It is a celebration of 25 years in the business, and ends with the tag line, “Still red hot”.  The advert is a 90 second message which is essentially saying, “Come and fly with us, because you will definitely want to have sex with all of the the air hostesses, and you women passengers will want to shag the pilots.”

I suppose it’s true that sex sells, so I should not be surprised.  But personally I think it is false advertising.  I flew to Barbados with Virgin last summer, and there were some right dogs serving the drinks.  I was in cattle class, admittedly, but still.  They were still very good at their jobs, don’t get me wrong.  I just didn’t want to have sex with them.  I do not know if they wanted to have sex with me, it never came up.

Virgin are setting themselves up for a fall with this campaign.  How many horny travellers will pay that little extra to fly Virgin only to find themselves being served peanuts by Anne Widdecombe’s ugly sister?  Of course, there are people who like that sort of thing, and pay good money for it, but why travel across the Atlantic to get fed by ten ton Tess?  There lots of websites and private members clubs you can visit if you are into ugly fatties.  Probably.

Anyway, if you happen to work for Virgin, and look like the cabin crew in the video, feel free to get in touch to correct me.

In the advert, a man dressed like a 70’s porn star serenades an office with tales of this despicable man, Knock-off Nigel.  Nigel, it seems, likes to download films from off of the Internet.  According to the porn star’s song, this makes him a ‘grubby little man’ who also commits other heinous crimes against his colleagues.  Such as stealing money from whip rounds, and taking your food from the fridge.   I can only assume he mentions these crimes in the song because these crimes are EXACTLY the same as downloading a film.

I actually see this advert as a sign of success for the anti-piracy campaigners.  This move to target slightly grubby office workers who must mean they have beaten their previous foes, as they are no longer telling us that counterfeit films “Support terrorists and drug dealers”.

It is a bit of a step down from terrorists, drug dealers and organised crime, to focussing on people who take your sandwiches from the fridge, but I admire their community minded campaign.  Linking crimes such as lunch-theft and ’sneaking coins out of the whip round’ to ‘downloading films’ takes a certain level of skill, and possibly years of studying criminology.  I think it only fair that the advertisers tell us what else we should be looking out for, after all, they have done the research.

But why stop there?  By the same crime escalation logic whereby committing Crime A means you also commit Crime X, the guy in the office who smacks the secretary’s arse is probably a closet rapist who bums dogs in his spare time.  I think they should tell us everything they know.

BASIL FAWLTY
So that's two Egg Mayonnaise, a Prawn Goebbels,
A Hermann Goring, and four Colditz salads....
No wait a minute, I got confused here, sorry.  I got
a bit confused because everyone keeps mentioning
 the war.  So could you....what's the matter?

Basil acknowledges the now crying female lunch guest.

GERMAN #1
It's all right.

BASIL FAWLTY
Is there something wrong?

GERMAN #1
Will you stop talking about the war!

BASIL FAWLTY
Me?  You started it!

GERMAN #1
We did not start it!

BASIL FAWLTY
Yes you did, you....No.  No you're right.
I apologise, I am the proprietor of this hotel
and I apologise.  Please accept lunch on me
by way of a proper apology.

GERMAN #1
Thank you.

Basil leaves them and enters the kitchen.  He hits Manuel around the head and
then begins verbally abusing him.

BASIL FAWLTY
Manuel!  I am so going to do the sex with
your grand-daughter.  You have no idea the
things we will get up to!

Producer’s Notes:
I like it, but I think he lets the Germans off a bit lightly.  The free lunch has got to go.  Maybe another joke about the war?  Perhaps something about the Jews or Poland?  How about a Hitler impression? Or even better, how about Hitler with a really funny walk!  I know John says he’s left all that behind, but I am sure we could convince him to do it again if the context was good.

DEL BOY
You see, nowadays these modern Euro birds,
they go for the mature men who's made it in life.

TRIGGER
Yeah? Is that why we're having no luck?

DEL BOY
I ain't tried yet! I'm just building meself up for
the kill.

