Since I was a boy, I always wanted to look like an actor famous for talking to sentient robots. While other guys had much less esoteric (bizarre – ed) fantasies…wanting to look like Elvis or some A-list heartthrob…I fixated my attentions on a modest idol. A man who has become an icon; an icon playing iconic, representative roles such as a man who converses with a computer car beyond swear words during periods of difficulty. Or an underrepresented professional in the TV world like a lifeguard. Indeed prior to his becoming a rescuer of a disproportionate amount of attractive females, the most popular representation of lifeguards was in the miserable, bad effects ridden Jaws series.

We’re talking of course about David Hasselhoff. A much loved figure among Germans, Americans, Morons, and Elbonians: Hasslehoff (termed The Hoff by those ignorant of Dustin Hoffman) has pulled off many amazing showbiz feats. For instance he’s allegedly a full-time alcoholic, sometimes gets taped by his disgusted offspring heavily drunk, yet still is viewed as qualified to be a judge on reality music shows such as ‘America’s Got Talent’. His cult following is such that he reached #3 on the British charts with Jump In My Car, the video sees Mr. Hasselhoff picking up women at least 30 years his junior in a fantastic exhibition of his advanced flirting technique.

However the Hoff’s passion has its limits; it emerges that…well it’s not much of a story really, I prefer the Knight Rider theme. Point is is that I had plastic surgery, presented the surgeon and personnel with a huge gallery of Hasselhoff images to work from. This was 8 weeks ago…meaning Dirty Garnet was to the facial bandaging what a tub of ice cream is comfort-eating depressives. A recreational crutch.

As the icon indicates the attempted metamorphosis into the Hoff went badly. The op was botched so that my nose resembles an undercooked cocktail sausage. Bleach not PermaDise tanning agent got applied to the skin thereby granting a spectre’s pallor rather than a hunky tan that gets nubiles flocking. The square jaw is entirely absent…instead an smooth oval mandible resembling some cod liver oil capsule. My self-esteem is at rock bottom and I honestly feel dejected and unloved…that the surgery propelled me from dashing to hideous is a vanity weight I must bear for life. Mr. Garrison’s op was a fluke.

It took four days to summon the courage to post this after peeling off the bandages. Anguish reigned…nightmares invaded my sleep…but it feels good to tell the Internet about it. At least it cares: It was only after I consulted a PR man’s guide to social mediaocrity which told me to ‘be myself’ by posting copious amounts of narcissistic conceit that I summoned courage to do this article.

Phoned ITV television and offered to be subject of a new ‘Plastic Surgery From Hell’ show…they’re calling back first thing Monday. Getting word out about the doctor (he was struck off the medical register in 1998 but that’s besides the point) is a moral matter. A quality channel like ITV2 or ITV4, compassionate and with heart in all the right places will spread the world about the scoundrel Dr. Ben Chong-Vaquelez Martin.

Is it grim torture having missed out on resembling a legend like the Hoff? To look the way I do, distressed? A resounding, tearful Yes. It’s like Leslie Ash but in an entirely different manner. Still it’s comforting to know that I’ll make it through this aesthetic shift…just…just one step a time.

Dirty Garnet is known for an obsessive pursuit of and adherence to truth. Stop a moment and think…how could we derive truth without a sound body of facts to draw it from? As any Hello! or Ok!-esque magazine or redtop staffer can tell you; facts are vital to any news reportage worth reading. That’s why the virtuous British press is known to adhere to just traditional standards most of the time. Certain denigrators use things like ‘reason’ and ‘logic’ to fuel sneers at the industrious efforts of fine newsrag dailies.

We find this disgraceful criticism to be beyond forgiveness, as anyone working in journalism for over a month knows very well that reality is of relative, not absolute, importance. Anyone trying to shame a journalist is either hopelessly naive or excessively idealistic. Why is that I hear you say?

A truism to treasure or a lie to lambaste?

It misses the point: The angle we take and how we represent a story; this is geared to sell papers so journos get paid. It’s like moaning about supermarkets still being allowed to sell a given item after fixing the price covertly many times. It keeps happening because the fines -- or in the media’s case loss of reputation/readers/souls/libel payouts -- do not outweigh the margin attained from indulging in the practice. Morals, ethics, facts, alleged ‘quality’ and reality aren’t present at all or are mere old paint peeling off a rusted drainpipe. Now for the topic…

A list of several lesser known facts…

Firstly a fact about the current universe. You can observe blackcurrents growing in obscene quantities over in Western Russia. Chief reason for the massive cultivation is that the fruit’s pigment can be adapted to an excellent dark dye ideal for the FSB spandex (KGB renamed) with an extraction of a second blackcurrant chemical allows production of a paint ideal for stealth jets and bulletproof oligarch limousines. The Wiki-proof.

A reliable Danish source (ex-military) informed DG editor Pete Demain that the Nordic character ‘Ø’ was created by a disgruntled sot of a Viking about 950 years ago as a joke: Old Norse translation is sketchy, but the humour is derived from the letters’ resemblance to a small table cleaved split in half by an axe.

Renowned British parliamentarian Eric Pickles’ thighs rubbing together each day produce enough enough friction energy to power a caravan for about nine hours. Prime Minister David Cameron wants to give the nod for a small energy harvester to be attached to Pickles’ left buttock. Though it’s a way off yet, it is thought the battery-like power cell scheme might be expanded until for most robust Britons it’s compulsory. Pioneer Pickles will be even more environmentally friendly than Bob ‘Jet exhaust’ Geldof.

Might he be solution to the world's energy crisis?

If each jelly bear within a large bag of chewy sweets (commonly termed ‘gummis’) represented one country, then you would have more countries within the plastic container than there are in the entire world. The popular Christian hymn ‘He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands.’ is derived from a vision of the one true deity (God, Allah etc) grasping a transcended bag of this candy.

The 1980s bass singer Rick Astley was christened ‘Rick Ghastly‘. He changed his name at age 9 thereby proving himself a hypocrite in that he can infact give up a person; in this case his true self. The whole ‘never’ promise was broken years before he attained his signature hit.

