Sweet Zombie Jesus! It’s the Army of Dave Easter Special!

Nobody Ever Mentions The Bill For The Last Supper

Littlejohn Confesses!

Unfortunately, I’ve not been able to read the article but does the sentence “The Elf’n’Safety Madness Even He Couldn’t Make Up” imply that Richard Littlejohn in a notorious liar who has a habit of “making shit up”?

Maybe it’s just me or I’ve missed a point somewhere.

Obsequious Tweet Test


They give so much and yet ask so little in return.

They entertain, amuse and befuddle us and all they require is entrance into a nightclub before the proles.

Though I heard a story that Nikki from Big Brother was overheard using the tried and tested phrase “Don’t you know who I am?” after being refused entry to – wait for it – a fucking Wetherspoons.

Oh, I forgot.

They also demand our love.

And this is where Twitter once again barges its way into this blog.

Twitter works both ways. It gives us – the little people – access to the famous in a way previously unheard of (See my harassment of Gregg Wallace last week) But it also facilitates the massaging of the celebrity’s ego like no way before.

Previously, you’d have to wait until a film premiere or – Christ on a bike – walking down the street to receive compliments.

Now you can get all this without leaving those groupies in your bed.

But this has also led to a strange side effect summed up by Graham Linehan:

“Every time I see a celeb retweeting something complimentary about themselves, I’m going to send them this picture http://yfrog.com/789puj”

Check the picture. It’s a corker.

And this gave me an idea. How far could you go and still get a celebrity to retweet your compliment? How obsequious and fawning could you be and still have the celeb go “LOOK HOW AWESOME I AM AND TREMBLE!”?

Shall we give it a go this week? I’m calling it the Obsequious Tweet Test. Or OTT for short.

A couple of rules.

1. You can only send one tweet per celebrity. I don’t want people to be spammed. It’s just a bit of pissing about. So choose your words carefully.

2. But you’re not limited to the number of celebrities you can praise.

3. I’m not sure about hashtags in case those being tested work it out, but if you want #obrt is free you can use that and we can aggregate them.

4. Be imaginative! Massage those egos! Spread that slightly creepy sleb-love!

5. If you get an RT, let me know! I’m @ArmyofDave if you’re not following me.

6. This is an objective thing. They’re a celebrity if I’ve heard of them and I decide they’re a celebrity.

I thought I should kick things off and set an example. I heard Duncan Bannatyne was a good bet, so I’ve just tweeted this to him:

Now, I don’t hold out much hope for this. I’m less expecting a retweet and more a visit from social services and the police. But you get the idea.

Let’s get going, shall we?

MasterChef: Worse Than Crack: Part 2

Ladies and Gentlemen. The Grocer Has Landed.

He has answered our appeals from Part 1

This is what I love about Twitter, blogging and the interweb in general.

If it wasn’t for this outlet, all this would be rattling around my head and the poor Better Half would be left to put up with this on her own. This way it gets diluted and – more importantly – I get closure.

@ccrichton took up the cause on Twitter and Gregg replied to her:

So there we have it. Two runners, up to their arms in Fairy liquid (other detergents are available) dreaming of the day when they are Head of Factual Programming at BBC4.

So I’ve fired off another email to the BBC:

“Dear The BBC

Just to let you know not to worry.

Gregg’s answered my question about MasterChef so you can get back to answering the important queries of the Daily Mail readers demanding to know why Huw Edwards doesn’t call it Rhodesia any more and why can’t they buy Banjo chocolate bars?

Lots of Love


Yes. I may – MAY – have started on the wine.

MasterChef: Worse Than Crack: Part 1

The Better Half and I were watching the television the other day when I turned to her.

“Is there anything else on? This episode of ’24’ is rubbish,” I said.

“That’s because we’re watching ’60 Minute Makeover’,” she replied. “Masterchef is on in a minute.”

“Word.” I worded.

Anybody who knows me knows I bloody love Masterchef. My money’s on Alex this year. He seems to be a cross between Jesus and Ghandi. But – y’know – better.

But something has begun to trouble me in the last couple of weeks.

Who does the washing up?

Obviously the cutlery is fine the way that John and Gregg clean them with their MASSIVE MOUTHS. But what about all the pots and pans? 

I asked the Twitter Hive Mind, but they were unable to help.

