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20/9/2003: Let Out The Angry

This last week has been filled with a series of monumental cock-ups on the part of yours truly. Consequently, I shall now vent my rage in an arbitrary fashion at whomever springs to mind. Don't mind, do you?


First and foremost, the object closest to me right now. A free CD that came with the Observer, including some mediocre music and a plea to sign an online Oxfam petition to "make trade fair." Now, I've nothing against political expression in general, but if they actually want to have any effect, the folks at Oxfam have made one key mistake, which is best illustrated by this diagram:

I bet you can see their mistake now! You see, as long as their route of action on this issue remains to write lots of names on a big nasty piece of paper, they will get precisely nowhere. Don't get me wrong, I know they take far more direct action in their other pursuits. But if they genuinely want to change things, and aren't just interested in the feel-good factor associated with standing up and being counted by no bugger at all, get into politics! I don't know if you folks have noticed, but they're actually inside the building you're shouting at from across the street!

Well, that should make me good an' unpopular. Who's next?

Ah yes. My good friends the Americans. Specifically, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA). The Bush administration so far has had scores of good ideas; to name but a few, torpedoing the Kyoto protocol amidships, knocking down income taxes for the obscenely rich, and the complete elimination of two nations. However, this one takes the biscuit. DARPA, in their infinite wisdom, have opened up a betting shop. No ordinary betting shop, you understand. In this betting shop, every bet rides on a number of civilian casualties. For example, one might put 10 on the assassination of Yasser Arafat, and 50 on the next car bomb to go off being a Seat. I know it sounds like a joke, but check it out. I'll leave you to rant for yourself from here.

The people who remade the Italian Job barely achieve a better standing in my mind. I don't care if the film's good or bad, it's still the metaphysical equivalent of roughly sodomising Michael Caine to even consider a remake.

Perhaps more deserving of that fate than Mr Caine are the executives of the Sony Corporation. Not that they've done anything to annoy me too much; they just own the company that produced the games console that gets all the good games, hence keeping me playing shit conversions and Lord of the Rings titles.

Finally to the block tonight: God. I'm not quite sure what I've done; I probably ran over his cat, or stole his VCR, or something, but I've sure pissed him off. In one day, my PC's video card melted to slag, my bike's wheels both spontaneously took on their "ovoid" form, my driving lesson ended in the most ungodly, crashing stall ever, and my neighbour's cat took to stalking me at a distance of about 20 yards whenever I'm nearby. Co-incidence? I don't think so.

Right, I feel much better now. You can go now if you want. Or you can stay here, and read some more. It's all the same to me, really.

19/9/2003: By The Way

Australia is better than Britain. It just is.

18/9/2003: Jesus Christ, Shut Up

Who'd have thought that a blisteringly foulmouthed rant about CSI would have led to an impromptu theme week? Certainly not me, but then I'm borderline retarded!

I think this idea has got legs. Alpha Power Force (Columbo, his dog, Inspector Morse, Lewis, Jonathan Creek and Ash) versus Team Omega Naughty (Blofeld, Patrick McGoohan, Quincy, Jason Voorhees and Rasputin) could be the television hit of the summer. Make it a cartoon series. It could be the Superfriends of the 2000s. It'd kick the shit out of Spongebob Squarepants.

Here're some ideas for episodes just off the top of my head.


Inspector Morse, Lewis, and Columbo meet at the annual Detective's Convention and become slowly bored to tears as the CSI team get on stage to make a lengthy speech, communicated only by taking off sunglasses in various different ways. Suddenly, Blofeld, Quincy and Patrick McGoohan burst in and kill the lot of them to the cheers of a grateful nation. They then attempt to take the whole place hostage, oblivious to the events taking place in the Magician's Convention next door.

Jonathan Creek has incurred Rasputin's wrath by giving away the secret half-way through the dark sorceror's 'saw the garden gnome in half' trick, and has been forced to flee. He bursts into the adjoining convention hall at just the right time to cause distraction and chaos, giving he, Morse, Lewis, Columbo and his dog the chance to escape. They all pile into Columbo's little car and flee, the bad guys in hot pursuit, to the nearest suitable hiding place - Camp Crystal Lake. Suddenly, they find themselves being antagonised by an unstoppable maniac in a hockey mask, until at the last possible second they are rescued by a scarred fellow with a chainsaw for a hand, who teaches them to stop running and start fighting back.

In a clever closing sequence, the film intercuts between both the good and evil groups as they make their pledges to band together as Alpha Power Force/Team Omega Naughty and fight whatever happens to be pissing them off wherever it lurks. Then Jason cuts off one of Patrick McGoohan's toes and Blofeld hits him over the head with a rolled-up newspaper.


