A suggestion for the world at large, and quite a lot about canoes.

Recently, I've become a bit worried about the world. Not so much in a "my god, Mr President, will you take a look at these print-outs?" kind of way, more in a "so, how was school today, world? You... you don't want to talk about it? You never want to talk about it. Want some milk? Oh, ok... bye... *whispers* you always used to love milk..." kind of way. It's a concern born of love, of the knowledge of potential, and the sneaking suspicion that , day by day, it's being thoroughly wasted. And the worst thing of all is that I'm pretty sure I know exactly what the problem is. Partially because I'm really arrogant, but mainly because I'm utterly, utterly brilliant.

Let's for a minute, imagine that we've been transported to some other planet (I think there are a few films re this topic, if you need a visual), a planet where the creatures LOOK and SOUND and WEAR COATS and GET HAIRCUTS just like us, only with one small difference. They're totally and utterly obsessed with canoeing. They bloody love it. Day in, day out, they practice their canoeing, read up on it, talk about it, host TV shows about it, put their careers on hold for it, judge others by their skill in it, cry over it, write books about it, dedicate millions of Flarbs to ie (flarbs being their global currency, keep up), and generally centre their entire consciousnesses around it. Bloody canoeing. They love it. Except, actually they don't. They're knackered by the constant oar-upkeep, the need to understand the latest in current-flow, the daily need to inspect their...like... wood bits (could have chosen an example that I knew literally anything about, but oh no, fuckssake tash) and as a planet, every other industry suffers because value is placed on this utterly arbitrary talent. When asked if they'd rather have a plumber who was good at canoeing or no, there'd be no question. Canoe-expert, of course. In a mate, canoeing prowess is not only expected, but necessary. Want to choose an airline service? "Do the adverts have CANOES IN???", they'd yell desperately. And when we, baffled humans that we are, dropped into this world of madness, quietly say "but, being good at canoeing doesn't really matter, right? At all? Except for people who...like... canoe for a living? And there can't be very many of them, surely?" we'd be met only with the aggressive stare of a nation who know outsiders could never understand.

Now, let's start again, but replace the word "canoeing" with "being objectively attractive". OH MY GOD IT'S THE STATUE OF LIBERTY WE'VE BEEN HERE ALL ALONG DR ZAIUS.

Why is it that we require our singers to be attractive? Are they any less talented if they've got a (susan) boil for a face? What about our actors and actresses? If art is supposed to imitate life, shouldn't it be that those we watch look sort of, like us? Authors, when they're interviewed for the Proper Magazines - why do they have to look so free from human face failings? When people advertise perfume, why don't they say what the perfume smells like, instead of having a nineteen year old with wet lips pick up an oversize bottle and whisper "moist". If a perfume advert had some bloke on it scratching his face and going "erm... smells a bit like guinness and hay, i think", I'd buy it. Partially cos of the moral stand-point thing, but also damn if I don't love the scent of the boozy emerald isle. Why does this thing that has absolutely no bearing on any tangible skill control every aspect of our culture?

Beyonce's Run The World sheen-vomit really, really pissed me off. And I don't really get pissed off, cos it gives you wrinkles. Being Empowered is not the same as Being Objectively Beautiful. Being beautiful, actually, doesn't matter. It's useless. You can't heat it up and eat it, you can't put it in a bag and take it to the Poor Kids, you can't build a delightful Italian taverna out of it, it doesn't make you laugh, it doesn't inspire you to DO GOOD - all it ever does, ever, is make you wonder what you can do to be more like It. Gok Wan has, sadly, missed the point. "GET WOMEN FEELING BEAUTIFUL NO MATTER WHAT THEIR SIZE" - WHY? WHY DO WE NEED TO? WHY DO WE NEED TO FEEL BEAUTIFUL? We do, of course, is the sad truth of it. We do, otherwise no-one would shag us. But if THAT is the only goal - physical phwoarness means members of our preferred gender might give us one, aren't we giving beauty a credence it doesn't really deserve?

Thing is, it's one of those problems that doesn't have a solution, isn't it? Yeah, I could stop shaving my legs (why on earth do I do that? Why? How odd. What an odd thing that is) and stop wearing makeup and channel my self-worth entirely into something actually worthy of worth, but it's too late for grassroots. Fear is too powerful, and that's what it really comes down to. I'm ashamed to say it, but I'm just the same. We're all racing racing racing towards the sunlight, laughing laughing laughing as we grit our teeth and try and hide the fact that we've all got a stitch and want to go home, because this is the race, and its SO MUCH FUN and if you stop, that's it. Everyone else is gone, and you're left in the darkness. Everyone pretends that Trying To Be Beautiful is a right lark; shiny bathrooms, white pillows and cheerfully overdubbed Swedish models, but it isn't (trust me, this ivory face of mine has been nothing but a curse). It's a ticking timer; a man at the bottom of the ferris wheel tapping at his watch and spitting into the grass.

