Model Answers

Oasis split!

Model Answers — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 02:19:36 +0000

I received a saddening shock this evening with the news that the mid-90s pub-rock group Oasis have split. I was so taken aback that I inadvertently poured the refreshing fruit drink I was enjoying into my lap. The irony of seeing Oasis spilt as soon as I heard this news didn’t escape my notice either.
I’m sure that I’m not the only person to have literally soiled their Primark briefs at the thought that through some metaphysical freak occurence or inexplicable rupture in the space-time continuum they had been sent back in time to 1998. I was so shocked by the incident that I seem to have temporarily lost my ability to speak with entirely superfluous profanity.
Thankfully by forcefully extracting a Blackberry from a man walking down my street I was able to confirm that I was not back in 1998 with the cataclysmic Presidency of George W. Bush still to come after all. And as an added bonus, I have a nearly new Blackberry Pearl.
In fact it appears, after a little bit of reading up, that the group have been active and recording new material throughout the past decade. It is my own fault I suppose. I had assumed that those plodding, derivative, substandard stadium-friendly ballads released in the band’s name were a sequence of ‘lost’ recordings like the more-prolific-than-ever Tupac manages each Christmas. The ever-diminishing quality levels certainly suggested so. But no, the group have simply been rehashing their already tired old plagiarisms and changing the names for their less-than-discerning fanbase to fritter their paper round wages on. Good for them, everyone loves a Snake Oil salesman.
So farewell, then Oasis; without you there would have been no Starsailor and the career of the Fat Dancer from Take That would have sunk without trace. Your legacy to British music should never be forgotten.

English turn to booze on holiday

Model Answers — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 18:11:37 +0000

Have you read this mind-numbing twattery on the BBC News site? News for fuck’s sake. English people drink alcohol on holiday. Why is my barely-functioning brain being punished by the unsolicited presence of more banal, ill-conceived, poorly executed filler on this site? It has clearly been knocked up by whichever futureless junior hack is already marked out as shit and talentless enough to be assigned nonsense shift.

What is the fucking alternative boffins? We live in a damp, soggy, festering, mouldy, grey and dank climate for fifty weeks of the year and for the other fortnight we’re transplanted into oppressive heat that sears our pasty skin and causes us to sweat profusely each time we turn the page of our day-old Daily Star. Add to that the fact that we are a private and shy people surrounded by huge swaggering moustachioed continentals who laugh at our swimming trunks and flaunt their six stone seven foot teenage girlfriends in front of our eyes so that we can’t even stand until we know that no fucker might glance at our inconveniently-timed stiffies. All of this means that we get pestered by the little fuckers we spawned after a careless pissed-up knee-trembler one Saturday night when our team had fluked a rare away win who want to bury us up to our necks in fucking sand, the most abrasive intrusive substance known to man, while we just want to switch off for a couple of weeks and try and imagine the tedious, humiliating, crippling work that passes for our career was just a bad dream.

No-one else there speaks English, you can’t eat more than half of a Twix without it running all down your football shirt, the food is fetid and greasy, the locals are like the food and the entertainment is a bloke with a fake Stratocaster banging out tuneless renditions of Wonderful Tofuckingnight in the only place in the world where talentless shitcunts can get a gig insulting the ears of the audience. Is it any wonder we turn to drink? That or a remorseless bloody homicidal rampage would seem the only logical response in such testing conditions.

You clueless cockwipes.

Stephen Warnock

Model Answers — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 01:15:21 +0000

By nature I’m not normally prone to bouts of sympathy, especially when the object of that sympathy is an acne-ridden scouser and even-more-than-normally-boring professional footballer. But I’ve always felt that being mistakenly known as the son of a man best described by his anagram pseudonym ‘Colin Wanker’ is cross no-one should have to bear. Not even if he is a mundane bin-dipping overpaid prick who looks like a Mattel Peter Crouch doll.

That said, I still laughed like a ticklish hyena on nitrous oxide when reading his rendition of the usual big club dream come true superb fans when I met the gaffer it feels like the right time bollocks that footballers trot out when changing clubs. On the very night that his new team Aston Villa were dumped out of the laughably grand sounding Europa Cup at their own half-empty stadium by a team of Austrian journeymen, the useless scouse twat bullshitted: “Playing in Europe is important to me”.

Still at least the lop-sided, jug-eared prick can be honest about the reason behind choosing to make his horrifically overpriced and almost certainly regrettable move now. He was living in Blackburn; even a shithouse like Birmingham is a step up from that.

Daniel Hannan

Model Answers — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 22:59:52 +0000

I note with wearying inevitability that self-publicising Tory scrote Daniel Hannan has got his ruddy slapheaded gurning visage in the papers again by bigging up ex-Conservative MP and all-round fascistic thickshit Enoch Powell. Oh how fucking surprising. This prick has been shouldering his way remorselessly into the public eye for as long as I can remember now with his stage-managed controversy and tedious flesh-pressing. He is the political equivalent of those sad fuckers in your local pub who set fire to their farts just for the fleeting frisson of infamy. I tell you, if I looked like a shaved stoat dressed up as a parody of Bertie Wooster the last place I would want to be is in where people can point at me and laugh till they micturate, but this completely amoral flaccid cock positively laps it up like a coprophiliac fresh out of solitary confinement.

Now that Boris Johnson is safely under house arrest as the titular Mayor of London, Hannan clearly sees a niche for a bumbling, privileged twat who isn’t afraid to drop a bollock or two in public if it will get him a thirty second slot on The World At One and build towards the much-coveted role of out-of-touch posho being humiliated by the commoners on Have I Got News For You. Well more power to your elbow Hannan; you might be an odious, cretinous, slimy, lickspittle cunt but at least you’re causing Call Me Dave to quickly gather together a couple of focus groups and see how well the idea of fascism would play with the public at large. The fucker might even learn something.

Keep it up cunt-face.