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Top 5 #14

Top 5 Worst Things to Have to Buy From the Shop

We all having a handy shop in walkable distance, you can avoid the hassle and distraction of a trip to the supermarket and you know it’s always there to get those essentials should you suddenly realise you’re without. Sometimes though, they can set up situations of extreme embarrassment and a walk of shame comparable to that of any post-night out Sunday morning, and here’s how:

5. Just milk

So you’re halfway through making a brew, you open the fridge and terror strikes; no milk. No worries, you can just nip to the shop in your slippers, pick some up and be back for the click before the click of the kettle. What you forgot about however was that for some reason a plastic bottle of milk has the potential to be the coldest thing on the face of the earth. So cold, that two Jean Claude Van Dammes would be needed to get the message across. So cold, that scientists could use them when liquid nitrogen just isn’t good enough. So cold, that…that, well you get the point now. Anyway, after realising halfway home your error of not bringing one of thousands of bags for life from home, all that is left is to walk as fast as possible without breaking into a full on slipper scuttle, and making it home to thaw out your frozen fingers with a well-earned cup of tea.

4. A solitary can of beer

Nothing screams desperation like apologetically placing a single can of lager on the till, disdain beating down on you from the shopkeeper’s gaze as he tars you with the alcoholic brush. Sometimes one can is all you want though, for example, it could be a work night and there’s a football match on. You could be mildly upset, but not so sad as to warrant fully drowning your spirits. There are thousands of possibilities which would necessitate in only one can being purchased but society frowns on such an act and restricts beer buying to a four can minimum. It’s your choice though, buy the solitary can that you wanted and face the judgement of all that witnessed it, or give in to peer pressure, buy the multipack and inevitably drink them all, resulting in one horrible Tuesday morning in work.

3. Munchies

It’s a well-known and widely accepted fact that indulging in certain drugs leads to an insatiable appetite for anything unhealthy and attractively packaged. The kind of food you don’t have at home unless you’ve thoroughly prepared for the night’s frivolities. Sadly, the majority of the people who are likely to partake in such a pleasure, aren’t exactly the most organised of folk and thus may not have bought in the necessary supplies to quell the dreaded munchies. This means a half-baked squinty stumble to the shop (or dream factory as it may seem at the time) is called for. Aisle upon aisle of salty and sweet treats await the plucky adventurer, anything that a ravenous reveller could ever wish for all lined up and organised for ease of purchase. There is a drawback however, and it’s not just deciding between Frazzles and salt and vinegar Chipsticks. It’s standing at the checkout, red-eyed and incredibly self-conscious while the person on the till scans through several Chomps and your buy one get one free 2 litre bottles of Fanta, trying to hold it together long enough to get back to the safety of your house with your all-important rations. It’s the realisation that everyone around you is aware of your basket of goodies and has deduced from your appearance and noxious odour that you are most likely not a diabetic crashing. No matter how subtle and inconspicuous you might try and be, in reality you might as well be walking around with a dreadlock wig on and have Bob Marley’s greatest hits playing as your own personal soundtrack. In reality, you are this guy:Stoner-Sterotype

2: Embarrassing Medicine

Yep, the title says it all really. You’ve got something wrong with you that you don’t want anyone to know about but sooner or later, you’re going to have to bite the bullet and take a trip to Boots. Getting the required humiliating product to the till is hard enough in itself, at least three in-motion scouting attempts of the aisle are necessary, obviously without lingering too long so as not to draw attention. Eventually, after hours of circling and feigned interest in the new scents of Original Source shower gel you may get your chance, a clear shot at your target. Now the object mortification is in your hand however, things have got so much worse. You are now linked to this thrush treatment, the haemorrhoid cream and you are one, a semantic union has been created between man and product, between your reddening face and the bulk buy Imodium in your hand. Yes folks, I think Martin Lawrence sums everybody’s feelings up perfectly in this video:

Luckily, shops now have the self-service option, potentially saving you huge embarrassment by avoiding the mandatory human interaction of the till. Just to make sure you don’t escape without complete humiliation at every stage of your shop visit though, the name of each product is proudly emblazoned across the screen as you bundle your shame into your bag. This wouldn’t be so bad if pharmaceutical companies had settled on normal names for the products but alas this is not the case. As one last shot to the wounded pride of the buyer, glaringly obvious and disgusting titles are flaunted to the baying crowd behind them. Titles such as Vagisil, Germaloids, and my personal favourite, Retardex. That’s right, you’re not even spared from humiliation when buying mouthwash.

