As the dhey is long

"I used to be a homosexual. But I had to give it up, because it made my eyes water."
Michael Gambon, Top Gear, 2006

This edition of the World of Bollocks is totally gay. Or, if you prefer, ghey. By 'ghey', of course, I mean the postmodern redevelopment of 'gay' presently in hipster vogue, which 'implies all the formerly offensive stereotypes of uselessness/weakness then associated with effeminate homosexual men in 1970's sitcoms, whilst carrying with it no actual implied sexuality connotations' (Urban Dictionary). Two meanings... ghey... it's a homonym. Forget it.

And be warned gents, it's a long one. (Ooh err Matron.)

Art films are always about gay cowboys eating pudding
The fat kid speaks truth. The star of the most well known of aforesaid fillums left us last week, and with his passing left more questions than answers, one of the most pressing of which is that of 'How completely tardescent do you have to be to actually Google 'Keith Fletcher' instead of 'Heath Ledger'?'

But the most pressing of the questions left behind after Ledger's departure is this.

What the fuck is this fucking fucktard's story anyway?















The World of Bollocks would like not to introduce Shirley Phelps-Roper, spokeshag for the Westborough Baptist Church in Kansas and the charming godhatesfags.com. Yes, we'd like not to introduce this shrivelled-up bile bag, but the following story unfortunately requires it. Phelps-Roper, on Washington radio, on the death of Leaf Hedger:

"Heath Ledger is in hell. He is dead and he is in hell. We must warn this nation that if you follow his example, you will go to hell with him. He used his big megaphone called fame, that he got in his hands, to scream out across the globe that God is a liar. God said homosexuality is an abomination and he said, "that's a lie, it's okay to be gay". God said, "Though shall not commit adultery" and he said, "That's a lie. It is okay to change your sex partners and your spouses more often than you change your undergarments". So God, pursuant to his promises, cut him off. He is dead and he is in hell. We must warn this nation that if you follow his example, you will go to hell with him."

Riiiight.

Aside from the minor issue that Phelps-Roper herself had a child out of wedlock and is therefore not only a hypocrite but a SINNER! SATANIC CONCUBINE! HEATHEN! WITCH! Now if she weighs the same as a duck... she's made of wood... and therefore... A WITCH! A WITCH! BURN HER! Let's make her into a ladder.

Uh, yeah. The other problem with the otherwise eloquent argument of this sour-faced streak of fermented cat's piss is that Heath wasn't... actually... gay. Oh sure, he might looked pretty into it on set while he was bumming the bloke from Donnie Darko, but while the cameras weren't rolling he was fairly desperately trying to prove it was all pretend acting and stuff, going to the extent of not only taking up with his female co-star, the chubby one from Dawson's Creek, but burying the bone in her garden and planting his seed. Is that a mixed metaphor? Whatever. He gave her one, which is more than Dawson ever fuckin' managed. Or maybe he did, our flat were generally too busy playing drinking games to notice.

Anyway, traditionally the only thing which deep South extreme right wing religious nutjobs hate more than them fags is that Say-tanick devil music - every metal act from Metallica to Twisted Sister (no, really) has felt the brunt of the bible belt. So what we really need, in order to send these god-bothering arsetards completely off the deep end, is an old-skool, snarling, fearsome, eat-your-children heavy metal frontman.
Who just happens to be gay as the day is long.

On cue...





















I give you the man, the myth, the legend... Rob Halford of Judas Priest, the original Metal God. When this man declared that he was Hell Bent For Leather, he meant it, children.

Knights eject Johns
Buggering up an otherwise fairly tops weekend for the one-time steel capital of Newcastle (go the Jets), the city's third-favourite Johns boy, freelance ponce and Heath Ledger impersonator Daniel, and his former kiddie band Silverchair were summarily given the arse by pommie Pink Floyd channellers Muse in the battle of the Almighty Hunnert on Straya Day, with the latter's stupendously overblown Knights of Cydonia outpointing the Chair's Straight Lines by some 13 votes, the democratic equivalent of a pubic hair. Which appears to be what young Danny is sporting on his face at present, in the form of the most-glued-on-looking goatee in Christendom, in 'landing strip' style of course. Presumably Ms Imbruglia dropped him because he kept scouring the bottom of the shower recess for fresh ammo for the Advanced Hair people after she'd been in for her daily ablutions. Or maybe it's because even after ten years in the spotlight he still looks like a snotty-nosed tween brat from Newy's bogan west (or north, south or east for that matter), as likely to be able to grow his own facial hair as to be able to write a decent rock song.

