This girl has got talent, real talent. The sort of talent that means she can down, not even that much coca-cola, just about a quarter of a glass, and then burp like a drunk builder. And she can also speak-burp — all of which means she’s a viral mega-lulz, no doubt ending up on Jay Leno roaring in his flabby dough face. I’m in LOVE!
Pikeys: love ‘em or hate ‘em, you’ve got to know that they f#cking LOVE their horses, and do cracking weddings where everyone shows up drunk, rapidly gets much drunker, and goes from laughing and singing to shouting and insulting to fighting and stabbing in quick succession, punctuated only by brief respites in which they brag about their horses. (PS – this is FOCKING BRILLIANT…..& really from Limerick City!)
The modern ailments of constantly updating your Tumblr or tweeting about how you’re tweeting while conducting a Facebook quiz about what shade of orange you are, can be rather annoying. Even talking about how they’re rather annoying is rather annoying. So it’s a good job somebody had the decency to put it all into song.
Christmas global No.1? It’s got every thing a good festive single needs: terrible jumpers that are an abomination on fashion, a greasy-haired geek legend, spurned love and soppy lyrics, a cat, mistletoe, log fires, and an epic keytar solo. The internet can make it happen.
Ah the good gold days, when you’d tie an old piece of cord around the local neighbourhood girl’s waist and push her off the top of a decrepit block of flats, watching her fly through the air while her blood-curdling screams of terror bounce around off the other dilapidated buildings, risking her life for a few giggles and to break the mundanity of snowbound life. I miss those days.
A shameless way to promote their brand, it’s just fortunate for us that La Senza make underwear and not Spanx for fat chicks. So we get cute girls in their smalls lying down on beds saucily “oohing” and “aahing” while shots of their breasts and butts are intercut with the music. Just like on Christmas day, if your mom worked in a brothel.
What came first, the shitty rave music or the drugs? The chicken dance or the egg? Who cares, both are awesome. So, you know, ring up Mental Dave and get some Little Men, 20 mitsubishis, jump in the motor and let’s gurn this weekend away. Whoop-whoop! That’s the sound of a Sunday come down. Slamming tune, who’s got the K?
Whether you’re Spider-Man, Iron Man, Batman, Kick-Ass, Spartacus, or whoever. You always need an introduction, and how you go about that matters because it’s going to be the first impression you make on your audience, don’t want them to think you’re a major asshole, do you? Well, unless you are Major Asshole.
It’s nearing the festive holidays, so that means some fat guy with a beard telling us to go f#ck ourselves. And he’s not even Santa. This is always my favourite part of the season of goodwill, when somebody sings abuse at you for not liking stuff. And it’s a time to reflect on how selfish you are. And then guiltily spend all your present money on a fainting goat for a undernourished child in East Timor.
You’ve not seen anything until you’ve seen a giant-moobed man-flab lurching towards you in slow motion like a wobbling mass of fat. It’ll really set your day on fire, give you that boost you needed to carry you through the afternoon and into the evening, where you can start skulling beers with the best of them.
Erm, OK. Not quite sure what this is all about. A ninja walks into a bedroom, brutally slays two teenagers then starts getting his groove on with a couple of his ninja bros. It must make sense to somebody, maybe somebody strung out on horse tranquillisers. Yeah, that’s what we’re missing. Somebody go get some horse tranquilliser, the local vet should stock it. WTF!?!
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