Firstly, I just have to get this off my chest. If surnames are all derived from somewhere then where the fuck did ‘Dickinson’ come from? Was a Celtic father found with his scabbard buried deep into his first born male heir? Was incest so common that people thought it would be socially acceptable to highlight inter-generational, familial buggery in such a way? Do people with the surname Dickinson not change their name by deedpoll as soon as they start Secondary school? It’s very bizarre and I had to share that with you educated readers, please let me know any trivia in the comments below. Anyway…
Hello MiniTrue fans, I hope you’re well. Are you eating your lunch? Are you working an 8+ hour day with a designated time somewhere in the middle that you thought was for sustenance foraging? Are you waiting in line at Pret A Manger or some pretentious, over-priced cafe where all the food is soaked in barley, quinoa and breast milk coulis? I thought so. Well guess what? The Daily Mail has revolutionised your lunch hour. The ‘Femail’ writer Katy Winter has opened up your world in that precious hour when you’re not glued to a monitor. Mail Online has found a way to stop you eating at lunchtime and improve not just your buns and tums but the areas of your body you didn’t even know about.
Kninkles. That’s knee wrinkles to you shallow mother-fuckers with no self awareness or feminist knowledge of the power of beauty. As the article points out, Kninkles are one of the biggest signs of aging along with liver spots and a catheter. They are the bane of your life and we can’t believe you’ve let them get so out of hand, you look older than Helen Mirren and you’re only 32. Lucky for you we’re at hand to highlight all of the mythical minefield areas of your body that you have let slide. Just imagine what the tops of your legs would have looked like if we hadn’t told you about the thigh gap? They would have looked like the two fat, clay-mation bikers from Michael Jackson’s ‘MoonWalker’ film squeezed into fabric, enveloping your vulva like nuzzling whales on a coat-of-arms for SeaWorld. Your legs would have looked shit.
Well praise be to Mail Online for bringing the shitty bits of your bodies into the spotlight, and be mindful this is only targeted at women because male knees age beautifully. When old men put their knees together it’s like a baby’s bottom which is why so many elderly male relatives sit grandchildren on their knees cause it’s soft like a fucking cloud alright? That’s fucking science, OK WOMEN? So, below is a list of the other areas of your body that you need to tone up, trim down, cut to pieces, pump full of chemicals and generally mangle into a state of beauty. Nip Tuck or No Fuck as they say in LA.
PULPY PERINEUM = FATTY DEPOSITS BETWEEN YOUR VULVA AND ANUS
FOLLICINKLES = WRINKLES UNDER THE SKIN WHERE YOUR HAIR GROWS FROM
COOKIE JAR LIDS = CHUBBY EYELIDS
LUNAR LOBES = TOO MANY HELIXES ON YOUR OUTER EAR RESEMBLING CRATERS
EPIGLOTTITS = LARYNX WHICH RESEMBLES A BREAST OR NIPPLE
METATARESHOLES = CELLULITE ON THE TOP OF YOUR FEET
SCRAPULA = LACK OF TANNING UNDER YOUR ARMS
PAREIDOLICOOCH = THE IMAGE OF A FACE IN YOUR VAGINA
THIS WEEK’S RELEASES
– There were albums and books and films released this week but they don’t matter because they’re not TV or SHOWBIZ
The Oscar winning actor, Philip Seymour Hoffman, died of a heroin overdose this week.
He was found dead by a friend in his New York apartment with up to 70 bags of heroin and other drugs around him.
He was an incredibly talented actor with a list of mesmerising roles behind him.
All of these are relevant stories about a man who brought so much to his craft, but they’re not THE story. I’m sure those of you who watched him in ‘The Master’ or ‘Synecdoche, NY’ will believe THE story is about the power of his performances or his uncanny ability to own every film he was in no matter how small the role. I am certain that some feel THE story will be the world paying tribute to Mr. Hoffman for his raw talent. There may be some of you who feel THE story should be about drug use in Hollywood and the deaths of other actors like Heath Ledger or Pauly Shore and their addictions. This is not THE story. None of these are THE story. Do you want to know what THE story is?
I mean what kind of self serving celebrity doesn’t bring their A-Game to every red carpet photo opp? It doesn’t matter if you’ve just vaginally shat out triplets and are suffering with severe post natal depression, you still make sure you look good for the cameras darling. It doesn’t matter if breast-feeding has left your nipples looking like someone tried to poach, scramble and fry two eggs and then regurgitated them onto someone’s fist, you still wear a designer outfit and strut. It doesn’t matter if you’re Nick Nolte, you still get someone to put you in a suit and smile for the paparazzi cause it’s your job.
What’s worse is this was his last photoshoot ever (apart from all the one’s we get of the coffin and the headstone in a few weeks but I don’t think it will be an open casket) so you’d think Mr. Hoffman would have made a bit more effort. I mean if he was so high on drugs shouldn’t he be smiling and waving his hand in front of his face to see the trails and putting ‘Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake’ on a portable turntable?
