Northerners Views of the Beautiful South

Imagine the situation if you will. You are about to embark on a long journey abroad, possibly on a boat or a plane. You are happy and content because at that very moment you are the only British person in the environment. Lovely! Picture then, that feeling of utter horror, depression and crushing inevitability that something dreadful is about to happen as another British person joins you. And they are from up North. And by up north I mean either Yorkshire or Lancashire. First they will be friendly and chatty as you are a fellow Brit, but as their attention span (not the longest in the history of humanity at the best of times) begins to wander they will suddenly remind you why it was such a good idea by the Romans to build a bloody great big wall to keep the "northern hoardes" out.

Your biggest crime in their eyes is that you are from "the south". To them this will give them carte blanche to comment on:

1. Your sexuality. As you are from "down south" then you are very obviously a poof. This is northern logic in action. You will see a lot more of it in the next few moments.
2. Southern beer. All southern beer to anyone born north of Watford is inevitably dubbed "weak as piss shandy drinkers dish water!" And this from an area of Britain that gave us John Smith's Smooth Flow - the brewing equivalent of draining the contents of the bottom of a dish washer. When I do go up north I have often been astounded by the amount of pubs that serve real ale through a sparkler. A sparkler is an attachment on the pump that puts more air in the beer, froths it up and masks its flavour if it is weak or gone off. At the pubs I used to work in down south we only ever put sparklers on the pumps when the beer was on the turn, but apparently it is demanded to be on every single pump "oop north".
3. Southern women. Northern fuckwit men like to tell everyone that all southern women are ugly dogs and right old slappers. Apparently all northern women are stunning Helen of Troy look-a-likes and are as classy as a night out in Blackpool. Just like all those real lookers on Coronation Street you mean? More pigs and hounds in that street than on your average farm.
4. How wonderful Lancashire/Yorkshire is and how awful wherever you live is. There was a documentary on some years ago following a group of tourists at a Greek Island resort. There was a complete mixture of people from all walks of life - and a group of four friends from Lancashire. They all wore t-shirts that mentioned somewhere on them that they were from Lancashire. One of the guys spent the whole holiday wandering around the resort in a vest with the words "I'm From Lancashire, Lancashire is Great, You can all FUCK OFF" written on it. How witty. Oscar Wilde at his finest. To cap it all off this idiot suffered a deep vein thrombosis in his leg on arrival, but decided to go and get pissed for three days first before consulting a doctor. After being hauled off to a Greek hospital he checked himself out immediately, rented a moped and spent another two days drinking and riding his way round the countryside with a leg that was rapidly turning a violent shade of purple. He finished the holiday by turning up for the flight back to Lancasheeeer pissed and abusive at the airport. Oh for a suicide bomber on that flight.

Now I realise that there is a competitive element wherever people live. I was always amazed by how much animosity there was between north and south London when I lived in the capital. But northerners don't just have chips on both shoulders, they have fucking great bags of King Edward Potatoes. And as for the Welsh.... Nah, better not go there.

Utterly Pointless Celebrities

Do you, like me, find yourself virtually frothing at the mouth with rage when certain people appear on TV? Some may think that this is an irrational rage, but I am much more sympathetic, because let's face it, there is always at least one complete tosser who is employed by the TV stations for the only reason but to drive normal viewers insane with rage. And here, in no particular order, are my ten personal tossers:

1. Fearne Cotton. WTF? How on Earth did this irritating little twat of a human being ever get employed by the BBC in the first place? She is even more annoying as she seems to be under the massive misapprehension that (a) she is clever and funny, and (b) people agree with the total bollocks she spouts forth. Did her being a relative of former BBC Director General Bill Cotton have anything to do with her sudden propulsion up the league table of presenters? Surely not! (See previous Spleens for my views on nepotism. Hi Giles Coren!). The final nail in Fearne's coffin for me was her interruption of REM's set at the Live 8 gig in London, just so that she could go on air and chat to her mates in Razorlight. Shut up, woman!
2. Vernon Kay. Just what the UK needs now - another loud mouthed talentless Lancastrian being jolly and funny and gurning at the camera every three seconds like some lobotomised red neck fuckwit. If it were a straight choice between being stuck in a lift with Vernon or slamming my genitals in a walk in freezer door for a couple of days, I would personally queue up and pay a tout over the odds for tickets to the freezer door. Or as Vernon would pronounce it "doo-urr".
3. Natasha Beddingfield. OK, admittedly not a presenter on TV, but on TV enough as to make one want to take up Russian Roulette as a hobby. Where do I start? That grating annoying voice? Those tuneless bloody songs that go on forever? That simpering look and equine teeth? All that bloody "born again Christian" bollocks? I fear it is mostly down to one song - "Unwritten" - the most tuneless, directionless, pointless, faux philosophising pile of self obsessed wank ever played endlessly on the music channels. And you can quote me on that...
4. Russell Brand. Do I really need to spell this one out? A stick insect with back combed hair? Forsooth! A media tart without a heart, but a mouth with verbal dysentry, a worrying obsession with his own genitalia and so self obsessed with his own image as to not realise that within a few years he will be forever replayed on nostalgia programmes as a sort of "didn't we look like a bunch of twats in the early 2000's?" strand. Quite simply a pointless, talentless, gobby twat.
5. Anyone Who Has Ever Been a Presenter on "Loose Women". Or as it should be titled: "Menopausal Man Hating Harpies Bleat About Lack of Sex, Chocolate Obsessions and Water Retention". Particularly that odd woman (is it Carol?) with the cheeks like she's a hamster caught halfway through a particularly crunchy carrot. But I can forgive Colleen Nolan most things as she has fabulous tits.
6. Chantelle. You know the lady I mean. Britain's very own version of Paris Hilton. But more of a Paris Travelodge really. Why have people actually bought her autobiography? What is there to know? I can save you some money, here is a potted outline of her autobiography: Dumb blonde trollope, does Paris Hilton look-a-likes, gets lucky break appearing on appalling "reality TV show", cops off with unknown lead singer of equally unknown band, marries him, fucks off into the sunset, the end - who cares? This woman brings a whole new meaning to the word "SHALLOW". Brain dead, pointless waste of oxygen.
7. Eamon Holmes. Some years ago, I sent a letter of complaint to GMTV about some appalling bollocks they had put on stereotyping Essex (my old home). It was a long, eloquent and well balanced letter, getting my displeasure at the item over in a firm but pleasant way. What did I get as a reply? A letter from Eamon himself saying "Sorry you didn't like our funny little item. Here is a signed photo of me to cheer you up." AAAAAARGH! WANKER! The man is a simpering tosser who loves the sound of his own voice and supports Mancester United, an offence which should be punishable by death.
8. June Sarpong. Words fail me now. How did this woman ever get into TV? She looks like a pig - sorry folks this is true. June has a face that only a mother could love. The voice? Jesus, this is like a cross between Jimi Hendrix whilst totally bonged off his rocker trying to read the telephone directory and the sound of someone scraping their fingernails down a particularly shiny blackboard. I thought the two main requisites of being a presenter on TV these days was a relatively articulate and clear voice, and a pleasant attractive face. Oh, bad luck June! 0 out of 2 for you!
9. Fiona Phillips. Pass the sten gun will you, dear? SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP! And for heaven's sake, when looking at the camera stop tilting your head to one side. In fact, better still just fuck off out the studio and don't come back. Leave it to the far more attractive, intelligent and lovely Penny Smith.
10. Gregg Wallace and John Torode. Who? The two tossers with the complete sense of humour by-pass who present "Master Chef". What a pair of fecking wankers! Particularly John "I am so serious it hurts" Torode. John, relax my man! It is just food! Put your feet up, have a Pot Noodle and chill man! You can imagine that one day the pair of them might crack a smile and when they do - the sound of splitting skin, the screams of agony from the pair of them as their heads fall in half. I thought I would never hear myself utter these words but, bring back Loyd Grossman.