Serkis'sses True Appearance

Actor Andy Serkis appeared in the Lord of the Rings films with no CGI body overlay save for slight facial alterations.  A sympathetic Peter Jackson granted an elaborate state of the art disguise and lifetime makeup to a young Serkis in the late 70s, in return for a promise that he’d discard them for LOTR. This dramatist is an evolutionary miracle being the first ever homo scrawnallis ever. Note: This is a trade secret as Serkis wishes to avoid indefinite laboratory incarceration.

Cobwebs are named as such because within them is a chemical also found in sweetcorn. Mere ‘webs’ have no such content.

Physicists have speculated that if Nelson Mandela ever touchs Horatio Nelson‘s column in London, a dimensional rift will occur in which the Battle of Trafalgar and modern times merge. Whilst this makes it possible for Horatio to survive the battle, this will alter history with as good as infinite probabilities.

The speed of light in a De facto vacuum is slightly slower than the speed of light in a Dyson.

Give This, a pop band comprised of evil, generous, compassionate genetically altered twins of capitalist group Take That members were quietly assassinated in summer 1990 having recorded only a few songs and posed for just two photo ops. Take That stole much of their material (Dr. Nonaan Suong implanted talent genes) and used it to fuel successful careers.

To survive on a future post-apocalyptic globe as a member of either sex the following three things are vital: A pair of studded leather shoulder pads, a mohawk, and a dune buggy. If you don’t wish to fuse with the driver’s seat a pair of jeans or a spandex suit is also required.

When Plato created the allegory of the cave, he reflected his reflections depicted in a reflecting scenario involving as yet unreflective men: This subsequently caused reflection to occur. By 1757 there was a reflective surface shortage which caused the reflection promoting reflections to be banned upon legal reflection. As mirrors became cheap, the ban was lifted and people were freed from the cave by being allowed to reflect themselves in optimum peering.

Back in 2008, an Iraqi journalist named Muntadar al-Zaidi took off his shoes and hurled them at President Bush Of The United States Of America. It emerged recently in court documents that if the shoes had over 3.78 grams of dog or camel excrement present caked on the soles, al-Zaidi could have been charged with biological warfare and been imprisoned for a minimum of 800 years.

Acquitted murderer O.J. Simpson saw The Killers in concert in 2005. Anger and adrenaline rose as he realized their presence. However an entire decade or tireless searching after the emotional anguish of being accused of murder himself meant O.J.’s aged and now nonathletic body could not chase and have revenge upon the real killers. They escaped in their tour hummer limo. This evasion plus what he called the ‘torture of the music’ drove his vulnerable and fragile  to criminality and robbery. Now jailed, he finds it hard to look on the Brightside of life.

The illustrious, hyper-sexual, psychotic, cut-down-in-prime Emperor of Rome Caligula attempted to make his much-loved horse Incitatus a Consul. The act was blocked by senators who were wary of it constantly voting ‘nay’ to every matter brought to the Senate floor.

China is secretly attempting to create a counterfeit China to be airlifted then dropped on Micronesia in the North Pacific. The knockoff China will produce mostly genuine, brand-approved, legitimate goods as opposed to the real China which has a large chunk of its economy dependent upon fake brand merchandise.

Lastly we coast back towards Lord Of The Rings. New Line Cinema preferred this Rohan plot to happen in The Two Towers. Motive was to ‘appeal to a sophomoric, younger crowd’. However director Peter Jackson compromised by making Gimli a jocular moron instead of stoic and bad-ass. Perhaps a lesser affront of Tolkien purists than Hammm:

The handful reading DG around five weeks ago will recall Ranvir Bhandari’s passionate, socially democratic article which soberly informed us that the credit crunch was a cakewalk compared to what much of the world’s population go through in terms of poverty and general struggle. We’ve effectively put his lefty compassionate  alter-ego in a room full of chloroform for the time being. The true Ranvir, an exotic party boy hedonist boudoir master, to our relief can now contribute uninhibited.

One thing that both Britain and the United States have over my native India is that one can always find a party. Without a chance of failing, this thought visits my mind each time I top my prior distinguished excellence of going out, acting like a moron, getting drunk and with making love to some woman at the end of the night. This can be done in urban centres of the subcontinent what with a new middle class ascending with money to spend. However in the west it is quite a practiced art, hence many in the ex-Soviet bloc and developing nations paying homage to the west’s take on hospitality.

Similar to amika club London - but it wasn't.

Myself and the boys were in a club south of the river, optimism ran high since I was heading back home in a few weeks for mostly quality time rather than work. Those who know me realize that journalism is not a passion much of the time, and indeed it becomes rather humdrum when you’re attending conferences. The club or a sufficiently ‘bumping’ function is a joyous break from the drone of conference speakers, the PowerPoint slides, the people so evidently bored they rush towards the lunch hall when at last a morning concludes. These are facts behind most seminars in the west, and so it is the same in India.

Adventurously I had imbibed many as-yet-untried shots, and became unwittingly drunk as did my trio of buddies. Natter ranged from chatter over the cricket scandal, nostalgic reminiscence of our youths both here and to the east, while Sachetan spoke lucidly of his weirder encounters in London including when being rammed by Mayor Boris Johnson who was mounted upon his signature bicycle. It was a painful threesome:

“Nutty old sod hadn’t a clue, zipping about like a deranged pheramone-infested wasp – no purpose, no destination, just his headcase personality, the depths of the metropolitan zone, and his badly ridden bike.”

It was after midnight in the venue, which has modest silk drapes and a mostly classic vibe, when a mysterious figure entered. He looked like some guy who’d play Winston Churchill in a third rate biographical musical on the West End. A Gruff, overweight, stocky, bald 60ish disgruntled bloke. Dressed in a dark grey suit with purple bow tie, the weighty man sauntered towards the bar and mouthed something to the Australian  – anyone who has clubbed in London is aware Aussies make up about 70-80% of trendy bar workers. The man skipped off like some kangeroo except without the hopping or jumping or joey in a pouch; just a simple scurry.

