Anyway, this masterpiece has been sitting in the boot of the car for six months:
I’m not sure what Strike Force is. I assume it’s like Parcel Force, but with more guns and perps. And now I own an annual of it, which I’ll use to smack burglars round the head, as soon as I’ve finished doing the wordsearch.
Lads, I’ve found the worst thing in the world. If they were trying to create an apocalyptic 2020 version of Rainbow, they’ve succeeded.
Turns out some company has acquired the rights to Rainbow despite having never seen Rainbow, seen an actual Rainbow, or heard the word ‘rainbow’ before. This company is using those rights to produce books like ‘Uncle George will break your knees tonight if you don’t pay up’. I only discovered this while innocently browsing the Rainbow Wikipedia page, as you do when you’re 37 and depressed.
Let’s just take a minute to go over this glorious cover, point by point.
The book itself is supposed to be an interactive puppet book: Mum and/or Dad put their hand in George, creating a whimsical live action story adventure for their child.
Reality: Child is so traumatised by ‘threatening bailiff George’ that they will never sleep again. And they’ll certainly never get into debt.
Here is the Amazon synopsis:
“Feelings of nostalgia for parents.” I get that. I too would like to go back to a time before this fucker was made. Ideally when Terry’s Neapolitans were still a thing.
Meanwhile, the plot centres around George playing hide and seek with people. I fucking wonder why.
You know this is bad because it manages to be worse than anything Bungle has ever done.
I am not an artist, but even I have a sense of – to use the technical expression – things looking fucking wrong. Those cold, staring eyes. Those wrong nostrils. Those synthetic plastic lips. The way they combine to make George say “U WOT M8”. The menacing way he’s brandishing his rattle at you. And what is his other arm doing.
I’ve watched a lot of Rainbow, but I don’t remember ever seeing George off his chuff on Stella, threatening to glass the viewers. Let’s be honest – the only thing George wants to play in this universe is fucking Russian Roulette.
If you think I’m overreacting because you’re 12 and you’ve never watched Rainbow, imagine this reboot in 30 years:
There isn’t really a point to this post, except that I needed to express my anger/fear at this unholy abomination. If you’re curious, it’s on Amazon. Godspeed.
Can anyone spot the deliberate mistake in this episode? That’s right, the gang have come to the launderette to do some washing, implying more than 25% of them wear any clothes ever.
Anyway, here we are, washing Geoffrey’s soiled tights and bras. But oh shit – Geoffrey’s forgotten to bring any washing powder! I mean, so have the others, but Geoffrey’s the only one without a room temperature IQ.
“What the fuck are we going to do now?” wails Geoffrey.
Zippy senses his despair, and decides he doesn’t really give a shit. “Geoffrey, can I have some chocolate out of the machine?”
Lads, what the fuck did I just watch. I remember late 80s ITV show Tugs being a happy little Thomas The Tank Engine-style show about boats, not a drug-fuelled episode of 999 with Michael Buerk, narrated by the voice of Protect and Survive.
There we were, quite happily watching old episodes of Lucky Ladders, and trying to work out which of the contestants was having sex with Lenny Bennett that week, when Tugs came up on the related videos. Why this happened remains a mystery for the ages.
“Let’s watch Tugs,” said Alex. “It’ll be great.”
Despite it looking a bit like a VT from Look Around You, I figured I owed Alex for making him watch every episode of The Shoe People ever made.
“I think this episode got banned,” he said. I ignored him, because that’s what I do, and because I’d just spilled lemonade on my tit.
Right, the general premise of Tugs is that there are a load of boats, and they all somehow have faces. This one, for example:
“On the run from Andi Peters and QVC following a misunderstanding about cruises, Melissa begrudgingly agrees to attend the Edinburgh Fringe with her best friend Joanne, and Joanne’s 17th century throwback ‘life partner’ Fax. While leafleting for Fax’s dreadful hippy stand up show (“If doctors are so good, how come they never use rose quartz. Am I right?”) Melissa partakes in the delights and horrors of pretentious student shows, ‘street typing’, accidentally starting queues, arguments about Brian Clough, and the fact that her shop has been left in the hands of someone who doesn’t understand tins.
Perhaps she was better off in the hands of the Teleshopping Mafia…
Excerpts from Crap Comedy:
“If the phone rings again I’m going to steal a car and run myself over with it.”
“I start wandering away from the city centre, and the billions of people trying to tell me about ‘free five star comedy’ yet again. When will these fuckers learn that I hate them and wish for them all to be bummed to death by Les Dennis.”
“That’s it. That’s fucking it. Today is not going well. I’ve been rained on, and shouted at by a man in a dress, and then I had all my money stolen, and now the King of the Hipsters is sitting here typing specifically to mess with me and annoy me. I march up to him, feeling like it’s a boss fight.”
“Dear Mr Peters,
I am writing to complain about your shoddy lack of customer care. As the Prime Minister of QVC, you should have known that I didn’t really want to buy a YoNanas, and you should have sent me something I did want, such as your delicious pies.“
“I nearly crack my head open on a beam within three seconds of entering this bar. It’s a repurposed coal hole. “What’s this place called again?” Joanne rolls her eyes. “God, The Dictator’s Dick!”
“Fax has broken the TV. Now I can’t watch Loose Women, just in case I ever get brain damage and want to watch Loose Women.”
Crap Comedy, coming very very soon to many places that sell books.
Don’t ask me why I own this – the answer is ‘because I’m a bit stupid’.
Back in the day, this was a must for every girl who wanted to make herself beautiful, before a hard day’s running round yelling, using the trundle wheel, or nipping boys.
I can confirm that ownership of this as a fat middle-aged woman does not make me feel beautiful. Maybe I will once we’ve examined the contents.
Play tissue box, Model’s perfume
Fun fact – the girl on the ‘play tissue box’ is probably on HRT now. Or she would be if she weren’t a painting. It will surprise nobody to know that there is no perfume in that bottle. I’ll have to just imagine what models smell like. Probably Hula Hoops, TCP and old pants.
These are mysterious. Model’s what? Further thought has narrowed it down to the following:
Model’s monosodium glutomate
Model’s gin to make her feel radiant
Whatever they are I’d better figure it out soon if I want to be a model.
There’s no mirror in this compact, not even a shit one made of foil. They must have known I wouldn’t want to look at myself. As for the lipstick, if you think I’m putting that anywhere near my mouth after it’s been hanging round in that packet for two decades, you are wrong. Actually that’s a fib, but there’s no point and I’m lazy.
To finish off, we have things to beautify your hair and neck. Considering both are about the size of a Hobnob, I’m not going to try using them. This is a blow, because it means I can’t make myself feel beautiful after all. Not that plastic lipstick and ‘model’s piss’ would necessarily have helped anyway.
Hi gang, today we’re making this load of shit, from the Ladybird Book of Making a Load of Shit.
I’ll be honest, I don’t really know what a Gonk is. it seems to be one of those mythical things everyone had in the past, like Chopper bikes and scurvy. Attempts at research resulted in me getting loads of adverts like this:
So all I’ve really got to go on is that picture of a shoddy Ron Jeremy action figure.
Here is what you’ll need if you’re making one along at home. You’re not though are you. You’re sat reading this while drinking lager, and laughing at me attempting to make a shit Gonk.