Too Many Cooks...

Blah, blah, blah...

Darling kraken-lovers, you may have guessed by now that I have a pathological hatred of television chefs. Tossing salt at your food from a great distance and turning parsnips into jus is about as entertaining as a foaming bout of piles. So it goes without saying that when it comes to Gordon Ramsay I actually develop the urge to self harm. What a complete and utter map-faced twat.
It's not his swearing that bothers me. Fuck no. It's his attitude towards the rest of the world. How he has the flaring cheek to flounce into the kitchen of some backwater pub before screaming at the acne-cursed chef because his pie n mash isn't up to Ramsay's impossible standards. What the frig is that all about? Ramsay, love, if said pus-ridden cook was capable of knocking out some oddly-titled dish in the way that you are I dare say he'd be working at the heart of the London elite too, rather than weeping over his career in the Dog n Duck.
Worse, is when smouldering volcano Ramsay gets the hump because the people he is screaming at dare, yes dare, to answer him back. Whoa there Ramsay. Has your common sense shrivelled after too many hours over a boiling vat of fuck-knows-what? Exactly what is going on, that this guy thinks he's allowed to shriek and swear at people yet they are not allowed to do the same to him? Jesus, have you seen how indignant he looks when the bloke who knocks out chips day after day actually retorts? 
The thing is that I'd love a face-to-face with Ramsay. I'd love it more than a hastily fried egg smothered in tomato sauce. Not only am I confident that I could out-swear him (what you see on here is a mere sample of the depths to which my language can plumb) but I know for a fact that I could argue back at him until he's left weeping among a pile of his own spud peelings.
See, that's because I have no patience for the likes of Ramsay, a spluttering telly chef who thinks that if he harrangues people for long enough he'll get whatever he wants. I'm pretty sure that I could give him something he doesn't want though, and that'd be a dose of his own over-seasoned medicine. 
Come into my kitchen Ramsay, you overblown egg-cracker, and I'll show you a new use for the wooden spoon and, believe me, it won't go anywhere near your cooking.

Say What?

Inanity at its finest

You know what I find offensive? The inoffensive. And this Jubilee weekend we have been surrounded by ‘celebs’ who are so inoffensive that if you cut them they’d bleed unadulterated blandness. You know who they are, the type of people who soundbite all the right things at all the right times and don’t seem to mind that they’ve morphed into deeply diluted forms of humanity as a result.

What, you want examples? OK: Katherine Jenkins, Gary Barlow, Holly Willoughby, Michael MacIntyre, Peter Andre, Trevor MacDonald, any presenter in the employ of the BBC and Alan fucking Titchmarsh. That’s just a few of them. More will come to mind and jolt me awake in the night, like the Spectres of Dullness Everlasting.

The problem is that the Jubilee celebrations have had these obsequious fuckers coming out in their droves. They've been queuing up to utter such vapid sentiments about the Queen – on the fawning orders of some TV producer or other - that if they said about me what they said about her you’d have to up my meds.

Seriously, some people are so uninspiring and predictable that I’d actually be offended if they said they liked me. It’d mean that I’d been picked up on a radar which usually operates on a level of monotony otherwise inhabited by ITV dramas, pink carnations, Ford Mondeos, chicken-in-a-basket, Travelodges, M4 landmarks and, again, Alan fucking Titchmarsh.

And it’s not just Her Maj for whom they’re happy to spew dullness incarnate. They’ll do it for the Olympic Games too. And when that’s done they’ll do it for the next series of the X-Factor, and then for anyone else looking for a Rent-a-Quote for anything from Christmas TV listings to a fete in the arse end of Tunbridge Wells.

All of which is what made the Jubilee so frigging tiresome. It wasn't the cake or the bunting or the endless souvenir issues of newspapers that bothered me. It was that the media wasn’t allowed to be inhabited by anyone other than those who think the sun shines out of the Queen’s arse.

