Cultureballs...

Well what a triumphant few days it's been for culture. Whenever people start talking about Jedward I have a real Bernard Black "Oh God, you're still alive" cringe moment. I still cannot grasp how this patently rubbish pair of Ellen Page-faced, Paul Phoenix-coiffured pillocks are still carving out a career and enjoying popularity. A look at their twitter feed (appropriately titled Planet Jedward, because such preposterousness simply cannot exist on Earth) give you a curious insight into the maddening, surrealist nightmare than can presume only exist in the mind of Salvador Dali.

Happy St. Jedward's Day!

Who are these fuckers that they can collar a patron saint's day for personal gain. I suppose that St. Patrick's Day is the only day in the calendar in which one meets the criteria of drunkeness to be able to handle Jedward as a concept. What does seem apparent is that they have some kind of secretary to craft most of the tweets with the exceptions of those like the following:

Are record company dropped us today. We our devestated.

Speaking on behalf of humanity I can only say that we our sorry and offer are deepest condolences... or alternatively:

EDWARD WENT TO SLEEP LAST NIGHT WITH BUBBLE GUM! AND HE WOKE UP AND THE BUBBLE GUM WAS EVERYWHERE!

The ones with horrific grammatical inconsistencies or entirely in block capitals appear to be directly from the arse's mouth. The one that has to absolute take the biscuit however is this ridiculous Swiftian notion.

Yep, they have a pet kangaroo, a pet fucking kangaroo. Never has the domain Twitpic been more appropriate. What is this world they live in where you type entirely in block capitals, where the laws of grammar have no significance whatsoever, where one can own a marsupial as a pet? What is this bizarre fucking reverse-Orwellian hell? I almost envy them... almost.

Other victories for culture this week include pensioner sex on This Morning. Yup, it's sex week on the light daytime magazine show. Cue staggering professionalism in the face of extreme repressed childish giggling on the part of Schofield as he rattles through a link that wouldn't look out of place in a Tinto Brass flick, an embarrassed looking Holly Willoughby, tabloid outrage and a witty dismissal by Zoe Williams in the Guardian (I seem to quote her a lot, I think it's perhaps because she's so delightfully appalled by most of the topics I choose to blog about). Having sex problems? Don't worry because Dr. Chris Steele and Tracey Cox are here to listen to your dysfunctions, live on national television. I'll be frank, I'm not appalled really, though I am staggered that the 500 or so people that have complained to OFCOM (don't even get me started) seem to own TVs that can't be turned off and only provide one channel.

Among the topics tackled include toys in the bedroom (and I don't mean the Playstation), Tracey Cox's guide to sex positions and the tastefully titled "My Vagina Fell Apart After Birth". The Sex Position Guide was actually rather tamely hilarious, with a ludicrous X-Factor, Carl Orff (late of this parish - see Friday Pictorial: Sport) backed introduction, featuring rather amusing imagery and a sheepish (but amused) looking pair of presenters, followed by the aptly named Cox introducing two fully-clothed couples, one young and one not. Willoughby looked somewhere between righteous indignation, embarrassment and amusement as 'the Scissors' were demonstrated statically (no movement allowed pre-watershed, you see).

Culture is in the process of eating itself and soon we'll all be covered in homogenous reality/talent vomit, but until then we get to enjoy the last days of Rome as old people sex makes it onto daytime TV and the annual tradition of the 'St. Patrick's Day beating of Jedward with the Blarney Stone' begins. Happy hedonistic destruction everyone!