Alpha Power Force go out for a drink to celebrate their union, but leave Lewis behind, mistakenly locking him in the office. Simultaneously, Team Omega Naughty make their first coup by unleashing Jason into the building. Morse realises their mistake when he notices that his right shoulder isn't being breathed on as usual, but on the way back Alpha Power Force all forget what they were supposed to be doing. Meanwhile, as Jason stomps fruitlessly around the office becoming increasingly frustrated, a sweating Lewis six feet away realises that he possesses an almost supernatural ability to be ignored. He remedies future errors by taking to wearing a large, colourful scarf.


An incubus from the pits of Hell is summoned by Rasputin and lays waste to city hall, until there's the inevitable media outcry and the demon starts appearing on chat shows pretending he had nothing to do with it. It's up to Columbo, Morse and Jonathan to piece together the evidence that proves his involvement, and force the authorities to take action against the unspeakable monster.


After a blazing row with Inspector Morse, Ash storms out in a huff, jealous of the fact that everyone can solve crimes except him. Alpha Power Force wonder if they'll be able to get by without him, until a madman takes an entire office building hostage, insisting that he'll only negotiate with people who have power tools instead of hands. The Borg collective won't return Morse's phone calls, so certain prides have to be grudgingly swallowed, Ash is asked to come back, and everyone learns a valuable lesson.


Jonathan Creek accidentally runs into Patrick McGoohan while out buying a new hairdryer, and the two embark upon a lengthy scrap, ending when Jonathan lures Patrick into a theme park and exploits the former Prisoner star's well-known phobia of white balloons.


The city is thrown into turmoil as a hive of HR Giger's Aliens come down from space in big ships and begin slaughtering everything they find, but unexpected help arrives in the form of the Predator, who reluctantly sides with Alpha Power Force to destroy the insectile tossers. Meanwhile, Michael Myers hits town to visit his old mate Jason, and is horrified by the way Blofeld uses him as a coffee table. The trouble is only just beginning, however, as the Terminator arrives from the future along with the crew of Red Dwarf, while Mulder and Scully attempt to explain one iota of what the hell's going on. Just as things are descending into total chaos, Inspector Frost, the Famous Five and that scary little girl from Poltergeist turn up for a benefit concert being held by Paul McCartney -

[The text of the article ends here. Yahtzee has a subroutine built into his computer which automatically curtails any updates that become too much like fan fiction.]

17/9/2003: Malevolicious

Newton said that for every action there must be an equal and opposite reaction. If you swing a pendulum one way, it has to swing back. If you punch someone in the face, they have to punch you back. And if you've got a dream team of crime fighting heroes, you have to have a dream team of villains, too. Makes sense. I mean, if I really could bring together Columbo, his dog, Inspector Morse, Lewis, Jonathan Creek and Ash, they'd solve all the crime in the world in ten seconds and end up with nothing to do.

So, we need a supervillain team for them to go up against. Here's what I came up with. Team Omega Naughty!

1. Ernst Stavro Blofeld

And I mean the classic Donald Pleasance Blofeld, not that tosser Telly Savalas or the other one. The Blofeld who embodied pure vicious genius, and sported that really cool scar to boot. What with him being a world-conquering smarty man he's a shoe-in for leader of Team Omega Naughty. Plus, his white cat could have an ongoing feud with Columbo's dog. The last we saw of Ernst Stavro Blofeld he was being dropped down a chimney by Roger Moore, but I'm sure he's survived worse.

He'll need a bit of retraining before we can use him, of course. He'll need to learn that, when standing in front of the rugged hero and an underling who has failed you, it's probably wiser to kill the hero first.

2. Patrick McGoohan

Being a regular Columbo guest star, he's the closest thing to an arch nemesis. His various incarnations have been put away by Columbo on numerous occasions, so he's got to be a ball of seething impotent rage by now. Also, the skills he learned while appearing in The Prisoner would be useful should Alpha Power Force unleash any large white balloons, or embark upon an obscenely large game of chess. He'd probably be a little embarrassing to have around in a doctor's waiting room, though.

"Take a number, please."


3. Quincy, ME

If we're to be a match for Inspector Morse, we need someone of comparable shouting ability. Look no further than Dr. Quincy, the shoutiest coroner the world has ever known. Of course, he's technically a good guy, but since he's so often the little man up against the management or the big corporation, it's only a matter of time before he becomes frustrated with society and bitterly abandons his job. Hopefully Team Omega Naughty will be able to pick him up before he reaches the 'sniper rifle and clock tower' stage.

