Hater’s Gonna Hate The Daily Mail

Because:

The Daily Mail Is Like A High Security Mental Home For Journalists

Ever seen The Silence of the Lambs where Clarice Starling comes to visit Hannibal Lecter for the first time?

Well, reading the Daily Mail is sort of like that.

The poker-faced turnkey unlocks the heavy door, warning you in a terse monotone to stay in the centre of the corridor – and whatever you do, don’t get too close to the bars.

Unnerved despite yourself, you begin to walk through, your own hollow footsteps echoing around you.

Eerie voices creep out at you from the cells you pass, alive with terrifying insanity.

From the corner of your eye, you can see an unsettlingly wonky-faced bleach blonde of uncertain age dancing around, admiring her reflection in a cracked full length mirror, and talking to herself in a dreamy, confiding voice.

‘My husband weighs me every day and he chooses all my clothes and he’s a handsome alpha male and I’m a beautiful trophy wife and there’s a pink unicorn under my bed that comes out every night and sings to me, and…’

Realising with a cold chill that this is none other than the notorious truth-molester Samantha Brick, you hurry forwards. As you do so, you hear a hysterical shrieking voice from the next cell, interspersed with maniacal laughter.

‘MUSLIMS! PAEDOPHILES! ASYLUM SEEKERS! HELL IN A HANDCART! COULDN’T MAKE IT UP! PC GONE MAD!’

An unexpected liquid splatter lands on your face from the direction of Richard Littlejohn’s cell, which feels unnervingly warm and spunk-like. As you realise he has been masturbating over a well-thumbed copy of Mein Kampf, you hurry onwards.

A twisted face at the next cell leers out at you, chilling your blood to ice. A skeletal witch-like figure with insane bulging eyes like a squashed chihuahua.

‘I’ve got a rock star boyfriend,’ Liz Jones hisses in your ear.

At last, you reach the end of the corridor. There’s only one cell remaining. A figure of medium height stands inside it with his back to you, entirely unmoving. Something about this apparently nondescript figure sends an ice cold finger running slowly down your spine.

He turns. His appearance is outwardly normal, but his eyes are alive with an insanity beyond description.

Oh my God.

It’s Peter fucking Hitchens.

‘Good evening, Clarice.’

The Daily Mail’s Below The Line Commentators Make You Lose The Will To Live

There’s a fundamental flaw with the concept of democracy, which it’s surprising that more people haven’t cottoned on to by now.

In a democracy, total fucking idiots have an equal right to vote.

And these total fucking idiots’ votes could quite conceivably cancel out yours.

For the full blood-curdling implications of this to sink in, just read the online Daily Mail’s below-the-line comments.

Oh yes indeedy.

That one who’s saying they should bring back the death penalty for shoplifters?

And the one who’s saying that it’s ridiculous that they need actual proof before they imprison someone indefinitely as a terrorist?

And the one who’s saying that it’s a well-known fact that all asylum seekers immediately get a million-pound house, three Range Rovers and unlimited Domino’s pizzas from the soft-touch British Government?

Every single one of these people have as much say in who runs the country as you do.

This is the collective future of our nation.

Sweet dreams.

‘Well, the little green pixies tell me to vote Tory, so that’s that.’

The Daily Mail’s Historical Record Is Not The Finest.

And if you think it’s alarmingly right-wing now, you should have been around in the 1940s.

Let’s say no more about it, shall we?

Yes, this headline actually ran.

The Daily Mail Thinks Its Public Are Total Fucking Idiots

In the heyday of the Jordan empire – which currently and mercifully appears to be in its Emperor Nero stage – one could not help but be struck by the look on Katie Price’s face in the pictures of her endless public appearances. The eyes of a dead shark and the smile of an estate agent.

It was glaringly obvious to anyone with the tiniest modicum of observational powers that Katie Price utterly, utterly despised the endless queues of bovine skanks who appeared to have escaped from a holding pen for the Jeremy Kyle Show, queueing up to worship their pink plastic goddess in soul-destroying suburban shopping malls that cried out for a few friendly bombs.

It was also glaringly obvious that Katie Price smiled at them only because they were buying her latest crappy ghost-written autobiography or hideous cheap-shit perfume that smelt like Morrisons own brand flyspray.