1: Toilet Roll

Here we are then, number one. I know this should have been number two for the cheap lolz but it has been deemed in certain circumstance as the most embarrassing product to have to buy at the shop, and here’s why. There will be times in everyone’s lives where a collision between saving money and logical thinking will occur. On multiple occasions you will have bought into unnecessary buy one get one free offers, two for five pounds on multipacks of Coke when one was awkward to carry anyway, or enough bulk buy packets of crisps to sustain a small army, albeit a very unhealthy one. Toilet roll falls into this category far too often, giving customers fifty per cent extra free on a regular basis and as result creating huge, whole redwood sized packs for the buyer to struggle home with. But what if all you wanted from the shop was toilet roll? What if you had all of a sudden realised you were running out and nipped to the shop to top up? Then the decision becomes harder to make, buy the smaller, more discreet pack, or save those precious pennies and look like a man proudly parading around the fact that he is in imminent need of the toilet? Maybe I’ve thought too far into this, but when I see I person walking down the street with a 24 pack of Andrex under their arm and nothing else, I can’t help but think that that person has got some serious business to attend to. I mean, what situation can result in needing to buy a gargantuan amount of toilet roll in one go and nothing else? Does this person not need any sustenance of some kind? Some Lucozade at least wouldn’t go a miss. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me who feels massively embarrassed advertising to the world what my immediate plans are when I get home, but now after reading this you’ll all be converted and stop signifying your impending toilet trip to all that you meet. All I can say is, you’re welcome.

Agree with this list? Got anything else to add? Leave a comment and let us know what would have made your top 5.

Why I don’t need my brain anymore.

I have been made aware that, since leaving all forms of higher education, it has become solely my responsibility to feed my brain and quench the thirst for knowledge in a continual search for more and more valuable information. Instead, I shirked my obligation, and turned to daytime television.

Waking up late allows me to miss any news shows or culturally relevant programmes and head straight for the good stuff, and what better way to kick-start the day’s mind numbing entertainment than to head over to PickTV and into the dirty Hawaiian underbelly patrolled by Duane ‘Dog’ Chapman and his wife, Ric Flair. This of course is the long-running series ‘Dog the Bounty Hunter’ where the audience can witness a leather clad, chain-smoking lionesque bounty hunter, accompanied by his extensive bounty family, hunt down and arrest the constant supply of reoffending criminals. Not only can viewers be entertained with the thrill of the chase and little scuffles that break out between the bear mace toting Good, and the crystal meth toking Bad, but as an additional treat get to be parley to the life lessons and teachings doled out by the Dog as he escorts the captured bail jumper to jail. He does deliver the dog gospel in a nice and meaningful way though; he always takes his sunglasses off and screws one last cigarette into the offender’s trembling mouth before leading them to the big house. You couldn’t hope to be caught by a nicer guy, once he’s finished pushing you to the ground, cuffing you and celebrating your capture in your grazed face with his ponytailed family that is.

Wise words, Dog.

Wise words, Dog.


Once the hour of the Dog has passed, we journey in to the realm of the unexplained and the disturbing. Yes it’s Scouse medium Derek Acorah and his band of believers in Most Haunted. Here we follow a troop of susceptible and terrified explorers as they wander around old houses and repeatedly soil themselves as floorboards creak, wind blows and generally things happen. Basically think a group visit to a National Trust house with the lights off and sinister string music playing. The highlight of the show is invariably when Derek’s body is used as a host for the distempered, and surprisingly all Liverpudlian ‘spirits’ which inhabit the ‘haunted’ houses which feature in the ‘programme’. Embodiments range from friendly old ladies lamenting their ability to protect children or something, to the more menacing, aggressive male characters which particularly love to get in our hostess’, Yvette Fielding, face or look directly in to the camera. It’s amazing to think that these centuries old spectres, who had only candles for light and fires for warmth, are fully au fait with the concept of electricity, I mean, who would have thought it? What’s best is that after an hour of misinterpretation, coincidence and abject terror for the participants, the show invites on a parapsychologist to examine the ‘evidence’ filmed on the night. Unsurprisingly, the footage of Yvette shitting herself rarely satisfies the expert and yet another episode is archived under the heading: lies and deceit.
Showtime!!!