Imagine how refreshing it would be if, when asked about the Jubilee, Gary Barlow said, “Oh for fuck’s sake. Is that still happening?”. Or if Katherine Jenkins put down her RSVP to the opening of an envelope and muttered, “If I ever see a corgi again I’ll kick it to death”. Or, even better, if Alan fucking Titchmarsh stopped tugging his forelock long enough to say, “If I have to fawn over the borders at Highgrove one more time I’m going to take a shit in Charles’ water feature”.

Oh well. We can imagine. And don’t forget that I'm here to reassure you. While the nation sinks under a wave of vapidity you can always come to me for your daily insult or hastily constructed generalisation. Aye, you can trust The Kraken to never be anything other than offensive. And with the likes of Jenkins, Barlow and fucking Titchmarsh I as sure as shit have my work cut out.

A Little Letter...

Just put down the torch, Will. Now.

Pardon me from deviating from my regular blog posting. It's just that I have a little message for the ubiquitous Marrowfat Black Eyed Pea Will. I. Am:


Dear Mr Am
In the words of the spectacular Malcolm Tucker: Fuck the fuck off. 
You see, you're absolutely frigging everywhere and if I have to meet your turnip-faced stare one more time I'll shove ragged chip forks into my eyes. 
Are you angling for a British passport by any chance? Because I can think of no other reason why you should be ingratiating yourself so viciously upon the British public. First you pitch up on the X-Factor. Then you appear on the underwhelming screech-fest that is The Voice. From there you somehow manage to carry the Olympic torch through Taunton, although what the fuck you have to do with British heritage, sport or cider is beyond me. Then you hold hostage the entire royal family by barking your vapid lyrics at them on the Jubilee stage outside Buck House. 
Would you like us to shove a stick of Blackpool rock up your arse to complete the US-to-UK transformation? Or perhaps we could flog you publicly with a reinforced teabag? I'd even, personally, be delighted to force feed you a selection of Fray Bentos pies.
Look, Will, the problem isn't that you are here at all. It's just that you appear to be so agonisingly desperate to be noticed. It's even more embarrassing than the stuttering bollocks you churn out in the name of music. 
So spare us will you, Will? Restrain your urge to turn up to the opening of a British envelope, for fuck's sake, because with the recession, the Tories and JLS we've already got enough shit to contend with. 
Yours sincerely
The Kraken

Bap Attack

Classy girl, her

Could someone do me a favour and remove Loose Women’s Denise Welch from the public eye? Because if she flashes her tits one more time I’m going to have to remove my own eyes, decontaminate them, encase them in concrete and bury them a mile below the surface of the earth for the next one hundred years.
What the fuck is wrong with the woman that she has to keep flashing her saggy funbags at photographers? Christ, it wouldn’t be so bad if they were a magnificent paean to the wonders of the female form but, let’s be fair, they’re not. They swing in the wind and are encased in flesh coloured bras. I know this. I have seen them over and over again, as has the rest of the poor, sobbing nation.

Anyway, that’s besides the point. The real conundrum is what makes a fifty-something successful woman whip out her knockers at any given opportunity? It reeks so badly of desperation, insecurity and some wild craving for the front pages that it’s actually distressing to watch. And no, it’s not about women reclaiming their bodies, grasping equality from men and being ballsy and life-loving. There are ways of doing that which don’t involve forcing your dignity through a cheese grater, which is what Welch seems to do every time she leaves the house.

Look, I’m not a fan of Welch anyway, mainly because I’m not a fan of the show Loose Women.  It’s like a lunchtime parade of screeching fishwives that makes me wonder how much more damage womens’ rights can take before men attempt to lock us back up in our kitchens.

This bap parading, though, is doing the equivalent of taking womens’ hard-won equality and rubbing its face in the dirt. Girls, you want to be accepted in the boardrooms of the nation? You want to reach the giddy heights of senior management? You want to claim the Cabinet for your own? Well, whatever you do, don’t ask Welch for her support. She’d forsake intellectual argument and negotiation for dragging her oft-seen nips across the shag pile of the boardroom floor. Classy, Welch, classy.