Then I remembered that Gregg Wallace is on Twitter.

Gregg loves Twitter. Twitter got Gregg laid. Maybe I should go straight to the source.

So I sent him a message:

“Hello @puddingface! Can you settle an argument for us please? Who does the washing up on Masterchef?”

It should be noted that puddingface is his Twitter ID and I wasn’t insulting him. Not this time anyway.

As of this moment, I have not received a reply.

But Gregg’s a busy man. That parsley won’t sort itself.

Or maybe he read my tweet a few days ago suggesting that “Gregg is just meat in the room” when it comes to the decisions.

Never mind. I pay my licence fee. Maybe I should flex some muscle. 

I’ve also emailed the BBC directly:

“Dear The BBC

My partner and I thoroughly enjoy Masterchef. There’s nothing we like more than eating beans on toast soaked in our own tears while watching people endlessly make scallops on black pudding and pea puree.

But I have one question. Who does the washing up at the end of the programme? Is it the most rubbish contestant?


I will keep you posted…

Pointing and Laughing

Now, I’m not as smart as people like Charlie Brooker or Anton Vowl. They can take a topic, analyse it and provide insight. I see my role as simply pointing and laughing.

To this end, I check the front pages every day for anything pointable.

Remember my blog post yesterday?

After commenting on the Sun’s headline I suggested “if David and Samantha were to have a row in the next few months, the headline “Sam-A-Cam-A-Ding-Dong”?”

Well. Bloody hell. Here’s today’s front page:

Which means either the Sun are stealing my material or – more likely – they had it spare after yesterday and I’m thinking more and more like a Sun sub-editor.

I also quite liked the Daily Express today. Normally, their headlines are either “Tizer Will Make You Live Forever” or “Bloody Foreigners Are Squatting In Windsor Castle”.

Today, it’s Buy One! Get One Free!:

Cancer AND Immigrants!

I thought I’d better read the Express articles for the sake of clarity and was rather taken by the benefits story.

It’s illustrated by this rather emotive picture of a hard working, good looking British family:

Now this picture screams “Stock Image” to me, as it no doubt does to you.

So I thought I’d have a look to see if it occured anywhere else on the interweb. And it does.

They could be Italians enjoying the benefits of banking.

Or – indeed – some Russians enjoying… err.. something. My Russian isn’t what it once was.

Maybe I’m being naive here, but is it usual for a paper’s website to use cheap stock images downloaded – I’m guessing – from an image website to illustrate a NEWS story?

I’m not saying that they’re linked in any way, but I’m reminded of the BNP leaflet debacle from last year.

Not linked in anyway. I’m not implying any agenda. It’s just how my brain works.

Knob Jokes And Politics: Together At Last!

I’m sure you’re all fully aware that the Camerons have announced that they are expecting a baby in September.

The Sun reported this with possibly the most insane headline in the history of modern publishing:

I think we can all agree that it demeans everybody involved, including the reader.

Could I suggest, if David and Samantha were to have a row in the next few months, the headline “Sam-A-Cam-A-Ding-Dong”?

Naturally, the interweb is rife with rumour, speculation and cynicism about the timing of the conception. Because that’s what the interweb is there for.

As a parent myself, I’m not going to guess why two people – who, let’s not forget, have recently lost a child – would want to have a baby.

I’m just really happy that I get to combine knob gags (which I can do) with politic comment (which I can’t).

Yesterday, I posted the following on Twitter. You should be warned. It will ruin the rest of your day:

Earlier on today, while looking for pictures for a blog post, I realised that I could wonder no more about what that would look like.

I think it would be something like this:

I think I have broken my brain with all this.

But all this means that Gordon and Sarah have to up their game. There’s only one thing that can trounce a pre-election pregnancy.

They’re going to have to adopt Cheryl Cole.

Look! That’s a genuine smile on Gordon’s face! Of course it is! He’s got his arm around Cheryl Bloody Cole!

Get THAT on the front pages and there’ll be no need for removal vans on Downing Street on the 7th May.

I am available as an adviser and lobbyist to any countries with golden coastlines or large corporations.

(Do you know how lazy I am? I stole a tweet THAT I WROTE off Anton Vowl’s site because I couldn’t be arsed to copy and paste it myself.)