The music cut, the lights stopped, and a murmur quickly followed as the clientele (about sixty were present) wondered what was going on. The old bloke had clambered onto the bar, and was shouting:

“Be calm! Be bloody calm! The music will be back soon – just hear me out. A show of which I am part of ended tonight…it was overdue as we’d all realized how bad the dialogue and naff the camera work had gotten. Rather than auction-”

An irate man had emerged from the dance floor and spoke haughtily in a Caledonian accent: “Ey! You old wrinkly bastard, I was enjoyin the music and yer switch it off to talk about some show ya did? Get outta here, before I pull your hefty backside off the damn bar for a rough kickin’!”

“Listen, we want as many in here as possible to destroy the show’s old props and sets…the programme was called ‘The Bill‘. As revenge for the cancellation, budget cuts and appalling writers we’re letting ITV know we, or rather I, won’t take it laying down. Who’s with me?!”

I found myself raising a hand spontaniously, as did about fifteen others in the club including our aggressive, threateningly eloquent drunk who had a rather an appealingly fierce looking ginger haired woman on his arm. It was there it began; we got five taxis between us and set off for the studios. It was dead of night, and the plan was that Simon (the bloke who’d acted in the police drama) would walk ahead and affably request to be let in as he’d ‘forgotten his coat and box of Milk Tray for the wife‘. As the security barrier lifts our cabbies were to drive into the lot whilst the thesp DCI incapacitated the night shift bloke.

The ploy worked perfectly, and our convoy soon found itself parked within the studio’s sanctum. Many of the well-known sets could already be seen even in the deceasedness of night. Simon emerged from the booth with somewhat bloodied knuckles and a wanton grin, saying:

“I know where the batons are. Just head inside the warehouse; they should be in a blue container to your left labeled ‘whacky sticks’. I’m going to destroy the CCTV. Trash everything: I want it all obliterated, you got that fellas and gals?”

Still tanked up we cried out to the affirmative and marched towards the storage shed. The Aussie barman had kindly sold us a crate of whiskey at cut price to keep the blood pumping; the cabbies were persuaded to join our quest for sweet revenge on Talkback Thames procedural, inept crimes against an iconic British TV cop show. Due to the real life police action I can’t possibly elaborate over what we may or may not have done, but I’d by lying if I said it was like some sort of warzone after a couple of hours hardcore trashing.

Logo prior to the written talkback becoming heinous tripe.

No witnesses coming forward of lunchtime the next day. When Simon (DCI Meadows) emerged later he was shirtless, daubed in paint like a chieftain, and clutching a steel chunk of structuring he’d ripped from the warehouse. He had on a police hat from the costumes room, and emotionally bellowed to the horizon:

“You see this Talkback Thames? You see this you bastards? This is my career over – but boy did I have fun ending it. Better than doing somethin’ like Where The Friggin’ Heart Is! Seeing your faces tomorrow as you realize what’s went on…I’ll be denied that. But boy can I imagine it: I. Can. Imagine it!” – Simon wheezed out roar of joy. We all welled up as we saw a great actor’s swan song unfold before our eyes.

Half an hour after we’d bundled back into the cabs and fled an anonymous phone call was made to the press, who found the security personnel gagged and bound…the studio’s property in ruins. Police weren’t there till almost an hour after. We were heaving in a sort of primal delight…my night’s hard graft was rewarded by a hefty donner kebab smeared with copious levels of mayonnaise and ketchup.

Certain figures employed within the less reputable newspapers will be aware of why I’ve been absent from Dirty Garnet for awhile. It all began (with a stale phrase? – ed) a week ago when I’d nipped in to the local gambling emporium or ‘betting shop’ in Islington.  It was closing time, and I’d strolled in to place a bet over whether there’d be any media expose of fraud involving the betting industry before Christmas this year. The odds were not too hot, but I enjoy a quick punt for its own sake now and then.

I stuck fifty quid on, young bloke behind the perspex sorts it through the system. As it’s processing a trio I can only describe as dusky in the Eastern sense noisily entered the shop. The three men were fairly young, well dressed and with jet black hair styled tastefully. One man was wearing a cream suit complete with archaic hat, and had a large red strain on one trouser leg. I can only assume was due to some sort of abrasion of an object upon it.

I was around the side of the counter, and such was the room layout that I was able to remain quite hidden from view in the dim light of the panels. The wall television was off, and I found the fellow at the counter had already put my slip through the slot. I pocketed it instinctively. The leader of those elegantly dressed men were speaking now in accented English:

“Is Bill H-(name censored – ed) in? Told us he’d meet us at this branch. Very important, you got it?”

The man who had given me my bet had opened the ultra-secure reinforced door separating the staff area from the outside world. His manager emerged from the recesses of the premises and addressed the men warmly:

“Gentlemen! I’ll see to it the CCTV tapes are…lost. I take it that briefcase is quite spacious?”

“Of course it is fat man. Is Bill in or what? We’ve got training tomorrow, bloody match isn’t gonna fix itself is it?” The sardonic reply was accompanied as his sidekicks nodded in unison. The tallest of them folded his arms quite defensively.

You’ll forgive me, a rising star in the journalistic profession, for having crouched down by now sensing that some severe shadiness was going on. My iPod and tiny 3/4 inch mic were reflexibly switched on and held discreetly to capture further natter from these apparantly sporty figures.

“Bill will be arriving round the back within half an hour. He has just tweeted to me in a direct message; he’s bringing one of your boys round. Let’s just say he’ll administer the business. Drink lads?”

“Would we ever take a drink off of your wage-slave arse? There’s a gentleman native to our home country with a shop just down the road selling all kinds of juice, pop and booze. But we don’t touch booze do we boys?”

The two companions mumbled in reply: “No…no…against the higher power…disgrace…”

The servile manager replied:”Sorry if I offended. Listen I better close the shop, we don’t want anyone coming in.”