For the record, Knights of Cydonia was eleventh on The World's voting shortlist of ten. And having finally seen the film clip - which is precisely the piss-taking cyber-sci-fi spaghetti Western the song itself demands to be set to - your correspondent thinks he should have revised his voting strategy towards making that winning margin 14 votes.

Anyway. Silverchair are totally ghey, which is the tenuous link which we're maintaining here. Along with ABC youth radio. Which, of course, is Triple Ghey.

Gordon Ramsey? Fucking amateur
In the '80s, everyone worked at the ABC were either communists or poofters, according not only to fascist fruitbat Sir Joh but former TV chef and professional swearing enthusiast Peter Russell-Clarke who thanks to the power of the internerd is now famous not only for his catchcry 'Where's the cheese?' but also for his formerly less well-known refrain of 'Fucking fry the cunts till they go black you prick.' Along with this infamy has come a part-time gig hosting a sweary cooking segment on the latest iteration of Triple J Breakfast, so it's not all bad. Which, as an aside, could probably be said about the latest breakfast show lineup of Robbie Buck, Random Book Chick and Dr Lindemans, with former ABC fave Ms Warhurst now Myffing in action courtesy Triple M throwing money at the problem of their dire ratings, and the Doctor's Frenzal Rhombmate Jason Whalley-Kilmer effing off O/S with his GF. Having heard precisely none of the new show (other than the original Peter Russell-Clarke interview on the Triple J website, which is just as convulsively, eye-wateringly funny as the YouTube blooper reel itself) the World of Bollocks is obviously in the perfect position to comment, but it seems from their guestbook that even at this early juncture the listeners are sipping the Haterade on the new combo, spouting bile and sledgescence and wailing like spoilt brats for the return of the previous encumbents. Which, of course, is precisely what everyone said when Jay and the Doctor replaced Adam and Wil (another Triple M turncoat bastard)... and when Adam replaced Paul, Mikey and the Sandman... and when that lot replaced Mikey and Helen... and even when Mikey and Helen replaced Maynard F# motherfucking Crabbes for fuck's sake...

Back to Peter Russell-Clarke. Your Correspondent, along with several of The World's loyal, dissolute, enthusiastically pissheaded audience, was taught high school science by a man with a disturbing likeness to PR-C, with a bit of Wallaby Jack (an early evolutionary precursor of Russell Coight) spliced in for shits and giggles. Of which there were mind-numbingly few when our very own, slightly ginga Russell-Clarke was in session - the giggles I mean; the shits were what we ended up getting once he'd been talking continuously for forty-five minutes out of the fifty the period allowed. Having said that, I'd like to give the man cue credit for being the main reason I decided to pursue a career in the biological sciences. I'd like to, but it'd be pretty much total bullshit. Actually it was because the chicks were way hotter than in physics or chemistry lectures. Yes, we're that shallow here at the World of Bollocks.

What's Hindi for 'Ow my arse'
And finally, no discussion of ghey/gayness would be complete without mentioning one group of individuals who appear to be walking very oddly today: Cricket Australia, fresh from being bent over the bonnet of the ICC's ute and royally shafted with the Indian cricket board's mighty Grey-Nicolls blade. (Actually it'd be more likely to be a MRF wouldn't it?) Given that the Indians procure three quarters of the coin in the ICC's coffers, the dodgy dealings which resulted in Harbhajan Singh not having a case to answer for his 'monkey' sledge (as previously discussed here and here and here) were as unsurprising as they were utterly, inescapably corrupt. And ghey. I did mention ghey didn't I.

While world cricket is being held financial hostage by the Indians - a nation which can reasonably and charitably be characterised as a bunch of fucking nutters with the rational reasoning skills of a four year old and an effigy-burning fetish that really needs some professional psychological care - there will be no fair hearing for Australian cricketers, and Australian cricket, in forums such as these. In all future meetings between the pair, the on-field umpires, the third umpire, the match referee, right down to the motherfucker who drives the big-arse Gatorade-bottle drinks cart will be hand-picked by the Board of Control for Cricket in India.

To which Australia can, and will, have only one response.

Not merely to beat them, but to ground the sorry little fuckers into the dust at each and every opportunity which is afforded to them.

With a big, friendly, Tourism-Australia-approved smile on their faces, of course.


The Doctor is OUT.