I have a solution though. I actually do. But unfortunately, it's sort of a solution that requires Really Massively Famous people to do something quite tricky- stop trying to make us feel awful all the time. Stop placing value on a thing that has ABSOLUTELY no bearing on talent, on intelligence, on wit and on worth. Does J K Rowling need soft focus lighting to talk about Pottermore? No. Does Julia Roberts looking 28 until she dies prove she can act? No. Does Caitlin Moran, feminist of the pub or whatever, need to put a lovely picture of herself on the front cover of her book in order to write eloquently? No.

I'm aware that I'm sort of going off on a "women women poor women" tangent here, but honestly, that isn't really my point. All I would say is, that if women world-wide threw their mascara away tomorrow, men would still shag us. Trust me. Men are dead easy. But out of fear that that one woman, that one sneaky woman would keep it hidden triumphantly in her bag and betray us all with beauty, all of us clutch our weapons all the closer. It's just canoeing, though. It doesn't matter. It's canoeing, only without the subsequent endorphin rush and fairly bad-ass bruising. I throw down a gauntlet to you, influential people of this world. At your next photoshoot, refuse the beauty treatment. Just look like what you are, a human with a normal human face that does the things that human faces do. Start showing young girls and lads that beauty is fine, but that, actually, it doesn't matter. Like painting the Mona Lisa on the world's most powerful telescope - it's nice and all, but could you get out of the way now, please, there's sort of some science we need to be getting on with.

We are so much more interesting than an ideal. Especially an ideal that only serves to make us feel like crap. Come on Beyonce, we may not be ready for your jelly, but to be honest, your jelly is sort of beside the point.

In light of all the problems, I have come up with a solution to the problems.

OK. So its fairly obvious to me (and if something's fairly obvious to me, its generally because I've heard it being repeated quite loudly a number of times and possibly someone's written it on my body somewhere) that the reason our Christmas number 1 has become such a marker for controversy is the same reason that Aragorn drove Sauron's armies out of Mount Doom. It's a diversion.

The real problem here, a problem that seems to take up an inordinate amount of space in our precious broadsheets and in my arguably more precious brain  is not that Simon Cowell has been sharpening the music poking holes in our babies' soft, pliable ears. Or that some countries don't have any food (stay with me). The problem isn't that they don't know it's Christmas time, or that we live in a Mad World. The reason Christmas number one has, all of a sudden, had so much ballast, bull-hock and baubles made of pure, unadulterated shit-foxes plastered all over it is, actually, because no-one - I mean no-one - can remember how to write a Christmas song. We have to pour whipped politics over the meringue of our Christmas, so that no-one notices that the sugar and eggs of this metaphor have gone horribly wrong.

It only really occurred to me this year. This year, when the slebs of music decided to record the sound of silence in order to best the power of The X Factor. When ALL OF THE MUSICIANS IN BRITAIN couldn't actually put up a decent FIGHT against Matt Cardle's Some Biffy Song That All The Fans Will Say Isn't As Good As The Original And Those Who Actually Buy It Wont Know Who Biffy Clyro Is But Will Suspect He Is One Of The Bears From In The Night Garden (Are There Even Bears In That? I Don't Know. Probably. But There Are Random Creatures Whose Pants Fall Down. Seriously. Is That Legal? They're Puppets And Stuff. But Still. It's A Bit Weird.)

Honestly though. Think about it. All of the celebs in music world recording John Cage's 4"33 is the schoolyard equivalent of the big kid in school warily eying up the wiry young upstart with the dad who rumour has it taught him real kung-fu n that, and going "I'm, like, not even gonna BOTHER fighting you cos you're not even WORTH it." It's that pathetic. You know what would really prove that the power of independent, glorious bloody MUSIC SWEET SWEET MUSIC was alive, thriving and well in the UK today? A song. A song that we want to hear, at Christmas. If that song existed, those of us with ears (loads of us) would buy it. Those of us with hands (I mean, i've not done the figures, but I'm feeling confident) could even buy it from shops. From SHOPS. That's all we're asking for. I'm sick of having to force down a side of irony with my Christmas dinner. Just fucking write a good christmas song, play it into a thing that records sounds and then and then put what happens when you do that into a thing that will spit out the sound into our ears. It quite literally is that simple.

But you can't, can you, supposedly revolutionary musicians of Britain? No. Not one of you actually bothered to step up to the tinsel gilded plate. So instead, you all silently, collectively hid your rotten, shaking fingers beneath a glossy glove of psuedo-intellectualism and pretended that actually, the option of NOT doing a song was somehow.... better. MORE inspirational. Not playing music, was, actually, a lot more musical that doing something really boring like playing music. Shame on you. Shame on you all.