The manager appeared in view around the corner and lifted some keys out of his pocket. Upon his exiting the shop I heard him lowering the shutter. Meanwhile the dusky, shady young guys strolled into the back. Either the guy who served me was a clueless sodstodge or too paralyzed with fear to inform anybody of my presence. I was starting to get cramp and so sat on the thin, dark blue carpet floor cross-legged like some grotesquely obese Buddha imitator. I’d soon shuffled into position making less sound than two ghosts partaking in ethereal intercourse with one another.

However I was yet to penetrate to the inner depths of this situation. I heard muffled speech from the back of the shop as the overweight, bald manager entered. His attire was considerably shabbier than the sarcastic, virtuous Eastern fellows’ – a pair of cheap trousers, shoddy shoes, and a creased blue shirt ensconcing his flabby torso and atrophied muscles. Upon locking the entrance he ambled smilingly through the counter door and into the rear of the betting shop.

Slowly, I rose and crept towards through the still open door into the staff area. Apparently the five men were conversing in a back room of the modest community gambling outlet. It was then I heard it; a bizarre warble you might assume was a crane upon having its infant snatched from between the beak:

“There’s someone out there!”

The CCTV! I knew instantly my options were self-defence or an extended period of being beaten with my iPod confiscated forever. What’s more my bet might get forfeit! Thoughts flashed by like rapid streetlamps: Was I committing insider trading by influencing this apparant bet fraud? I knew I’d go straight to a Murdoch owned rag, eager to hand my recording to the newsdesk for a couple of grand. What man wouldn’t do that? I mean it’s fraud and I could well become the next fake Shiekh given my talent and youth.

As the manager appeared in the corridor leading to the back rooms, I eyed the desk. Nimbly I grasped a telephone, fiercely ripping it off its attached phone cable like a steroid addicted Rambo. It was plastic but quite weighty…taking on five blokes with my fists and a phone was gonna be tough.

A vision occurred of Richard Dean Anderson (TV’s MacGyver) getting himself out of scrapes and into another adventure. I let out a hoarse battle cry and barely dodged the manager who’d attempted a rugby tackle and brought the phone down upon his glistening, bald cranial region. He groaned and collapsed, one after the other: I delivered two short kicks at his midriff for good measure, mentally congratulated myself on wearing my tough hiking footwear, and then placed a rude boot upon the fat man’s upturned gut as he lay unconscious:

“Any of you bastards come near me, and I’ll see none of you ever fix a game again: You’ll all be at the receiving end of this receiver, this…my dog and bone of fracturing doom!”

The Deus-Ex Cabina

I kept my gaze fixed on the four men who had stopped in their tracks. Bending slowly I grabbed the manager’s keys from his left pocket, and still wielding the phone like some nefarious nunchuk I backed away, slipping the door key into the door’s lock. As it clicked their fear began to dissipate – two of the men rushed at me.

Yet I was gone. By sheer fortune a Hackney was languidly passing the establishment I emerged from. I hailed it frantically, yanked open the door, dove in and with adrenaline fueled tact cried: “Driver! The Murdoch News Corp. offices pronto!”

As they say the rest is…(stale predictable phrases -ed.)

Vindication struck a select few inhabitants of  Grande Bretahiti earlier when it was revealed that an entire inquiry into a war was, to quote the chair of the meeting at an after-dinner speech, “a pointless yet fantastic money spinner for all participants…I mean people are too ignorant and resigned to care whether they pay for us investigating our own class!” Applause rocked the executive Kent hotel at which the function was held, and an inebriated but well-connected local councillor blurted “roll on another war I say! Keeps us well in pocket!” Intoxicating indigenous beverages were consumed in quantity. All were jubilant; the gravy-train was running full blast on its usual fuel of bullshit and murder – practically everyone in Britain’s privileged echelons were winners!

Think of the genius behind it: Do a war with the bill footed by the public and various other countries in loans. Then as the ball of deceitful twine unravels get all those politicians who had something to do with it together for a good old trip down memory lane. Bring in highly unbiased and motivated Knights of the Realm to question and cast judgment – make sure all this is funded by taxation too. One big point to remember: Make sure nothing consequential except further confirmation of the truth emerges. Upon conclusion lift your backsides off the seats and congratulate yourselves on a public well shafted.

In Spring 2003 a Middle-Eastern country called Iraq was invaded by the USA and the UK. The war ‘officially’ ended after about 5 weeks when the coalition (technologically and numerically superior to the Iraqi army) mopped up the last of the ragtag conscript army and ex-Russian antique tanks that comprised the opposition. As the United States dug in to the capital Baghdad the true conflict began in the form of militia bombings, roadside bombs, ambushes and so on. These continue to this day, albeit at a lesser pace than the peak where you’d get explosions at regular intervals killing dozens.

The expected revelations that there were no weapons of mass destruction arrived; Iraqi government corruption continues as does flagrant profiteering from oil and gas reserves, not forgetting astounding finance for those present in the military-industrial sector. All in all a war like any other war in that the primary motive was monetary gain.

Britain’s Iraq Inquiry was announced last year to ‘‘identify lessons to be learnt from the Iraq conflict.” The lesson that war is ‘good business’ was learnt a long term ago – so what does it mean? The Inquiry only featured in the news when ex-Prime Minister Tony Blair arrived to affirm he thought it was all fine and correct and reaffirming that his apologizing – hah! – was quite out of the question. It hasn’t featured much on TV since, but does get column inches now and then; usually tucked away in a given newspapers’ depths.

That people are forgetting it whilst its still ongoing isn’t a good sign of it ever ending up more than a historical footnote.

Sir John Chilcot - Chair of the Iraq Inquiry

At bottom we’ve another opportunity for windbags to sit comfortably and waffle on about how things were seven or eight years ago, answering questions by people of greater or equal privilege who likewise possess attributes of windbaggery/dufferism. Is an inquiry implemented by the very same government who started the war ever going to expose anything worth its salt?

Imagine if the public were able to elect the panel. Instead of a well-dressed row of comfortable, vapid establishment figures you get some extremely cutting interrogators: People with much less to lose should they upset those in power. However this is mere quaint notion and dreaming: Whenever there’s a review, or inquiry, or any other hindsight look at controversy all these well-to-do types emerge from the woodwork and set upon the latest pile of rot: British democracy involves oft-knighted insiders chosen by the friends of the questioned being among the very few permitted to inquire at length instigators of a colossal, costly and supremely controversial war.