TRIGGER
Yeah, well, you'd better hurry up. The first bell
went just now.

DEL BOY
Yeah, alright, alright.

Now the girl at table catches eyes with Del Boy.

DEL BOY
(Cont'd)
Could be on a winner here, Trig. Alright, play it nice
and cool, son, nice and cool. You now what I mean?

Del smiles coolly and nods a greeting. The girl returns the merest of
smiles and turns away.

Inspired by his tiny success, Del leans off counter and lights a cigar.
Del now leans coolly on the bar and waves at the girl. He takes a puff
from his cigar and makes his way over to them.

DEL BOY
Au reviour mon petit chien.

GIRL
Err, hello.

DEL BOY
I couldn't help but notice you smiling in my direction
just then.

GIRL
Sorry, I was just trying to get the barman's attention.
He's ordered us a cab you see.

DEL BOY
OK, well maybe I could offer you lovely ladies a lift home?

GIRL
OK, what sort of cab have you got?

DEL BOY.
No!  I'm not a cabbie.

GIRL
Sorry, executive travel provider?  It's difficult to
tell one cabbie from the next.

Del returns to Trigger in  a huff.

DEL BOY
Come on Trigger, drink up, we're leaving.
TRIGGER
What happened Del, I thought you were in there.
DEL BOY
Lesbians Trig, both Lesbians.

Producer’s Notes:

I like the way that Del’s high expectations are thwarted by his physical appearance, but I’m not sure that the lesbian line works.  Perhaps in another 20 years or so when it’s a more common insult?

How about introducing some physical comedy instead?  There isn’t enough falling over in comedy today.  Maybe watch some Laurel & Hardy for inspiration?  I really think a good ‘falling over’ gag could work well in here somwhere.

That is where I come in.

Last week’s post advising George W. Bush to use the law to his advantage got me thinking, and as a result I do have another tip for Al Qaeda – Sponsorship.

I think it is fair to say that when Osama Bin Laden releases a video, it is seen by the entire Western world.  How hard would be it be to preface each release with a short message?

“This warning to the godless infidels in the West is brought you by Starbucks – your pick-up in a cup.”

Don’t say that no-one will pay to sponsor something as morally questionable as Al Qaeda, because Virgin paid £3m to sponsor Big Brother, so there is a precedent.  I believe this will work because the advertising industry truly has no moral compass.

I know what you are thinking, you are thinking that it is not true that there is no such thing as bad publicity, after all, Gary Glitter is hardly storming up the iTunes chart, is he?  But that is wrong.  Trust me, if he had been hounded back into the UK drinking a can of coke you would all have been going, “That dirty bastard!  How did we let him come back here.  But you know what, I have got a bit of a thirst on now…”

On a personal note, it is really disappointing to find out the one thing you are good at is advising terrorist organisations.  There is not much career development there.  I doubt that any terrorist organisation would ever believe that I was running a genuine agency.

“Ha! I bet this is a secret MI6 plan to capture us!”

“No, honestly, I genuinely want to help you leverage the value of your brand.”

It wouldn’t be the first time a brand has been associated with Al Qaeda either.  I bet that deep down, in the place where we have the thoughts that no-one talks ever about, the Marketing team at Porsche were secretly pleased that the phrase ‘9/11′ took off.  I can almost hear them saying, “…and please let one of the terrorists have been called Cabrera!”

The Russians (who qualified ahead of England remember) have been very impressive, including a far from fortuitous win over the Netherlands.  They had done enough to convince many football fans that they had what it takes to not only reach the final, but to win it.

Then, this evening, they performed like a local pub side.  A pub side where the players had not met each other till the kick-off.  And where three of them claimed to be “cricketers actually”.  They were so lacking in creativity they made monotone German automaton Didi Hamann’s half-time analysis seem like a Sigfried & Roy spectacular.

I simply could not understand how a team could get so bad in such a short space of time.  Then I checked my email and someone had sent me a link to the BBC Sports site which had the following news snippet.