And if it was legal for her to just smash these people over the head with a brick and take their wallets, Katie Price would have been only too happy to do so.

‘Now fuck off. And don’t touch me.’

And as one looked at the pictures, you couldn’t help but realise something else

In despising her fans whole-heartedly, Katie Price was absolutely right.

She didn’t think these people were total fucking morons.

She knew for a fact they were total fucking morons.

If they weren’t total fucking morons, they wouldn’t be queueing up for five hours to buy her tacky-ass shit and get her autograph.

And a very similar attitude is in evidence with the Daily Mail.

This is a newspaper – and a website – that despises its readership whole-heartedly. Its contempt veritably radiates from the page and the screen. You can feel every single article without exception playing the unwashed masses like a Fisher Price keyboard designed for a special needs toddler. Its journalists know all they need to know about manipulating the yahoos – you press this key for outrage, this key for paranoia, this key for moral indignation and this key to inspire a tidal wave of smug self-righteous Middle England twattery.

And on a slow news day, you can occasionally press the key marked ‘cute little animal picture’ which immediately makes the sound ‘aaaah.’

That’s why Hater hates the Daily Mail, anyway.

What do you think?

Hater’s Gonna Hate Fifty Shades of Grey

Because:

Fifty Shades Of Grey Keeps Getting Attacked For The Wrong Reasons

As Harriet Harman recently announced in her wisdom, Fifty Shades of Grey is ‘not very realistic’.

Well, duh.

We’re talking about a book that concerns a beautiful nineteen year old virgin (yeah right) who has no idea that she’s beautiful (yeah right) and is unexpectedly swept into a world of private jets, spectacular penthouses and no-expense-spared shopping trips (yeah right) by a twentysomething billionaire (yeah right).

Who initially courts her by sending her a first edition of Tess of the d’Urbervilles worth fourteen thousand dollars (yeah right.)

And just in case this was all getting a bit too brutally realistic for your tastes, this insanely generous mysterious twentysomething billionaire is not just any old insanely generous mysterious twentysomething billonaire, but an insanely generous mysterious twentysomething billionaire who’s hotter than the collective male cast of Gossip Girl.

And who can pretty much make a woman come just by standing in the same room as her and clearing his throat.

You only need to read the back jacket blurb to see that this was never intended to be a work of gritty kitchen-sink authenticity.

In fact, it’s glaringly obvious to anyone with half a brain that it couldn’t be much less realistic if the heroine was a talking squirrel.

But hating Fifty Shades Of Grey for being unrealistic is like hating Hitler for having a ridiculous little toothbrush moustache.

I mean, sure, it’s a reason. But there are quite a few better ones.

And they say he drank his tea all funny, too.

Fifty Shades Of Grey Will Do For BDSM What British Tourists Did For Benidorm.

Pity the kinky. For decades on end, they have wielded their floggers and applied their nipple clamps in a community of peace and discretion, with a slow, steady influx of like-minded folks who sought this world out unbidden due to natural orientation and word of mouth.

Then suddenly, and out of the blue, the moron’s choice du jour is shining blinding searchlights over their cherished private world.

Hey presto, their clubs and parties and get-togethers are knee deep in dipshits who think verbal abuse is weird and humiliation is icky and anything that actually hurts is just eeww, but who know for sure that they’re into all this BDSM malarkey because they thought Fifty Shades was like reely reely hot innit.

From the kinksters’ point of view, it’s got to be like having your idyllic little well-kept secret of a favourite holiday resort invaded by an unexpected tsunami of Wayne Rooney lookalikes swigging cans of Stella.

Oh, great.

The Shitty Cardboard Cut Out Characters In Fifty Shades Of Grey Aren’t Even Original Shitty Cardboard Cut Out Characters.

No. They’re unapologetically stolen directly from Twilight’s shitty cardboard cut-out characters.

They have not been tweaked or altered in any way at all. Just put in a different setting, made slightly older and given an added spanking fetish. Originally, in the online fan fiction these books began as, they even had the same names, so Bella Swan was getting her fanny shaved by Edward Cullen. This was exactly why it got popular in the first place, which proves two things beyond all reasonable doubt: 1- nobody ever lost money by underestimating popular taste, and 2 – Stephenie Meyer has the shittest lawyers ever.