Luckily for you, I'm not just a pointer-outer, I'm a bloody fixer. When you hire me, I don't just do the spec, I get down on my hands and knees and confuse some more metaphors like you wouldn't believe. In light of what has happened, its become clear to me that someone out there has to bring the magic back to Christmas. I may not be that woman. But it turns out I am. I have written for us a Christmas song that puts Christmas back where it belongs - in the song. All I need now is someone to put it into the recordy box, and we'll finally, finally get this putrid mess of Christmas constipation out of our lives and into the cleansing, shining toilet of the past. This is my gift to the world. Feel free to add your own - your competition is either silence, or a boy who sounds like a woman. Go mental. Freedom is ours! FREEDOM IS OURS!

(Post Script: In order to get the funding to release her xmas single, Natasha was forced to accept donations from the charitable Apple company, a team who have always helped promote the spirit of xmas and believe that festive fun shouldn't be hampered by politics! She and they think that the finished product has not been affected in any way by this partnering, and both teams believe that the combined effort has been a great success! Merry Christmas from everyone at Apple!)

I may not have an ipad
I may not be a Mac
I may not have a teeny weeny Shuffle
Inside my Christmas sack

I may not like your itunes
We may not share FaceTime
But baby when I see you smile
I know that you'll be mine

(chorus)
Ho Ho Ho!
We'll be laughing!
Ho Ho Ho!
When we're buying
Exceedingly reasonably priced products
endorsed by Santa, Santa Jobbs!

Ho Ho Ho!
We'll be singing!
Ho Ho Ho!
When we're playing
with the apps that are on SPECIAL OFFER NOW WHEN YOU SIGN UP TO AN 18 MONTH CONTRACT FOR THE iPHONE 4 ON TMOBILE TODAY SEE WEBSITE OR ASK INSTORE FOR MORE DETAILS

Ho Ho Ho
Ho Ho Ho
Ho Ho Ho
Ho Ho Ho
Ho

Dear Moffat and Gatiss: An Open Letter Regarding Sherlock: Episode 3

Dear Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss:

This is a difficult letter for me to write, it really is. Partially because I spilt rather a large amount of Caprisun on my keyboard yesterday, so the letter 'L' is sticky, and a couple of the key vowels have gone rogue. But mostly it's difficult because I have nothing but admiration for what you've achieved over the past couple of weeks. Really I do. (Technically that's not strictly true, but it's the opening paragraph, so let's work our way across the swimming pool slowly, eh?)

Sherlock: Episode One. Even just typing those words brings a blissful, hazy fog into my fingers, almost causing them to forget the 5 attempts it took not to not spell it "Sherock". The entire viewing experience was utter joy. Being an expert in fairly crap detective dramas (and by this I mean I've watched 2 episodes of Jonathan Creek and 1 of Midsomer Murders) watching Sherlock I felt like I finally got what this whole "mystery crimey solvey solvey" thing was about. It was like after months of travelling in a country where my only means of communication were year 8 vocab sheets, someone had plonked a babel fish in my ear. A whole new world opened unto me. It was funny, it was clever, it was slick, fast and starred a man whose face looked like the upper half of a bicycle. I was sold. That was one sexy bicycle.

And, best of all, though the dialogue was fiendishly, weepingly clever the actual plot was fairly simple, leaving you with the ever-pleasant feeling that actually, maybe, just maybe, this whole "consulting detective" thing might look rather jaunty on your own CV:

Sherlock: "But what could it BE, John?
*shot of taxi*
Watson: "I just don't know Sherlock, I just don't."
*more taxis swing by, narrowly avoiding taking up entire shot*
Sherlock: "Something that people get in. Some sort of vehicle. On the street, every day."
*three taxis mount pavement*
Sherlock: "Something that can take people from the airport to their homes, without being a bus, or a train. A mode of transportation that's a car, that you don't drive yourself, that's available in London, or indeed in any large cities"
Watson: *adjusts tie bearing taxi motif* "Shall we get something to eat? My fake limp is causing that taxi driver over there to shake some pills in a menacing manner."

me: *long, long pause* "...bet you its a taxi driver or something." (feels immense pride)

Everyone was a winner guys. Everyone was a winner. Martin Freeman was sort of Tim from the Office, but in a excusably different, ANGRY about the war way and instead of doing the "look to the camera" he did "look at anyone else in the room", and it was perfect. He was perfect. I fell in love with him, I fell in love with handlebar-face, I even loved the murdery driver even though he had that cream on his neck and I didn't quite believe in him. When the credits rolled I screamed "WHO IS MORIATY?!" and some juice fell on my laptop (unrelated), that's how excited I was. Oh and Mark, your cameo as Sherlock's brother was glorious, in the way that only you could have made it glorious. You brought all of your League of Gentleman brilliance - ('is it meant to be funny? Yes. But... he's.... acting really well. That's some really good tension acting. So... is it funny? Well my mind and this really well constructed dialogue says no but my mouth and the laughter coming out of it says yes. HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS MARK GATISS YOU DEMON)

So, bearing all of this in mind, you can only imagine my excitement last night, when I settled down for my second hit of what I was pretty sure was BBC heroin. But that's the problem with heroin, isn't it? It's never as good the second time round. (I'm available for more searing dialogue along these lines if you require it.)

