So let's recap. When the IOC awarded the 2008 Olympics to Beijing, there were some people who said things like "Hang on - this is China we're talking about - are we sure that we want to give them the olympics?"
At which point, the Chinese said "Nah man, it'll be cool. We'll totally stop being a bunch of wankers and be nice to everyone." The IOC, for their part came back and said that they thought that China was cool and completely trustworthy.
Well here we are just one week away from the start of the Olympics and China have been caught supplying Sudan's government with military supplies and training so that they can keep killing people in Darfur.
The pollution in Beijing is currently more than five times the World Health Organisation air quality target. The smog is being tracked on the beeb's site and it's pretty easy to see. It's so bad in fact that many athletes are talking about keeping away from Beijing for as long as possible and wear gas masks while they're there.
Today, Amnesty International have released a report that states that the human rights situation in China has worsened rather than improved in the run up to the games. The report talks about increases in media censorship & forced labour 're-education' and a crackdown on human rights activists.
I'd love to hear what Sharron Davies thought of that. Maybe she thinks it's ok so long as the olympic competitors get to swim in their nice pool and get their nice medals.
I have to say it - but I just don't understand how anyone can look at this situation and think to themselves that it'd be a good idea to go be involved with a tacit approval of China's regime. I know no olympian reads this blog, but isn't it sad that we don't even expect world class competitors to consider pulling out of the three ring circus that is Beijing olympics.
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Friday, 25 July 2008
My life is a 1960s screwball comedy and I am Jack Lemmon.
So my journey into work today went like this...
I start the car and do a three point turn. The car stalls. I'm not too bothered, the engine's cold and I'm not paying much attention so it was probably my fault. I restart the car and start to head off to work. After about a mile it cuts out again; I bump start it into life but it's making some worrying noises so I decide to turn back and bike in. Before I can turn round, the car dies with some big clanking sounds coming from the engine. As luck would have it, it dies at a six lane crossroads. So now I'm stranded at the side of the road about a mile and a half from home and about two and a half miles from work. I can't leave the car and go on as it's on double yellows next to a major junction.
I call the AA for a tow and get told it'll be 45 minutes. That's no problem says I, as it's the end of July and a lovely day. It starts to rain. Mister AA arrives and confirms that the car's as dead as I think it is. I'd been planning to get rid of it so I'm not massively annoyed, and I ask for a tow home so I can get my bike and get into work. The rain is now pissing it down.
I quickly sort my stuff out and start pedalling in. The rain is now heavy enough that I'm dodging puddles because they look deeper than the mariana trench. I'm about 2 miles into my journey (so around half way for those that haven't been paying attention) and notice that my front wheel's a flat. Arse. I struggle through the torrential rain to the nearest garage, scrounge up 50p from the bottom of my rucksack and attempt to use the air compressor to sort out the car.
No such luck! New air compressors are designed so that they can't be used with bike valves to stop anyone accidentally overinflating their tyre and emancipating their spleen in the resultant highly unlikely explosion. Of course, while these new valves won't put any air in your tyre, they do open the valve so that any air you had left is gone by the time you realise what's happening. So now my front tyre is completely flat.
At this point, the very friendly garage attendant tells me that he has a footpump. That I can buy for the bargain price of six pounds. MOTHERFUCKERRRRR. So here I am at work. I now have a fully inflated front tyre and a brand new footpump with me to go with the one that's sat in the boot of my car. Oh, and six hours later, my feet still aren't completely dry.
I start the car and do a three point turn. The car stalls. I'm not too bothered, the engine's cold and I'm not paying much attention so it was probably my fault. I restart the car and start to head off to work. After about a mile it cuts out again; I bump start it into life but it's making some worrying noises so I decide to turn back and bike in. Before I can turn round, the car dies with some big clanking sounds coming from the engine. As luck would have it, it dies at a six lane crossroads. So now I'm stranded at the side of the road about a mile and a half from home and about two and a half miles from work. I can't leave the car and go on as it's on double yellows next to a major junction.
I call the AA for a tow and get told it'll be 45 minutes. That's no problem says I, as it's the end of July and a lovely day. It starts to rain. Mister AA arrives and confirms that the car's as dead as I think it is. I'd been planning to get rid of it so I'm not massively annoyed, and I ask for a tow home so I can get my bike and get into work. The rain is now pissing it down.
I quickly sort my stuff out and start pedalling in. The rain is now heavy enough that I'm dodging puddles because they look deeper than the mariana trench. I'm about 2 miles into my journey (so around half way for those that haven't been paying attention) and notice that my front wheel's a flat. Arse. I struggle through the torrential rain to the nearest garage, scrounge up 50p from the bottom of my rucksack and attempt to use the air compressor to sort out the car.
