Post World Cup Depression Fades, Gives Way to Inaccurate Reminiscing

By Han Taylor

It is now about 48 hours since shockingly good balding Catalan midget Andreas Iniesta put the footballing world both out of its misery by ending the Netherlands’ hopes of being the least popular, most blood thirsty, champions ever and, simultaneously, into a fresh realm of pain in the knowledge that the next time a world cup ball will be kicked is in a vomit-inducing four years.  FIFA confirmed WC2014 will be in Brazil so you’ll probably be at work for the majority of proceedings and will only catch the highlights of the final, which a reinvigorated Netherlands’ side will win 3-0 by employing the controversial yet effective tactic of slitting the throats of anyone who stands in their way with carefully concealed cheese wire provided by new team sponsor Edam.

Much like other popular British pass times such as copious alcohol consumption and fighting, typical initial symptoms of World Cup withdrawal included “feeling a bit shaky”, an unwillingness to return to the drudgery of real life, a marked increase in feelings of aggression and hopelessness and an overarching depression.  Alan Nantes of the Male Behavioural Institute has been monitoring the situation and believes that things are improving.  “Most of my observations point to an ending of the short lived depression stage.  Predictably the shift has not been towards what we in the non-homoerotic male observation industry might term “dealing with reality”, “getting a grip” or “catching oneself the fuck on”.  Rather many subjects are avoided this phase altogether in favour of rose-tinted hindsight.  John from Southend declared “I loved every minute of it, not a bad game in the whole bloody thing.  The people, the vuvezelas, the big name performances, the way England really gave it a good go, the ITV punditry, I just couldn’t fault it, me.”

EDITOR’S UPDATE:  The NHS have announced that the above will be the last such study undertaken by the MBI, which has been culled in the latest round of budget cuts.  The seeking-to-be-popular-with-a-demographic-he-can’t-possibly-relate-to Prime Minister, Eton educated stockbroker’s son and potential heir to £30m, David Cameron released this statement: “Rugby Soccer Football, is the national game and the one that the real man on the street is interested.  I will not stand for public funds to be spent on an unnecessary dissection of the psyche of the common idiot man who has ceaselessly and tirelessly brought this snivelling, selfish country to its knees helped make this great country what it is today.”

Review: Big Boi - Sir Lucious Left Foot The Son of Chico Dusty

by Freddie Auvergne

Big Boi is the one from Outkast who isn't girl-haired dandy-dressing ladies man Andre 3000.  Big Boi's got good style though and he can rap like fuck.  Plus I've seen his house on MTV cribs and it's fucking awesome in spite of the breeding of weird blue dogs.

Outkast have been around for dooooonkeys and because Andre 3000 is such a photogenic chap with a bit of the publicophile about him Big Boi seems to be thought of as the quiet, steadier one in the engine room while Andre is at premiere drinking  vintage Dom Perignon from a diamond and peacock feather goblet, lodged between the perfect bosoms of a virginal nubian goddess.  Like fuck.  Big Boi is x-fucking-centric and his music is too.

This is a savage rap album.  Andre 3000 isn't on it because of some legal record label nonsense but everyone else is from newly massive, who-the-fuck-is-that-guy Gucci Mane to George Clinton.  Oh yes, George Clinton.  The best bits are all Big Boi though.  It's fresh, inventive and it's now.  I defy you not to buy this album after watching the video for new single Shutterbug with the volume maxed.  I've got one of those cars on order by the way. If you need more then get some General Patton down you.

8 Forks out of Ten

Kelly Brook is Perfect

by Justin Banks

I used to not 'get' Kelly Brook.  You could tell she was hot and all but there was something missing.  Maybe it because she actually seems too nice to fuck deepthroat take out for a nice dinner, because she has an Essex accent, or because I don't think her boobs are as impressive out of her clothes.  Disappoinaboobs.  Anticlimaboobs.
It doesn't matter any more.

Kelly is still beautiful, pale, has *prepare for gayness* unbelievable hair and lady squidge in all the right places but now she dresses up like Princess Leia too.  Like any other person with a penis in the 80s I spent about 74% of my pre-teens confused as to why a beautiful half-naked woman on the end of a chain was so interesting that I worked my way through 3 VHS copies of Return of the Jedi and more Leia action figures than was strictly necessary or remotely healthy.  Leia also gets with Han Solo, who is defo one far far away player who I aim to emulate but without the wookie because Khloe Kardashian has a busy schedule.  Giant giant bitch.  Anywho, Kelly is now officially hotter than a fire convention on the surface of the sun and I would fly there to see her in that outfit.  And she's doing Playboy.

Octopus's eating habits important, Asia not

by Matthew Turner

A glutinous Anglo-German octopus by the name of Paul today chose to eat a mussel from a plastic box with a Spanish flag on it. This apparently means that Spain have the hitherto flawless tipster's backing to win the World Cup Final on Sunday.  Shockingly you can still get Spain at better than evens at bookmakers across the land.  Hence the brief nature of this post as I'm on my way to Will Hill's to laugh at their shit odds before putting the house on Spain on Betfair.

In other news not deemed worthy of live reporting from the scene by Sky News, a suicide bomber has killed at least 50 people in an attack in a Pakistani village.  Paul probably ate the Dutch mussel too.

Mark Cavendish still good at sprinting, no longer a prick

by Han Taylor

Mark Cavendish yesterday completed his transformation from all conquering bell end to loveable comeback underdog hero.  Having spent the last few seasons on an unrelenting two pronged campaign of being much better than his rivals and not giving a fuck about offending people, Cav was shocked to learn that being a cocky winner was making him unpopular in Britain.  Sources close to Cav have hinted that confusion may have arisen from the fact that Cav is from the Isle of Man and was tricked by his old geography teacher into believing that the water between the Isle of Man and mainland Britain was indeed the Atlantic Ocean and that Cav therefore grew up believing he was in fact American.

Realising the error of his ways, Cav has committed himself to a more British approach in the early stages of this TdF by being steadfastly mediocre.  Even when his competitive urges were reawakened by fellow confident success team mate Mark Renshaw, Cav differed from his former bad boy routine of pissing on his congratulatory flowers, flicking his rivals off and having a champagne soaked threesome on stage with the two PR presentation girls by crying and giving a convincingly head bowed, shoulders hunched speech about how this was about the team and how he just wanted to repay their faith.

Is this the new Cav?  Find out later today when Cav takes to the top step of the podium after putting his new found British support at risk by winning again.

we are the noize

by Matthew Turner

Welcome to we are the noize. we are the fucking noize, who decided on that as a name?I've got the misfortune to be in charge of this fucking thing. It was supposed to be a serious news blog but it turns out it's a rag tag collection of muppets who couldn't report on their own breakfast. it's like i'm stuck in the dirty dozen of blogging. but there's no regime to overhaul and there's no misguided but loveable rogues, there's just twats. still, i'm only on a one year contract and there aren't a lot of jobs you can do while drinking so i guess i'm supposed to be grateful or something.

the muppets will update the log with their world renowned wisdom on news, sport, music, fashion, girls, and whatever else might assume me when drink can no longer blunt my boredom.

en-fucking-joy.