My problems - yes, I'm afraid there were more than one - with last night's Sherlock are painful for me to relate now. But I feel like it's important to get it out, so that the air of awkwardness between us (I could tell from the way you clicked) is out of the way, done with, and we can work together to fill the room of your collective creative genius with furniture worthy of your initial , wonderful architecture.

So. Here we go.

1. What happened to the deduction? We really, really, really liked the whole deduction thing guys. Not being funny, but that was kind of what got the nation spilling in the first place. Remember episode one? "Cardiff - how could he possibly... oh!" "Alcoholic brother? This is madness... oh I see!" "PINK? How can he POSSIBLY... gasp!" This time around, you had one piffly bit with a round the world trip to china and some faff with hand cream. It's not good enough.

2. So, suddenly Sherlock Holmes is fighting some sort of turbaned ninja for no reason, and then its never mentioned again. Now, I get that this is all based on the original Sherlock - I really do - and I get that he is, in fact, a man of combat, and having not read any of them I can safely say that though on some level I respect that, on another, more significant level, I don't care. You can't just have this modern day sociopath who lives above a chicken shop and sticks nicotine patches on his arm fighting a ninja for no reason. If you're update the pipe, surely you have to update your negotiation techniques.

3. Chinese underworld ninja theatre exploding stick death wall climber museum smuggler grafitti artists - what? If this is an actual Sherlock, I apologise, I really do. But there were about seventeen different central "fiendish mysteries", going on there, and I wasn't satisfied by the answer to any of them. There were too many, it hurt my small brain, and I felt I'd paid for a small but delicious prawn cocktail and I'd instead been given 7 loaves of bread. Let's just check how many "puzzles" needed unravelling by the end, and how many were actually really great, clever answers:

- Question: How does a man enter a locked room without getting a key?
- Answer: Turns out he's a circus ninja. And a murderer. And also a smuggler and can shut off all the lights in a museum at a moment's notice, so he might be an electrician as well. (Even my newly glossy "consulting detective" CV pales in comparison)

- Question: Why did two men die after seeing the same symbols?
- Answers: Cos Ninjas and Circus Co woud rather kill two men than get the nine million squid they apparently want more than anything in the world. Rather than forcing journo/banker to tell them where it was - presumably the banker would have preferred actually GIVING them the 9 mil claire's accessory rather than DIE and Ninja co would rather get it back than just KILLING FOR NO REASON and then wandering around aimlessly wearing spangly costumes - they kill BOTH of them, confirming that no-one would ever, ever find it ever unless Sherlock Holmes works it out somehow. Yes. That makes sense.

- Question: Where do you find the magic code for the symbols?
Answer: London A-Z. For reasons that apparently do not deserve explaining, even though this is the point OF THE WHOLE HOUR AND A HALF'S VIEWING.

(on a less "central mystery" note:
Question: Why didn't Watson's bit of totty tip her chair over, and save herself some potential - relatively serious - death by Big Spear.
Answer: She is stupid. Girls are a bit stupid. )

4. Why didn't you use a Yellow Pages instead of the A-Z, considering it was sat outside beautiful Chinese girl's house the whole time, and when totty asked for a good number for a take away it would have been a perfect time for the SUDDEN REALISATION that EVERY HOUSE HAS ONE. (This I include purely because I was shouting it at the screen for about the last 20 minutes of the programme, with growing anger at their failure to comply with my instructions. You robbed me of my self-satisfaction, Moffat and Gatiss. You robbed me of my very smug.)

Ahhhh. God I feel better now. Also the graffiti message-suddenly-covered-up thing was a bit weird. Sorry, sorry, I'm done. I promise. The whole "I took a photo" thing was funny enough to let it slide.

You have to understand, boys, that I am on your side. All I want is for you to succeed. But now I feel a bit like the teacher who's promised the headmaster that the misbehaving kid will get star grades after that meaningful chat I had with him, only to later find out that he took a shit on the next test. You are better than this. We are better than this. I await Sunday with baited breath.
Please, ride that bicycle face to victory.

Yours, with deep fondness,

Natasha Yak

x

The Apprentice: A Pre-Final Explosion.

The Apprentice is fantastic television. Anyone who doesn't see that is a self-satisfied pathetic moron who should probably apply for The Apprentice so that we can watch them, laugh and turn to each other and say "God, isn't The Apprentice fantastic television?"

The Apprentice is brilliant for a number of reasons, and in the fine spirit of people numbering things, I shall number them.

1. You know you are infinitely more intelligent that anyone else on the programme, but at no point do you ever have to justify or prove it.