“Russia’s players have been promised two gorgeous girls for every goal they score against Spain in tonight’s Euro 2008 semi-final by socialite Pyotr Listerman. ”

Hmmm.

One would imagine this to be an excellent incentive for any man who has ever seen a Bond movie.  Clearly not.  I can only assume that the movies lie, and also that Maria Sharapova is not indicative off Russian women as a whole.  On a personal level, this is disappointing in the extreme.  I have been saving for ages for my Russian road trip, and it seems those tennis lessons were a complete waste of time.

Well Pyotr, I think we have all learned a valuable lesson here tonight.  No-one likes to have a minger forced upon them.  Perhaps you should have promised each of them four Russian women if they lost?

So where are all the young nature documentary makers?

I blame the Internet.

Or more specifically, I blame Internet porn. Since the Internet came along kids are no longer interested in nature any more. And why would they be? They no longer need to spend hours in bushes and hedgerows looking for discarded porn. Nowadays it is just a click away. They are truly spoilt.

I remember many bush-based conversations as a kid that went along the lines of, “Would you look at the gash on that!” followed closely by “Oooh, look! A pretty butterfly!”

I tell you, everything I know about which leaves sting exposed flesh is thanks to discarded porno magazines. There are some mistakes you only ever make once. When it comes to this country’s fauna within 20 feet of a public footpath I am like David Bellamy. Which I suppose makes me as qualified as anyone to take over from Mr. Attenborough?

I recently wrote about vegetarians, and their so-called love of animals, but I find this same ‘love’ from the makers of nature documentaries to be extremely hypocritical. How can someone who claims to love animals sit idly by whilst they watch a poor defenceless creature having it’s ass handed to it, or a polar bear swimming out to sea and to its certain death?

It is sickening. If I did such a thing in the local park I would be reported to the RSPCA again. Apparently they are OK though, as it is deemed bad form to interrupt or influence anything which is behaving as per its natural instincts.

I am pretty sure that the police would take a very different view if you stood by and filmed a violent sexual predator in action. My applications for such a permit have been refused so far, anyway.

But what’s the difference? After all, it’s just me filming an animal responding to his natural urges, right?

When it comes to Gladiators, I have a small confession to make. I once went to watch Gladiators being filmed in Birmingham.  In my defence, I was taking my younger brother who was about eight at the time, so I have perfectly legitimate excuse. Sort of. All those telephoto lens shots I took of Jet were for my brother’s collage. On her part, I think the restraining order was a bit over the top to be honest.

However, society has moved on since those halcyon days. Today’s streets are full of knife fights, ASBO wielding teenagers and filthy paedophiles, so I hope the producers will be taking this societal shift on board.

I always felt that Gladiators was just a small step from becoming Arnie’s film, The Running Man. This Gladiator revival could be an excellent opportunity to make that final leap.

Who wants to watch a body-conscious pretty-boy stock broker trying to run up a slightly quick escalator against the clock? Wouldn’t you rather watch a skinny chav, who has been caught carrying a knife, have a fight to the death with Rhino? I know I would.

What about teenage cat burglar playing Hang Tough above a pit of poisonous snakes?

Wouldn’t that just be an enormous ratings winner?

What other events would you like to see brought into the new series?

“I’d like to return this magazine, as upon closer inspection it appears it has absolutely no bikini-clad models in it. None whatsoever. Not even that racist scouser from Celebrity Big Brother and she’s got a contract to be in every magazine produced in the next five years.”

Magazines about making models of the solar system are not my cup of tea, what with me not being a nerd, but I paid attention after seeing the advert highlight the cover price of £1.99 over half of the screen.  This is quite cheap for a magazine nowadays. Even more so when you consider that you get some free model parts with each magazine.

Then I noticed the on screen small print.

“Normal price £5.99″

Hmm.

It seems to me that what they are doing is luring you with cheap tasters in order to get you hooked on making models of the solar system. Just like the crack dealers.