And then for publication, the Fifty Shades characters were transformed into original creations by the subtle and magical literary alchemy of going into Search And Replace and typing in the words ‘Edward Cullen’ and ‘Christian Grey.’

Then (and this is the clever bit, so bear with me) doing the exact same thing with the words ‘Bella Swan’ and ‘Anastasia Steele.’

And not only was Edward Cullen a shitty cardboard cut-out of a character to start off with. But according to those who know about such things, everyone’s favourite sparkly stalker bears a quite uncanny resemblence to one Joseph Smith, founder of the Mormon faith – which, as coincidence would have it, Stephenie Meyer is a fervent disciple of. From the shape of Edward Cullen’s nose to Edward Cullen’s hair colour, he matches the mythical descriptions of the young Joseph Smith detail for detail.

In short, you are wanking over a bad photocopy of a bad photocopy of a Mormon prophet.

Have fun.

‘Oh, Joseph. Oh YES.’

Fifty Shades Of Grey Is Nowhere Near As Sexually Explicit As You Think.

Seriously, it isn’t. There’s a whole lot of talk about very kinky things that never happen. What actually does happen is tamer than an elderly hamster. Your granny’s probably doing freakier shit than this in her retirement home.

Anyone who’s even remotely au fait with BDSM to start off with will feel like the late Oliver Reed confronted with a Babycham and soda.

‘What’s this shit, and where the fuck is my vodka?’

Fifty Shades Of Grey Is Nowhere Near As Dangerous Or Subversive As You Think.

Dearie me. Christian Grey. What do the ladies see in him? With his brutal effortless dominance and his ice-cold sadism, he’s worse than Peter Sutcliffe.

I mean, take the blood-curdling scene when he entices innocent young Anastasia Steele down to his underground garage.

Once down in its sinister shadows, terror dawns on our intrepid heroine as she understands this chilling man’s demonic intentions.

She attempts to fight. To protest. But no.

‘If I want to buy you a fucking car, I’ll buy you a fucking car,’ he whispers menacingly, as he brutally forces her to accept the gleaming brand new Audi TT sports he’s just presented her with.

Don’t have nightmares, girls.

‘And I’m buying you this fucking ring, too. Bitch.’

The Success of Fifty Shades of Grey Is Clearly The Result Of Satanic Intervention.

Okay. Let’s look at the evidence.

There’s the flagrantly stolen main characters. And they’re not even sneakily nicked from an obscure cult novel. They’re blatantly, overtly and unapologetically thieved from one of the most famous literary franchises to emerge in the last decade.

There’s the fact that, if you came across any of the Fifty Shades books as generic one-of-untold-nameless-millions Harlequin or Mills and Boon romances, you’d think that somebody in the quality control department was having one fuck of an off day.

Much has been said about how bad the writing is, but this cannot be stressed enough. It reads like Jilly Cooper was in the final stages of Alzheimer’s, and decided to co-write a book with a borderline retarded fourteen year old chav sitting at the back of double maths and daydreaming about how cool it would be to have a really really really rich boyfriend.

‘…and then he like takes me on his private plane and he buys me like loads of well expensive clothes and he sends me a book that costs like fourteen thousand pounds and he don’t even care because like that’s how rich he is innit.’

It’s a miracle to rival the loaves and the fishes that Fifty Shades of Grey and its sequels even got published at all.

And it hasn’t just been published.

The Fifty Shades books are the fastest selling novels in the history of literature.

Think about the implications of this statement for a moment. Think about some of the books you loved. The books you cherished. The books you read, re-read, and will remember for the rest of your life.

Notes on a Scandal? White Teeth? The Kite Runner? Cloud Atlas? The Crimson Petal and the White?

There’s a damn good chance that this semi-literate shite sold more copies in a week than all these novels put together.

The only possible explanation for all of this involves a pentagram, a demonic apparition, a contract signed in blood and an immortal soul.

Still, when the assigned soul-collecting demon finally rocks up to drag EL James off to hell, she can rest assured that she got a way better deal than poor old Doctor Faustus.