God they're stupid, aren't they? Aren't they?? It's so simple, you pin-striped grease pigeons, Sir Alan (I don't care, I know he's Lord Sugar now, but in the hearts and minds of the British public he is and ever will be Sir Alan) himself GAVE you a stall in Portobello market, PORTOBELLO FUCKING MARKET, where BITS OF AN OLD LEAF can sell for seven million pounds to the right hippy, just sell the damn home-made jam, get the profit and give Nick a cheeky feel up in the proceedings. Oh God, she's - she's just fallen over. Ha, ha ha, what FOOLS. You know what they haven't thought of? Everything I'm about to say. God I'm fantastic. This is fucking fantastic.

2. There's no horrible, crushing crushing guilt.

Thankfully, almost everyone on The Apprentice is a wanker. This makes the watching experience just so, so much more pleasurable. With programmes like Britain's Got Talent, or X-factor, sure it's fun, but you can't help feeling like you're watching the 21st century equivelent of someone pushing over a horse. Sure, it's funny, we've all had a laugh, but there's a lingering, horse-flavoured shame that's difficult to shake off. It's laughter at the expense of the innocent fool, and though he's put himself up for this humiliation, that's still not reason enough to glory in his pain. The Apprentince, however? From the moment one smug contender leers into the camera "Yah, yah, well, I'm pretty cut throat you know? Business is business, if you can't take the heat, get out of my listed fireplace," you can sit back, relax and sigh happily, safe in the knowledge that this waste of carbon deserves nothing more than having his head mashed repeatedly into the toilet of TV ritual humiliation.

3. Sir Alan is amazing.

He's just fucking brilliant. Yes, every series he looks more and more like a tree grandmother, but by God if everything he says isn't absolute fucking gold. The genius of the boardroom scenes is that it's a lot like holding your breath for a really, really long time, then suddenly breathing in precious, life-giving oxygen - aware in a way you never were before of its purity and significance. Every candidate talks utter, breath stealing bullshit, on and on and profit margins and client negotiation and yes but you didn't blah blah taking the lead, stifling my blah shit shit blah, and then just when you think you can't take it any more, can't physically handle the level of pure verbal muck that's being shoved unendingly into your ears, Sir Alan comes out with "Yeah whatever, but you didn't actually do anything, did you Clive?" And breathe in.

4. Nick.

If I have to explain it, you'll never understand it.


So there, in utterly non-brief, are just some of the reasons why The Apprentice is incredible. But this time around, there's a whole new level. Teenagers. Just sit back, and think about that for a minute. TEENAGERS. Competing in challenges just as hard (and I use that term loosely), as proper, grown-up apprentice! Dear God, Nick, that was your idea wasn't it? You wily cartoon grandfather clock. Thing is, now there's a whole new level to the scorning of the contestants on the show. Because actually, you have to be a bit frightened of them too, frightened in a way you were never, ever frightened of the toothy goons that flocked into the previous series. These kids are 16.

16.

When I was 16, if i could look at myself in the mirror without bursting into tears cos I'd stuffed my bra unevenly again, I was doing pretty freaking well. These kids want to take over the world. At 16, I was worried that a side-parting was a bit too ambitious. And you kind of have to give them credit for that. Or do you? Because they're still stupid. Still just as stupid as anyone else that has ever graced this show. But they're fucking 16. God, I don't even know anymore, and this kind of delicious distress is wonderful in the way that a tequila shot is wonderful. Am I drunk? I don't even know. I mean, yes technically I am, obviously, but psychologically I've never felt more powerful.

So let's do a quick rundown of the remainding contenders, in light of tonight's final. I cannot wait.

We've got:

Arjun : The asian boy equivelent of that girl from Miracle On 34th Street, Arjun is the favourite to win. He's brainy, he's mathsy, he seems like he hates everyone except Tim, and he treats the programme like an interesting dream he's having - utter bemusement, but with a willingness to go along with what's happening nevertheless, safe in the knowledge that quite soon it will all come to an end

Tim: Half teen heart throb, half hedge, Tim is the charming well-meaner of the group, who unfortunately seems to fall over things rather a lot. He asks some surprisingly savvy business questions, considering he talks about Monopoly so much, and he seems to switch every five minutes to and from being the only one who talks any sense to an utter, utter bastard.

Kirsty: An otter with a fringe, Kristy seems to have no personality traits to speak of, but we can certainly be sure that she's very short, and has massive breasts. Which, as a sixteen year old, is pretty much all you need.

Zoe: Oh Zoe. Zoe is by far the most terrifying person in the universe. Why she thought basing both her personality and appearance on the character of Draco Malfoy was a good idea, I don't really understand. Remember that bit in the first Lord Of The Rings film (second Lord Of The Rings film? Anyway-) where Frodo offers the one ring to beautiful, soft and lovely Cate Blanchett? Remember how she hesitiates before taking it, exploding into a nightmarish vision of a world ruled by a DARK QUEEN? Zoe wouldn't hesitate. Not even for a second. Please don't let Zoe win. For the sake of the world as we know it, don't let Zoe win.

