Limp Biscuits

Is everyone else as bewildered by the new Jacob's Mallows ad as I am? It kicks off with the fuzzy and familiar "Kimberly, Mikado and Coconut Creams" jingle, but before it ever gets a chance to lull the unsuspecting viewer into a false sense of security, we're assaulted with some sort of R&B auto tune disaster and a watered down Pussycat Doll rejects crashing the Mad Hatter's Tea-Party acid trip. Watch it below, if you dare.



It's bizarre. I'm all for rebranding and trying out a new approach for something, but personifying biscuits that are automatically associated with licking and sucking (easy, now) as a tacky girlband just feels incredibly inappropriate.

Genuine biscuit girls in your area, call now on 1800 69 69 69.

The whole Alice In Wonderland schtick falls flat and anyway it's been done to death at this stage. Even Harvey Norman ads at the beginning of the month were beating us over the head with Mad March Hare rubbish, and back in 2004 Gwen Stefani did it infinitely better in her What You Waiting For? music video. Their costumes, which are meant to represent their respective biscuits have the look of a lame Katy Perry rip-off, and just wait till you hear about their oh-so-diverse personalites. Apparently "Kim" is spicy and fun, "Mika" is naughty and mischievous and "Coco" is ditzy and fluffy. Reader, I'll rely on you to roll your eyes here for me, because if I roll mine any more they're going to clean fall out of my head at this rate.

Gwen and Katy give a far superior cutesy Wonderland vibe.

Kim, Mika and Coco even have a Facebook page where they inform us that they live together, which is all a bit Biscuit Girls of the Playboy Mansion, or y'know, a brothel run by Mr. Kipling. All their flirty winking and finger licking comes off as rather cheap and desperate, and I know ads are always using sex and tits to flog stuff, but some just pull it off (har har) better than others, like this Virgin Airlines ad.

Blow-job faces a go-go. Or as the Bear more succinctly put it when I showed him these photos, "insert cock here".

I honestly don't know what Jacob's were thinking. I know it's all meant to be a bit of light-hearted fun, but I find it jarring and unsuitable for what's been a family-favourite style product for as long as I can remember. There's also an excruciating two and a half minute music video that's an extended version of the ad, containing such lyrical dynamite as "I'm hip, I'm hot, I'm everything you're not" and "I'm a naughty girl and it's making me hot". You can watch it here, but you probably shouldn't, unless you're the type of person who gets a kick out of burning themselves with candle wax or poking their bruises. You have been warned.

Thunderstruck

Years ago, when I was only small, I remember queuing up to get my face painted and when asked what I wanted to be, I answered "Cheetara". The face painter in question hadn't the faintest idea what I was talking about and my seven year old self must not have been much good at explaining the concept of Thundercats. I'm fairly certain I ended up with my face painted like a tiger. When I was in college I screenprinted the Thundercats logo onto a tshirt for myself and got excited when I found a Cheetara action figure in a Kinsale junk shop. Because that's how cool I am. (By cool I obviously mean a giant nerd.)

As it happens, Thundercats are making their way back to small screens later this year. The new show features a redesigned Cheetara and a much younger and somewhat anime-looking group overall.



I think I like the look of this new version, although I'm a bit torn, as the orange leotard is more or less synonymous with the character at this stage.


Granted, original cartoon Cheetara's hair was veering ever so slightly towards Mulletville, but her badass blue eyeshadow and orange markings were tremendously cool.


The eighties comic book version more or less ditched the "business at the front, party at the back" hairdid and became rather less orange as a whole.


The franchise got a reboot in 2002 with a new series, and Cheetara was drawn as quite the amped-up ride, all massive rack and deadly boots. The 2011 incarnation of my second-favourite cat lady is quite manga-ish in style which I'm not entirely sure about, and since I saw someone online describe her new look and shaggy blonde mane as something akin to Ke$ha, I can't quite shake the idea.



The bastards.

Quelque Chose #10

"The problem with people who have no vices is that generally you can be pretty sure they're going to have some pretty annoying virtues."

Elizabeth Taylor

Sure who will we get in trouble with? The Blog Police?

