Jimmy Page’s Trousers

…What sort of person is seduced and beguiled by a film called Death Race, starring Jason Statham (who has crossed the line into being typecast as a bloke who pretends to drive stuff), for which the trailer states only “A race for convicts where the only rules are: there are no rules”?

Lying in bed this morning, I popped on the telly and flipped through the channels, pausing on a Jerry Springer. I’m now not sure if I’m still asleep and dreaming.

It started out innocently enough with Jerry talking to a chubby, bearded, good ol’ southern boy. He said that he’d slept with his little brother’s girlfriend. He didn’t feel guilty because he’d ‘knowed her longer than him’.

So they get the brother out. His name was Jueble or something similar (I’m unsure of the spelling). Picking on the syllable that they recognised, the sound men played him on with a rousing chorus of Hava Nagila. The audience clapped along.

Jueble stands there, all smart in shirt and tie (like his brother), looking a bit trepidatious - he knows he’s not going to like this. The chubby one doesn’t beat about the bush and tells him that he ‘got intimate’ with his girlfriend. After the initial shocked look, Jueble is over eyeball to eyeball with chubby. Chubby pushes him away and then rips his shirt off, leaving himself bare-chested and bare-bellied but with the tie still around is neck. Jueble, not to be outdone, rips his shirt off, again leaving the tie - he’s pretty skinny though. A good wrestle and shoving session starts. The audience bays and the bouncers break it up.

At least a dozen times, they go for each other and, every time the bouncers break it up, some hapless sound man has to try pin their mics to their ties again in the scuffling. Skinny keeps calling Chubby a pig-farming troll and telling him he’s jealous because he didn’t finish high-school whereas skinny did.

Jerry eventually gets them to stand still long enough for him to get the girlfriend out. There’s the usual griping and name-calling. Jueble tells her that ‘even if he made her a gold robe and built her a gold house, if a tree fell in the forest and no-one was around, she’d still bitch about it’. I like that.

Jerry asks her if she loves chubby. She says she doesn’t, she loves Jueble. Jueble says he loves her and wants her back. Seconds later, they’re eating each others faces. Chubby looks forlorn.

Then, in a final act of ultimate bizarreness, Jerry says “so where are you boys from anyway?” Chubby answers, “Tennessee” and suddenly, music starts playing and the audience all get up and begin performing some sort of square dance all over the stage. Jueble and his girlfriend join in and even some audience member starts dancing with chubby, the boys all shirtless and grinning like loons, their ties flapping as they dance.

It must have been a dream. If it was, it was an entertaining one.

I’ve just seen the end of something called Upstaged. It was on one of the Lesser Spotted BBC’s (three or four, probably four). If I actually lived in the UK and paid a television licence, I’d be writing the Director General to ask for a refund. What drivel.

The premise seems to be that two teams or individuals fart around in a big glass room and do ‘whacky’ and ‘outrageous’ things, designed to ensure that the drooling simpletons watching the show vote for them. It’s a bit like a short-term Big Brother but without the production values, overt racism and opportunities for sneaky masturbation under a duvet.

Awful, execrable stuff. I caught someone wearing a giant badger’s head (not that there’s anything intrinsically wrong with dressing as a badger - the badger is one of the funniest of all animals) and, I think, some pole-dancing ladies. Inspired.

Ironically, there was also a documentary on about the BBC Green Book of standards - what was allowed in programs, in the name of decency, during the 50’s. Can you say jux-ta-position [juhk-stuh-puh-zish-uhn]?

Can anyone tell me why I continue to watch Lost? I don’t like it. I don’t like any of the characters as they’re mostly wankers. I don’t care about them and I wish that bad things would happen to them.

Every week though, I find myself watching it only to shout “gaaaaahhh!” at the end. Every week, I watch it and feel a little dirtier than last week. I’m like a hopeless smack-head or some sort of pervert who desperately wants to stop whatever perving he’s doing but can’t. He just can’t. Don’t judge me.

And every week of this series, Sky has promised “answers coming on Lost this week”. Sky lie. There are no answers. Just more confusion and annoyance and dirty-feeling shouting.

Are these symptoms of an addiction? I reckon so. Christ, what a shit thing to be addicted to - Lost.

I need help. I want to stop, but can’t.

Maybe cold-turkey is the best way. Just cut it out completely. Try to forget it. Ohhhh, but what if that week is one with answers? What if something is explained? I’m kidding myself, I know - nothing is ever explained. It just gets more and more intricately confusing and will continue to do so for ever.

Help me. Somebody, please. I don’t like it. I don’t want to watch it. Help me.

Ray Mears could beat the shit out of Bear Grylls.

Grylls, though… Seriously, what a big, wet girl. I’m assuming that there must be someone that doesn’t think he’s a posturing, exaggerating twat, but I’ve never met them.

Git!

Despite what I said below, in a politician-like U-turn, Mrs. Jimmy Page’s Trousers now seems much less convinced about the plight of the chickens and the benefits of buying something that hasn’t lived in a vast warehouse, wobbling on its feeble little legs lest it plonk down and burn its arse on its own and its mates’ shit.

It seems she subscribes to the ‘if I can’t see it right now, it is obviously not happening’ school of… ermm… knowing things.

I’ll keep trying little, sad chickens.  I’ll keep trying Hugh.

Huge Firmly-Witterstein has been on the telly for the last two nights showing the masses the horrors of battery chickens and the nasty life they have before they end up in our pots and our poo. Many probably knew this already but fair play to him for trying his best to get people to take notice.