How The David Cameron/Nick Clegg Conversation Will Go

What's almost definitely happening RIGHT NOW



Cameron - "Look. OK Nick, lets get down to the nitty gritty. How about I give you a million pounds."

Clegg - "What?"

Cameron - "Think about it Nick. You and your spanish bit could go away, see the world, we could put that member of sum41 in your place and no-one would be any the wiser."

Clegg - "But - "

Cameron- "It's a good offer. It's an offer for change, Nick, there's no denying it."

Clegg - "Change?"

Cameron - "Change! Change Nick! Change is fucking amazing! Fucking CHANGE, man. I'm getting changed right now!"

Clegg - "oh my god, is that -"

Cameron - "thats right Nick. My lower dangler looked a bit too much like a red tie for my liking, so I had it burnt off, and put the head of a fox in its place"

Clegg- " Oh dear God that's-"

Cameron - "CHANGE, Nick. That's the ticket! Now, about this million-"

Clegg - "Look, I don't want it"

Cameron - "Really? Cos that's... that's never not worked."

Clegg- " Look, you know the deal, if I come in with you now, I'm going to look like a tit."

Cameron - "a tit?"

Clegg - "its like a breast, but... more fun"

Cameron "...................I see."

Clegg - "Though to be honest, none of the bastards fucking voted for me"

Cameron - "Well exactly"

Clegg - "they promised,"

Cameron - "I know they did"

Clegg - "We did pinkie swears Dave-"

Cameron - "Jesus Christ"

Clegg - "and then they.. fucking..."

Cameron - "They're wankers, that's why. Would you like some peacock udder?"

Clegg - "thats, thats not even-"

Cameron - "I like my udders furry, you see, so had the damn animal things fused together"

Clegg - "but... but peacocks aren't even furry."

Cameron "Nick please. "Dog udder" sounds fucking horrible. Sam would rip my balls off. Well, she would. If I hadn't turned them into diamonds."

Clegg - "True."

Cameron- "CHANGE!"

Clegg - "what?"

Cameron - "nothing, sorry."

Clegg - "you need to give me this electoral reform thing, Dave."

Cameron - "we have. I told you. We will totally open up our discussion panel to the possibilities of of *mumble mumble 1974 mumble and seriously, have some udder"

Clegg - "for fuck's sake, i can't go back to them with that. They'll have my fucking arse"

Cameron- "Oh Nick, come now. Lets just do this step by step. Seriously. We believe in you. You believe in us. Come on, give me a hug."

Clegg - "what? Oh, alright then

Cameron "Come here you,"

*sounds of a tustle*

Clegg "What the hell are you doing?"

Cameron - "what?"

Clegg - "What the shit is this? Is this.. have you just poured some blue paint down my back?"

Cameron- "it looks great. Seriously."

Clegg - "I'm off. If anyone asks, we clashed on the NHS and I stabbed you with a sword made of gold. Call my wife, and tell her we're leaving. Spain doesn't have to deal with this shit."

*He leaves*

Cameron - "Change!"

Election: My new favourite programme.

I have a confession to make. It's not a nice confession, so I'm trying to say it quietly, but "quiet" isn't a font I use often, mostly because it doesn't exist (though there's probably an app for that, much like there's not an app for "shutting the smugging hell up").



OK. Here we go.



I don't understand. I dont understand the election.



Now, please don't judge me too harshly. This is actually the first time I've not understood something like this and I'm not totally sure how it's happened. To be honest, I'm beginning to panic a little. Now stop me if I'm wrong, but firstly, Simon Cowell has yet to give his opinion on the whole thing. In terms of reality TV, that seems a bit weird. Secondly, I'm never totally sure which of the contestants is actually winning, as its very hard to make out what they're doing under all the sequins and glitter. Thirdly (and this is quite a big one), are you seriously telling me that the big prize is being in charge of the actual proper, real-life country? Because they've seriously yanked up the incentive since the "singing Somewhere over the rainbow to the queen" days. And we get to, like, vote for it? As a nation? Whose idea was that? Surely this is far too big a decision to be left to us? Somewhere, somehow, something seems to have gone terribly wrong. And I don't understand how it's happened.



I mean, I did try. I watched episodes one, two and three of "Election", with my ears so strained it felt like they were trying to have simultaneous poos. As far as I can tell, everyone was crooning away to the same song, an angry rock number entitled "Change". Though apparently Cameron sang it first, then Clegg did a disco cover-version, and Brown only released his yesterday after singing it live in front of Citizens UK. I really did like all of them, though Cameron seems a bit pissed off that everyone's stolen his hook. I'm just worried that somehow, despite clicking my fingers to the beat, I'm sort of missing the point.



