Britain's Got Talent

Another series of BGT comes to a close, and despite having watched none of it, I'd still like to throw my two penneth into the ring having been exposed to the circus vicariously through Twitter, enough so to make me tune in for the last 15 minutes to see who won.

There's been rumours flying around the interwebs that Ronan was "invited" to compete, after being spotted by Sony Music scouts singing at a function for ex Norwich goalkeeping legend Bryan Gunn two years ago, since when he has been groomed by Cowell et al. to be Britains answer to Justin Bieber.

Whether that's true or not is by the by. He looks the part, and despite not winning, will no doubt have a far more successful career than the winner, who takes home a fraction of the phone in revenue for tonight, and gets to sing at the Royal Variety Performance.

W00t

Ronan already has will get a record deal, and already has a legion of adoring fans ready to buy anything he releases. He'll be the real winner if you want to measure success in record sales, column inches exposure. How much money he'll actually receive is another matter entirely.

Whether he's gay or not, or a genuine talent or a hot housed precocious do it for Mummy child star is inconsequential. The little fuckers only twelve.

He may be ready for the attention he's going to get, or maybe Cowell will hide him away for a few months until the rumours die down, but either way, he probably needs to finish growing up before he throws himself at the mercy of the oh so fickle tabloid press.

Maybe I'm just a terrible snob for not liking reality talent shows, or too cynical to take any joy from what they stand for.

To some they are just harmless fun, not the exploitative juggernaut that I view them to be. If people want to make an arse of themselves on national TV, then fair enough, provided they understand the difference between the public are laughing at them, not with them.

And if the viewing public wants to spend their money on voting, good luck to them. The last series of X Factor made over £5 million from phones, and god knows how much more from advertising and sponsorship.

Cowell is a pro. I'm sure he'll do whatever he can to keep Ronan safe and on the straight and narrow, because a fucked up prodigy is no good as an investment.

Britain does have talent, and he's a flat headed high trouser wearing Svengali, and his talent is exploiting everyone he comes into contact with in order to make more money for himself.

Wheelie bad idea..

Unless you've been sheltering from the rain in a wheelie bin you cannot have escaped the news this week.

Provided of course that the wheelie bin in which you sought refuge was not unintentionally invaded by Lola, a four year old tabby from Coventry.

Mary Bale (no relation to Mrsslippy) now looks as likely to be asked by her neighbours to feed the cat whilst on holiday as Gary Glitter would be asked to babysit.

As a cat owner and all round animal lover myself, I found what she did completely abhorrent. If someone was to dump Minnie or Busta in a bin, I would certainly seek to discover the culprit, and press charges.

What I wouldn't do is demand their head on a plate. After a good old fashioned witch hunt she has been named and shamed, and Internet forums are alive with the most medieval demands for how her sick actions must be punished.

Nothing like a bit of mob justice to show the uncivilised barbarians of society the wrongs of their ways. The irony is almost palpable.

It's just a shame the angry hordes can't get as worked up over some real crimes in society..

• Apathy towards the plight of millions of flood victims in Pakistan.

• News Corp, and its fascist flagship Fox News fanning the flames of racial hatred with it's misinformation and propaganda surrounding the 'Ground Zero Mosque' - which interestingly is neither at Ground Zero, nor a Mosque

• Turning a blind eye to the Catholic Churches mutual wonky optics regarding allegations of persistent, endemic sexual abuse of minors, as we welcome Pope Benny to the UK in a couple of weeks time.

At least no cats were harmed in any of the above. Perhaps if they were, the public would care more.

Mary Bale will be punished for her crime.

I don't know the women, but she strikes me as someone clearly not right in the head. Lacking any empathy in the first place to do such a thing, and then lacking the insight into the fact that she had done anything wrong. She really claims to not understand what all the fuss was about.

Let the punishment fit the crime. She caused distress to a living creature, which could have died.

She did not set fire to a basket of kittens and use the embers to spit roast a puppy as part of some pagan ritual

Sadly animal abuse happens all the time, either by neglect, or direct action. Let's not make Mary Bale the poster girl for what is wrong with society just because she was caught on camera.

In a moment of madness she faces prosecution, losing her job, and her friends - and it serves her right. Any physical attacks on her, or her property makes us no better than her. An eye for an eye will make us all blind, and an arson for a kitty just wastes the Fire Services time.