‘Mrs James, I have Mephistopheles for you on line 2.’

That’s why Hater hates Fifty Shades of Grey, anyway.

What do you think?

Hater’s Gonna Love Liz Jones

Because:

Liz Jones Has Changed the Negative Public Image of Male Rock Stars For Ever

You may have thought that mega-rich world-famous rock stars would be a little, whisper it, superficial in their taste in women. You may have imagined them seeking out teenage Russian models and Victoria’s Secret Angels, and refusing to give the sexual time of day to any woman who didn’t bear at least a  fleeting resemblance to Megan Fox.

So who would have thought that one of these pampered and priapic latter-day gods would be irresistibly drawn to the Daily Mail’s very own mentally unstable bug-eyed menopausal cat lady – everyone’s favourite deranged witchy-haired bunny-boiling anorexic fantasist, the delightful Liz Jones?

No, it’s definitely true. She’s going out with a real live rock star. She writes about it in her Daily Mail Diary all the time.

Hey, there’s a precedent.

Liz Jones Is The Derren Brown of Confidentiality

In a world where an ultra-protected A-list celebrity like Kristen Stewart can’t sneak off for an extra-curricular shag without it hitting front pages across the globe, somehow our own humble Liz Jones has managed to go out with a mega famous rock star for nearly TWO YEARS without so much as a single, solitary, blurry, opportunistically-taken-on-a-passer-by’s-sneaky-mobile-phone photograph creeping into the public domain. And they go on holiday together and go shopping together and eat out in big famous restaurants together and everything.

And this definitely all really happens because Liz Jones writes about it in her Daily Mail diary and it’s not like Liz Jones would tell a lie.

Wow.

This mysterious rock star must have the best bodyguards and security people, like, evah.

I reckon it’s Bono.

These two clearly don’t have access to the same level of protection.

Liz Jones Helps Women To Save Money

For far too long, slick and cynical product placement has seen women spending ridiculous fortunes on insanely overpriced designer crap.

As they see the likes of Kate Moss and Olivia Palermo sporting the latest £1500 Chanel handbag or endorsing a £450 La Prairie face cream made with real diamond particles, star-struck wannabees will plummet into terrible debt trying to copy them. In the forlorn hope that by buying these products, they too will acquire the immaculate appearance, sexual allure and enviable lifestyle of a casually flawless A-list goddess.

Thank the gods of retail, then, for Liz Jones, whose endless bragging about her own jaw-droppingly expensive wardrobe and beauty regime does for the likes of Bottega Veneta and Creme de la Mer what it took one small outspoken child to do for the Emperor’s New Clothes.

Upon reading Liz’s fashion articles and viewing the accompanying photographs, it is immediately, blindingly apparent to the most slavish fashionista that possession of all these mega-priced labels doesn’t make you look any prettier, sexier or better dressed.

And that, in fact, any normal human being could look a hell of a lot better with some well-chosen Primark and Olay.

Good news as this is for the recession-hit shopper, it’s extremely bad news for the likes of Space NK Apothecary, who could conceivably go into receivership if this thoughtless woman keeps name-checking them in her writings.

Your humble Hater proposes the creation of an innovative new role called ‘anti-brand ambassador’.

Remember what Liz Hurley did for Estee Lauder for all those years, wearing, talking about, and generally being as closely allied to their upmarket cosmetics brand as possible?

Well, exclusive top-end brands around the world could pay Liz Jones a hefty annual retainer to shut the fuck up about their products and never, ever, ever  be seen within a hundred sodding miles of them.

Liz Jones displays her new £1,800 Burberry shirt. Burberry share prices plummet.

Liz Jones Is The Ludwig van Beethoven Of Style Gurus

You may have thought that deafness would be a crippling – nay insurmountable – blow for any composer. But not for the legendary Beethoven, who overcame his challenges with incomparable aplomb.

Equally, you may have thought that a total inability to put together an outfit that looks like anything other than shit would be a disadvantage for one keen to establish a career as a fashion maven.

But not for our own Liz Jones, who has valiantly overcome an awe-inspiring absence of taste, style and elegance to share her words of sartorial wisdom with lesser mortals in the Daily Mail’s fashion pages.