It must get to the point for those at the top where it isn’t even difficult anymore. It’s procedure. The population might appear to be an apathetic whore ready and willing to put out. To the few non-media folks who still are paying attention to the Iraq Inquiry it might be a comfort that this will put to rest the facts behind the war. This is the hope of bereaved or aggrieved individuals who wanted an inquiry in the first place. However many of the falsehoods have long been exposed. This coupled with the toothless absence of any bringing to bear together with a convenient timing that meant verdicts wouldn’t be given till well after the May 2010 UK general election concluded exposes this farce for what it is.

The robotic ‘admin’ contributor/king of Dirty Garnet kicked in today and, using a complex piece of software called ‘Hacktopolis’ (Factory efficiency! -- tm) has crafted a virtuoso piece of admirable originality and assured popularity. It concerns today’s arrest of Paris Hilton, and arrests of celebrities in general for possession of drugs.

(Location) (Associated Press/Reuters/Press Association) -- (Celebname) was caught with (drugname) last night. (Chauffeurname) was driving a limo containing the celeb, famed for (film/music/beingfamous) through downtown (city) when the authorities stopped the vehicle and commenced to search it for drugs.

Vegas baby...Vegas.

The celeb, who works as a (showbiz/non-working-profession-name) shocked onlookers as s/he emerged from the limousine with what appeared to be a bag of (drug/s). S/he was then booked by attendant law enforcement officials, and the (chafffeurname) was likewise arrested on driving intoxication charges.

Plumes of (crack/cannabis) smoke was spotted billowing from the modded limo, which was bouncing up and down like some early 1990s low-rider straight out of a (westcoastrapper) music video. This display of drug-induced grandiosity alerted officers who were combing the (downtownareaname) for hookers, criminals and lowlives in general.

(Celebname)’s manager, agent, spokesperson, pets, family, friends, postman, or gardener were not immediately available to comment. Many media outlets in the (countryname) have waited over half an hour between them for a response via e-mail and phone: We can only assume that the entourage is enforcing a heinous blackout.

Last year, (celebname) made a supposedly sincere plea on (TVshow) that s/he didn’t wish to keep partying or taking drugs. The intent of this alleged change of heart was to (clean-up/helpthepoor/bebetterperson) . However in a display of disgusting self-indulgence that we cannot say was unexpected, the celeb has apparently resumed this lifestyle.

(Celebname) spent (periodoftime) in jail in (year) for drug related offences.

Details to follow as we get them.

<end>

This, attendant hacks or media, is how to earn your daily bread. Use this template and fill in the bracketed portions, perhaps with minor edits here and there. You then may go get lunch, and return to update it according to whether or not the famous person or people concerned were charged.

Bonus points if you, an ardent supporter of the War on Drugs, take drugs recreationally and illegally within a couple of days of having this piece published and your bank account credited accordingly. Your smug, hypocrite self may then view this Youtube clip as a mischievous, gratified grin spreads across your wasted face:

This story will likely be the most popular of all on most major media websites today. It’s cheap, easy to cover, and perfect for integral 21st century mass media to practice the journalistic ‘profession’ upon. It’s a gift that keeps giving too -- after the initial hubbub dies down, a raft of follow-ups, opinion pieces, and general ‘in-depth’ work will appear riding the wave.

As many of the less ignorant readers of this quaint little site might know, I was present in Manhattan nine days ago for the amazing attainment of a Guinness World Record by gifted actor Robert De Niro. I flew back home two days later, but not before I’d spent time in some of the finest department stores NYC has to offer. That the designer brands were such a fine, low cost relative to Britain only had my joy manifest externally in the form of high-pitched squeals of elated arousement.

It was a few blocks from Times Square that I saw this huddled figure shuffle between some aisles. He was dressed like some sort of old, gentrified hobo; his clothing was elegantly simplistic though his shirt garment was quite over-washed…there was a bizarrely familiar grace of transience there. I hadn’t caught his face as yet, but could tell from the white hair and posture that he was quite advanced in years. It went beyond mere deja vu, being more a reunion through the optics. Never one to hang back in the sidelines I fast approached the fellow who was apparently fingering a pair of $400 slacks in cream.

This wasn’t before a four foot tall dwarf popped out from behind a clothes rack a few feet behind the mystery figure and delivered a clouting kick to my left shin. I cried out in pain like the pathetic wormling I am upon being victim to the monstrous, vicious physical assault. Yet somehow I remained mostly standing, but quite shaky. The assailant had commenced to circle me, when I noticed he was dressed remarkably similar to myself – a black business suit, white shirt, and a purple tie so deeply hued you’d be forgiven for assuming it black too.

“He’s not to be bothered you badly bred, prissy wimp! About turn and stroll away this instant!”

It wasn’t so much the fact the very idea of this pint-sized baritone talking down to me was repulsive given his diminutively disgruntled posture: It was the horrible, covetous and despicable act that had I, Byron Nuclear, falsely denounced as some peasentish fool of low breeding! As such I let out my battle cry which has been a mainstay of mine since the age of eight; it sounds rather like a cross between a deranged gorilla’s throaty cry as it ambles towards an enemy…and also the high-pitched shriek of a tree-climbing chimp.

My atrophied muscles were strengthened…’psyched-up’ to adopt a modern turn of parlance. The process (in truth) took a good half hour of lethargic standoffishness…but I’d stunned the bastard and was well into the process of choking him with a clothes hanger when the man I’d sought so desperately emerged from around the sports jackets. A shudder repeatedly vibrated my ortho-bonics, to the point where my jellied hands grasped the nearby rack (boxer shorts) and my torso heaved with exhilarated terror. My face had contorted grotesquely like some disgraceful brattish infant upon throwing its rattle away.

It was Brian Sewell. Without flinching in the slightest he uttered:

“You know a cake? A cake is entirely a periphery piece of nourishment for humanity. It has never fulfilled a staple function. This rather unvital sustenance thus features in weddings and other joyous events, not the food table day to day.”