The problem was that I'm finding it rather difficult to get to the bottom of everything. Now with The X-factor, the contestants each sing a song, the judges comment and we decide based on how nicely they did it. And also depending on whether or not they came from Wales. With this one, I'm finding it hard to see the criteria. It's certainly not "answering the question put to them in a way that is accessible to the great British public". It seems to me to be quite a basic dance routine - one of the three says something universally positive, like "babies are nice", one of the other ones just shakes his head in anger and disbelief and the other other one says "can we please just stop this bickering please". Then they trade places and do the same thing. Sometimes you have to keep an eye on the ties just to make sure you're looking at the right one. Without Simon there to tell them all to stop fucking about, I'm at a bit of a loss. Still, we do at least have polls, which are quite colourful in a "imagine if some lines were stumbling about drunk" kind of way.



But its unfair for me to make a judgement entirely based on three episodes. And anyway, its all online now, right? I thought to myself, why not have a look at the manifestos of the three, (the "about me" section on the "Election" facebook page). And I really tried, I did. But there too lay utter confusion, a spiky hedge maze of "macro-economics", "short -term freezes" and "strategic defense and security reviews", none of which I could really get a grasp of, littered among name-calling and snide remarks about past governing. I'm not saying its not entirely my own fault. I didn't in fact do a degree in economics. But considering the big hit "Change" seems to be the title track in the album "This economic crisis", forgive me for wanting information that I can understand quickly and clearly.



I can probably list on two hands the solid, no fucking about (seriously though, no fucking about)things I know about the party policies. Am I ashamed? Yes. Is this my fault? Possibly. But surely, in an age where we are overloaded with information, where apparently we can learn anything with a quick night-whistle to the owl of Wikipedia, surely it's strange that the most important knowledge about the society we live in has slimmed down to a campaign about three men, rather than three parties? What do I know? I know Cameron is the face of evil, that he climbs into children's bed at night and tells them their parents are made out of toast. Brown? A bumbling cod-fish, whose jaw muscles are slacker than his conversation and as for Nick Clegg, there are rumours that actually, he's one of the members of Sum41, doing this for a laff.

But there has to be a winner, doesn't there? There has to be, because every "election aftermath" has gone on and on about "who won this week". And as far as I can tell, that pissed blue little lines is sailing high above where the other two dare to treat. But then, if you ask my Lib Dem literature I was reading today "there are many, many areas where the Conservatives cannot win", and if you ask Labour, the Conservatives only exist if you say their name three times in the mirror, so who knows what's going to happen in the live final. Policy, you have no place here. This is about popularity, its about flashy persuation and its about banging your fist with gravitas. I've lost counts of the facebook groups that want to "get this dead salmon more fans than David Cameron", or "Get Clegg into power cos we did it with Xmas number one". What a great reason to vote, eh? Why not introduce a "vote 4 PM via text", where if you vote enough times, you get entered into a prizedraw to win a 30 second video of Sarah Brown and Sam Cameron wrestling, stripped to the waist? That and a one-way ticket to a country that doesn't pride its election as being a battle for who can shout the loudest. We're so bloody used to being handed the power, that I'm a bit worried we've lost any idea of how important we actually are. Still. It's too late now, eh? To all those who know what you're doing this Thursday, good luck to you. You stuck it out longer than I could. For everyone else, well, it's two days away yet, Cameron might yet stick a wine bottle up his bum and change everything.

McElderry vs Rage: A Practical Discussion

There's been a lot of tomfoolery, humdiggery and fopcockery going on over the last couple of weeks, significantly to do with Christmas, and the shinbobberies of those sail in her. (I think I only made one of the words above, but I can't be sure).

Christmas is a time of beautiful tradition. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire (which doesn't exist, because everyone just has Heinz microwave-a-chestnuts now), velvet scarves, looking at the Christmas tree whilst you put baubles on thinking "wow that's a lot of pine needles that just fell off. For no reason. Like a lot. A really lot though. Should I sweep them up? I should probably sweep them up. Do we even own a broom though? Could use the hoover. But then what if the pine needles block the hoover and mum gets all angry again even though i was just bloody trying to help and its CHRISTMAS for fuck's sake and BOLLOCKS to this, jesus, sometimes you can't do anything right, forget it I'm just going to set the thing on fire."

I've slightly forgotten what I was talking about, but the point is, Christmas presents are great. And also, that the Christmas Number One debate is one that we celebrate like clockwork every year. Remember when 'Mad World' won it? And everyone was all "yeah. fuck YEAH man! Cos like, everything is all shitted up and a bit of shiny fucking tinsel and Simpson's Cluedo doesn't change that you capitalist wankers." Though actually everyone was really just thinking "God its a bit dull, isn't it?" What a year.