There’s an inspirational Hollywood movie in this somewhere, you mark my words.

Sort of like if he was a flying instructor.

This is why Hater loves Liz Jones.

What do you think?

Hater’s Gonna Hate The X Factor

Because:

Look Who’s Talking

Tulisa and Scary Spice dispensing omniscient judgement as the all-knowing oracles of musical wisdom.

As Cheryl Cole returns as a guest judge, to ponder whether the latest auditionee possesses the raw blazing vocal talents necessary to sustain a career in today’s hyper-competitive pop arena, where only the best of the best of the best can hope to survive.

RIP Irony, Autumn 2012.

It’s not like any old talentless chav can do it, you know.

Nobody Great Will Ever, Ever Win

Bob Dylan. Leonard Cohen. Janis Joplin. Axl Rose. What do these people all have in common? No, it’s not that they’re musical giants and legends. It’s that none of them would ever, ever have got through the first audition stage of the X Factor.

Meanwhile, the Lidl own-brand version of Justin Bieber will always get waved through like Barack Obama at a security check.

Moral of the story – the more you resemble a bad photocopy of some mediocre muppet who’s already famous for putting out shitty autotuned written-by-numbers pop crap,  the more likely you are to win.

This is actually true.

‘Sorry, John, but it’s a no from me, too.’

It’s Instantly Forgettable

Quick, now. Who made the top four of the X Factor finals last year? If you can name them, you probably can also name the exact number of days since your last birthday, the full postcode of every house you’ve ever lived in and the amount of snow that fell in Vermont in the winter of 1977.

You are Rain Man and I claim my five pounds.

‘…and in 2008 there was Eoghan Quigg, Bad Lashes, Rachel Hylton…’

It’s Like A Crap Version Of The Roman Coliseum

A baying mob of mindless, unwashed rabble. A vast arena. An untouchable  elite deciding with the casual turn of a thumb who will survive and who will perish.

Alas, there all resemblance between the X Factor and Roman gladiatorial combat ends.

If ‘Spartacus – Blood and Sand’ is anything to go by, the citizens of the Roman empire thrilled to a spectacle of valour, survival, heroism, savagery and seriously impressive six-packs.

In our more enlightened times, we get to watch some annoying little weasel-faced cock massacring I Believe I Can Fly.

And there isn’t even a chance he might get eaten by unexpectedly released lions.

If this is human evolution, you can shove it.

Seriously, X Factor producers, watch The Hunger Games. This show would be so, so, so much better if the finals featured a dense concealing forest, a pile of deadly weapons in a clearing , and a recording deal on the table for the last one standing.

‘This is, like, the moment I’ve been dreaming of all my life.’

Louis Walsh Is An Insufferable Twat

From his ridiculous wig to his droney burbly voice to his stupid pointless observations, Louis Walsh is like a leprechaun with Alzheimers, only more annoying. His greatest contribution to the human race has been discovering Westlife. This makes him about half as praiseworthy as the person who discovered crystal meth.

Thanks for nothing, prick.

The Contestants Have Inexplicably But Obviously Never Seen Any Of The Previous Shows

Every single year, on The Apprentice, the young would-be entrepreneurs are caled upon to make a TV ad for a product. Every single year, it is glaringly obvious what sort of TV ad Lord Alan Sugar prefers. Every single year, it is made unambiguously, explicitly clear that the grumpy human hemorrhoid only likes TV ads where the product is clearly shown as often as humanly possible, along with a voice over explaining exactly what the product is and exactly what it does and saying that it’s very cheap.

And every single year, one of the teams gets behind a video camera and decides to go all David Lynch.

And every single year, the team leader gets fired for it.

And a weirdly similar phenomenon is in evidence on the X Factor.

Because every single year on the X Factor, the new batch of wannabees really think it’s their ticket to being the next Beyonce. They tearfully confide in the camera, ‘this could change my life for ever. I want it so, so much that it hurts.’

They regard an X Factor win as their lifelong passport to fame and fortune beyond their wildest dreams.

For some unknown reason, it apparently hasn’t occurred to any of these latter-day Einsteins that about 90% of the previous winners’ careers have been shorter-lived than a crack-addicted mayfly.