Sewell’s wizened face, his thin-lipped, unsmiling yet gentle expression eyed my fallen self. He made no attempt to help me up…yet I noticed his left hand had darted from the pocket of his dark grey slacks and were caressing delicately a nearby garment. Being an extroverted sort I had to reply even if it meant mashing my dialogue:

“Brian I’m…surprised at encountering you in Saks, do you shop here often?”

For a moment Sewell’s face crinkled up rather like a woefully drenched bag from a supermarket you hastily stuff into a kitchen unit. I could see he was still infatuated with his old ways…treating his associates as an exhibit of art. From what I’d read, he’d commenced to judge me as a classic piece of sculpture. Sort of a Michelangelo’s David or a Herculian statue of the later Koine period of Greek antiquity. Needless to say this was not me flattering myself, infact Brian, lips squirming slightly like two starved slugs spoke again:

“No, I was with Whoopi Goldberg. The er…the lady they named the cushion after. A rather irritating little creature approached and urinated over my suitcase contents’. Some sort of…a er…sort of a…ah…”

“A cat?”

“Exactly! Not a dog.”

“So how did this little feline get in to defile your attire Brian?”

“He quite sauntered in, tail five times ribboned and very well brushed…a rather stylistic touch to his groomed, impeccable little bodice. White. I’d gone into the bathroom to scrub up – a man of my stature you understand cannot accompany Ms. Goldberg looking a scruffy, unkempt show. Ironed my shirt and everything…everything.”

“Then what?”

Cassandra on a sunny Wiltshire morn

“I emerged from the bathroom to find the despicable, smug little feline on my bed…a trail of liqui-excrement in its wake. Part of its wake was the suitcase…I rushed quite towards but it uh…caked my property disgustingly. Hissed. I called room service,  they said the dry cleaners were away until Tuesday. So myself and Ramone here, we came to 5th avenue to scour for adornments.”

After this exchange had happened I’d rebounded to a state of severe joy, and I suggested to Brian we ditch Whoopi and get a massive slap-up complete with a selection of fine fruits and hard to come bis. This most amused Sewell and we thus made for his waiting car…a classic 1969 Citroen DS which he had termed ‘Cassandra’.

Ramone, the dwarf, didn’t speak much except to mumble that he was arming himself with ‘the artillery’. Brian chuckled and stated simply:

“Quite legal.”

A massive water gun had been lifted by our bodyguard from the trunk through the back seatage. It was some sort of super soaking multi-millennial piece of hardware, which apparently was full of a bizarre mashing up of chemical agents. Furious itching and a superb distance tracking system (a pungent odour) would be quite present on the victim should he or she be struck by one of the eight jets of tainted water.

A custom pipe, rather like an extended pistol magazine, stretched from the waterarm into the small vat of the horrid stuff in the boot. Fortunately it was quite isolated and sealed so the smell – as I was later to learn – was a mixture of quaint farmland and somewhat rotten lemons.

I detailed my De Niro encounter to Brian, who had took to affably smoking a massive wooden pipe as he handled the Citroen…we we out of Manhattan now heading through the grim tubeishness of a tunnel.

“We must navigate Jersey City…hence the gun. My humble motor is rather like a carcass is to vultures to the local peasantry in this super-slum. Rest assured the rifle is more abrasive than any insult you or I could possibly craft.” Brian laughed – his trademark, short, expelling of humour pent-up, a small grin gracing his aged face.

We spoke of how awful modern art was…observing my extensive makeup and my old-style gothic suit to go with he implied that this was the last great style he approved of despite it predating his birth:

“It’s just like art deco isn’t it? Everything after, with rare exception, is a load of tripe. Architecture now is like the Roman Empire in about 350 AD…well on the way to collapse. I only hope the barbarians inject some common sense back into the equation without ruining the entire art form anew. Meritless rubbish.”

I rather agreed with him, and that we enjoyed a great hedonistic indulgence for over 48 hours thereafter bespeaks of how long it had been and how mutual the mourning of our estrangement was. It all began in a brilliantly executive restaurant in the outskirts of NYC, and tapered inwards to the best nightclubs. Disgracefully excellent.

I’d last seen Brian stealing the silver from an overly-grandiose conference on art in 2003. He was most irascible and announced that he despised the modernity of the place, before storming out to a waiting limo. I heard he’d relocated to a restaurant and had only stolen the forks and knives as he ‘did not trust anything not silver’ for consuming his meals – hence him posting back the cleansed cutlery to the venue again the next day, as much as he disliked the pretence and “thought they deserved every bit of theft coming their way. Or leaving or something.”

In an exclusive Dirty Garnet report, Massachusetts correspondent Terence Beck examines a shocking, extraordinary event that happened in Central Minnesota this morning: A completely honest, non-fraudulant or otherwise nefarious company in the United States was discovered.

‘I suppose we thought it was a total fake’ said United States Department of Domestic Commerce investigator Warren Juniper. ‘However it’s since emerged as the sole anomaly in the entire USA. A firm that does everything by the book; no fraud, no creative accounting, fair prices…it’s…well it’s bizarre!”

President Barack Obama was briefed hours ago on the incident, which he is said to be taking ‘extremely seriously’. A White House spokesperson today emphasized that “American business is unable to justifiably run without committing any form of crime or dishonesty. This is an executive matter and further comment can be expected soon.‘

The incident emerged first in a local Minnesota press agency WCCO at the break of dawn. They reported on a massive police raid occurring just hours ago as daylight broke. The sheer honesty of the firm (Principled Figurines Of The USA specializes in crafting pewter replicas of American icons such as Bison, the more famous of Founding Fathers, Big Macs, Colt .45s and so on) led to questions of it being legally sound. WCCO quoted local police officer Francis Bonnetti as saying: “Well look, these guys were just too legit. Everything was in order, and that’s why the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) tipped us off – how they heck can they not have under-declared something or ripped a supplier off?”

