wins and someone loses and no actual news is ever generated except if a football player of note drops dead on the pitch, which would actually be interesting. Other things which are not news include footballers arguing with other footballers in dressing rooms, whether or not someone threw a shoe at another person’s head, or whether or not Joe Cole deserved to receive a red card for his naughty tackling antics. 

(Google Images)
Goodness, how dramatic. 
There is a BBC sport website which allows the football fan to catch up on the latest football gossip. Gossip and football do not mix. Gossip is an interesting thing, it’s focus is primarily scandal and drama in the world of celebrity, or people you know, which is the best kind of gossip. Football gossip is infinitely less stimulating. The gossip items revolve around a footballer playing for a new team (changing the colour of his t-shirt), or thinking about playing for a new team, (thinking about changing his t-shirt) or trying to get more money to play for said new team (wants more money for a change of t-shirt). This is dull as dishwater. Dishwater is apparently pretty dull.
The ‘football season’ is a myth, designed to keep women happy with the empty promise that at some point the football will cease. It will never cease. There is the Champions League, the FA Cup, the Carling Cup and the Europa League which occur, as they should, during the designated football season (I’m told). However, outside of the football season, when we should be having a break from all the football, all the time, we are subjected to the World Cup. People claim this only happens once every four years, (this is called quadrennial - interesting fact there), however shortly after the end of the World Cup of 2010 England were again playing football against some other country in a World Cup style.  Suspicious. There is also Euro 2012 which I imagine is like a miniature world cup. There is no such thing as the football season. 

The footballer is probably nature’s most empty-headed creature. I believe this is a prerequisite for becoming a successful footballer, only a vacant imbecilic human could devote his life to kicking a ball around a green rectangle in the desperate hope of it travelling into a net (which is quite big, but which the footballer will usually miss). However, these birdbrained gentlemen, upon making a success of their footballing careers, find themselves absolutely stinking rich. Christiano Ronaldo’s salary is £11.3million. I don’t believe such a vacant species should be so well-off, they couldn’t possibly be capable of spending such riches on anything worthwhile. It is not often that you hear of a football player donating any money to a good cause. I doubt they’ve heard of Africa, anyway. It seems grossly unfair that these footballing halfwits should be so wealthy. A Robin Hood type character is what is required. Mr Hood should steal their pennies away and give it to people doing jobs which do have a purpose, such as doctors, nurses, firemen and people of that nature. It’s not like the dimwits would notice. 

(Google Images)
Ronaldo: He smiles because he bathes in champagne.
So that you don’t think I am being biased due to my hatred of the beautiful game I have obtained proof that the average footballer is so stupid he could forget to breathe at any moment: 
"If history repeats itself, I should think we can expect the same thing again." Terry Venables
"They're the second best team in the world, and there's no higher praise than that." Kevin Keegan
"I definitely want Brooklyn to be christened, but I don't know into what religion yet." David Beckham
"I never make predictions, and I never will." Paul Gascoigne
Fantastic.
The footballer is an untrustworthy character. During 90 minutes of ball kicking the average footballer will feign life-threatening injury 35-40 times. (This is not a real statistic, I made it up). When the footballer is tapped on the side he will usually grasp his leg and throw himself to the ground, screaming and crying like the little girl he always wished he could be. Yet when a foul is called against the opposition he will leap up, cured as if by Jesus himself. His lack of intelligence lets him down in this area, he is yet to realise that the average broken leg is not fixed within the time it takes for a man in striped attire to take a teeny piece of coloured card from his pocket. 