‘Ooh, I could get used to all this,’ they giggle wide-eyed as they survey the palatial McMansions of the Judges’ Houses round. A quick tip, love. Don’t.

‘Could Steve Brookstein please report to Aisle 6 with a mop.’

This is why Hater hates the X Factor.

What do you think?

Hater’s Gonna Love Courtney Stodden

Because:

Courtney Stodden Is A Fantastic Role Model For Young Girls

For many years, impressionable young ladies round the world have been under the impression that stupidity, fake boobs and an ostentatiously showcased Barbie-doll-tastic sex appeal is the key to fame and fortune and your very own heart-shaped swimming pool.

From Paris Hilton to Kim Kardashian to Katie Price, a locust-like plague of vacuous-but-foxy megastars have driven the message home with sledgehammer force over and over again – learning is for losers, education is for munters, and smart girls who want to get ahead just have to stay skinny, get their surgically-enhanced tits out and learn how to pout at a camera on cue.

Thank the saints, then, for the (allegedly) teenage bride of Doug Hutchison, a scruffy old potato-faced never-was (like a has-been, but more so.) Hater refers, of course, to Courtney Stodden,  who makes the life of a giggling, pouting, dizzy dumb blonde human sex doll and kept woman look about half as glamorous, desirable and enviable as the life of your typical toilet attendant.

Whether she’s posing desperately in the cheapest-looking clothes this side of Oxfam’s bargain rail, posing desperately in front of her awesomely shitty-looking wardrobe, or posing desperately in a kitchen that’s almost certainly less impressive than the one you ate breakfast in this morning, she’s a one-woman multimedia campaign advocating female independence and the importance of educational attainment.

And explaining in merciless close-up detail why the wages of giggling, pouting, hair flicking vacuity aren’t always that impressive.

In this way, Courtney Stodden has single-handedly done more for the feminist cause than the late Andrea Dworkin ever dreamed of.

Nice one, Court.

‘Yeah, maybe I’ll revise for that Geography exam after all.’

Courtney Stodden Makes You See The Playboy Empire In A Whole New Light.

For the vast majority of people, Playboy is synonymous with trashy-looking bleach-blonde skanks with plastic tits and skin the colour of an Oompa Loompa.

And a dodgy old perv who looks like an elderly crocodile in a dressing gown.

As a general rule, you would not have thought of it as a bastion of elegance, class and understated beauty.

But how very wrong we all were. Because Playboy have actually rejected Courtney Stodden’s offer to pose naked for them – on the grounds that Miss Stodden didn’t meet their sky-high standards of subtle ladylike charm.

Whoever knew that Playboy’s chosen elite were called upon to display such elegance, grace and understated, demure loveliness?

You learn something new every day. True dat.

A beaming Lord Redesdale escorts the dazzling Mitford sisters to their long-awaited society debut.

Courtney Stodden Is Apparently One Of The X Men

Seriously. Just look at what she has on her feet.

Holy shit.

And she wears these shoes all the time. To actually walk in. On pavements and to coffee shops and just wandering about and everything.

And there are no pictures in existence of her falling over in a crumpled heap and getting rushed to A&E with a broken ankle.

Professor Xavier needs to know about this shit right now.

‘From this day forward, you shall be known as Stride.’

And that’s why Hater loves Courtney Stodden.

What do you think?

Hater’s Gonna Hate Shona Sibary Announcing To The World via the Daily Mail That Her Husband Doesn’t Get Any

As described in more detail here.

Because:

Christ Alive, The Poor, Poor Bastard

For the vast majority of non-celebrity randoms, there’s one small consolation in life. No matter how bad things get in your relationship, you can snuggle up with the merciful knowledge that nobody else needs to know a goddamn thing about any of it. You control your own publicity machine. You are your own PR department, your own paparazzi photographers, your own Max Clifford and your own Heat magazine. You tell the world exactly what you want it to know, and not a single tiny iota more.

However, this clearly only works if you’re not married to the delightful Shona Sibary. Because thanks to her husband’s less-than-stellar judgement of character when he got down on one knee twenty years ago, it’s now public knowledge that not only is the poor sod married to a woman who looks like Quasimodo’s plainer sister after a traffic accident, he’s also getting less action than Anne Frank’s drum kit.