I am not suggesting that making models of the solar system is as addictive as the delicious heroin, but surely using the same tactics is at the very least, morally questionable?

What next? Cut price Hubba Bubba for sale at the school gates? Buy one get one free from Threshers for all Alcoholics Anonymous members? Or maybe even the promise of a lower tax burden in order to secure your vote at a general election?

Oh.

I mean a proper window-licking mental, not just a bit ‘wacky’. I only ask after recently watching Dancing on Ice, or whatever it is called, whilst visiting my folks.

As he stumbled across the ice in his lycra one-piece, he looked about as comfortable as Abu Hamza during a piano lesson.

All the while grinning like a complete and utter spaz.

Apparently the contestants were asked to do a ‘jump’ this week, and our Greg delivered by leaping across the rink with all the grace of a man in a chicken suit. Then he fell on his arse, on live TV, and got up grinning like an idiot.

Now, I understand it is difficult not to grin when you have a set of teeth and lower jaw like he does, but come on man, have some fucking shame.

Any normal person would be racked with embarrassment, but not our Greg. He positively revelled in his dismal failure. Clearly being an adoptive Brit, our celebration of glorious losers has rubbed off on him a bit more than perhaps he had hoped it would. Perhaps he should spend some time back in Canada to remember what it should feel like when you lose.

Oh, and he should learn to skate while he is there.

On this occasion however, it is about a policewoman, and she has traveled back to 1981. With me so far?

Many of the characters remain the same, but a few years older (if not wiser), and a central character is that of DCI Gene Hunt. It is about him that the BBC have received all the complaints.

Well, not so much him, as much as his car. You see, the model of Audi sports car that he is seen driving in 1981, was not actually available until 1984, and this appears to have infuriated the masses.

The wrong model of car. Which could not possibly have been in existence in 1981, except perhaps on a drawing board in West Germany.

Please note that they are perfectly happy with the premise of a woman being shot in the face and traveling back in time 27 years and finding herself attending a boat party dressed as a prostitute. That is absolutely fine. No problems there whatsoever. It is just the car they take issue with.

What type of person complains about something like this? We should be grateful that the current series of Points of View has finished, or Terry Wogan would spend his brief television appearance discussing the relative merits of early eighties German automotive engineering.

Complaining about this is akin to complaining to the BBC that the angle of the sunrise on the Teletubbies is completely inaccurate for a planet inhabiting the earth’s solar orbit. The silly fucking car-loving twats.

I know why people watch them, obviously, I would probably have started watching Big Brother if the celebrity versions did not exist, but why would you want to make one? Performance anxiety before the event puts you under enough pressure as it is. The last thing you need is the added pressure of potentially appearing camera shy.

Have you noticed that you never see a sex tape where the bloke suffers from a touch of the Peles? Or ‘arrives’ a little early. I would like to watch one, just once, for the inevitable ego boost it would provide. Surely they must be out there?

How about Brad and Angelina starring in “Sorry. It’s not you Ange, I’ve had a bit too much to drink and it’s been a really long week.”

However, if you did have a sex tape of you and your partner, when would you actually watch it? It’s not like you don’t know what’s going to happen, so there is no suspense. There is no element of surprise to be had. It’s not as if you can tuck a home-made sex tape away with recordings of the wedding or family birthday parties.

“Shall we watch our wedding video again?”

“Nah, I’d rather watch that slightly disappointing shag we had two years ago, you know the one where you do that thing with that wotsit.”

Let us be honest here, no-one likes the way they look on camera, so instead of watching the frantic rutting, you would be making notes on how to improve the lighting in the bedroom. So it is sort of pointless to watch it with your partner.

Of course, you certainly can not watch it with another partner. Imagine going round to your new girlfriends for dinner. She has cooked for you, there is some wine, the atmosphere is pretty fucking romantic. Then she suggests putting on a film.

“What are you thinking? Love Actually? Another romantic comedy perhaps?”