I may not have made it as a finalist in this year's Irish Blog Awards, but when yet another winner turned out not to be there on the night and Rick O'Shea was offering their big foam trophy to a crowd that remained seated, I skittered up to the stage to grab it. Fuck this, thought I, I'm having some manner of prize for myself. Although, after the ceremony bit the Bear did head for the stage and unattended glass trophies after saying "You deserve an award Kitty." If something is unclaimed and unguarded then it's not really stealing. Right?

I was the girl in the Minnie Mouse type dress, for those of you who were at the awards.

The Bear and myself had a ferocious amount of fun and it was brilliant meeting Eli Mordino, Hermia, notRuairi, White Rabbit and The Licentiate, to name a few. Jumping into a taxi to go back to a house with some of the above turned out to be an amazingly good call. There were card tricks, a mesmerising game with zombies in it and magic mind-reading a go-go. Let it be known that Nordies put on a damn entertaining show.

The next morning, whilst packing up our hangovers, the Bear noticed a crowd across the road from the hotel, staring up at the building. When you're staying in the most bombed hotel in Europe and a crowd of spectators are gathering below your eighth storey window, this might be a cause for concern.

The terrified blonde girl in a harness that appeared outside our window moments later solved the mystery right away though. For you see there was a group abseiling down the front of the Europa for charity that very morning.


I refrained from taking a picture of said terrified girl, for when I gave her a bemused smile, she looked less than impressed. She appeared to be somewhere between scared out of her wits and seething with anger for ever agreeing to the stunt and may have been likely to smash through our window and grab me by the throat. Or something less dramatic.

Seeing as this was the last year of the IBAs, I do hope that there'll be an alternative event of some description next year, as there are loads of bloggers I'd still love to meet. All we really need is an excuse for a massive piss-up, and ideally one with significantly less politics and martyrdom involved.

National Drinkin' and Fightin' Day

Yesterday, the Bear and I spent a most delightful St. Patrick's Day in Pea's wonderfully located apartment at the top of Dame Street. A day of drinking and divilment indoors is my preferred type of Paddy's Day, and the ridiculously great view of the parade from Pea's living room window as it passed underneath us made for some tasty green icing on the cake. Seriously, if I was outside on the street and looked up, I would have been so jealous of us. The theme of this year's parade appeared to be Big Scary Dogs, which made for some fantastic floats and there seemed to be a great macabre undercurrent throughout, with slices of steampunk and New Orleans funeral thrown in for delicious measure.


In what seemed like a weird coincidence, we had been talking about Falkor, the lovely big dragon doggy from The Never Ending Story (Atreyuuuuuu!) as it was on TV as the Bear and myself were leaving the house. We just managed to catch the heartbreaking scene where Atreyu's horse sinks to his doom in the Swamp of Sadness, a scene that damn near traumatised me with grief as a small girl. Anyway, moments later this evil version of Falkor was to be seen trundling towards us. Only he had a brass band and foxy corseted singer on his back instead of an enthusiastic child.






The remainder of the evening was spent feck-acting about on the Wii, where I topped the score board with my mad hula-hooping skillz and sucked ass at Guitar Hero. I challenge anyone to a Wii Fit hula-hoop-off as I will say here and now, I can guarantee that I will bring you down to Chinatown.

Just on the Wii though. I can't hula-hoop in reality to save my life. Useless skill #68.

(Title courtesy of Dave Flag's Facebook update.)

Under The Boardwalk

I've been rather quiet on the old blogging front of late, mostly due to a mixture of being struck down with what I can only assume is consumption, a spot of childish sulking over not making it as a finalist for the Irish Blog Awards, busying myself with an exciting design project and being generally enthralled by Boardwalk Empire of an evening. It's Prohibition-era Sopranos created by the writer of The Wire, i.e. flipping DEADLY. Not only that, it's criminally gorgeous to look at, a veritable eyegasm of flapper fashions, sharp suits and art deco awesomeness. The title card alone is enough to make me swoon.

See? Gawjus. *thud*

Steve Buscemi is fantastic as Atlantic City's town treasurer, but Michael Kenneth Williams (as in OMAR! 1920s OMAR, people!) as booze-smuggler Chalky White steals every scene he's in, cutting a savage fucking dash with dapper suits, his class crimson fur-collared coat and brand new swear words that prompt a bemused Nucky Thompson to ask "What does motherfucker mean?"