Showtime!!!


A relative newcomer to the world of daytime TV, but instantly worthy of recognition is Lizard Lick Towing. This is one of those reality hybrid shows which manage to, by their very nature, entertain and appal simultaneously. For those who are not aware of this miracle of television allow me to summarise it for you in a selection of keywords; redneck, towing company, guns, fighting, more rednecks. Now if that doesn’t get you googling instantly then I don’t know what will. Despite the obvious dramatization, it is impossible to not be amazed by the lengths that these people will go to prevent their beloved cars being towed. Best of all, after the Lizard Lick boys, Ronnie and Bobby (what else would they be called?) cunningly trick the dim-witted car owners into somehow allowing them to remove the vehicle, it is practically guaranteed that the angry party will follow them back to the lot, backed up by a South Parkesque rabble. In fact, so regular are the ruckuses in the Lizard Lick office, that Amy (Ronnie’s powerlifting wife) took to gluing the furnishings down after repeated attempts to use them as weapons. One thing that this show has taught me while siphoning the remnants of IQ out of my wilting brain is that, when a redneck says he’s going to tow your car, you can be damned sure that’s what is going to happen, especially if that’s what it says in the script.
Just your average day with the Lizard Lick boys.

Just your average day with the Lizard Lick boys.


So there you have it, instead of using my spare time to further myself, to learn and expand my mind and my world, I sit glassy-eyed and half comatose while PickTV and Dave spoon feed me no-thought-required, easy watching programmes while my mind crumbles and erodes through the sheer lack of stimulation. I best be going now, I’m sure there’s a programme starting somewhere involving some kind of law enforcement and/or law-breaker to hold my dwindling interest at least until the next advert break.

The Dance Floor Dilemma

It has become the general consensus of the masses that the best way to spend evenings and weekends nowadays is to consume excessive amounts of alcohol and then document the subsequent embarrassing antics on a variety of social networking sites.  As more and more of the population began to celebrate the ways of ‘the binge’ so the need for bigger and better dens of hedonism appeared until, after years of evolution, the nightclub was born and reigned supreme as the ultimate stage for man’s inebriated desires; sex, drugs, and music.

I have no complaints, I love to over-indulge, lose whatever trace of dignity I had left, and commit the following day to hugging the toilet and bed rest.  The issue I do wish to raise though is a by-product of the three desires, the issue is with dancing.

I know I am not alone here in my dance-floor phobia. There are always a small number of us lingering on the outskirts of the grinding fracas as if paralysed by the malaise caused by Usher and the like.  There will always be a few left dutifully holding drinks and bags while our friends are having the best time of their lives soundtracked by Rihanna.  For us, as the minority, things will never change; Liquid aren’t all of a sudden going to splash out on a few pool tables to keep us entertained, just like Tiger Tiger will never set aside a little section for people who have no interest in Shit-Pop or dancing but have somehow been talked into going there.  So, what are the options?

You drink.  You drink with your friends and when they all head off to tear it up you drink some more.  You prop up the bar alone for so long that it actually begins to seem like a good idea to attempt conversations with the endless stream of customers who are being normal and heading back to the dance floor.  There is an obvious problem with this method of avoidance however and you’ll generally start to notice it about an hour in, after consuming twice as much alcohol as your party and commanding a wide berth around you wherever you stumble.  Although, if you manage to lumber your way through the mêlée without barging the innocents to the ground and as a result being ejected from the club, you may find yourself in a position to finally let loose and bust some moves, safe in the knowledge that you will have no recollection of the event ten minutes later, let alone the next day.  A kind warning though, the camera never lies, and Facebook never forgets.

I hate being this guy...nearly as much as dancing.

I hate being this guy…nearly as much as dancing.