There can’t be a soul on the planet who doesn’t witness Welch’s antics with a giant, internal ‘ouch’. It’s cheap and nasty and whether it’s a symptom of her personal turmoil or not she has to show mercy and stop.

Den, love, just take a breath, have a think about whether this is how you want to be remembered and tuck the tits away. I’m sure there’s a clever, engaging, intelligent woman in there somewhere. You just have to open your mind to find her, not your top.  

Wiki-Wank

Room for one more, lads!

Talking about being given a large dose of the willies, Julian Assange has been extradited to Sweden. That's what allegations of rape and sexual assault bag you. That and the fact that he constantly stares knowingly into the middle distance while being really fucking irritating. The latter's not exactly an allegation though. From what I've seen of the bloke it's completely and utterly fucking true.

Now, Assange hasn't been found guilty of anything official so this blog might be worth shit soon. Yet I'm gripped by the celebs who so stridently declared his innocence when his tag nuts first hit the fan. Jemima Khan, Tony Benn, Bianca Jagger, Ken Loach...some of whom admit to never even having met the bloke, for Christ's sake. All that fucking indignance, all that placard waving, all that outraged jaw-setting...it's a fucking miracle that the bandwagon didn't career into the deepest ravine (but let's leave Jordan's ladyparts for another blog). 

What the fuck is wrong with these people? Were they really so desperate for a cause? How bored must Khan and Loach have been the week Assange first crawled out of the Wiki-woodwork? 

Aye, well they're not so fucking supportive now that Assange is getting bundled onto the first flight to Stockholm, are they? There's been no sign of Khan offering to pack his pants or Jagger bagging him an upgrade. I haven't noticed Benn escorting him from court or Loach promising an appeal either.
So where the fuck are they? Were they just too busy to be in court today? Or have they realised that the bandwagon they've been clinging to has a wonky wheel or two?
Can't wait to see how supportive said celebs will be from here on in. Or perhaps their press gimps will have little to say for once. Looks like they've had Stockholm Syndrome in more ways than one.

Sticks up arses

Life's a bitch, ain't it?

In my local coffee shop today (Hoffi Coffi, Treforest, for connersewers) I witnessed the latest Eminem vid. And it got me to thinking about those celebs who need to lighten the fuck up. Here’s the tip of my iceberg:

Eminem
Marsh, Mate, is this angry young man shit going to go on for much longer? I mean, spittling on about how hard it is to drag your pasty carcass up from da streets is wearing a bit thin now that you’re wiping your arse on $50 notes.

Chris Martin

Look it’s bad enough that you churn out tinkly bollocks under the name of Cold Patrol/ Snow Play (interchangeable middle class angst if ever I heard it). Do you have to bang the fuck on about cocoa farmers in some distant corner of Costa Rica while you are at it? No. So don’t.

Bon(i)o

You short arsed, jaw-jutting, be-trilbied, shade-draped twat. You want to feed the fucking world? The stop telling me to cough up and flog your frigging soapbox collection instead.

Darcus Howe

Darcus, Darcus, Darcus...I’m sick to fuck of hearing you banging on so God knows how you must feel. If I had to listen to your self-satisfied ranting for as long as you’ve been doing it I’d pour Domestos into my ears. And no, that’s not cos you is black. It’s cos you’re a bell-end.

Peter Tatchell

OK, OK, you’ve done your bit for LGBT (ABCDEFG...) rights but what’s with the permanent frigging outrage? How the fuck haven’t you sicked up your own appendix with your fury yet?

Jeremy Vine

Oh, it’s not enough to hijack Radio 2 for two hours every lunchtime is it? No, it’s not. You have to come over all Daily Mail about it n’all. Mate, you’re this close from banning your own show for being full of shit. Wish you would.