So this time around, the debate is raging (hahahahaha yes I know brilliant) between Rage Against The Machine and X-factor winner Joe McElderry. In the pop-tastic, Jonathan Ross and M&S mince pies section of the world, the argument goes that Joe deserves it because he's got a lovely face, he's sung over 7 songs to a live audience and well.. because he just bloody does alright? In the FUCK YOU AMERICA, 'I'm using black tinsel this year' Rage section, the battle cry is more "DEATH TO SIMON COWELL, the revolution is nigh! Grab him by his very world-decision-making tongue and string him to a plastic violin that screeches out 'Bleeding Love' using his very INNARDS until he is ACTUALLY BLEEDING and HOW WE WILL LAUGH THEN"

Both compelling arguments, I'm sure we all agree.

But, in my humble, brilliant opinion, I think everyone is rather missing the point. There's only one way to judge this epic, never-to-be-forgotten (until christmas eve or so) battle. And that is by looking at the songs themselves. Strip away the ragged clothing of context, and gaze upon the shivering, supple product in all its nakedness. One of these songs is a more appropriate Christmas song than the other. Simple as that. One of them brings to the forefront of all of us the true meanings behind Christmas. And it is our job to find out which it is.

So. Lets have a proper bloody look, shall we?

Joe McElderry: The Climb

I can almost see it
That dream I am dreaming- so he's asleep to begin with, which isn't really a good start.
But there's a voice inside my head saying
"You'll never reach it" - a rather depressing message for children around the world at this time, don't you think, Joe?

Every step I'm taking
Every move I make feels
Lost with no direction
My faith is shaking - Oh dear oh dear, blasphemy eh? Did our Lord Jesus complain his symmetrical face off when he was NAILED TO A PIECE OF WOOD?If so, the bible dealt with that entire situation with great subtlety. You're just walking down a road, Joe. Keep it together.

But I gotta keep trying
Gotta keep my head held high

There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move- Joe is in fact here saying that he himself wishes to become our God, our Lord on high, and as the bible states "If you worship anyone else, I will fucking rail you"
Always gonna be a uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose

Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb- Joe's love of mountaineering is admirable, but not particuarly fitting with the spirit of Christmas. Perhaps more a comic relief song? He could climb one of these mountains he loves so bloody much for some kids dying of death?

The struggles I'm facing
The chances I'm taking
Sometimes might knock me down
But no, I'm not breaking

I may not know it
But these are the moments that
I'm gonna remember most, yeah
Just gotta keep going

And I, I got to be strong
Just keep pushing on I would rather delicately suggest here that Joe's song is almost entirely about his own personal troubles, an attitude that, at Christmas, is extrememly inappropriate.

'Cause there's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be a uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose

Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb, yeah! I can't help but feel bored and rather insulted at Joe's continuing insistence in telling us about his extreme hobbies. He is perhaps directing this song at his parents? As a way to suggest possible hill-related Christmas presents?

There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be an uphill battle
Somebody's gonna have to lose- slightly sinister?
Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side- Damning heaven?
It's the climb, yeah!

Keep on moving, keep climbing
Keep the faith, baby now indoctrinating youngsters to join his hiking, half-awake brainwashing, christianity bashing cult, with HIM at the centre like a grinning, crooning, boot wearing golden idol?
It's all about, it's all about the climb
Keep the faith, keep your faith, whoa.


A frightening look there, into the world of X-factor future.

Now. To the competition.

Rage Against The Machine: Killing In The Name Of

Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses. - instantly the song hooks us n with a delightful and very relevent comparison between our daily lives, and the sufferings Jesus McChrist went through on the cross.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.- Helpful to have it repeated, in case you didn't hear it quite right.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.- And again, perhaps with the knowledge that many who will listen to the xmas number one will be the over 70s, whose hearing may in fact be impaired.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses. Uggh!

Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of!- A harrowing but extremely potent reminder of the Easter result of all this Christmas frivolity. Jesus may have been born. But lets never forget...
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya- their dedication to the hard of hearing is admirable at a time of year when often, the less able among us can be forgotten
Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge- a lovely little reference to the decorations of the seasons,
they're the chosen whites- as in 'a white christmas'
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites

Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses. It's also nice to see that they haven't forgotten those who may suffer from memory loss.

Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of! - the rousing chorus!

And now you do what they taught ya
And now you do what they taught ya
And now you do what they taught ya
And now you do what they taught
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taughtya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taughtya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya!!! - A celebration of the traditions that bind us all together at this time of year! Passed down through the generations to create one consciousness, one mind, one very thought at this magical time!

Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
Come on!

(Guitar Solo)
Uggh!

Yeah! Come on! Uggh!

(Get louder until 9th by which time shouting)
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me. An ironic wink towards the young kiddies on this festive day, the tantrums, the brandy shared between a family row, a cautious but cheeky nod towards the rambunctiousness of Christmas
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.- all together now!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!

MOTHERFUCKER!!!! Ugh!!- the row descends into a final, happy sigh. An acknowledgement that at the end of the day, no matter what our differences, this is a time of sharing and loving.

I think it's clear that we have our winner. Now go forth, and spread the word.

Bless us, everyone, and remember, "fuck you, I won't do what you tell me".

Merry Christmas.