No such luck! New air compressors are designed so that they can't be used with bike valves to stop anyone accidentally overinflating their tyre and emancipating their spleen in the resultant highly unlikely explosion. Of course, while these new valves won't put any air in your tyre, they do open the valve so that any air you had left is gone by the time you realise what's happening. So now my front tyre is completely flat.
At this point, the very friendly garage attendant tells me that he has a footpump. That I can buy for the bargain price of six pounds. MOTHERFUCKERRRRR. So here I am at work. I now have a fully inflated front tyre and a brand new footpump with me to go with the one that's sat in the boot of my car. Oh, and six hours later, my feet still aren't completely dry.
Thursday, 24 July 2008
Crap Films My Housemates Own #4 : Ultraviolet
Now, let's be clear. I'm not talking about the TV series with that fella who was Miles in This Life and Admiral stiff upper lip in Pirates of the Carribean and was probably the last halfway decent thing ITV made before they became obsessed with the Ant & Dec saturday night fuck you in the eye with premium rate numbers, I'm talking about the movie with that Milla Jollywitch woman. You know, the woman who was in those classic movies like Resident Evil 2 and Joan of Arc. The one with virtually no clothes in the Fifth Element.
So, my review. It's a tricky one this...as I didn't really watch much of the film. You know how far I got into this film before I switch it off? No, neither do I. I was in such a hurry to switch it off I didn't even look to see how far it'd got. I do know that it felt like half my natural life had leaked out of my eyes by the time my hand reached the stop button, but I couldn't put a number to it. Though if I had to make a guess, I go with seventeen minutes.
This film is so bad that I received a letter from my retinas explaining that if I tried to pull that shit again they'd start cutting themselves with razorblades.
The only thing that makes this film less offensive than the third reich is that this movie didn't kill six million jews. Though I suspect that around three million probably died from watching the advance screenings.
If you're planning on watching this film then my advice is to put some time aside beforehand. Take your friend and family to the park, play football, have a lovely picnic and say your goodbyes to the people that you love; watching this film will either kill you or reduce you to the level of a dribbling vegetable with all the responsiveness of Terry Schiavo.
So, my review. It's a tricky one this...as I didn't really watch much of the film. You know how far I got into this film before I switch it off? No, neither do I. I was in such a hurry to switch it off I didn't even look to see how far it'd got. I do know that it felt like half my natural life had leaked out of my eyes by the time my hand reached the stop button, but I couldn't put a number to it. Though if I had to make a guess, I go with seventeen minutes.
This film is so bad that I received a letter from my retinas explaining that if I tried to pull that shit again they'd start cutting themselves with razorblades.
The only thing that makes this film less offensive than the third reich is that this movie didn't kill six million jews. Though I suspect that around three million probably died from watching the advance screenings.
If you're planning on watching this film then my advice is to put some time aside beforehand. Take your friend and family to the park, play football, have a lovely picnic and say your goodbyes to the people that you love; watching this film will either kill you or reduce you to the level of a dribbling vegetable with all the responsiveness of Terry Schiavo.
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Hot Fuzz
Well this is a surprise. Apparently a member of the channel tunnel police has been transferred for misuse of powers granted under the terrorism act. Well this is a surprise isn't it.
Apparently, giving the police the power to detain anyone they want without evidence is being abused. What a shocker!
What I find really surprising is this. The detective constable in question has been transferred. Not - fired, suspended, reprimanded, told not to do it again, fined, demoted, or even made to buy cake for the rest of the police station. Transferred. After her wonderful display of racism, no doubt she's been transferred to Cheshire.
Apparently, giving the police the power to detain anyone they want without evidence is being abused. What a shocker!
What I find really surprising is this. The detective constable in question has been transferred. Not - fired, suspended, reprimanded, told not to do it again, fined, demoted, or even made to buy cake for the rest of the police station. Transferred. After her wonderful display of racism, no doubt she's been transferred to Cheshire.
Monday, 21 July 2008
Free French Canada!
This is mainly about the fact that French Canadians are complaining that Paul McCartney is going to be playing at Quebec's 400th birthday party. They're up in arms because Britain was at war with the French and invaded what was then New France (and is now Canada) in 1760.
MORE THAN THREE HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
This isn't the first example of French Canadians being a bit mental. KFC is KFC everywhere, except in Quebec, where it's PFK (Poulet Frit Kentucky). In France, it's KFC. This brings to mind those swarms of Americans who have an uncle who once got punched out of a bar in Cork and so are quite obviously as Irish as anything and walk around dressed all in green on Saint Patrick's day and wax lyrical about the old country.
I find it perplexing that the most Patriotic Europeans appear to be from North America. Zoot Alours!