“No, I was thinking we could watch a tape of me having sex with my last boyfriend, there’s a really good bit an hour and twenty minutes in…”

The last thing you would want to see is your new girlfriend getting nailed to the bed by her last boyfriend (this is why I will never date Paris Hilton). Except perhaps her getting nailed by her next boyfriend, but that is a whole other post right there.

I am not a geek by the way.

When I was at school I was always interested in science, but there was no money or chicks in it, so I gave it up at GCSE level. This was almost immediately after my Biology teacher showed me a pickled baby in a jar. This was during a lesson and in front of the other children, not part of some sort of one-on-one after-class punishment, it was not that sort of school.

It was a real baby though, I kid you not. She claimed the baby would have been older than us had it lived, but someone (another blogger of some repute) who was taught by the same teacher a few years earlier, does not remember the pickled baby. This is not something you forget, so he must have been off the day they brought the preserved foetus out to play.

Anyway, the presenter of The Atom was describing the world of Physics in the 1920’s and 30’s, and how one physicist in particular, whose name escapes me, had become known as something of a party boy and a womaniser.

This is does not strike me as correct. A nerd? With women? The life and soul of parties?

I can sort of understand why he said it. I mean, he is presenting a programme about his vocation, so it makes sense that he is sexing it up a bit. So, making it seem like it was lab coats by day and labia by night might result in him getting a bit of reflected glory. Or an invite to at least one party.

I do wonder though if I made a massive career error in not following the sciences into University? Would a thorough knowledge of protons neutrons and atomic weights have guaranteed me more poontang?

* Yes, I drafted this entire post in an effort to incorporate the word ‘poontang’.

I finally glanced over as she wiped away a tear and tried to hide her face. I looked back at the TV.

“It’s emotional!” she explained.

“I am not crying, am I?” I retorted.

“That’s because you are dead inside.”

So, apparently I am dead inside, emotionally speaking. Physically speaking, my heart rate is a little fast and I have slightly high blood pressure, but apart from that, I am fine. But I am dead inside because I did not cry.

At Saturday’s episode of the X Factor.

I am in touch with my feelings. Anyone who reads the drivel on this website would know that, but I fail to see why anyone, ever, would cry at a reality television show. Especially one where inept singers embarrass themselves in front of the nation.

Can someone enlighten me?

Apparently he did not die for a few more days, which is nice, you know, for him and his family.

However, there has been outrage in the the television world as a result. I must admit at this point to not watching much ITV programming these days, so it has come as a bit of a shock to learn that snuff movies have become so popular on mainstream television.

I remember a time when you would have to search the Internet for hours and hours for this kind of thing. Now they put them on in between The Bill and News Knight with Sir Trev. At least they wait till after the watershed.

It is a good job that this deceit has come to light now, as I can only imagine the letters of complaint they would have received had they not been found out before it was shown. It would have been a bumper week for Points of View (which is still going isn’t it? I don’t watch much BBC either.)

He was not dead!! I could see his chest moving!! Perhaps you should stick a knife in just to make sure next time?

If I wanted to watch old people fall asleep I would go to a Test Match. When people die it involves copious amounts of blood and lots of screaming, everybody knows this. What is this country coming to?

This is just typical of this Labour Government. Bring back Thatcher, that’s what I say. She would have made sure he was dead, and happily have finished him off herself if he was determined to cling on. Not like these lefty namby-pamby ‘medical professionals’.

They do say there is no such thing as bad publicity, though I am sure Chris Langham’s agent would disagree. With that in mind, will you be watching next Wednesday?

Apparently Americans, one of the most self-congratulatory societies on the planet, do not feel the same way. I say this after watching some television on the Paramount Comedy channel over the weekend. Have you ever tried to read the credits at the end of an American show? They fall down the screen faster than Chris Langham’s trousers in PC World (allegedly).

What is the point of having your name in the credits if you are not able to take a screen shot of it and email it to all of the eligible women that you know? If it was me, I would be furious.