But that's not to say that the other boys of the boardwalk aren't dressed to kill. On the contrary, in fact. Even the kids are well turned out. Look at this little fecker's amazing boots, like.



Which brings me to the Atlantic City ladies. Sparkly showgirls! Temperence League bags of no-craic! Arty bohemians trapped in lousy relationships! But looking lovely all the same.



Nucky's spoiled brat girlfriend Lucy, a pouty, shouty, nearly always naked pain in the ass played with mouthy relish by Paz de la Huerta will annoy the bejaysus out of you, but she certainly gets one of the better wardrobes. She's a filthy bitch to boot, with a creepy habit of calling men she's riding "Daddy". Weirdsville. Population: Lucy.

Ok, that quote is actually from an episode of the Adam West Batman series that I watched today, but it totally works for this picture.

Watch it. Watch it now.

Something Wicked This Way Struts

Last week it was announced that Liz Hurley has been cast as villain Veronica Cale in the upcoming Wonder Woman TV series, which has prompted me to lash together a post about my favourite villainesses. I've previously prattled on about my love for Disney's most magnificent bad girl, Maleficent, so to avoid repeating myself and in no particular order, I'll run through some of the other wicked women that tickle my fancy.

Bellatrix Lestrange (Harry Potter Series)


To be fair, at least The Wicked Witch of the West had an understandable reason to have it in for Dorothy. If some dozy redneck flattened your sister with a house, you wouldn't take it too well either. In Bellatrix's case though, she's actually just a demented lunatic, hell-bent on fucking up Harry Potter and his mates, played with delerious glee by Helena Bonham Carter in the series of films.

Ursula (The Little Mermaid)


Interesting fact - and by interesting I mean mostly pointless - the proper name for a half-octopus person such as dragtastic Ursula here is a cecaelia. (Which is awfully similar to my middle name, although I'm mostly certain that I'm not part octopus.) Try to work it into a conversation today. I dare you. Anyway, Ursula is a fantastically camp breed of sea witch, representin' for the big girls and going strapless in quite a bold move for a lady as meaty as her. Then again, who's going to tell her to do otherwise, when she's the kind of woman who'll take a foolish mermaid's voice and keep it as a bitchin' accessory without so much as batting a giant false (presumably waterproof mascaraed) eyelash.


She's also dynamite at makeovers, transforming herself into the sexy Vanessa in order to screw Ariel out of marrying Eric. Take that, princess.

Christine (John Carpenter's Christine)


Alright, yes, this one is in fact a car. A possessed Plymouth Fury to be exact. But still. She has a girl's name and she KILLS PEOPLE, so for the purposes of this list she counts as a villainess. When my brother and I were younger, Dad was trying to get us into horror films. One evening he rented Christine on tape for us all to watch, confident that his memory of it was that of a great scary film. Unfortunately, nostalgia must have warped and rose tinted his memory, because it really wasn't. I think we laughed for almost the entire thing, sure the premise alone is pretty hilarious as it is. To be fair, it does contain some spectacularly entertaining swearing, such as Christine's nerdy owner Arnie Cunningham being referred to as "Cuntingham". Lovely, shiny, evil Christine gets points for being an unusual sort of baddie, seeing as she's an inanimate, albeit waxed and demonic object.

Margo Black (Sweet Valley High Series)

She's not Elizabeth at all! LIES!

I've actually mentioned the delightfully and completely deranged Margo before in a Sweet Valley High post, but I just couldn't leave her out of a list of lady evil-doers like this. To recap, Margo is a total psycho who just so happens to look exactly like the Wakefield twins, Jessica and Elizabeth, who are gorgeous, blonde and generally awesome at life. Crazy Margo randomly sees a picture of Elizabeth in a Texas newspaper (even though the twins live in California) and promptly decides to kill her and take over her life. As you do.

Ah God, I love these Sweet Valley book cover paintings. The DRAMA! Marvelous.

Her plan ultimately fails though, and she gets pushed out a window by Lila Fowler, after a bit of standing over both twins, being all demented while caressing a butcher knife. But you just can't keep a good villainess down, and Crazy Margo makes a comeback with yet another Wakefield lookalike in tow. Come on! This time the diabolical wench plans to kill BOTH twins and with the new doppelganger, take over BOTH of their lives. Unfortunately, the new girl (who I think is actually Margo's twin sister...ah the complexities of a Sweet Valley story arc) mistakes her for Jessica and kills her in some haze of confusion, because to be fair, there are now FOUR identical girls running around Sweet Valley. And so Crazy Margo meets her demise. For now anyway, bitches.