I’ve always liked Firmly-Witterstein. I’ve spent much time dreaming of heading off down the country to become self-sufficient, surviving on home-grown hooves and horns, and Jaffa Cakes fresh from the ground. It is a nice dream. Hugh, of course, now seems to run a multi-national empire of restaurants and shops and probably lives in a solid gold house where he has people in hover-packs to deliver MacGiblet burgers and free-range chicken nuggets. Still, River Cottage global domination and Hugh’s predilection for offal aside, I have a lot of time for him. I like his shows a lot and really hope that he manages to change something with his Chicken Run show.

On the chicken-front, personally, I’d be happy to pay the extra for the free-range fellows, but Mrs. Jimmy Page’s Trousers is a chicken-cynic (and more than a little tight) and has constantly poo-pooed the idea. As she tends to do most of the shopping (and I, the cleaning - I’m a twentieth century man), she usually ignores my pleas for happy chicken, preferring instead the cheap (resisted the ‘cheep’ pun, there), sad birds. She seems to be coming around somewhat after sitting through Hugh’s Chicken Run for the last few nights though. Good news, little chickens.

So then, the Save The Chicken bandwagon (or Chicken Out, as Hugh’s calling it) is one that I’m happy to jump on, and encourage all to do likewise. Off you pop to Hugh’s site and sign the petition thing. A small word of warning: Loud things happen on the site, so turn your speakers down first (especially if you’re in work).

The good thing about this Save The Chicken thing, is that, unlike the Save The Whale or the Save The Giant Squid campaigns, we can still get to eat the delicious little chickens. In fact, it means that they’ll be even more delicious - a happy chicken is a tasty chicken. Everyone’s a winner.

Sin City was on TV last night. Watched it and ended up having a long, restless night of Frank Miller-inspired dreams.

Tired now.

Isn’t it though? In all of it’s delicious and different guises. Yummy.

I’ve had some. Tasty, scrumptious nectar. Erdinger. Yummy, yummy Erdinger. If the Erdinger people are reading and want to present me with some sort of promotional package, they can reach me at trousers (at) jimmypagestrousers.com. If they’re not though, I and I realise that they have a lot of work to do in making various delicious beers, that’s ok too.

I have to upgrade my digital package, if only to get some decent music channels instead of “Shit Hits For Teenage Girls”.

Chicken liver paté (I know that there’s probably an accent circonflexe over the ‘a’ but I don’t know how to make it appear) is nice on toast.

The channel that is ‘Smash Hits’ isn’t good. It’s currently showing something called R’n'B Party. Not my cup of tea really.

Dido is on another channel though. She’s pretty, and not so pretty that I think I don’t have a chance; just pretty enough. I mean, obviously that David Boreanaz bloke is something of a threat but, realistically, is he really that good looking? And his career’s been pretty shite since Angel tanked so, I reckon I’m in with a good chance. Don’t like her music much though. Nobody’s perfect.

Another beer needed. I put it in the freezer half an hour ago. Nice.

Crap. Now it’s Robbie Williams. Women want him and men want to be him. Yeah, right. Not this man. “Ooooooh, pay attention to me, pay attention. I sometimes get a bit depressed.” Oh for fuck’s sake, Robbie. Welcome to the world you talentless cunt. If I were you, I’d send Guy Chambers a bunch of flowers or a six-pack or something ‘cos you need some help to write something that isn’t in rhyming couplets.

Now, it’s some girl doing a cover of Bryan Adams’ Heaven. I initially baulked at it until I remembered I don’t like the original and realised that this is actually much, much better. Bryan Adams sucks (except for Summer of ‘69 which I like to sing when I’m pissed - come to think of it, I’d like to hear it now). And he’s no sense of humour, although that may be Ryan Adams who’s his brother, or is him, or something.

Flicked over and that shower are doing Lady Marmalade. Aguillera is also pretty but I don’t think I’d have as much of a chance as with Dido (no offence Dido). L’il Kim is contibuting with ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.” She’s very talented.

You know who I hate with all of the bile-producing glands in my body? Sean Kingston. What a pointless, useless, talentless, song-thieving, fat cunt. It’s one thing to sample a bit of someone else’s song (and I’m not that keen on that either) but to just sing some new, shit lyrics over someone else’s (someone with talent you will never have) song. That doesn’t make you musician, you hack, just a cunt. What a chubby-boned wanker.

And Fergie’s shit too. I know I’m not the first, but it does annoy me that she bleats on about London Bridge when she means Tower Bridge. And I’m Irish, for fuck’s sake.

I should probably go to bed. Sleepy now.

Ooooh. Ooooh, wait… Westlife.

Mainly from watching the music videos and trailers on Channel 6 in the morning from my sweaty, sick-bed before they start showing repeats of programs I’ve already seen somewhere else.

• I could be brown, I could be blue, I could be something, something, something. I could be hurtful, I could be purple. Why don’t you like me? Why don’t you like me?
  Not my words. The words of current pop sensation and pointless tosser, Mika. How shit is he? Very shit. Very shit indeed.
• Jesus, Lily Allen is really, really, really annoying and incredibly untalented. Incredibly untalented.
• There’s some 12 year old kid with the (quite) apt name of L’il Chris with some psuedo-rock song. Slightly more apt would be Very Annoying Yet Also L’il Chris.
• There really are many more awful bands/singers that have somehow managed to blag recording contracts and enough backing to make a video. I despair.
• Christina Aguilera has some astonishing breasts in that black and white video where she wanders around in a nightie. And, as a plus, she hasn’t gone mental like Britney. They’re not my cup of tea however, because…
• I quite fancy Donna from That 70’s Show but still really love Willow from Buffy.

Also, The Magnificent Ambersons was on telly yesterday at quarter past eight in the morning. Cool. Today however was something with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Not so cool.