(Google Images)
Gerrard flying through the air in mock agony.
Football is dangerous. It turns the average middle aged man into a murderous, menacing creature. Within minutes of the commencement of the game he will rise up off his seat and begin swearing and screaming at the innocent telybox, edging closer to it, his eyes brimming with fury and exasperation. At this point it is worth remembering that you must not tell him it is only a game. He will be so full of outrage and indignation that he will probably be unable to stop himself from slicing your face off with the ringpull he has torn from his beer can, (which he needs in order to fully enjoy the tantrum he is having over the referee’s controversial decision) before bludgeoning you to death. If the game is going well and his team is kicking the ball as he would like he will rise up off his seat in the same manner and begin wailing encouraging noises at the telybox, inane phrases such as “whip it in” will start to fill the room, as well as noises similar to those a child makes during it’s first firework display... “ooohhh”... “ahh” (but louder, of course. These are manly noises, made by men.)
Football is a greedy sport. Even if it did stick to the football season this ‘season’ encompasses ten months of the year. It commences in August and finishes in May. That is not a season. That is the entire year with a short two month interlude for the footballer to take his wag to Mauritius. To then allow the interlude to be taken up by World Cup mania (despite the fact that England have not put in a reasonable performance in this tournament since 1966, which was a while ago) is preposterous. What if it gets worse, what if more tournaments start happening, and there is so much football that Sky Sports News cannot cover all the football? What if it begins to take over from real news leaving us with no knowledge of any events in the world other than the exploits of the footballers? What then? How will we cope? What will we do? Society could be in tatters within years. Therefore my request is a perfectly reasonable one. We must no longer be subject to all the football, all the time. Someone must put a stop to it. It’s only a game, after all. 
From Alexandra

Friday, 27 August 2010

And the Point of Perfume Adverts is...??

It has come to my attention that the advertising of perfumes...and other smell based items on television is futile. I will now explain why, whilst trying to remain as calm as possible. 

Why is it that perfume adverts never say.. this smells like.. (insert smell here)? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one that gave any kind of indication as to the aroma they were trying to persuade me to purchase. It is similar to Levi Strauss attempting to market a pair of jeans by showing me a picture of a rubber duck. Insanity. The advertisement for Dolce & Gabbana's 'Light Blue'  featured an almost naked couple locking lips in a dinghy. That was it. The man was wearing white pants trying to look all seductive and desirable. It didn’t work though due to the fact that he was clearly gay, yet canoodling with a lady. I can’t stand the lies. Anyway, even if it was a lie (which it was).. or (theoretically) if it was true and they were actually very much in love.. by this point I had become distracted from the whole issue of the fact that I was supposed to be contemplating my imminent purchase of this perfume. Were they trying to say the perfume will make you smell sexy? Forget your inhibitions? Make out with gay men? I’m unsure. I don’t own a dinghy anyway. 



(Google Images)
I refuse to believe that this is a straight man. 






Another bothersome advertising campaign is that of Hugo Boss's "Orange"  scent. It’s about time someone informed Mr Boss that whether or not Sienna Miller winks at me or dances around in an enthusiastic, slightly crazed manner I am still not going to purchase his delicious perfume because, despite having viewed the advert more times than I'd like, I have no idea what it smells like. All I know is that he’s paid Miss Miller to dance about looking pleased with herself. Obviously the payment was substantial. Sienna can’t stop smirking. I hate the Beatles too. I think I hate cover versions of Beatles songs more than I hate the actual Beatles, and I hate the Beatles a lot. Anyway, even if I didn't hate the song, and the dancing, and the bits in between, I am still baffled as to the point of this advert. Oh wait it's named after a fruit. Perhaps this is the clue. It must smell of oranges. We might have just stumbled upon the reason for all the secrecy. Hugo has twigged that no one wants to smell like a fruit salad. Or is it named after the colour? Will we ever know????? Quite the conundrum.  


I intend to make sure I inform Hugo and Dolce of their foolish errors at some point today, but I am very busy. When smellyvision is invented perfume adverts may return. 

(Google Images)
If you look closely you might see a bottle of perfume in the corner of this picture of Sienna's face.
Other adverts that should be banned:

Car adverts. If I am looking to purchase a car I will research accordingly. You cannot convince someone who wasn’t going to buy a car to buy a car by showing them a picture of one spinning around in a darkened room/being driven by a scantily clad lady with a french accent.

Go compareClick here to view. This makes me scream. Out loud. It frightens the dog. 

Cash for Gold. Clicky click. No I will not send all my gold to a stranger. Yes I knew my gold was worth money. However, if i was going to sell it I would be unlikely to put it in an envelope and ship it off to you, creepy magpie man. You look like a thief. And your tie is too big. Why do you keep saying cold hard cash? Cash is made of a paper. That’s not hard. You can screw it up in a little ball if you please. Rocks and things made out of lead are hard. Paper is not. It’s not usually that cold either. I’d say it was about room temperature. They must keep all their cash in a fridge.

