Report Predicts Everyone Will Be a Sexy Millionaire by 2050

The Kinks one recorded a song titled ‘Everyone’s In Showbiz, Everyone’s a Star’ and the world’s greatest talentless wanker, Andy Warhol, predicted that ‘in the future everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes. History is full of failed predictions from the Oracle at Delphi through Nostradamus, Mother Shipton and just about every twentieth century stargazer and futurologist who ever found an audience.

It isn’t just psychics and fortune tellers of course. When I was young there was here in the UK a TV program titled Tomorrows World which looked at the latest technological advances and newly launched gadgets and predicted how we would live in the future. One famous prediction led us to believe by the trun of the millennium we would all be zooming around in private hovercraft.

Its 2016 now and I’m still waiting, where’s my fucking hovercraft?

“Britain and the World in 2050”, a report published by the Adam Smith Institute, predicts that teenagers will be millionaires in the future and will afford the same living standards that wealthy people do today. It also predicts everyone will be good looking.

Despite the growing gap between the rich and poor, Adam Smith Institute president Madsen Pirie predicts economic growth of two percent a year will leave the younger generation richer.

Machines will take over the production of food and clothes and will run households, suggest Pirie.

Look at the first syllable of Mr. Pirie’s forename and you get a clue as to the worth of this report. With central banks and increasingly the commercial banks looking at negative interests rates to restart the economies of the developed world we are looking at a modern version of serfdom as our financial future

I’m not a celebrity, throw me out of here

A bunch of self obsesses airheads only interested in publicity

Confiscate the right’s wealth but not mine, says billionaire leftie

An exclusive on the world’s greatest celebrity

Celebrity Love Island: Reality Rears Its Ugly Head

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The Freak Show On Trial

Fans of Michael Jackson might want to take a couple of beta blockers before they read this…

The last place one would expect a freak show to be staged is in a courtroom in politically correct California. Yet for several months (or is it years) the dysfunctional and dismembered have paraded their physical and mental weirdnesses. To the utter boredom of the world at large.

Michael Jackson, alleged serial kiddie fiddler and one time pop star, has been brought before the courts again. I suppose the law officers who brought the case have to be seen to be doing the job taxpayers pay them to do but by now does anybody really think that anybody – anybody at all who is associated with Michael Jackson in any way can be so sufficiently aware of what planet they are on as to be able to give credible evidence in a court case. Is there a plague of self delusion happening over there.

Now I am a liberal and a libertarian and believe in the right of every predatory paedophile to a fair trial, but if you want my opinion on the case Jackson should have been banged up decades ago for that record about the effing rat. Michael’s whole career has been a triumph of marketing over mediocrity. We were told that Micheal was prodigiously talented, despite the lack of evidence enough people believed it to make him a star. We were told the “Michael invented the moonwalk” and enough of us erased memories of our childhood visits to the circus where we watched clowns doing that very thing as they had for centuries. We went along with the myth that “Michael invented body popping despite hearing our grandparents talk of vaudeville acts whose contortions to music made Jackson’s prancing look like a tasteless impression of an epileptic on speed.

The world believed the myth of Jackson’s talent when all the evidence screamed that he was a spoiled child who demanded to be told he was wonderful because he had done the most mundane things.

Perhaps it is because people have short memories. “Oh poor little dear to be so afflicted,” they mutter on seeing his mutilated face. Let’s not forget that face is entirely self inflicted.

Setting aside Michael Jackson’s nose (something he does every night we assume) it is important to examine the psyche of a man who seems to have created himself simply be believing his own publicity. How can any forty – five year old man be so divorced from the world that he can believe it is a healthy and beautiful thing to invite adolescent boys to share his bed? How come none of the parasites that surround him ever thought to take him to one side and say “you know Michael, this is a worse idea than your last nose job.”

Am I the greatest soul singer ever?” he asks a music journalist who has been primed with lavish gifts, “of course you are, and I will write it in my magazine so the whole world knows.” And by the time the hype machine has worked through a mile long queue of music journos the world believes. Step aside Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Wilson Pickett. Those poignant, unforgettable songs dripping with real, raw emotion are nothing when set against the minnie mouse voiced warblings of a child – man singing about AN EFFING RAT!

What is really sad abut the trial in Santa Maria is that it is the untimate expression of a warped philosophy that holds much of America in thrall, a post modern way of thinking in which self – obession is the central plank of culture. It runs like this : “there are no facts, perception is all. This kind of thinking is very destructive to civilisation of course. It is not the fact that Jackson chooses to believe he is a megatalented genius or that it is fine for an adult male to share a bed with a boy so long as he can afford to shell out $20million in gifts (that only an English curmudgeon would refer to as “hush money”) but people’s willingness to let him believe that, to murmer mealy – mouthed platitudes such as “we must not deny him the right to explore his individual truth” that is damaging.

If we are willing to accept that Michael’s truth is as good as anybody’s then we must also be willing to accept that it is better than most peoples’ simply because Michael, though near bankruptcy still have enough money to buy the truth that suits him. Just as in post – modern America corporations and politicians may buy for themselves the “truth” that serves their interests. Michael Jackson is not the disease, merely a symptom.

And so we all choose to live in our own little reality, forgetting about the third world farmers working for five pence an hour to put exotic food on our western tables as we continue to believe that the banks and corporations are run by Santa Claus and will never call in our debts.
And so we can all be Michael Jackson, cocooning ourselves in candy floss, safe within the certasinty that reality is never more than skin deep.


