Friday, 28 August 2009

People: bastards

Your Czech is in the post, etc

The Stigismotron

It generates random Stigisms. Brilliant. Click the image to have a go.

Click here to learn about the creators.

Salami Fever

What. The. Fuck?

Real-life anthropology

High-school student makes instructional video about the historical significance and practical application of Russian prison tattoos. Gets an A.

Click the image to see.

Streetview intrigue

Google's cameras spotted a lot of odd scenes. Like these, for example.

Click here for more.

Richard Herring - Driving Instructor

I fucking love Richard Herring. He's my fantasy uncle.

It's a source of constant irritation that the cretinous BBC refuse to repeat Fist of Fun or TMWRNJ.

Filthy sweeties

Click to enlarge.

Porn Star or Potato?

It's the latest hot game sweeping the nation - Porn Star or Potato?
Click the image to have a go. It'll change your life.

Blagamillion - breast milk ice cream

There's nothing right about this. Superb.

The public: stupid

spEak You're bRanes is a blog that collates moronic postings by the idiot public on the BBC 'Have Your Say' site. Click here and take a look, it's really addictive.

Anthea Turner's cock

A subject that has been much on my mind recently.

The beauty of data

Click here for oodles of pretty data.

Big eyes

This is, er, odd.

28/08/09 - Le camping

Hurrah, JuicyPips is back! Life has meaning once more.

So, do we have new insights, fresh ideas, exciting opinions and thought-provoking topics gleaned from the two-week hiatus? Er, no. I was thinking I might write a hilarious diatribe on things that go away and then come back again - Family Guy, Take That, boomerangs, Star Wars, brown cars, growing your own vegetables, Futurama, big mobile phones etc - but I a) didn’t have time and b) couldn’t be bothered. So it’s about camping instead.

Camping, of course, is one of the all-time classic British institutions. There’s something tremendously satisfying and grown-up about sleeping under canvas, cooking sausages with actual fire, using a toilet that has a slug on it and trusting your neighbours not to rifle through your tent and pinch your stuff while you’re out looking at a local castle or something.

Take my advice, though, and make sure you do your research before you book a plot on a campsite. If your groundwork involves finding the website of a campsite in the town that has ‘the most sunshine hours in all of France’, noting that each plot has its own individual shower/toilet block so that you don’t have to share with dirty strangers and booking immediately, it may seem natural to assume that all is well. And so it may be. It depends what sort of holiday you want to have, really. It came as some surprise to us that on arrival we were allocated plot no. 314 (by no means the highest number there) so it was reasonably populous, and furthermore that my fiancée and I were the only people there without kids. I don’t know about you, but I kind of hate kids, particularly noisy ones. It was with some amusement that we discovered that directly behind our pitch was the ‘Cool Kids’ clubhouse. They started each day by playing very loud, very cheesy Europop at eight o’clock in the fucking morning. No, I don’t want to do the Funky Monkey. I want to have a lie-in, you garlic-sucking twats.

You need to ensure that you’re thoroughly prepared and equipped for camping. We lucked out when my parents, knowing how useless I am at remembering stuff and being sweet and generous of nature, decided to make it rather easy for us by providing a car, a tent, an airbed, a duvet, a camping stove, a gas bottle, a hamper of food, a folding table, two folding chairs, a kettle, a deck of cards, travel Scrabble, the entire BBC Radiophonic Workshop production of The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, iPod speakers, shampoo, cutlery, crockery, mosquito repellent, and seemingly everything else one could possibly need for such a trip. It was with a certain sense of trust/laziness that we omitted to put any thought into what else may be required, which was how we found ourselves sitting in pitch blackness at 10pm on the first night, very aware that we didn’t have a torch, any candles or any other means of producing light short of parking the car in front of the tent and flashing the headlights on and off. So we went to bed.
It was shortly after this that the Cool Kids foam party started. Yep. We were horizontal way before all the twelve year olds. We’re pretty rock ‘n’ roll.

An interesting thing we noticed about families that go camping: it’s quite similar to that episode of The Inbetweeners where they go to Camber Sands. The kids are given a free reign all day (presumably because their parents are trying to instil a sense of independence/hoping their unpopular sprogs might prove more popular on holiday/sick of the sight of them/rutting like rabbits/etc), and are predictably horrible. I mean really, really awful. You have never truly experienced a sense of shame in your fellow countrymen until you’ve found yourself in a foreign country surrounded by unsupervised British children. They’re little fuckers, every single one of them, screaming profanities at one another at the tops of their voices and generally being really annoying. The French kids are sweet and enthusiastic, the Germans industrious and adventurous, the Dutch and Belgians co-operative and cheery, while the Brits are throwing their mates in the swimming pool and calling each other cunts. Still, they weren’t as irritating as the mosquitoes. Of which there were thousands.

It’s fun to whinge about stuff, isn’t it? Camping is actually pretty awesome. Your breakfast is more satisfying if you’ve boiled a whistling kettle on a gas hob and grilled some locally-reared jambon fumé to stuff in your fresh pain rustique. Your sleep feels well-deserved if you’ve had to get up twice in the night to re-inflate the airbed. And there’s nothing more amusing than watching a fat teenage bully being violently shoved into a swimming pool by somebody much, much smaller than him. I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Except the mosquitoes. They can all burn in insect hell.