Expecting some sort of mini-Bernard Madoff scenario, police detectives accompanied by eight officers, two patrol cars and a dog (the hound later emerged to be a curious stray who’d sauntered onto the scene) the door of the Principled Figurines workshop was bashed down. Filing cabinets were rifled, rifles were filed, and files were taken. Three men were arrested at the scene, and two women believed to be lovers or mistresses (possibly wives) of the employees were arrested at the early hour in the residences of two.

News reached the East Coast later this morning. At time of writing, the mass media is descending on the quiet, sleepy, mundane settlement like a virulent locust storm of Biblical proportions. Cohasset was the place in which the heinously honest, scrupulous firm was based. Interrogations are ongoing as IRS, FBI and police investigators have described those arrested as “Disgraceful punks at best ignorantly unaware or at worst downright rebellious towards the American ways.”

Richard ‘Dick’ Cheney was sought in retirement for his comment on the issue as the truth over the terrible honesty emerged. Upon hearing the news his relaxed smirk hardened into a terrible scowl, his posture stiffened like a corpse left in the open air for a few hours. He snarled:

¦

“This is an affront to the American people! This, the Land of the Free, tolerates and permits unlawful action if it is justified. Sure, Bernie Madoff was a fraud – but he kept the scam going for years! My entire reign infact! Why do a minority of firms in our great country want to piss all over that fine legacy…figuritively I mean?” – Cheney, Aug 25th 2010

¦

We feel it important to note that after getting that hi-tech cardiovascular device fitted last month, Mr. Cheney officially has no pulse. This technically makes him the first undead, or be it zombie, ex-Vice President the United States has ever had. Whilst VP Dan Quayle was confirmed brain-dead in a CT scan in 1991, Cheney has undergone no such degrading of the mind – therefore he is amply qualified to evaluate this awful, despicable situation and exception to the spirit of America’s business lobby.

Glenn Beck fainted & cried upon hearing the news.

The situation is still developing at the moment, but opinions from pundits and journalists around the US today range from the disgusted to outright shocked. Intellectual Noam Chomsky was reportedly egged by his students for expressing sympathy for the figurine crafters.  It was confirmed that TV demagogue Glenn Beck (no relation to T-Beck – ed) fainted and was rushed to a nearby medical centre for a check up.

Fox News and a police escort accompanied the ambulance – Glenn’s condition is said to be ‘stable if mildly distressed’. My own opinion is that the whole notion of some business being honest here is terrible; I mean was any fortune (Fortune 500 – ed.) ever built up honestly? What are these virtuous goons trying to accomplish? It’s totally idiotic and an affront to the modern USA and its history.

This morning’s article is adapted from a comment on Ed Yong‘s science and technology blog Not Rocket Science. Ed put the case forward in mentioning Atul Gawande‘s lengthy narratives – some of these approach 12000 words. Yet they capture and retain readers by virtue of sheer quality, liveliness and factual informativeness. It’s pretty obvious that for every lucid, long-form writer like Gawande there’s hundreds of long-winded, waffle-heavy, Latin-spouting nebulous morons whose prose cannot be navigated by most readers. Them aside, can quality and talent belittle the common dogmatic advice given to those involved with social media that ‘brevity is king’? Here’s what I had to add to the discussion with slight corrections…

–Some time ago I got commissioned to write an article on mental health stigma. You could write a book on that matter, but I was limited to 1000 words as apparantly ‘people get bored and won’t read more than that’ . That seemed rather like assumptive generalizing back then, but it’s an attitude that pervades journalism in general.

If you have a good book (for instance Peter Cook’s biography) you end up reading thousands of words without realizing. Same with good fiction. That’s because the writing is excellent; it strikes a chord with you by virtue of informativeness, humour, or by enlivening a subject in such a way that you can understand and be entertained to the point of voraciousness.

As diseased as journalism is at the moment (supplements, usual suspects like the Mail etc) there are still a minority around who can operate a camera and make it a passion to do quality work. Most today sit in offices all the time doing copypasta from the press wires, or hashing together opinion pieces with spurious quotes from anonymous ’analysts’. Whilst the salaried lot are on the whole better paid, they lose soul fast in the drudgery. The talent they began with withers as a plant would upon lacking sunlight or water.

Point is is that great writing can keep a reader’s interest. I’m sure Ed’s blog audience is somewhat different from mine – I try to put science in now and then but it’s mostly satire/pop culture etc – but the same principles apply. If something is scathing, compelling or hard-hitting it gets read in full…but all the same (might be lack of confidence) the longest article present on my website is presently 1500 words. The average hovers around 900 – 1000. Based on this thread I might start doing longer pieces.

In the maddening hysteria of day-to-day life, I believe people do yearn for and enjoy a meditative or fun time reading in peace. I don’t mean a paper, I mean prose so good that it approaches the artistic in terms of how it’s put together. Stuff with the author’s passion and soul behind it, written in a lively, interesting and fun way.

We humans were not built to work as much as we do now. That’s why you get stress, breakdowns, depression – in 1932 Bertrand Russell wrote ‘In Praise of Idleness’ – 78 years on we’re reaping the results of a lack of idleness. I learnt enough about office journalism to never enter that trap; real journalism is going out, talking to people, doing photography, and being a responsible part of the community. That’s the idea anyhow. Sitting on your backside at a desk cannibilizing stuff everyone else reports, or regurgitating PR is not what the trade is meant to be.

Imagine if journalism were like mining. The news is a massive, unending bedrock crammed with lode after lode of material. The corporations did to our ‘mining’ what Thatcher did to the unions in the 80s. It’s not about employment or good work now, it’s about profit and squeezing as much as possible from as few staff as possible in as short a time as possible. So the mines are mostly derelict, and most people in the ‘profession’ sit about and examine other peoples hauls, or the Fool’s Gold of PR and fabrication.–<End of comment>

I can conjure up many instances with non-fiction and fiction books where I’ve pored through without realizing: Many of George Orwell‘s essays, Nick Davies’ Flat Earth News and G.K. Chesterton‘s entertaining takes on religion (such as in Orthodoxy) fit this bill. Much of the time it matters not if you agree or disagree with the writer; you see the spirit of the argument and the quality of the writing. That makes you keep reading rather than casting aside due to views you hold personally. Few reading Henry Miller‘s Tropic of Cancer would agree with his lifestyle, but assuming morals and shock don’t impede a given reading, readers end up seeing value in the material presented irrespective of quantity.

