Oh, David. You sly fox, you. Here you had me convinced that you were a true child of Thatcher, cutting budgets and restricting social mobility. How wrong I was. All along, you've been secretly trying to make us all upper class by sneaking everyone into the House of Lords.
For today’s portion of Angry Flat Cap bile, I decided to look through the Hello! Magazine Royal Wedding iPhone app. Instead of feeling angry, I ended up feeling indifferent and depressed.
I’m usually not a fan of promotional material being bundled into games. It’s becoming more common for games to come bundled with a trailer for something that has bugger all to do with the game that you bought. But I’m willing to make an exception for the interactive trailer for Super 8 that came bundled with Portal 2.
What do you get when someone decides to write, direct, and star in a film? Well, sometimes you get Citizen Kane. Other times, you get The Room-- a film so bad it goes past being good and reverts to being bad, but then still has enough bad in reserve to make it utterly incredible.
Because iPhones can't block calls, I receive around three cold calls a week from a company called Space Kitchens. They usually get quite rude when they discover that I don't actually own a kitchen. I thought I'd turn the tables and get their hopes up with a potential sale-- an overly hairy man who wants a velcro kitchen.
Out of the blue, Hugh Grant has just pulled off what could well be the journalistic coup of the year. He may have also set a new par for puns. I think I've just started to fancy him.
I get around three calls a week from telemarketers from Space Kitchens (as seen on Watchdog). I decided to have some fun with them today: “Hello, this is … from Space Kitchens, how are you today?” “I’m well thank you, though my dog has just died today.” “What?” “My dog has just died.” “Your daughter?” […]
'Graphic novel' is a term used by literary folk who aren't brave enough to admit that they read comic books. That's the top, bottom, middle, and sticky innards of it. They want to be perceived as ‘intellectual’, and are worried that reading comics might ruin their image. The pillocks.
Rain or shine, they’re there every Saturday morning. They stand at the corner of Market Square in my local town, ensuring that passers-by are aware of the teachings of Christ. Once upon a time I’d have walked on, but, disciple of Dawkins and Darwin that I am, I decided to engage them in debate. I soon realised that I don’t have the killer instinct to go for their theological jugular. Some people are just too nice, and I’m too polite.