Option two, you pretend to dance and have a good time.  As sickening as this might seem to my fellow sufferers, it can be done and gets your persistent friends off your case for at least a few songs.  It’s all about strategic positioning and a bit of acting.  Remain on the outskirts of your group, out of the lines of sight and don’t do anything interesting enough to draw attention.  Standing and swaying slightly is perfectly acceptable.  When someone looks your way, just close your eyes and pull a stupid pose or throw your hands in the air, or some other ridiculous signal of enjoyment to mask the self-loathing you are feeling and convince society that you are obeying the social norms.

If you find yourself in a situation where option two is not possible, like when on a microscopic, holding cell, abomination of a dance floor, you might have to resort to the football fan style, aggressive sing along.  In this situation every song is your favourite song.  Your friends may be shocked at how much you love each rehash of generic pop-dance but believe me, in this scenario you do.  Here, vigour is the key.  Eyes closed, fists clenched, hand in the air to make it that much more meaningful, and most importantly, feet firmly planted on the ground.  No one’s going to make this guy dance, he’s far too into it!  The downside of this, apart from the small piece of your soul that dies with every feigned love of painfully bad music, is that you do look like you are trying to act out an impromptu (and very low budget) music video.  All you need is a camera crew and a wind machine, in reality; the closest you’re going to get is a shaky iPhone recording and a plethora of anonymous dance floor farts.

The last option requires the least effort but perhaps comes at the highest price.  This option is to just accept your position on the fringe of the populous and watch as the hedonistic dance of humanity plays out with a vomit-smattered backdrop. Here you can really appreciate the most appealing aspects of modern life; girls with trowel loads of terracotta fakeness sliding off their faces, men being drawn to the most flesh on display as if their penis was some kind of inebriated, sexual dowsing rod. Bear witness as alcohol fuelled mankind degenerates to primal instincts and urges, and grunt and fight and grind their way through a sea of testosterone and pheromones.  And as you struggle to take in this recession into Neanderthal behaviour, as your belief in the modern human slowly ebbs away like the contents of the numerous discarded bottles that litter the floor, realise that you are exactly the same as them, you with your beer in one hand and smart phone in the other, and your eye on the girls who also believe they are superior to the writhing crowd.  This is the inevitable conclusion that will be reached if you just stand and watch and like it or not, it is the truth.  I mean look at you, you’re in a fucking night club for god’s sake!

 

What I don’t get is…

Billy Bear Ham.

Or Billy Bear Slicing Sausage as it’s officially known.  You’ve all had it, and if not, go out and buy some, it’s really cheap!  But as you’re tucking in to your reformed turkey and pork fat, think about these ethical quandaries; is it morally right to tell bare-faced (couldn’t resist) lies to children in order to get them eating a product made primarily of off cuts of different animals, and also, the more burning issue of; why the fuck am I eating a bear’s face?

You may be thinking, “What?  How does serving Billy Bear, my most beloved of childhood sandwich fillers, constitute as telling lies to children?”  Well I’ll tell you.  By reforming that hydrogenated conglomerate of all the worst parts of animals into a smiling cartoon bear’s face; you are deceiving children into happily chowing down on the contents of an abattoir bin which in its natural form would haunt their dreams and turn any trips to farms into a harrowing affair for years to come.

“Y’know, now that you mention it, I do find it strange that my face is three different colours despite being primarily made of only two types of meat.”

What’s also strange is that children are ready and willing to eat this smiling hybrid of nastiness.  I know it obviously relates psychologically to enjoyment, most likely TV programmes like Winnie the Pooh, and Yogi Bear which the youngsters recognise and like.  But do they really like them that much that they want to consume slices of their faces?  I mean, I’m a big fan of Planet Earth and nature programmes but fashioning a joint of beef into a replica of David Attenborough’s adventure-ravaged face might be a step too far for me.

My last quandary surrounding this under-nourishing sandwich filler is; why a bear?  It’s made primarily of pork so surely a cartoon pig would be the logical choice of template for the manufacturers.  Maybe it was deemed too close to home for children to deal with, conjuring up disturbing images of a pig being forced head first into a ham slicer.  Or maybe they’d already decided they wanted to call it Billy and the lack of alliteration in Billy Pig just didn’t have the same fortitude as its mammalian counterpart.