Can you imagine having a party at your house, just as the first episode of a show you have been involved in was being screened, and then, just as your moment of glory arrives, you call for silence and the credits begin to roll. And then they whip past, and everyone suddenly casts accusatory glances in your direction, and none of the women will sleep with you. A true nightmare scenario if ever there was one.

I think this is why people like Jay Leno, David Letterman and Michael Parkinson insist in having their names in the title of their shows. There can be no absolutely no doubting the fact that they are in it.

If they were trying to impress ladies in a bar with lines like, “I have interviewed Billy Connolly forty-eight times”, they would not even need to watch an episode of the show to prove it. A copy of the Radio Times and a highlighter pen would be more than sufficient. You would save an absolute fortune in Rohypnol.

Also known as “Today’s torrential rain and washed out garden party, brought to you by Powergen”

This is worst piece of promotional sponsorship I have ever heard of. British weather is, in the main, fucking abysmal. There are good days, yes, but largely we wish our island was located a couple of dozen degrees latitude further south. Just off the coast of Portugal would be nice.

When you consider the levels of displeasure that our weather brings to us, it is baffling to consider which bright spark in Powergen’s creative team thought it would be a good idea to align themselves with the weather. It disappoints people, because it is shit. Invariably a weather forecast ends with people saying things like, “Shit, that’s the BBQ fucked then” or “I guess we’ll have to have the sex indoors again then”.

If they were advertising electricity in the Dominican Republic, I could see the potential benefit. “Fuck me, sunny again, I tell you what, those folks at Powergen are fucking ace! Quick, boil the kettle, I want to buy more electricity!”

UK based weather sponsorship does not make me want to buy my electricity from Powergen. Quite the opposite. It makes me hate them. Why can’t they fuck off and take the fucking ceaseless drizzle with them? If they are going to insist on sponsoring something that upsets so many people I do not know why they don’t go the whole hog and sponsor ‘rape’ and ‘child abduction’.

Of course, these are all excellent reasons why Big Blogger is also a great idea. Plus the fact that I am in it.

Yes, yes. I was a fall-back in case some people dropped out, which they did. But I have very little pride, and so I hungrily accepted the invitation to move into the house this week.

I do not really know what to expect, what with missing the orientation meeting and everything, but it appears that there will be ‘tasks’ and ‘games’ and people will get to vote off the people they don’t like (for clarification, this means people who are not me).

Pop over and have a look. There are some genuinely funny people in there, some I was aware of before taking part, some I wasn’t. So if nothing else it has added another few minutes to my mid-morning checking-Bloglines-with-a-coffee routine.

At some point in the coming days and weeks I will no doubt make a plea for you to go over there and vote for me, because I do not want to be the first person out of the house. No-one remembers them. I do not want to be the Danny Tourrettes of the Internet. If I can get into the top half that will be enough to secure me a place on satellite television presenting a late night show about people who ride buses. Or something.

Go and have a look over there, now.

Oh how wrong I was!

I sat in front of my television the yesterday evening, working my way through a week of Sky+ recorded programs, one of which is Rescue Me. For those that do not know, it is a drama on Sky One about a New York fire department and their post 9/11 traumas. I am not sure what happened on the 9th November, but apparently it was very traumatic. The premise might not sound funny, but it is.

As I sat there watching, a scene began in which Denis Leary was berating and questioning a Muslim taxi driver about his religion, and all the virgins he was supposed to get in heaven.

“Wouldn’t that be, y’know, a bit useless?” he said to the cab driver, as I sat bolt upright thinking, “Don’t you dare mention having some prostitutes in there!”

“I’d prefer to have a few whores” he continued, before explaining how you would have much more fun than just having virgins up there for all of eternity.

I will concede that once could be an incredible coincidence, I will grant him that, but twice? He is clearly getting his material from here! Honestly, this is just one more way in which Bill Hicks and I are exactly the same, apart from the smoking and the being dead bit.

I fully expect to see an episode later in the series where he accidentally drops a condom on the counter at a supermarket in front of a pretty checkout girl.