The one with Iggy Pop that gives little clue as to what they’re actually trying to advertise, other than the fact that Mr Iggy of Pop should really not be doing topless adverts at his age, and that he’s sold out. I imagine they are trying to show us that too. Oh it’s called Swiftcover. Still no idea. I could show you the real advert, but this is better.

Those ludicrous Nintendo DS ones. Click & Cringe. These make me see red. I start scrawling Red Rum on mirrors. They feature celebrities such as Ant & Dec (who, like Iggy Pop are also clearly short on funds) sat around playing the Nintendo together. They look elated, due to the huge amounts of fun being produced by their little nintendo gadget. This is hard to swallow, hence infuriating. We all know that when alone Ant & Dec in fact spend their time hissing “what has become of me” through a mist of tears.. once they sort out which one’s which, that is. Girls Aloud also sometimes put in an appearance on the DS adverts, and some teenagers who look around 17 playing a game definitely intended for 8 year olds where they dress up a little superhero and take it out fighting.. which is weird. They advertise the Wii in the same way. When they’re not telling you that Wii Fit will cause you to magically lose 12 stone they like to show groups of famous folk crowded around a Wii at some kind of mind numbing soiree. They’re not fooling anyone.  

From Alexandra

Wednesday, 25 August 2010

Alexandra Mourns the Passing of Big Brother.

Pathetic as it is the time has come for me to admit that I have been one of the three people avidly watching the exploits of the latest bunch of actual misfits and pretend misfits inhabiting Big Brother’s homestead. I have no job, no means of entertainment until September, and this programme is mildly more entertaining than looking out of the window  at a field for an hour a day. This is a valid excuse.

(Google Images)
Last night saw the tragic passing of my beloved daily hour of tely viewing. It was an anti-climax, as to be expected given that the final five were boring (JJ), weird (Andrew), creepy (Dave), creepier (Mario) and a normal person (Josie) who obviously won, with 77% of the vote, due to the fact that her fellow contestants were weird, creepy and creepier. I knew she would win because William Hill said to me if you give me £1000 to bet on Josie I will give you £50 if she wins. That means she is going to win. I know about betting now. 
In order to make the show more interesting the producers, for some reason, decided to include many a montage avec lashings of cheese. The kind of cheese that smells a little bit like feet. Possibly Stilton. It was very cheesy. So nauseatingly cheesy I felt I should’ve been warned to fetch a bucket before the show began. They used songs such as that one that Glee wrecked, “Don’t Stop Believing” with the creepy, weird, boring housemates giving speeches about how much they had learnt about themselves whilst in the Big Brother House in the background. I left the room at this point to have a cup of tea. 
Whenever someone is evicted from the house Davina stares intensely into their eyes and says this sentence.. “what did you learn about yourself from the Big Brother experience?” What? You mean what did they learn whilst sat in a house not going out, or doing anything, except dressing up in a shit costume and doing a shit task in the hope of winning some money to spend on biscuits? Nothing. That’s what they learnt. Nothing can be learnt this way. This is almost as irritating as when a person goes to Thailand (or other touristy backpacking gap yah destination) in order to find themselves. You are more likely to find yourself in a bowl of soup. 

After this bit the housemates had one of those parties that they do so often in Big Brother, you know the ones that make you cringe, where they dance around with all the lights on, slightly tipsy but acting completely smashed, and get excited to the point of combustion when any song plays. It was even weirder/creepier/more boring given the party guests. Sigh
Then came the time to remove the misfits from the freak show and chuck them back in the real world so that they might go on to do great things, like Nuts magazine, and then disappear into obscurity once more, never to be heard of again. Please dear god don’t let ‘the glory’ ever be heard of again. 