You could finish something long and disagree with it all but grow to like the writer by virtue of how they write. Is online any different? It’s likely that many of these ‘how-to’ guides on getting a presence in ‘social media’ are written by marketing or PR drones. These sorts tend to favour style and appearances over the substantial and piercing. For those who feel comfortable writing essays and feel pulling them off with aplomb is doable, why not consider publishing these online in full rather than abbreviating or amputating your ideas to the possible exclusion of excellent content?

A few weeks ago we linked to this Youtube channel. It contains the entirity of Charlie Brooker‘s Newswipe. Watching that you’d be forgiven for thinking the whole enterprise of lazy reportage, lies, propaganda, deceiving presentation and bias were exclusively the preserve of media corporations and politics. The idea that journalism should be given time and resources to create rather than be produced en masse cheaply is one looked upon as a quaint, old-fashioned modus operandi with little monetary potential or (to veer to buzz-speak) ‘economic feasability’.

It doesn’t end with media, PR, and freebie provisioning corporations: As has been the case nearly a century now, with advancements of literacy and broadcast technology we’ve seen an increasingly shrill group of orthodoxies competing for influence over a population’s thinking. Basic idea of competition is to encourage behaviour aiming to propel a given competitor two steps ahead of anybody else as much as possible. This can mean innovating, promotional tactics and so on. In business markets have several big firms present we’ve a constant vying to get to the head of the pack.

Greenpeace is in the business of charity. Charity for environmental causes. It is debatably the largest producer of spin, lies, distortion and stark publicity stunts of any charity worldwide. When one watches Newswipe or reads the exposé Flat Earth News by Nick Davies -- you see the same old, similar pattern that you can spot in newspaper or television news coverage every day: Things that are not true are presented in such a fashion as to influence a person to greater effect. Very often different to the result of showing the original kernel of truth would have led to in readers’ minds.

Examining Greenpeace’s history we see a catalogue of contradictions, opportunism and sensationalizing to the point of the ridiculous. Greenpeace will often neglect actual environmental matters of urgency, instead homing in on PR motherlodes. They hurled criticism and lies at Apple -- a popular electronics firm -- for not being green enough over a much more obscure, yet serious occurrence elsewhere. This largely kicked off as Apple had no formal disclaimer detailing how environmentally sound their manufacture is. It emerged later that they are among the greenest major tech firms operating. Simply put; criticizing them without research or evidence was cheap and easy marketing. The apparant lack of irony common to irrational groups soon cropped up elsewhere.

The ostensive principle of Greenpeace -- minimizing and countering as much neglect to the planet as possible -- conflicts with their insatiable want of attention and PR. There’s the argument that ‘ends justify means’; if all this attention grabbing didn’t happen wouldn’t there be a net loss for the environment anyway? Before I continue, here’s a 47 second advertisement by Greenpeace:

Two things present in the ad: An implication of terrorism with the aircraft beelining to the nuclear power station…and then we’ve got a mother, father and two children playing on a nearby beach: Two of the most popular objects for fear in modern society featured in a short advert. It does not take much perception to realize that effective propaganda, legislation and influence can be built on the platforms of ‘stopping terrorists’ or ‘protecting the children’ -- moralizing these is the bread and butter of anybody wanting attention and sway within or outside political circles.

The US, UK and Australia recently saw many governments and media groups campaign on these matters. Often the arguments will be flawed or illogical but put across in such a stark fashion with such intense hyperbole and scaremongering that it can’t help but be noticed. To use a popular term: ‘Eye-catching’. It’s not so much polite shoulder tapping as it is a fierce punch. A popular newspaper in Britain, The Daily Mail, does this in virtually every issue. Mostly this isn’t a virtuous bringing to bear of issues in a selfless, informative fashion -- ulterior motives are present.

Rather like government propaganda, the aim of Greenpeace is control. One of the first members of Greenpeace, Dr. Patrick Moore, has criticized the organization for campaigns with little by way of facts or logic: Myths. Scientific or investigative evidence is partly or wholly disregarded in favour of the charity line. This sounds familiar; think about the press…let’s say Rupert Murdoch‘s newspapers just prior to the Iraq War. Every single rag editorialized in favour of that war -- zero dissent. Across the English speaking developed world all the News International papers did this; the weapons of mass destruction and all the other lies and uncertainties were trotted out to get people on board the idea of invading Iraq. This on top of similar procedures by US and British politicians all led to greater control, influence, confusion, and sidelining of UN investigators.

Just as many politicians -- seven years on -- confronted with the notion that the Iraq conflict began due to natural resources will not give a straight answer, neither will Greenpeace give a frank and plain address to most scientists, engineers, or other qualified talents who criticize and point out holes in their claims. It’s here that the image of the environmentalist, freedom loving hippie stereotype starts to crack -- were Greenpeace made up of placid, permissive, honest people they’d listen to facts and keep to them. Much as the slanted press stifles any criticism with high-strung language and shouting down, so does Greenpeace with alarming (and alarmist) regularity to those who oppose it with evidence and facts.

As one gathers together all the apocalyptic claims, the negativity, the vitriol…it all starts to smell right: An odour curiously similar to that of The Daily Mail or Fox News in the USA. News where morality serves as a highly polished artificial veneer, same as Greenpeace being passionate about saving forests or stopping nuclear power. If one is going to assert influence over something as complex as the environment, it would make sense were heart actually in the endevour to do so with facts and solid research as opposed to strongly worded, unresearched criticisms, seething anger and stunts.

Spuriousness, massive sensationalism, and amoral campaigning are what lay beneath Greenpeace’s PR and gloss. They are as much a controlling outfit as governments who flirt with authoritarian policy and unlawful war. Just as much of the 21st century press serves as a freakshow of stark opinion hatred, lies and PR; Greenpeace fulfil that role in the environmental lobby.