She will find it hard to gain re-employment, and will be ostracised not only by her local community, but by the whole country. Shunned and ignored.

As one, we can send her to Coventry - but as previously stated, she already lives there.

And some would say that's punishment enough.

The Dulwich Defectives

After a brief hiatus of about 4 months where I've been so bored of staring at computer screens all day at work that I just can't be arsed to do it in the evening, I have decided to put pen to paper, or more correctly carpals to keyboard to document a jaunt to London before my aging synapses auto archive it to my minds irreversible recycle bin.

Taking inspiration from the 130th Anniversary of HP Lovecrafts birth, the closest we could get to doing Detective work in Dunwich, was assembling a collection of freaks, geeks and gargoyles to Stoxies stomping ground of East Dulwich and just being wrong.

Prime mission for the day - cricket. Unfortunately due to the ECBs complete incompetence by starting a Test on a Wednesday, and some shocking batting by the home side it was all but over by Day 4 on the Saturday. However there was still the prospect of getting a few hours of entertainment, followed by plenty of booze time.

Myself and Ali trained it from Cambridge to meet Stoxie and Tim already assembled at The Hanover Arms for a prematch warm up drink - soon to be joined by Nick and Stevo and into The Oval to start racking up the pints whilst wondering if the last wicket stand could rack up more runs. A little sweepstake on how many balls England would face was short lived as Broad swiped recklessly at the 3rd ball of the day and as soon as play started, it was back to the pavilion to prepare for a Pakistan run chase.

They were quickly out the blocks, and the chase looked as one sided as Mo Farah legging it after Heather Mills, bludgeoning her with her spare leg as he goes.

As it became more and more apparent that it would be over as soon as it began, the only way to make the most out of the day was going to be to just keep getting the pints in and soaking up the atmosphere.

Seemed atmosphere wasn't the only thing we could soak up, as our section of the crowd became less interested in cricket, and more interested in drinking, and feeding the snake.

I'd never seen a snake at a sporting event before, but the execution was so sublime and simple I'm stunned to be a viper virgin. Simply collect up your empty pint pots in a stack, and feed it by passing it around the stand. Busy hands gather discarded plastic pots adding vertebrae at an exponential rate whilst its head waves ominously several feet above you. Eventually the snake reaches critical mass and it's body collapses, spewing it's innards of warm dregs of Fosters and Pedigree over all and sundry, only to be reborn from its broken body parts.

A phoenix from the flames, or a serpent from the spillages.

Some more incisive bowling from Jimmy and Swanny slowed things down enough to make for a slow painful death, but all over too late to find a local football ground, so instead back to Dulwich, Stoxies local, and Soccer Saturday on the big screen.

What followed was 8 hours of systematic abuse, bullying, and character assassination as each individuals physical and mental flaws were ruthlessly laid bare for the cheap amusement of the others - and it was great.

An extended episode of The Inbetweeners made real, but with 36-37 year olds who have somehow despite holding down responsible jobs and raising families are deep down no better that the 17 year old versions of ourselves sneaking into pubs compiling lists of dream women - some of which remain the same after 20 years despite the fact that some of the women are now world weathered hags, and heavily soiled goods.

Food came courtesy of Stoxies local Mongolian Barbecue joint, which went down just right, as did the drinks which were switched from ale to pitchers of margarita, or as coined by Stevo "Tasty Drink". An accurate description which worked well enough procuring refills in the restaurant, but slightly ambiguous when requested at the next bar, so onto bottled lager it was.

Next up - something we've never done before. We've dabbled in all sorts of nonsense on all day sessions with things getting particularly messy. The full stories of which can only be pieced together using combined flashbacks, and contents of cameras, phones, receipts in wallets, and an absence of all cash money.


What had we never done?



Six men, let loose in the big city with a weekend pass from six very trusting ladies?



Six men with a combined track record of some of the most debauched puerile shennanigans?



What's left to do?



An early night....



We went home before 11...



No late licenses, no clubs, no titty bars, no casinos, no roaming the streets naked looking for random trophies to transport home balanced on our heads.


Home - Match of the Day - all tucked up in separate beds by 12.



And if you believe that you'll believe anything.



For which I commend your trust - because sadly, it's true.