First out was Andrew, the caricature of an Oxford maths geek, complete with ginger hair, pasty skin and glasses. I am glad not many people voted for him because he microwaved a piece of fruit, then had sexual intercourse with it, then went on national TV and told people that he had done this. He also informed the public that he had violated various other desserts, notably an apple pie. That is not the talk of a winner. JJ was next to be evicted, he was boring and apparently a boxer but he did not hit anyone so this point makes him sadly no more interesting. Oh there was some kind of private joke between him and Aston, the short one from JLS, which was so lol. Mario ventured out next wearing something I can only assume he had recently nicked off the Tweenies. It had a lot of butterflies stuck to it. Big ones, sticking out at all angles. Looked bizarre it did. He seemed devastated that he had not won. Arrogant pervert. After this someone finally evicted Dave the monk. This is a man who actually claimed he was drunk on God’s love’ throughout the series, before rolling around cackling in a mock inebriated fashion in the garden. Who was voting for him?
Josie then won, got reunited with John James.. had a little kiss and went back into the house within twenty minutes to begin ULTIMATE BIG BROTHER. John James was unfortunately still wearing eye liner because he thinks he looks like David Beckham. No comment. 

(Google Images)
The winner - She was less weird than the rest.. but still fairly weird.
Ultimate Big Brother is what the producers of Big Brother appear to have decided would be more entertaining than normal Big Brother. This is their a last-ditch attempt to make the programme popular with viewers. It reeks of desperation. Josie is now back in the house, all excitable and screechy, with ten apparently famous housemates of Big Brother’s gone by. They aren’t famous though, as you may have expected. In a similar theme of the Celebrity Big Brother which has in actual fact never contained a real celebrity, these ‘ultimate housemates’ are mainly soulless rejects of past series whose five minutes of fame have run out and are therefore gagging to get back into the house to promote some kind of crap album/TV presenting career/showing off boobs type job.
The ULTIMATE housemates are as follows: 1. Chantelle - All I remember about her is that she was married to that Ordinary Boys twerp, Preston, who stomped off in a sequin encrusted waistcoat in the middle of Never Mind The Buzzcocks when Simon Amstell began reading extracts from Chantelles disgusting autobiography. This was a magical moment. I’m with Amstell. Who let her write her autobiography? She is not a person of interest. Can she even hold a pen? Preston, incidentally, was housemate number two which was good because they are now divorced which made for an exceptionally awkward meeting on live television with Josie standing there looking confused but still excited. Then there was 3. Nadia, that scary transvestite one. 4. Brian, token over the top gay man which must appear in every series (presumably Mario’s replacement) 5. Ulrika Johnson..? Has she even been in Big Brother? 6. Makosi, who actually said that women dislike her because of her “unattainable body.” It is attainable Makosi, they are called breast implants and I’m pretty sure they’re attainable by anyone with more money than brain cells. Idiot. She also did pretend sex when she was in Big Brother for some reason. Idiot. 7. John McCrick was in next because everyone hates him and he seems to get off on this. 8. Coolio, did a little rap before entering, which I probably could have done better myself, and I am not an established rapper. Also I am white. 9. Nikki Graeme, that noisy twiglet from a few years ago. 10. Nick Bateman, he is from the first ever Big Brother, tres vintage. He got thrown out and called ‘Nasty Nick’ for cheating which is naughty. I have already chosen him as my favourite, however, because he was not selected for being a complete nutcase, he featured in Big Brother at the start. This is when the programme was a psychological experiment rather than the parade of deperate wannabes it has become in recent years. Thus Nick is probably an alright chap...
Big Brother then gave the ULTIMATE housemates champagne and they all stood around having a chitchat, probably name-dropping their faces off, in a scene which can only be described as an awkward looking cocktail party at the intergalactic cafe. I wonder what scandalous drama awaits. (If any).


From Alexandra

Tuesday, 24 August 2010

Why the future is not written in the stars.

Astrology is a curious artform. Is it an artform? I’m not sure. Oh, wikipedia is saying it is. Then it must be. Basically these people, astrologers they like to call themselves.. who will usually have grey, unbrushed wispy locks, be slightly overweight and wear too much jewellery “believe that the movements and positions of celestial bodies either directly influence life on Earth or correspond to events experienced on a human scale” (States Wikipedia - therefore fact.) I feel sceptical about this. No, actually I think its a load of old tripe dreamt up by someone presumably on some kind of narcotic (or several) who held some sort of importance at the time (long ago.. like in stonehenge times I reckon) thus attracted believers. I expect this is the reason why we are now faced with cretins like Russell Grant, fat pyschic extraordinaire, telling us what will happen to us today in a vague yet opinionated manner. 