All I hope is that when the time comes for me to have children, this waterlogged mish-mash of animal pick ‘n’ mix is still readily available from all major supermarkets.  I can’t wait to see the sheer delight on their faces as they tuck in to the fraudulent, smiling ham substitute and then, as the years progress, their puzzlement as they begin again the questioning that brought us all here in the first place; why the fuck am I eating a bear’s face?

Harry Potter and the Unused Book Titles

We are all familiar with the monumentally successful book series Harry Potter and the subsequent film adaptations which have captured the hearts and minds of children and adults alike since the late nineties.

What you may not know is that, with every release bringing more and more notoriety and the possibility to make some serious wizarding moolah, an almost infinite series started being planned, keeping Harry and his friends in a never-ageing, never-changing magical stasis, while each new title flew off the shelves to the sound of cash registers ringing. The idea was eventually scrapped however, as Rowling realised how much of a contradiction minefield the fictional world would create and was in a meeting with Bloomsbury, was quoted to have said, ‘Fuck that!’

Here at TPCA however, we have managed to unearth a shocking list containing just some of the hundreds of provisional titles that were being held in consideration for this new look, leviathan book series.  We must warn you, it is clear that attitudes towards the nation’s beloved wizard had taken a turn for the worse, presumably as a result of the constant media storm surrounding Rowling and the imminent release of the film adaptations. Some are vicious, others just plain lazy, and some, well they’re just absurd.

So here, finally available for public viewing, is the forgotten list:

Harry Potter and the Effervescing Elf

Harry Potter and the Vandellas

Harry Potter and the Half-Pound Mince

Harry Potter and the Sartorial Disaster

Harry Potter and the Wizarding Occurrence

Harry Potter and the Ghost/Werewolf/Bad Wizard

Harry Potter and the Time Shit Got Real

Harry Potter in the Hood

Harry Potter and the Time He Didn’t Win

Harry Potter and the Disappointing Ending

Harry Potter and the Blood Test Mystery

Harry Potter Goes To Washington

Harry Potter up The Khyber

Harry Potter and Ron’s Dad: An Unlikely Team

Harry Potter and the Need to Prove Himself

Harry Potter and the Penetrative Sex Scene

Harry Potter and the Satisfying Toilet Read

Harry Potter and the Rehashed Plot

Harry Potter and the Muggle Genocide

Harry Potter and the Trip to Alton Towers

Harry Potter Sings the Classics

Harry Potter and the Hate Crime

Harry Potter and the Band of Nerds

Harry Potter and the Suggestive Robes

Harry Potter and His Merry Men

Harry Potter and the Spiked Drink

Harry Potter and the Incredible Likeness of Being

Harry Potter and the Victimless Crime

Harry Potter and the Wand Fest

Harry Potter and the Overzealous Friend

Harry Potter and the Crushing Weight of Expectation

Harry Potter and the Legend of Ron

Harry Potter and the Exile of Ron

Harry Potter and the Seducing of Ron

Harry Potter and the Long, Drawn Out Affair

Harry Potter and the Inevitable Film Adaptation

Harry Potter and the Wizard’s Sleeve

Harry Potter and the Dorm Room Diaries

Harry Potter and the Scandalous Revelation

Harry Potter and the Troubled Boy Comes Good Storyline

Harry Potter and the Unerring Lack of Emotion

Harry Potter and the Taciturn Hand

Harry Potter and the Steroids

Harry Potter and the Burning

Harry Potter and the Inexplicable Reliance on Owls

Harry Potter and the Complete Reading of ‘King Lear’

Harry Potter and the Surprising Omission of English, Maths and Science from the Syllabus

Harry Potter and the Massive Bereavement

Harry Potter and the Banana Hammock

Harry Potter: Neville’s Story

Harry Potter: Hedwig’s Revenge

Harry Potter and the Dutch Rudder

Harry Potter and the Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe

Harry Potter and the Silly Dog

Harry Potter and the Never ending whimsical magic shenanigans

Harry Potter and the Mystery of Ron’s Face

Harry Potter and the Yay or Nay List

Harry Potter and the Viagra Potion Calamity

Harry Potter and the Statutory Rape Trial

Harry Potter and the Chastised Boggart

Harry Potter and the Underwhelming Performance

Harry Potter and the Crippling Adolescence

Harry Potter and the Straight to TV Movie

Harry Potter Unwavering Erection

And Finally:

Harry Potter: My Perfect Sunday

So there you go.  The shocking list of unused book titles from an abandoned money spinning scheme.  We believe that this list has barely scratched the surface and that there hundreds more just like it, hidden away from the public.  It is our duty to uncover the truth and expose what might have been to the world.  If anyone manages to dig out one of these lists of shame, please contact us and we will publish to the world this near literary travesty.

Thank you for reading and please get in touch.

Complaining: The Horrible Truth

Sometimes, the service that you receive is just not good enough.  Sometimes, things have gone so wrong you can’t simply ignore them and carry on with your unsatisfactory meal.  Sometimes, we all have to break out of our truly British fear of causing a fuss and take the risk of not keeping calm and carrying on.  Generally this takes an obscene amount of error and an incredibly low standard of service to even begin to light the fires of annoyance in most rebellious of Britons.  Let’s put it this way; the phrase “I’m sure it will be just as nice” is a far too regular between mistreated diners.

But for some people, the typically British, debilitating fear known as fussophobia is not an issue.  No, these emotional expats have broken free from the vocal shackles and rebelled, much to the annoyance of bungling waiters, such as myself, who have had it easy for so long.

The problem now is that complaining, like drugs (stay with me on this one), becomes an addiction which gets harder and harder to feed.  In the early days, a simple free coffee or glass wine from a few disgruntled looks is enough to scratch the itch for the customer.    Soon though, the need to be unsatisfied and paid off with freebies and apologies becomes greater and complaining is no longer something you might do every now and then with your mates at the weekend, it becomes a compulsion.

Soon, every restaurant is too hot or too cold, too busy or too quiet.  A steak can never be cooked right, and all drinks leave a certain bitterness in the mouth that only a freebie can relieve.  And when it comes to service, well, that’s just a rich vein of irritants waiting to be tapped to fuel the fires of annoyance.  Complaint junkies stagger around town centres and shopping malls, high on discounts and apologies from unsuspecting waiters, sniffing out their next hit from the plethora of naïve restaurants.  Torn up bills litter the streets and meals sit solemn and half eaten on deserted tables as the scent of artificial dissatisfaction lingers within each victimised eatery.

“Do not fear mon amis, zay will thank us one day”

Now though, we are learning.  We are becoming wise to your excuses and tricks.  We know that this…this problem that you are suffering with, is not a choice, but an illness.  And we can help.  “Why should we?” Cry the thousands of dismayed waiting on staff who still burn from the injustice they have faced.  “Why should help those who persecute us?”  Because who else will?  That is the reason.  It is our duty to set these poor souls free from their infliction, to relieve them from the curse that ruins every social event they may encounter.  For too long we have stood idly by, feeding their addiction through confused service technique and, of course, laziness.  Now we, the enablers, have to stand tall in the face of adversity and adopt the tough love approach.

The next complaint you receive, stop and think, don’t apologise, don’t offer any compensation, just offer pity.  Reach out to a stranger, be the good Samaritan and hold firm.  No is the answer, stick up for your staff and your restaurant.  Tell them that you know of their illness, and their distorted view on the dining experience you offer, tell them nothing is wrong with anything that has happened in your establishment, except for them.  Remember your right to refuse service to anyone and don’t feel bad, tough love is still love, right?  It might be feel wrong to be so forceful with customers, and it might not go down particularly well with the people who have been denied their fix, but one day they’ll thank you for it.  And you can feel good in the knowledge that you have helped your fellow man by freeing them from the grip of dependency and giving them back a decent meal, and a full priced bill.

Just a quick note to all those sufferers and past-sufferers on behalf of the thousands of people who work in the catering trade but have never had the chance to say it:  You’re welcome.