If he has ever, ever made any enemies in his life at all, you can be goddamn sure that these people are going to spend the next few weeks laughing their collective arse off.

Keith Sibary, I pity you from the bottom of my heart.

Ooh, you lucky bastard.

It Makes Rational People Sympathise With The Below-The-Line Woman-Hating Nutters

Anyone who’s ever had any exposure to the internet whatsoever will know these guys. They are an evolutionary sub-species in their own right. They’ve even evolved their own tell-tale vocabulary. They say ‘females’ instead of ‘women.’ They are the only people you’ll ever hear this side of a Jane Austen novel using the word ‘spinster’ on a regular basis. They are morbidly obsessed with spinsters. And with women having cats. They really, really hate cats. Nobody knows why. Maybe they got beaten up by an unusually hard kitten at a formative age. Or possibly by a spinster.

They think that absolutely anything any woman has ever done which they don’t personally happen to like is the direct result of feminism, including gold-digging, getting boob jobs, spending loads of money on shoes and handbags and not going dutch on dates. The fact that they clearly understand as much about feminism as Wayne Rooney understands about existential philosophy doesn’t prevent them from obsessively railing against it at every available opportunity.

Bloody feminists.

They think women are only ever really hot between the ages of 13 and 19 because evolution, innit (quick tip – if you regularly find yourself trying to explain to strangers online why you are a ‘hebephile’ as opposed to a ‘nonce’, seek help.

Wherever there is an online discussion that even tangentially touches on women and men and the relationships between them, you can bet your brand new Lamborghini that a select number of these gentlemen will soon be along to rant about females and spinsters and cats and feminism and the hotness of 13 year olds and the difference between being a hebephile and being a nonce.

And evolution, innit.

But this Shona Sibary Daily Mail article makes you – briefly and terrifyingly – see the world from their own warped perpective. it puts you on their side. When you read their swivel-eyed froth-mouthed below-the-line comments about why the hapless Mr Sibary should man up, grow a pair and leave his spouse for a hot sixteen year old Thai bride who’ll treat him with the respect a man deserves, unlike the English feminist saggy-arsed uppity past-it middle-aged bitches like his pig of a wife (females who clearly deserve to be spinsters with cats and have become this way because of feminism, BINGO), you’ll actually find yourself nodding.

Conclusion – this Shona Sibary woman is so awe-inspiringly vile that she can make rational people identify with the scum of the earth.

Brrr.

It Lures Samantha Brick Out Of Her Terrifying Netherworld To Wreak Havoc Upon Our Mortal Plane

In Clive Barker’s increasingly awful Hellraiser series, the Cenobites are terrifying monsters who live in a separate dimension of space and time, and are summoned to earth by unwary (and extremely thick) people solving a mysterious, ancient, ornate-looking puzzle box.

Hey presto, before these foolish people can say ‘oops,’ they have an unexpected house guest in the form of an insane flesh-eating zombie thing who’s apparently been styled by Mr Slave off South Park.

If this doesn’t teach you to leave mysterious old ancient puzzle boxes well alone, nothing bloody will.

The safeword is ‘sequels.’

Samantha Brick is a lot like this. Only instead of a mysterious old puzzle box, she is summoned by unwary journalists writing controversial troll-bait articles about marital relations and how you should and shouldn’t treat your husband.

Alas, the Cenobites, when they rock up in all their black-leather-clad self mutilating glory, are a hell of a lot lot less annoying than Samantha bloody Brick. Who, once summoned, will drone on smugly about her perfect marriage to her divine French alpha male, while inadvertently revealing herself to be a cross between a rather badly-made Stepford wife (hell, even brilliant misogynist robot-building engineers have the occasional off day – they can’t all be masterpieces) and an extremely low-rent hooker. Scroll down to the bottom of this link to learn more.

Actually boasting about getting two hundred quid’s worth of gifts off her husband after a night of passion?

If she thinks this puts her in the pampered trophy wife mega league, she’s even more delusional about this than she is about everything else, and fuck me that’s saying something.

Samantha Brick with a divine French alpha male. Or possibly a walrus.

Anyway, Hater really hates this article by Shona Sibary.

What do you think?