(Google Images)
Wheel of Fortune?
The thing which baffles me about horoscopes and other completely make believe pyschic ‘artforms’ is that I know, absolutely definitely for certain and for sure, that they are not true.  They are the ramblings of a middle aged human being with no sixth sense and too many crystals. So why do I always read them? Whenever sat in a doctors surgery or a dentists, or any other waiting-based activity faced with a tired looking magazine the likelihood is that I will have a sneaky peek at the predictions for this month, hoping it will tell of good fortune, love and success. Usually it does, but shortly afterwards I am forced to confront the reality that I am no more likely to win the lottery this month, whether the fat psychic tells me that Mars is in a good place right now or not. 

Horoscopes occupy the last page of just about every bubblegum coloured magazine on sale. I recently purchased a copy of Grazia. I don’t usually buy this because it has a kind of One Show like quality in that it goes.. heres some lovely shoes, a nice jacket, pictures of a few emaciated models in unimaginably expensive clothing and.. Oh! The next pages feature a graphic report on “the horror of the British cutting parties,” a frankly disturbing article on female genital mutilation. This puts me on edge. I just wanted a magazine for my waiting-based activity (long car journey) but you are showing me scary things that make me cross my legs. You are a magazine, Grazia, you are not newsnight. Know your place. (This is true. In the August issue of Grazia. Have a look, in your local newsagent. Don’t buy it though. It’s horrid.) Once I had got over the horror stories amidst the fashion news I had a little look at what to expect for this month, according to the church of balderdash. It said this, “Instead of being embarrassed that you’re in a position to make some money, remind yourself that others will benefit from it too.”  I am still awaiting this promised cheque. I can safely say no one has benefitted from it as yet, seen as it hasn’t arrived and never will, but if it does I’ll be sure to donate to the flood victims of Pakistan, or something.


Yesterday my horoscope said to me, “your partner will turn on you if you aren’t sensitive to him or her.” This is a threat. It might as well have been written out of cut up newspaper clippings. What does Russell Grant know about my partner? And what about all the Gemini’s who are single? They must’ve been angry about Mr Grant’s mistake.

(Google Images)
Russell Grant: Regard. He is fat, and a pyschic.
The names of star signs confuse me. My birthday is in May, which makes me a Gemini. This is fortunate because I’d be worried if I was a cancer. However, Gemini is apparently ‘the sign of the twins’. Throughout my childhood I took this to mean that I was a twin, seperated at birth, and spent more time than I should have searching for half a locket that I presumed my parents had hidden, in order that I might be presented with it on my 18th birthday. This also supported a personal theory that I had been adopted. I couldn’t possibly get my head around being any sort of blood relative of my darling brother. Parent trap only confirmed my suspicions. I watched it several times so  that when the time came for me to meet my twin, I would be prepared.


(Google Images)
The Russell Grant game. Really?


Descriptions of personality traits typical to star signs are fantastic. Mine says, “the people who were born in this period are widely known for their dual personalities and ability to change mood from moment to moment.” You are saying I have different moods? Goodness gracious, I do have different moods! Sometimes happy, sometimes sad, angry on occasion. You’ve read me like a book. Call me a cab, I must be off to worship at the church of balderdash forthright! 


The only thing better than having your personality explained according to your star sign is that advert on MTV where a slutty girl (yes, I can tell by her voice) orders you to text your star sign and your partner’s star sign to a premium rate number. In return said slutty girl promises to predict the future of your relationship based entirely on... nothing. I think after that you are bombarded with texts which you pay for and they take all your phone credit away, leaving you poverty stricken, possibly homeless, but safe in the knowledge that you and your partner are definitely compatible and will be together forever and for always. Amen
Whatever happened to Mystic Meg anyway?
From Alexandra