MORE THAN THREE HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
This isn't the first example of French Canadians being a bit mental. KFC is KFC everywhere, except in Quebec, where it's PFK (Poulet Frit Kentucky). In France, it's KFC. This brings to mind those swarms of Americans who have an uncle who once got punched out of a bar in Cork and so are quite obviously as Irish as anything and walk around dressed all in green on Saint Patrick's day and wax lyrical about the old country.
I find it perplexing that the most Patriotic Europeans appear to be from North America. Zoot Alours!
Friday, 18 July 2008
Pick one. No, not that one. Pick another one!
Did you ever have a kid come up to you with a pack of cards wanting to do a magic trick? This is how it invariably goes.
"Pick a card"
(you pick a card)
"No, not that one. Pick another one"
(you pick a different card)
"You're not doing it right! Pick another one"
(you pick another different card)
At this point the kid usually either goes apeshit, starts crying or walks off after calling you an old cunt. Sometimes though, if the kids really retarded or has some kind of obsessive compulsive disorder he just won't fucking quit until you get the 'right card' at which point...
"It's the six of clubs!"
...which coincidentally is also the point where I snap, eat the card before he can see what it is and post the child to Thailand with only half a pack of jellybabies and a lonely planet phrase book to survive with. I fucking hate kids.
Anyway - the point is that the whole "pick a card, no that card" is stupid, annoying and is only done by hugely retarded children. So I can't help but wonder why the French president is up to exactly the same game.
"Pick a card"
(you pick a card)
"No, not that one. Pick another one"
(you pick a different card)
"You're not doing it right! Pick another one"
(you pick another different card)
At this point the kid usually either goes apeshit, starts crying or walks off after calling you an old cunt. Sometimes though, if the kids really retarded or has some kind of obsessive compulsive disorder he just won't fucking quit until you get the 'right card' at which point...
"It's the six of clubs!"
...which coincidentally is also the point where I snap, eat the card before he can see what it is and post the child to Thailand with only half a pack of jellybabies and a lonely planet phrase book to survive with. I fucking hate kids.
Anyway - the point is that the whole "pick a card, no that card" is stupid, annoying and is only done by hugely retarded children. So I can't help but wonder why the French president is up to exactly the same game.
Crap films my housemates own #3 : Eragon
This is a film based on a book. A book so bad, that the only reason it was published is that the writer published it himself. This is like inventing the sport of high speed cock waggling just so that you can be world champion of high speed cock waggling when no-one but you and Norris McWhirter shows up to your high speed cock waggling championship in your back garden. And the film is far worse than the book.
This movie can be summed up like this "Hey, it's fucking star wars! (but with dragons instead of light sabers)". That's right, they've replaced awesome light sabers with dragons. A dragon instead of a light saber? What's the good in that? You can't twirl a dragon around your head making 'whum, whum' noises. You can't use a replica dragon to bash your younger brother into concussion...it's just not a fair trade. Having my light saber traded for a dragon makes me feel a little like a cherokee indian who's had his tribal lands traded for a sack full of beads. In fact, I am slightly surprised that this film didn't cause anyone to run around the cinema with a tomahawk screaming 'where's my light saber mother fuckers' while scalping any palefaces they could find.
Also, there's a castle instead of the death star. So there are no x-wings, no millenium falcon, no planets exploding and no lightsabers. And the dragon that they replace the lightsabers with is a prissy lesbian dragon with a voice like Mary Poppins. It's one of those sensible shoes and short hair lesbians, not the hot and interesting lesbians that appear in so many films that I am a fan of.
If you want to watch this movie, set up two televisions. On one, watch Star Wars. On the other, watch a fat man having a stroke in a pool of lime jelly. You'll have a much better time.
This movie can be summed up like this "Hey, it's fucking star wars! (but with dragons instead of light sabers)". That's right, they've replaced awesome light sabers with dragons. A dragon instead of a light saber? What's the good in that? You can't twirl a dragon around your head making 'whum, whum' noises. You can't use a replica dragon to bash your younger brother into concussion...it's just not a fair trade. Having my light saber traded for a dragon makes me feel a little like a cherokee indian who's had his tribal lands traded for a sack full of beads. In fact, I am slightly surprised that this film didn't cause anyone to run around the cinema with a tomahawk screaming 'where's my light saber mother fuckers' while scalping any palefaces they could find.
Also, there's a castle instead of the death star. So there are no x-wings, no millenium falcon, no planets exploding and no lightsabers. And the dragon that they replace the lightsabers with is a prissy lesbian dragon with a voice like Mary Poppins. It's one of those sensible shoes and short hair lesbians, not the hot and interesting lesbians that appear in so many films that I am a fan of.
If you want to watch this movie, set up two televisions. On one, watch Star Wars. On the other, watch a fat man having a stroke in a pool of lime jelly. You'll have a much better time.
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