Leave No Doughnut Behind

One of the things I loved about Berlin, apart from the drunken hijinks and gritty funkiness of the place, was the fact that it contained branches of Dunkin Donuts. This pleased me greatly, for 'tis often I lament the disappearance of that very doughnut shop from Dublin. Ireland just wasn't ready for doughnuts in the nineties. Strawberry frosting was regarded with naught but suspicion and Bavarian Creams could go fuck themselves. As for the colourful hundreds and thousands adorning them? Poison, surely! The Irish public were having none of this American muck, it would seem.

You delicious little bitch. I don't know how to quit you.

How and ever, subsequent trips to London and America have revealed a far superior breed of doughnut. Krispy Kreme, to be precise. The last time I was in London with the Bear, I practically sprinted through the Harrods food hall, past the fancy Kensington shoppers and lost Japanese tourists to get to the Krispy Kreme counter at the back. I even took a photo with my phone of the doughnut conveyor belt thing that brings them around from the oven and promptly texted it home to my parents to make them jealous. I've gotten more than a few gleeful picture messages of these particular doughnuts myself from both my brother and my Dad when they've found themselves in the vicinity of Krispy Kremes. They've actually been known to fly home from England with two boxes of doughnuts as hand luggage.

It's a fanaticism rivaled only by my family's obsession with Tanora. (An obsession that invariably leads to the purchase of, oh, about eighteen two-litre bottles at Christmas time. And a few extra in case any aunts or uncles haven't managed to stock up before the rest of the clan snapped up every remaining bottle of it in town.) I recently made the mistake of 'Liking' the official Krispy Kreme Facebook page, which has thus far served only to send me into a fit of envy and despair with every update, as they can't be procured here. It's so silly but by Christ they're delicious. Tim Horton can go and shite as far as I'm concerned.

Oh my giddy aunt. This picture is actually giving me palpitations.

Having made the decision to attend this year's Irish Blog Awards with the Bear in tow, (I have somehow managed to get myself shortlisted for Best Humour Blog, which I'm really nervously excited about, given the ferociously great blogs that populate that category) I figured there would surely be somewhere in Belfast that one could furnish oneself with a box of Original Glazed and perhaps a box of assorted others, just to be on the safe side, like. Right? Wrong. Unfortunately it would appear not. WOE.

Murder Most Strategic

Last week, the Bear surprised me with a somewhat delayed Valentine's Day present. Totally unnecessary, seeing as I'm more than happy with a card on that most made-up of days. But pulling this particular present out of its box made me squeak with excitement. Those of you familiar with this blog and my fascination with a certain lady crime novelist and amateur detective will understand why when you see what it was...

Holy freaking chocolate covered baby Jesus!

That's right folks. A MURDER SHE WROTE BOARD GAME. Yes, the painting of Jessica looks a bit weird and un-Fletcherly in its slightly big-chinned pudginess. Nevertheless, "A Game of Strategy and Pursuit" that centres around one of the four to six players secretly playing the MURDERER and the other three to five playing JESSICA individually attempting to work out who indeed the MURDERER is sounds like eleven kinds of fantastic fun. I'm not quite sure how it works with a room full of Jessicas but it all sounds pant-wettingly exciting. Check out the lovely big colouredy board, detailing the island resort where all the murder and detecting takes place.

Various characters seem to populate this board, such as the suave Armond DeSoto, the dickie-bowed Walter Ludlow and the perky blonde Penelope Rumford.

I'm not quite sure if these people are suspects, witnessess or victims, but either way I wish Harold Dalrymple would put some Goddamn clothes on. He looks like a big fleshy tombstone with the head of a creepy ice cream seller.

The pieces include little Cluedo style pawns, Jessica cards, painted with a face that still isn't quite hers, some shady bastard in a trenchcoat who must be the murderer and dramatic little tokens with ALIVE printed on some and DEAD on the others. I can't wait to get hammered and give it a lash.