4. Jason Voorhees

Since it seems we won't be seeing Ash taking on Jason after all (manfully holding back tears) I guess they're going to have to do it in the privacy of my imagination. Jason might be a tricky customer, since everyone who's tried to control him has ended up with all their limbs in a different geographical location to the rest of them. I'm sure Blofeld will be able to come up with some ingenious scheme to keep him on the leash. Maybe he could dress up as Mrs. Voorhees. Better still, get Patrick McGoohan to do it. That way, if it didn't work it'd at least be a laugh. Another advantage of Jason, of course, is that he has a tendency to kill people before they've finished talking, a useful talent in the superhero world.

5. Rasputin

Well, we needed some kind of dark sorcerer figure to combat the intellectual might of Jonathan Creek, and Rasputin was the first person I could think of. There is the small problem of him being dead, but I think he was just kidding about that. He survived being shot, stabbed, poisoned and thrown in a frozen river. Can we say 'Evil Immortality Spell'? That sort of magic combined with supreme resilience makes a deadly adversary. Perhaps he and Jason could swap beauty tips.

So that's Team Omega Naughty, then. An evil genius, a popular 70's television star, a coroner and two blokes who can't die. They're up against three police officers, a magician's assistant, some guy with a chainsaw and a small dog. Could be a ratings winner!

Anyway, I suppose if you've got your own ideas for the ultimate crime-fighting team or the ultimate legion of evil then I'm sure we'd all be thrilled to hear about them on the forum.

16/9/2003: Absolute Hero

You may remember yesterday I became somewhat bilious when discussing CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. I have since realised that it's no good me ranting about CSI if I can't produce a reasonable alternative. So let's chuck those CSI fuckers into the whirling blades. Away with that speccy deaf chubster, the square-jawed prettyboys, the blonde woman whose accent hops constantly from one side of the Atlantic to the other. Let's bring together the Ultimate Crime Fighting Team to take their place. Let's face it, with crossovers being so popular these days, this sort of thing is inevitable.

Here we go, then: My personal dream detective team, or as I like to call them, Alpha Power Force!

Leader: Columbo

I love Columbo so much that I can't even get it up without the smell of dirty raincoat hanging in the air, so he is a natural shoe-in to lead Alpha Power Force. Only he has the appropriate sleuthing ability and people skills to be an effective administrator. When a new supervillain starts terrorising the city, it will be Columbo's job to instinctively guess the villain's secret identity and pester the poor bloke constantly, genially asking questions like "So, just for my report, why've you got five hundred pairs of red spandex tights in your wardrobe?" Until the secret identity in question becomes so incensed with rage that in a fit of frothy-mouthed violence he pulls out his cosmic destructo ray. And that, my friends, will be his undoing.

Second in command: Columbo's dog

People underestimate the contribution Columbo's dog made to his crimesolving career. "But Yahtzee!" I hear you cry. "Surely, while Columbo was unravelling complex murder plots and being disarmingly friendly to the suspect, all his dog was doing was sitting looking adorable but dopey!" To which I reply, "Exactly." Then I look at you meaningfully and leave you to try and work out what the hell I'm drivelling about now.

Interrogation: Inspector Morse

Columbo's method doesn't really work very well when called upon to interrogate the really hardened villains, so we need someone who can shout. Someone with a face like a really angry troll who's just stepped in something nasty. Step forward Inspector Morse, ever-ready to bawl out some scumfuck and drink best bitter by the truckload. And of course, you also get his sidekick thrown into the package, which brings me to:

Covert Ops: Sergeant Lewis

Lewis knew his place. He knew he was just second fiddle to Morse. He'd turn up with the old white-haired shouty man and everyone'd look straight past him. But that, I think, is his strength. Nobody notices Lewis. He could be in the villain's antechamber taking notes on the latest world domination scheme and no-one would bat an eyelid. He could be dancing naked in Trafalgar Square with a duck on his head and people would wonder what that duck's doing there. It's all the benefits of having an invisible man without the problem of them inevitably becoming murderously insane.

Consultancy: Jonathan Creek

The villain's plans have been foiled, and Alpha Power Force have him pinned down in his main office. They burst in, and lo and behold, he's simply disappeared from a room with no apparent exits. This is when the methods of Columbo and Morse fall short, there being no-one to genially grill for information or shout at, so we need the conjurer genius of Jonathan Creek to step into the room, take a good look around and eventually report "He's hiding behind the door, you idiots."

Also, his windmill would be good for parties.

Arse-kicking: Ashley 'Ash' J. Williams

Regular Joe turned chainsaw-wielding borderline psychopath, the man Duke Nukem wishes he was, Ash is not particularly well-known for his sleuthing skills, but once Jonathan, Lewis, Morse, Columbo and Columbo's dog have solved the crime none of them are much use if the supervillain won't come quietly. This is when Ash comes into his own. Ash can kick any arse you lay before him and have it for breakfast the next morning.

