...way out on the corner of fucked up and evil...

Dudes. Dudes! Why are you not all watching the Wire now that the BBC has finally gotten its fucking retarded act together and started showing it on normal TV?

Or to put it another way: watch the Wire. Or you suck.

PS: Also watch Rome. Then be a bit in love with Vorenus. Then come here and talk to me about it so I don't feel like I'm all alone with my embarrasing Vorenuscrush.

PPS: If you wanted to come here and talk about how hot Mark Anthony is instead, and maybe post some pictures of James Purefoy being naked and/or menacing, that would be totally okay aswell.

Continuing with the whole "Vampires Are Cool" theme for this week's TV watchery, I am currently rediscovering the Pure Awesomeness that is Ultraviolet. Philip Quast is Teh Sex anyway, but Philip Quast as a Catholic priest who hunts vampires and fancies Susannah Harker? Words cannot describe the sexiness!

In other news, apparently a TV License official called 'round yesterday; if it wasn't so fucking annoying, it would be pretty hilarious, as he must have called in the evening when I was home, and yet I had no idea there was anyone at the door. Yet this morning, lying forlornly on the welcome mat, is one of those "tried to call" letters. And seriously, these are the lamest scare tactics ever - the note is all, "If you had been caught evading a TV license today, you could have been fined!" Like, oh noes, I totally could have been fined, except that I wasn't, and also good luck getting in here without a search warrent, you cocksucking motherfucker. And that whole, "Your details have been passed on" line would be a lot more effective if the letter hadn't been addressed to "The Occupier". How is that database coming, guys?

All mockery aside, this shit really, really pisses me off. I don't have a TV aerial or a TV card for my PC, so I don't need a license, but I will be damned if I'm going to fill out a form and let some sweaty balding TVL thug poke around my house on the assumption that I'm a liar. I get these letters every month, and I am sick of TVL using government-sanctioned scare tactics to bully people into paying for something most of us would opt out of if we could.

Apparently Mr TVL is going to be calling again "very soon". All I can say is, I really hope he enjoys staring at my front door, as that is as close as any of these wastes of skin will be getting to my flat.

Oooh, I got another letter from the TV Licensing people today. This one had the Red Logo of DOOM on. So apparently I can expect a visit from one of their officials at some point in the future. Because they totally didn't threaten that in November or anything. Also, what, exactly, are they going to do? Since they can't come in without a search warrant, any visiting inspector can look forward to having the door shut politely and firmly in their face, and listening to me laughing maniacly from inside. Hope you enjoy standing on my doorstep in the middle of a freezing Yorkshire winter, bitches.

In other news, I am listening to the soundtrack to the 1987 musical Phantom of the Opera that I downloaded from... some kind soul whose name escapes me, and there's one track which, I swear to God, is just the Phantom pissing himself laughing for a full minute. I so want to make a CD that is just deranged cackling from all my favourite characters.

Speaking of Erik, and aslo for those poor souls who were subjected to my Sharpe/Narnia ramblings a few days ago (and yes, I am still working on that story, I just get distracted by porn and shiny objects), may I introduce ( Read more... )

Parentals arrived this afternoon. Sigh. I love them and appreciate that they came all the way here to spend my birthday with me, but they can be trying. Someone had knocked over our bins and gone through all the rubbish, and they decided to stand outside in the rain and talk about this for ten minutes instead of going inside where it was warm and toasty. Sigh.

Dad then proceeded to bitch and whine about lack of TV aerial and insist that I find the one he bought me three years ago, used for six months and then relegated to one of the boxes labelled "Tat" that have gone untouched since my last move. Searched a couple of boxes, couldn't find it and declared that it was gone forever. Parentals bitch and moan about the need for a TV, as if Simon Cowell and Emmerdale are somehow vital to my existance. They declare that they shall buy me one, because of course the fact that I don't want one and more importantly, don't want to pay for a TV license is naught compared to the agony they feel on being denied Top Gear. More sigh.

Birthday shopping will occur on the morrow. They want to buy me a watch for my 21st. Am already seeing scenes of hideous, overpriced wristjunk similar to Mother's diamond-studded monstrosity and Dad's Mr T-esque bling being paraded in front of my eyes. May gouge them out in pre-emptive strike against ugly jewellery.

Dear TV Licensing Officials,

Fuck. You.

If you honestly think I'm going to pay £121 a year for the pleasure of watching such quality programs as "Eastenders" and "All the Queen's Cooks", you're very much mistaken. I don't even have a TV aerial, because frankly, the amount of crap you put out has made it pointless for me to bother with television anymore.

If, by chance, you ever make a decent show, release it on DVD, because that is the only way you will get a single penny from me.

In closing, I advise you to fuck yourselves anally with a sharp-bladed instrument. Possibly something in an electric carving knife.

Yours hatefilledly,

Froodle

I feel conflicted.

On the one hand, I genuinely believe that the BBC are a bunch of greedy fucking whores who want nothing better than to violate me in intimate and long-lasting ways. Which, as anyone who knows me well can tell you, is my way of saying that I really resent paying for a TV license when the only good show the BBC has is 'My Family'.

On the other hand, it's Sherlock Holmes, and I can justify it by saying that it's BBC Radio and therefore not affiliated with the grasping fucks who try to steal my money every year for the 'joy' of getting to see such classic shows as 'Test the Nation's IQ' and 'National Lottery: In To Win It'.

The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Abergavenny Murder. Go. Listen. Lust.

My personal favourite:

Holmes: Can you tell how he died? (or words to that effect)
Watson: Not without an autopsy.
Holmes: Shall I clear the table?
Watson: For pity's sake, Holmes!

Also, look out for the strawberry jam line; it's an instant classic.

Although that bit with the tea at the very start reminded me of the vultures in Disney's 'The Jungle Book'. I was sitting here thinking, "If Watson says 'Now don't start that again,' I am so out of here." Selina, I know this is your fault - you're the only one to mention the Jungle Book to me in the last, oh, five years?