I dunno. I’m away for a month or so and Jade Goody dies. That’s all I wish to say about her in particular. I’m not here to dwell on what her motives were for the gaudy auctioneering of practically every aspect of the last seven years of her life. All for the good of public consumption.

No, because what’s really unsavoury in all of this is:

A) The media circus willing to fork out obscene amounts of money for the exclusive rights to what is tantamount to watching a young woman die.
B) The manipulative scumbags lurking behind the scenes, creaming off their cut of each and every deal closed as the destructive force that is cancer tears somebody’s insides apart.
And C) The opportunist soundbite merchants jumping on the celebrity-grief bandwagon to tell us how sad they are at the death of someone they’ve probably never met, but most certainly wouldn’t give a flying fuck about were it not for the spotlight opportunity associated with such a media carnival. (Yes, that means you Mr. Brown, and all the other scummy politicians who came out to offer their insincere condolences. I didn’t see any of you giving statements for the other unnamed statistics who happened to die from cancer on the same day)

What manner of society is it that clambers across each other, chequebooks open, to buy the exclusive rights to another human being’s painful demise? Whether that person chooses to allow it or not, or even actively encourages it. Whatever happened to self-control?

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

Jeffman returns and another Christmas has come and gone. One that was just as crap as anticipated.

You see, anyone that knows me personally or reads this rubbish with something bordering on insane regularity, will already have made an assessment in their minds that I am the cut of cove who has a very low tolerance towards fellow idiots, the greedy, politicians (not mutually exclusive of each other, by any means), so-called celebs and… well let’s just say 99.9% of the human race.

But this painfully low tolerance threshold isn’t just reserved to his fellow man. It would seem to stretch also to whatever dose of lurgy is presently doing the rounds.

This Christmas, in what has become something of a festive tradition at chez Mann, your host was struck down with a vicious wee bastard of a virus that I have since found out has reduced the Great British nation to what could be a ropey outtake from the remake of George Romero’s Dawn Of The Dead. Albeit one involving a great deal more snot, phlegm, and a continual interchanging of feversh sweats and ice-cold shivers.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

The little man who brandishes the stupid stick and dances about maternity wards administering sound beatings to the heads of selected newborns, must’ve really had his work cut out the day arch-chavette, Waynetta Slob- sorry, I mean Karen Matthews, and village idiot reject Michael Donovan were evacuated kicking and screaming from their respective mothers’ wombs, never to darken its doors again.

Suffice to say, said little man would surely have been in need of a new stupid stick once he’d finished beating this particular pair of dullards about the head, evidently using up what you’d think to be a limitless supply of idiocy on the pair of them.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

Jeffman often thinks that the adverts they foist upon an unsuspecting public between the unprocessed sewer water they try and pass off as television nowadays, are solely created to wind him, and him alone, up. There is probably a small quality control department in every advertising agency who’ve been issued with strict orders to pass nothing off unless there’s more than a 70% chance it will drive Jeffman to smashing his face through a plate glass window whilst gargling with vinegar.

One advert in particular has recently been causing ructions at casa del Mann, simply because of its sheer audacity when it comes to degrading a once proud human race. DFS and their marketing agency should be hauled off to the Hague, post-haste, and tried for crimes against humanity. Not even Saddam would’ve sank to something this low.

For those who haven’t already seen it, take a peak at the vid above, one of three variations of the advert - but be warned. Tis strong stuff indeed and not for the faint of heart. One would recommend a stomach nurtured on asbestos fritters and cast-iron curries.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

Some people haven’t got the manners they were born with…

Scrub that.

A lot of people haven’t got the manners they were born with. When that means you lack the simple courtesy of a squawking, wailing bundle of uncontrollable shit and piss, well that’s some achievement.

Courtesy has gone the same way as respect – a word, incidentally, that some brain donors think can only be gained by putting a bullet in somebody else’s head.

Jeffman promised sour grapes last weekend, and it’s a rather toxic looking bunch of sour grapes that he delivers.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…

Speaking of self-righteous pricks, one of the few pleasures that lifts Jeffman’s otherwise dull and dreary weekdays watching a wall in case it decides to change colour, is occasionally listening to the abject nonsense that spills with seemingly carefree abandon, and no due consideration for nearby animal or plant life, from the mouth of a man he is forfeit to share office space with.

We have met this particular character before. He was number five of Seven things you needn’t know about Jeffman. From this moment on we shall refer to him as Case M.

Not that he’d recognise himself were he to happen upon this page whilst scouring the internet for topless photographs of Margaret Thatcher or PDFs of the Daily Mail Guide to Social Justice and Enriching the Dispossessed Classes (Page 1, string the buggers up). Not even if I were to post his full name, his address, and the combined age and shoe-sizes of his wife, cat and dog. Such is Case M’s almost terminal condition of self-absorption, self-importance, and misguided self-belief that elevates him to the same pedestal of self-centred idiot presently reserved for the likes of Simon Cowell, Jeremy Kyle, Piers Morgan, and anybody who considers themselves worthy of a place in the Big Brother house.

Case M would have you believe, given half the chance, that it was he who discovered fire, fashioned the first wheel, put a bullet through JFK’s skull, and single-handedly raised the Mary Celeste with nowt more than a rubber dinghy and a fishing rod liberated from a passing garden gnome.

Tickled your fancy? Read on…