What a load of dreadful old tat. I don’t know a lot about very small children, so I’m not quite sure what particular brand of toddler eats this crap up. However, what I do know something about is the associated brand of adults: the type that likes to visit Disney stores and purchase Mickey Mouse mugs in a non-ironic way. The ones who weer-wy wuv Winnie the Pooh and Tigger. The ones who use lots of bloody smilies. :C

These awful, most disgusting of human beings have been psyching themselves up for this for months – believing the hype, avidly staring at the great many trailers, moaning in a semi-orgasmic way at the merchandise. I feel dirty – foully dirty – for joining their ranks this evening. That’s £8.10 I shall never, ever see again. Things I could have spent that £8.10 on:
- Drugs
- Alcohol
- Chocolate
- Half a Mickey Mouse mug

Don’t get me wrong, I love a ditzy rom-com as much as the next girl, but when it involves cutesy robots inadvertently saving the world, count me out. I know there are lots of amazing special effects, and there’s this bit where the semi-demented ET-a-like floats through the universe touching the pretty stars, but seriously, what a load of cock.

Stupidly, I succumbed to a short buying frenzy recently and bought Crystal Castles’ debut album on the strength of just one song. Well, also on the basis of the huge 8bitpeoples controversy. It’s generally pretty hard to get hold of chip music in your local record shop, so I thought that (since they were allegedly stealing it from other people) the Crystal Castles album would be bursting with precious, precious 8bit.

It sort of does. I mean, there’s definitely 8bit in there. The 8bit isn’t the problem: it’s the other shit. Random, screamy, tuneless vocals and over-use of trippy synthesisers. It’s as though a stoner got hold of some pretty good chip tunes, took them to a lunatic asylum and played the keyboard while recording the insane ramblings of the mentally ill.

Don’t get me wrong, there are stand-out tracks. Well, there are stand-out bits of really bizarre tracks which, if on their own, would be excellent. Unfortunately, these tend to be the intros – just as you start getting ready to dance around your flat in your underwear, the weirdness kicks in. Quickly followed by the disappointment. And the pressing desire to visit the 8bit Collective and hunt out some proper-decent 8bit from their immense mound of dross.

The least worst tracks: Untrust Us and 1991.

Oh yes, and if you’re wondering what 8bit is, you’re probably better off looking for ‘chiptunes’ in Wikipedia.

Bloody cyclists. They’re like pedestrians, but with a death wish. Or motorists with a death wish. Basically, they have a death wish. They’re so territorial, as well – it’s very nearly impossible to walk through central London without being screamed at by an incredibly angry shiny-skinned mentalist going about a billion miles an hour on the pavement. Cyclists do not belong on the pavement. They belong in a padded room.

So anyway, they wear utterly ridiculous clothing, and it’s getting more and more ridiculous. Nobody has worn Lycra since the 80s – except cyclists. For me, there’s always been this big unanswered question about Lycra. I nearly went into a cycling shop to ask once, but it felt a bit like going into a porno den. I mean, do Lycra fetishists take to cycling as a way to make their public semi-nudity more acceptable, or does cycling turn people into perverts? And why do they get so angry, like society is forcing them to feign stinginess? Oh yes, they’re saving all that money they’d otherwise be spending on public transport, true: and spending it on replacing their bike every two months after it’s stolen by chavs instead. Delusional, completely delusional.

Back to the silly outfit. It’s almost as though they think the Lycra will make them go faster (like it bloody matters when your top speed barely matches that of a small child on a push-along), but frankly if I drove a car I’d be more likely to aim at a pillock in skin-tight shorts than say, Boris Johnson. But then Boris Johnson is seriously hot.

You may have noticed that Teasmade Revenge has undergone a slight makeover. However, this isn’t just a cosmetic makeover: it’s also an ideological one. TR has been too general (and therefore, too hard to find).