Isn’t heroin fun? Shouldn’t he have looked like this?
Just look at the photos on the Daily Mail website and ask yourself wouldn’t it have been nicer for everybody mourning if he’d just cracked a smile? I mean the one’s of him in the Olive Green cardigan are upsetting and a bit dour but then there’s one which looks like someone took a picture of him and then screwed it up and threw it in the bin only to find out he died and they needed a few more snaps to sell. Why is it all crinkled and blurry like that? Poor guy didn’t even get a decent photographer for his final shoot, I hear Terry Richardson is really good at coaxing out the inner beauty of addicts. Why didn’t someone make sure Philip Seymour Hoffman had access to Terry Richardson instead of heroin? Why didn’t someone explain to Philip Seymour Hoffman that passion and ability mean nothing without a good stylist, a sharp suit and an exploitative photographer? Did nobody at Sundance give him some of those special celebrity eye-drops which dry out your eyeballs so you don’t look like your crying on camera? Did none of his friends, family or co-stars have an intervention about that straggly beard? Our heart goes out to him and his lack of fashion sense.
RIP Philip Seymour Hoffman – Rest In Photogenicness
In tribute to the Oscar winning actor here are a few of the loving comments from Mail Online in response to Philip Seymour Hoffman’s passing;
“Selfish Way Out” Lawyer, Alwoodley Leeds
“I’m sorry, why should I care?” Yarply Twelve, Tn US
“Frankly my dear, I don;t want to look at a coward” Taff, Wales
“I don’t wish to be uncaring but I’ve never heard of him” Nick, Sumware UK
“He wasn’t that healthy. Shocker” Ian, Ilford UK
“He did look awful.” Sophia, Notts
“A very selfish act by a man who had it all” holinfl, Florida
The Daily Mail continues to break new journalistic ground by showing us the human side to our beloved sporting heroes.
Sportsweak is often shocked by the fact that sportspeople are from the same genus as you and I. The word “people” being in there is a good indicator, but thank goodness Sportsmail is on hand to remind us that they partake in the sort of activities that us simple plebs take for granted.
In a snapshot of just one day, here’s some revelations that are on the front page of the sports section. Perhaps their ability to multitask being all-round super-duper sportsfolk and an inspiration to us all with the sort of panic-inducing endeavours such as shopping in a supermarket, looking at a smiling child or remembering how to tie a double knot justifies their surprising salaries.
I know I couldn’t score the winning goal during my team’s shock cup success while wondering whether I had enough garlic cloves. We are too quick to judge.
So here they are (well, footballers – other games aren’t real sport). Fall at their feet for they are Gods:
Ronaldo buys Normal Food.
This was a double shock to Sportsweak. I was under the impression that footballers lived off discarded shin pads and the crushed dreams of pushy parents.
Per Mertesacker able to Coordinate Steps.
It’s intriguing to read that the German international footballer’s wife, Ulrike Stange, is a German international handballer. Apparently their first-born is a German international faceballer and Mertesacker’s convicted sex-pest Father is a German international testeballer.
M’Baye Niang doesn’t have a Car Crash and is not in Police Custody.
It also goes on to tell us how the Ferrari was painted in the colour of Niang’s parent club AC Milan. That’s more like the behaviour of the footballers we’ve come to know and envy, because I hear it’s very difficult to get hold of a Ferrari in that colour. Show-off.
Manchester City Players get their Cars Cleaned.
Mertesacker could only perform the walking action, whereas Alvaro has obviously become drunk on his own abilities and is using his new found swagger to goad his fellow title-chasers. I have it on good authority than when he tried to start his car he had overdone his thinking for the day by having his car cleaned and walking. Instead of performing a simple three-point turn, he forcefully pressed his face into the passenger seat head rest and urinated over the onboard sat-nav.
Fellaini hurts himself and can’t play. Recovers. Plays.
People often ask me how reading the Daily Mail has changed me, the most common questions being:
Are you a racist now?
Have you started sealing yourself in some sort of cancer proof tube at night to stop the onslaught of cancerous material from all the white bread and poor people in and around your house?
I’ve heard it changes the shape of your penis, can you confirm?
The sad truth is that none of these things are true, apart from the penis thing, which now looks like Richard Littlejohn and Quentin Letts kissing. Three months in and The Daily Mail has mainly changed my life in so much as my time spent thinking about the Daily Mail has gone up by over 400%. Just have a click on the life pie if you don’t believe me:
Here are some other hilarious and unforeseen ways that reading the Daily Mail has started to affect me.
1) The work thing
Work relationships are souring. It goes either one of two ways:
Someone who themselves is an avid Daily Mail reader sparks up a conversation upon seeing the artefact under my arm and everything goes swimmingly until they suggest I ‘smash a polack in the face to loosen up‘ while I visibly recoil.