'General Administration': The Chief Bloke From CSI

Since we're using his office I guess he can stick around if he wants. His job will entail making coffee, being punched in the face when someone's irritated, and some light filing. Ash is under orders to chainsaw off one of this guy's limbs if he ever takes his sunglasses off in a pretentious way.

15/9/2003: CSI / CS Run / Run S Run

Many would say that jumping to Mercury with an adult tiger attached to each bollock could largely be considered an impossible task. I've discovered an even more difficult one; I challenge you to find a bigger bunch of mongwielding tossfucks than the arseholes that make up the cast of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. Hold on, I should probably allow my bile to drain off before I can start making intelligent arguments. Bear with me for a bit.

What a bunch of pisssniffing poochuggers. I hate their stupid self-congratulatory wanky bumchummy attitudes and their smug big-cock muffslapping wingle-biscuits shitstainy faces. I consider them a platoon of arse-wangling dicksuck marines parachuting into Effluence, Tennessee. I want to shove barbed plumbing equipment up their immaculately-wiped botty holes and turn them into ornamental diarrhoea fountains to put in the gardens of Kensington Palace.

Whoo! Right then.

CSI embodies everything I hate about certain US cop shows, because the heroes are, basically, perfect. They're always right, they're all good-looking geniuses, and they vomit out smartarse quips at the slightest provocation. They're inevitably the very best in their field, and by christ do they know it. Where are the flawed heroes, like Inspector Frost or Inspector Morse or Columbo (cue adoring sigh: hahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh), who do eventually get their man but generally piss about for two hours beforehand? Where's the struggle? Where's the identification? Why can't I reach my hand into the magical TV world and punch them all in the square-jawed chops?

I hate the way they all have the magical ever-correct 'Cop Hunch'. Like, there was this woman who got killed, and they brought the husband in who put on the usual shocked and horrified act, then all those CSI smugfucks instantly assumed he was guilty and began checking all the evidence that could point to him. And what do you know, he WAS guilty! I just hated the way they didn't even consider the possibility that maybe he was innocent. "He must have hid the evidence really well," said one cockhead. Or, you know, MAYBE HE DIDN'T FUCKING DO IT!

I guess I can understand why they instantly blamed this guy, because he was white and male. In every episode I've seen (more than you'd think) the bad guy was ALWAYS a white bloke. An entire family is killed, the dad is alive but wounded; oh, what do you know! The dad did it! Oh, for silly luck! Because as we all know, white blokes are just a powder keg of seething rage waiting to explode. White blokes are the cause of all human suffering. If there's a white guy on the whodunnit list, it's gonna be him.* I'm surprised they don't just lock up all the white guys in the world, at which point the Earth will bloom with flowers, the pollution will melt away, and peoples of all races and nations will join hands and sing songs of peace and understanding, while white guys watch enviously from their cramped dungeons, clawing out each others' eyes for cigarettes.

* Unless the white guy is a member of the CSI team, in which case they are innocent of all crimes and are probably the second coming of Christ, too.

Of course, this rule isn't always the case. Like, there was this time this bloke was accused of getting his daughter pregnant and killing his wife, so naturally the CSI fuckwits hurled abuse at him while he protested innocence. Then it turned out the daughter had a phantom pregnancy and that she did the killing, and they let the bloke go. But they did it grudgingly. And they didn't even fucking apologise.

The actors on CSI are apparently under orders to never wear any facial expression other than "slight disgust and concern", so their emotions have to be conveyed by taking their sunglasses off in a variety of different ways. They're always taking their fucking sunglassess off all the fucking time. I can only presume the sunglasses are some kind of overly-friendly sunglasses creature that keeps leaping onto their noses for a cuddle.

There are so many ways to take your sunglasses off and so many things that it can say:

"The Dumbstruck Twat"

Subject removes sunglasses with both hands to reveal slightly widened eyes and allows his/her jaw to drop slightly. Used when (s)he sees, for instance, a waitress lying with a gigantic flagpole up her hoo-ha.

"The Thoughtful Chew"

Subject removes sunglasses slowly with one hand to inspect important evidence, then starts chewing on one end of the frame, staring into the middle distance, wondering exactly how a huge splodge of waitress menstrual blood found itself upon the collar of some white guy they found in a bar down the street from the crime scene.

"The Piercing Accusation"

When the investigators confront the white bloke villain and there is enough smug in the air to cut into slices and feed to hungry orphans, they want to show them the look of utter disdain in their wanker eyes. They remove the sunglasses with one hand, moving them sharply to their left as they do so, and let their prey see the full force of their hate. Like a bunch of cunts.

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