Top 5 Musical Works by Trey Parker and Matt Stone

Music is one of the most powerful forces in modern culture.  A soundtrack to life, accentuating highs and lows, elation and sorrow and providing that extra tug on the heartstrings whenever reality fails to satisfy.  This knowledge of the raw power of music has been readily accepted by television; and none more so, than the creators of South Park.  Yes that’s right, you might not have thought it from the opening statement, but here is the top 5 musical works by Pop Cult Assault idols; Trey Parker and Matt Stone.  And just in case you were worried, of course there will be videos.

5.  Baseketball – The Car Song:  Everyone gets that feeling once in a while where a song comes on the radio or your mp3 player and it just perfectly sums up the feelings you have at the time.  Well in this instance, the relevance of the music in Trey Parker’s car goes a little bit further than most.  As well as the super-personal lyrics, the song also perfectly encapsulates that moment in all terrible films when the protagonist thinks about giving up and everything starts becoming too much and then they receive a pep talk from a wizened old man or close friend.  Luckily, this protagonist had his radio on otherwise he could have missed his life affirming rallying call and the whole film would have been about forty-five minutes long!

4.  South Park: The Movie – Up There:  Well where to start with this one?  How about that this heart wrenching ballad of loneliness and longing is sung by the devil?  Or the fact that said devil is slight doppelgänger of George Michael?  Or how about that the entire score for this film including such timeless classics as ‘Uncle Fucka’ and ‘Kyle’s Mom is a Big Fat Bitch’ has won numerous gongs and had been nominated for many more?  In fact, if it wasn’t for Phil Collins of all people, the song ‘Blame Canada’ would have won an Oscar!  For me though it is this song that stands out the most, it’s easily the most overblown (this normally constitutes greatness in my eyes) of the bunch, and the juxtaposition of Satan, and his incredibly homo-erotic dream of life above ground is just mind-blowing.  You’ll think you’ve been enjoying the song though, but wait until 1:33 when Satan gets down with his bad self and takes it to the next level.

3.  South Park –Somewhere, Out There:  Have you ever stopped and thought to yourself: If a penis could sing, what would it sound like?  I know we’ve all been stuck with this quandary but thankfully South Park yet again provide the answer.  In a heartfelt duet with a runaway mouse, Mr(s) Garrison’s genetically engineered… erm…johnson opens up (gross) and showers the audience (sick) with a golden (this is too easy) voiced rendition of the ‘American Tail’ hit.  Now in Disney films we’ve seen some strange duet partners, like a candlestick for example, (not really sure what happened there) but I’ve haven’t seen a penis being made to sing since that one really weird party I went to a few years back, but you don’t want to hear about that!  Anyway I’m getting off topic, if you want the answer to what a penis sounds like when it sings, the answer in this instance is…slightly like Stevie Nicks.

2:  South Park and Team America – Montage Song:  The song so good they used it twice.  I’m not sure how they do it, but Parker and Stone’s ability to completely sum up and ridicule huge sections of popular culture in a few short lines is a joy to behold, and this time their victim is the constant stream of recycled action/sport films which insist on re-using the same exhausted script over and over again and cramming it into the heads of the foolish cinema goers.

Life in the Sports/Action film boardroom.

It’s got to the point where I now feel that in order to achieve anything in life like getting a new job, or learning a new language, I’m going to have to get my ass down the gym and learn some hard-hitting truths while lifting consecutively heavier weights.  So here it is anyway, a toast to the hugely clichéd montage which hopefully will spell the end of the ever-present, unerring, terrible action/film script.

1:  Orgazmo – Now You’re a Man:  If I made a list titled greatest songs of all time, this would still be number one.  From this mock-action film comes a theme tune which acknowledges the rules of tough guy film music and twists them into a hilarious blend of hyperbole, epic rock, base level humour, and pop culture satire.  Also, as a little added bonus, I can’t help hearing a bit of Metallica as Trey Parker powers his way through this track.  As a warning, after hearing this song, it may well be stuck in your head for the foreseeable future so remember, shouting ‘No it’s probably the titties!’ in your best James Hetfield voice, is not acceptable, unless the other person has heard the song and then they’ll just think you’re the coolest kid in town!

So that’s it, I hope you enjoy my list.  I’m sure there could be quite a lot of debate around this one so any comments are welcome.  Enjoy!

 

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