Planes, Trains & Automobiles - recut

Amazing what a bit of editing can achieve.

Thursday, 27 August 2009

Fancy Fast Food

Love the guilty pleasure of fast food but feel you're a little above it? You need Fancy Fast Food.
Click the image below for all you need to know. (It's a Chicken McNugget, incidentally.)

While I Was Away

Just incredible.

Friday, 7 August 2009

KTN Newz

Shocking footage from teh kittehs.

Dancing at Stevie G

She's bopping away, but Stevie's just ignoring her. Bless.


Life condensed into little graphs - it's much simpler that way.
Click here for more.

Naughty Ashes - Third Test

These just keep getting better and better.

Business Guys on Business Trips

This is the most disturbingly astute series of observations on adland that you can possibly imagine - click here to see it in all its glory.

8,800 pennies

Sticking it to the man with boxes of coppers... paying with shrapnel is definitely the future.

Wall of Fail

For when a solitary faceplant just won't do...

Click the image for unlimited fail.

Don't Judge My Hair

Click here for acres of epic hair.

Shatner of the Mount

Some worrying brilliance from Fall On Your Sword.

Simon's Cat - 'Fly Guy'

07/08/09 - The Moon

It’s forty years since some Americans climbed into a flimsy tin tube and flew it into space to see if the Moon really was made of delicious cheese. (It was.) It’s quite astonishing really. I mean, if you think it’s a bit of a trek flying to Amsterdam or driving to the shops, imagine how annoying it must be to have to go 384,400km when you know your end destination doesn’t have any proper toilet facilities or recreational diversions beyond some good views and a bit of dust. (Not dust, cheese, sorry.) Armstrong, Aldrin and the other one must have been double-hard bastards. Well, either that or they were just really anti-Communist and wanted to piss off the Russians by getting there first. It’s equally likely.

The level of unpreparedness is genuinely impressive. If the Apollo 11 project were to be proposed today with the same level of technology, it would be immediately quashed by health-and-safety. The knocked-together budget crate they flew up in had less processing power than your mobile phone has, and the lack of any tangible contingency plans should anything go dramatically awry must have been marching tall in their fears as they rocketed through the ionosphere. What do you do if the thrusters malfunction, or a window pops open, or the nameless third bloke accidentally squirts space-toothpaste into the guidance computer? Messily shit yourself to death, I suppose.

Loads of stuff had landed on the Moon before the guys went up there. In 1966 Russia had set down their Luna-9 craft to take a few photos, at which time NASA hadn’t mastered anything more sophisticated than a crash landing. (Seriously, they’d fly unmanned craft out there but have no idea how to make them land, so they’d just plummet into the cheese.) But it’s easy enough to Sellotape a few bean tins together and launch it towards the stars (well, comparatively speaking) – the problems come when you have to accommodate humans. People eat, sleep, wee, poo, breathe and get scared. Making a box that can sustain life in a vacuum is a bit tricky. NASA just about made it workable, in a kind of slapdash the-Russians-better-not-beat-us-to-it way and, to be fair, none of the lads died that time… I wouldn’t have gone into space in it though. It looks well rickety.

So what did they find when they got up there? Well, that it was made of cheese, obviously. Cheese that could comfortably hold a big enough stars ‘n’ stripes to be seen from Red Square (possibly) and that serendipitously squidged under their übercamp moon boots to leave some very photogenic and arty footprints. They found a load of old scrap metal dumped there by various other countries (although that’s just the tip of the iceberg these days, with the countless defunct satellites and what-have-you we’ve left lying around the galaxy). And they found that they’d forgotten to bring a car with them – you know Americans, they don’t like walking anywhere – so they flew back home for Armstrong to get his Corvette Stingray. NASA wouldn’t let him load it back into Apollo 11 and take it with him though, so he threw a hissy-fit and refused to go to the Moon again, the big baby. By 1971, NASA boffins had a lunar rover ready but the original crew just weren’t interested – it didn’t have nearly enough chrome and, somewhat sacrilegiously, it didn’t have a V8 either – so some other geezers went up instead. Or something. And it took them until 1972 for someone in the office to suggest sending a geologist up there, which is pretty bloody stupid given that the only things to look at on the Moon are rocks and, er, rocks. (Sorry, I mean cheese.)

What have we learned about the Moon from these endeavours? It’s really big. It’s really far away. It can’t sustain life without us putting a lot of work into it, and you still won’t ever be able to open a window or go for a stroll in lightweight summer clothing. It costs a fortune to get there and there’s nothing to do when you arrive. The only things up there are things that we, as a species, couldn’t be arsed to take home. Oh, and they’ve recently discovered that there’s some water there. Big fucking whoop - there’s loads of water down here, and it’s free. Actually, maybe I’m thinking of Mars?

Michael Collins, he was the third one. Knew it’d come to me.

Who's a jammy bastard?

Farming: easy money.


A prototype musical instrument that uses laser beams to follow lines and produce different sounds relative to their angles, curvature etc. Impressive.

Tuesday, 4 August 2009

Excited Autotune Cat

This will be the most astonishing two seconds of your day.

The Stig Scam

This is just epic - you can get away with so much if you're pretending to be the Stig.

Click the image to see.