Copyright © 2005 Ian R. Thorpe

Trial News
yahoo news
BBC online in – depth reports
Say No More dept. – Michael’s “hands on” relationship with Bubbles the Chimp

Guilty or Not Guilty
(this is the bit that gets me sues)
Are the clues in the songs?

1. Ben
2. In The Closet
3. Give In To Me
4. The Lost Children
5. Privacy
6. Get On The Floor
7. Billy’s Jeans
8. Rockin’ Robin

I was going to do a “top ten but I got bored.

Bowling For Cult Status

Bowling for Cult Status.

London had hosted its first “Dude” convention, so named in honour of the central character in the cult movie The Big Lebowski.

Maybe I’m just getting old and grumpy but it seems to me the world if full to overflowing with cults (I said CULTS, OK?) Each cult spawns its crop of conventions of course, so why not The Big Lebowski, at least “Dude” clones do not dress as aliens and go around talking in funny voices and making hand gestures that would have christian fundamentalists diving for cover.
Cult followers, or in the case of cult gay movie Priscilla, Queen of the Desert camp followers perhaps, find an escape from the mind rotting tedium of modern life by dressing up as characters in films or TV shows, debating the philosophical significance of the fact that the Xnrg from Yarble galaxy are giant, talking turds or re-enacting famous scenes and trying to cop off with somebody dressed as a giant, talking turd. By comparison imitating The Dude who spends most of his life hanging around a bowling alley drinking White Russians and the remainder accidentally stealing money from the mob and trying not to get killed by the mob begins to look like the behaviour we associate with sane, rational people.

Doyens of cult follows are the Trekkies. Trekkies have been with us for years. Most are content to put on spandex suits and a pair of pointy ears or a cod Scottish accent but some extremists insist on putting half eaten Cornish Pasties on their heads and saying they are Klingons. So well entrenched in society are the Trekkies that many Universities now offer degree courses in Klingon studies. Oh well, I suppose it is as good a choice career wise as a degree in creative writing or sports centre management. The best thing about Trekkie conventions is that the good looking females simply put on spandex jump suits and draw a few lines on their noses or have henna tattoos on their necks. Why would a good looking female want to cover herself in strips of green plastic or be wrapped in aluminium foil.
Trekkies were followed by Whoies, fans of Doctor Who. (not to be confused with WHOIS, a way of finding out what subterranean stinkpit the bastard that hacked your computer might be hiding.) After that come Star Wars cult fanatics. Anyone know a collective noun for these? Starries sounds like a convention for celebrity stalkers while Waries are surely members of the Bush Administration.

I have nothing against cult members but I do wonder at their motivation. Surely a couple of hours in the pub on a Friday night will provide ample opportunity to meet people who dress outlandishly and talk absolute bollocks. Surely to acknowledge being a cult member is an admission of chronic sadness almost equal to being seen entering a line dancing club.
For asctors and writers /producers / directors being part of a cult show or movie is different of course. It means they will never have to work again. Which is nice as many never do work again.

Back to The Big Lebowski:

To make a White Russian
(click here for more cocktails)

Fill a tumbler with crushed ice and add

1 shot of Vodka
1 shot of Kahula (coffee liqueur)
float 1 shot of whipping cream on top of this.

Reality Rears Its Ugly Head

Reality Rears Its Ugly Head

The new “reality” TV show launched this week with the rather desperate sounding title Celebrity Love Island does not disappoint. It plumbs new depths for trash television. The idea is that twelve Z – list celebrities (6 male, 6 female) are put on a tropical island paradise, supplied with food, booze, a pool, a Jacuzzi and a million hidden cameras and microphones. They are then left to do what healthy young adults do when given the chance to shrug off responsibility and live a pampered life .

The fatal flaw in the plan lies in the fact that the people involved are not healthy young adults but minor celebrities. They are people who on account of once having briefly threatened to reveal signs of talent or in some cases having briefly shagged someone who threatened to reveal signs of talent are considered to be entertainment for the plebs. All of them however are now intent on building a career by being famous for being famous.

One of the females who actually has genuine claims to some sort of celebrity, being a credible current affairs presenter has already broken down in tears and begged for merciful release, presumably so that she can kill her agent. The poor girl has obviously been driven to the edge by having the phrase “professional suicide” bounce around her head like a really irritating tune.

Of the rest the appropriately named Abi Titmuss, famous for having been the girlfriend of a minor league TV presenter who became famous for allegedly raping a real celebrity is the most famous. The alleged offence took place before the real celebrity was a celebrity and the minor league presenter was acquitted, but not before some sneaky lowdown bastard (or somebody’s agent) had leaked to the media a porno video featuring the lovely Abi in flagrante delicto with some of her alleged boyfriend’s friends. A career was born.

Best of the rest are a man famous for being the son of a very famous drunk, a former Future Olympic Champion and a woman who sold the story of her (alleged – by her at least) adulterous affair with a very famous soccer player and spent the cash on breast enlargement so that she could go into competition with the lovely Abi. as the world’s most famous nonentity.

I have not heard of any of the rest and bear in mind these are British celebrities and I am a British news junkie. So you get the picture.
Celebrity Love Island is not about love, it is about sex. It is solely about who will get em’ off and get down to it first purely for the titillation of a voyeuristic audience and without any kind of emotional attachment. It is the very lowest level of commercial sex.

The most depressing thing about Celebrity Love Island other than the fact that the only love likely to be seen is narcissism, the love that dares scream its name from the rooftops; is that it reveals the depth of humiliation these so called celebs will expose themselves to in order to stretch their allotted fifteen minutes of fame.

I have a horrible feeling the show will be a hit.