Therefore, welcome to the brand spanking all-new Teasmade Revenge: We Review Stuff. What do we review? Well, stuff. More on the new philosophy the About page.

Stay tuned for more frequent updates with far, far more bitchiness. What do you mean, you hadn’t thought it was possible?

I don’t want to seem morbid, but it’s always worth thinking about the worst-case scenario in life – death. Okay, so that does seem quite morbid. But one has to be prepared. Therefore, I am advance-publishing my obituary. I’m predicting that I’ll last until next year, however optimistic this may seem. Please delete as applicable.

Minnie Bygott, 1983-2009: The (tragic / fortunate) death of a much-(loved / despised) public figure
It is with deep (regret / ecstasy) that we at (The Times / Daily Mail / Toadstools Monthly) are forced to (admit to the murder / announce the late passing) of the well-known (astrologer / philanthropist / critic / nudist) Miss. Minnie Bygott.

Having lived a relatively dull life until the age of 25, she lived the last year of her life to the absolute fullest. The beginning of the end was her marriage to (Mayor of London Boris Johnson / Comedian Alan Davies / her pet weasel) the day before her 25th birthday. The marriage lasted all of (four / five / ten) (months / weeks / seconds) before breaking down spectacularly: Minnie was forced to watch as her beloved husband was crushed to death in a tragic accident involving a hedgehog, a pair of pliers and some silly putty.

After that, she was utterly inconsolable, barely stopping in her quest for justice until a full four days after the event. After that, she toured the world with brand new hit sensation The (Dancing Badgers / Sliding Wool / Unravelling Napkins), eating her favourite dish of crème brûlée in every country and principality of the world, even including Grimsby.

The highlight of her career came in an unexpected moment: one day, walking through Leicester Square (an area she was generally wont to avoid) she happened upon the person we now recognise as being the biggest wanker in the history of the universe: Russell Brand. Of course, at that time Brand was a national hero – but Minnie’s natural hatred of him overcame her, and she set about poking his eyes out with the 16″ ceramic knitting needles she liked to keep down her knickers. After disembowelling him with a plastic spoon she found in the gutter, Minnie pulled out his entrails by hand, deep-frying them in batter and feeding them to a crowd of waiting albino pigeons.

Of course, Minnie was forced to flee, but the mysterious note she left regarding curtains and the colour turquoise soon convinced the nation that her wanton murder of Brand could only be a good thing. Minnie Bygott was now a hero – not just in Britain, but also Grimsby. Even when she was caught on several CCTV cameras in the act of pushing her most hated colleague over a fifth floor balcony to his gruesome death, the jury failed to convict.

To her friends, Minnie will be remembered as being the (dirtiest prostitute / greatest nose-flautist / slimiest biscuit) ever to live. To her enemies? Simply execrable.

So Gordy has been randomly ringing people up for idle chit chat. Weird. Robert Maxwell used to do the same, in fact – a distant relative of mine once got called in the wee hours to talk about nothing at all – so I wonder if this is a sign of impending financial ruin?

Astonishingly, a significant proportion of seemingly-bizarre government documents are beginning to make sense in the light of this revelation, however ominous. For example, one policy document quotes the following voter survey results…

———————————————————————————–
When asked whether they subscribed to the theory that abstract political dissonance subjugates the central intelligence criteria of implied consent, participants most used the following phrases:

• 42% – “What?”
• 21% – “Fuck off.”
• 18% – “Sorry, I’ve already got one.”
• 9% – “Can I get back to you? We’re just having dinner.”
• 6% – “It’s not about our Kevin again, is it?”
• 3% – “Mmm. What are you wearing?”
• 1% – “Mr – Mr Maxwell? Oh god…” [dial tone]

———————————————————————————–

Hmm, perhaps that data might go some way towards explaining why Auntie Sheila just fled the country with a big heavy Northern Rock-branded suitcase, leaving a trail of mixed coinage and traces of cocaine. Who knows?