In the middle of a conversation about how the slaughter of Dolphins absolutely cannot continue while I still breathe I shuffle and drop the contents of my arms, as I hurriedly bend down to pick them up my eyes meet with those of my talk partner, we both look down to see ‘Dolphins cause cancer’ on the front cover of the Mail.
Either way I’m fucked. As someone who doesn’t like football and regularly pulls people up for making sexist comments, I already exist in a very shaky work space. Add this to proceedings and I’m segregating myself dangerously. My career is in serious peril.
I’ve become easy to track. I’m like some radioactive rabbit from an 80’s B-movie running around the inner city shitting right wing hate words on every flat surface I find. All any would be assassin has to do to smash me up is follow the trail of droppings:
I always have at least eight copies of the damn thing with me wherever I go and I can’t get rid of them. They seem to be replicating at an unbelievable rate, like racist Gremlins who got wet. I find myself trying to get rid of them by surreptitiously leaving 2 day old issues on top of the stands they give out the Metro from like I’m in that shit prison movie with Michael Caine that dads like. I’ve taken to wandering the train tracks leaving pages here and there to slowly get rid of issues, but I hate littering so this makes me feel really bad. My only hope is that some illiterate hobo is following me picking them up because he’s mistakenly assumed I’m leaving behind porn.
3) The clothes don’t make the man, the Daily Mail does
On a more positive note, it’s been stated that reading the Mail has made me dress better. An odd outcome, but not one I find unwelcome. Embiggen the picture below to decide for yourselves.
Yes those are Mallards on the polo shirt.
For Realsies though
In reality reading The Daily Mail is like doing a surreal logic puzzle on a daily basis. It’s exactly the same as Dr. Kawashima’s Brian Training, if Dr. Kawashima was a flagrantly sociopathic nazi. Because it comes dressed in the costume of one, even after three months, it still fools me into believing it’s a real newspaper. It pretends to have facts and contains pictures of people I vaguely remember from somewhere, so it seems like all the other papery news mongers, but really it’s not. It’s the newspaper equivalent of a stick insect, it looks like a stick, but it hates you and everything you stand for. The trick is to work out it’s not real and nothing printed in it can be taken seriously before you believe it and accidentally say something horribly racist in a business meeting. It’s russian roulette with opinions.
Over the last three months I’ve found that there is always one point in every issue, one story which pushes its dark misanthropic nonsense that little bit too far and snaps me back to reality. Suddenly, as I re-evaluate everything I’ve just read in light of this new knowledge the paper unravels in front of me into the drivelling, incoherent flat pack dross house it really is. It’s at about this time that my arms always instinctively recoil in terror.
I’d like to take you through the process using today’s paper as an example:
1) Fat People 2: Back in the habit
Decorating the front cover is an interesting story concerning sugar legislation. Oh interesting! After scrupulous investigation the Daily Mail have discovered that McDonalds, Tesco, Nandos and every other lard shoveller in the land have unprecedented access to our government; they force them to pump sugar into our very eyes as we sleep. WOW! I am outraged! Those wanky companies!
2) War weary wankers
Inside said paper lies the lamentable ballad of Phillip Hammond. Sad Phillip can’t sleep at night because the UK public are ‘War weary’. AHHHHHH! Apparently nobody in the UK wants long drawn out wars anymore, we’ve all got fatigue from the last one, what we want are short snappy wars, straight in and out, bish bash bosh fish and chips. This makes Phillip hold the tip of his penis with nervousness, there’s nothing he likes more than a long drawn out war. Phillip! I feel so bad. I’m going to tell everyone I know that we should have nice long wars instead. It’ll be alright mate.
At this point, I’m on board. This seems like real news, I can get down with this.
3) What my stepfather saw when he was dead
Here, in the middle of the Mail, lies the turning point for me. The story of Sir Alfred Ayer, philosopher, thinker and extremely smart man. Billed as the Richard Dawkins of his day, he completely denounced the idea of, and even the word, God, as nonsense. Yet this is not what the Mail is interested in. The Daily Mail today report on an incident at the latter end of Ayer’s life in which he choked on some salmon. While his brain was deprived oxygen and his body lay convulsing, slowly shutting down, Ayer’s had a vision of heaven, of ‘a divine being’.
This vision, created in the oxygen deprived brain of a frail and dying man, is enough for The Daily Mail, not only to claim that Ayer’s life was a complete fucking joke, but also to prove the existence of heaven.
It’s here that I feverishly turn back the pages. Upon re-looking at the story about sugar I realise that the only people the Mail spoke to was the National Obesity Forum (AGAIN!) and even they don’t even know how much access McDonalds really have, they just assume it must be more then them. They’re guessing! I turn the page to Phillip Hammond’s sad story, the one that moved me so much, upon closer inspection I realise that Hammond is the Defence Secretary for the UK, of course he wants a nice long war, he needs a fucking paycheck!
The whole thing is a big mess of wobbling bollocks! They messed with my fragile emotions! They made me care! They tricked me.