Misinformed, angry, coffee-addled ranting.
After a short delay for Christmas and a quick break to sob with despair for the future of humanity, The Bastard Lounge returns with Part III of its hateful and vitriolic 2013 review. So before I get sick of the sight of all of you, let’s get on with it.
July kicked off with the news that former US spy Edward Snowden had applied for political asylum in Russia. Snowden had hit the headlines earlier in the year after leaking documents exposing the seriously questionable surveillance of the US government on everyone from world leaders to your mum. The whole debacle should have kickstarted a serious furore about concerns over our privacy and the abuse of power by those in authority. Instead the matter was given about as much credence as a fart in a hurricane, since we all kind of assumed we were being spied on anyway. Any outrage that might have started when it was revealed that the government had been reading our emails was quickly quelled with the realisation that all of our emails are fucking dull anyway, and that anyone forced to read them probably got no further than the third email with a voucher code from Pizza Express before smashing their monitor and forcing the shards of broken screen into their jugular.
In sport, Andy Murray became the first British man in 77 years to win Wimbledon, beating Novak Djokovic in straight sets. The match became a national event, with the audible sound of millions of people muttering “don’t fuck this up” generating enough noise to cause a small earthquake. Afterwards, Murray celebrated in true Scottish style by getting fucked out of his head on Buckfast and nutting someone at a bus stop.
Also, for some reason, some woman having a baby made the news. Apparently it was the first instance of this happening in 2000 years.
August had the audacity to occur, and brought with it the news that former Italian Prime Minister and waddling Family Guy-parody-of-an-Italian-guy Silvio Berlusconi was sentenced to four years in prison for tax evasion. Despite the controversy section of his Wikipedia page being longer than the complete works of Shakespeare and Stephen King combined, this was Berlusconi’s first definitive conviction in all his years of supervillainry. Media outrage for Berlusconi’s lifestyle was surprisingly muted, perhaps due to the fact that as an unimaginably powerful billionaire who owns a football club, with a penchant for drug-fuelled sex parties and living in one of the most beautiful cities in the world; it was somewhat difficult for journalists to express any form of criticism of him without it smelling faintly of sheer jealousy. Either that or his supposed Mafia links put them off.
Also in August, sci-fi nerds everywhere were met with the news that Scottish swearmonger and master of the beady-eyed glare Peter Capaldi would be taking over as Doctor Who from rubber-faced Northamptonian bow-tie enthusiast Matt Smith. Idiots reacted with shock and outrage at the Smith’s decision to leave, despite the fact that replacing the Doctor with a new actor is as much a part of the show as football is to Match of the Day, or being terrible is to Eastenders.
Into September now, and the nation giggled as a hunter’s campfire was blamed for a wildfire that began outside Yosemite National Park the previous month and had become known as ‘The Rim Fire’. Despite initial news reports sounding like they were reporting the after-effects of a bad curry, the immature amongst us rejoiced as we discovered that the worlds’ media were just as childish as we were, something we’d suspected all along every time they gleefully reported a Bushfire. Hur hur. “Bush”.
Also in September, Rockstar Games finally released their long-awaited fifth instalment in the Grand Theft Auto Franchise, the imaginatively named Grand Theft Auto V. Costing £170 million to make and market, it was declared the most expensive game in history. As is the case with all Grand Theft Auto games, it was quickly met with the usual ridiculous complaints about its violent and “inappropriate” content. Utterly moronic articles decrying the fictional violence towards fictional prostitutes gleefully missed the point entirely, tripping over themselves to angrily spout bile about how morally wrong it was to kill prostitutes – despite the fact that killing anyone is at the very least a wee bit naughty. The game also contained an elaborate stock market system, making it possible to spend hours of the game actively not killing anyone, opting instead to stare blankly at a spreadsheet, your eyes blinking with bored exhaustion, just like you do all day at work like some form of pathetic worker drone, at a depressing desk in a depressing cubicle in a depressing office with depressing fluorescent lights before you get into your depressing car to go home to your depressing house and your depressing family and continue with your depressing life. You could at least reflect your pathetic existence fairly accurately in the game, which allowed you to carry out a multitude of mundane activities such as playing golf or getting a haircut before you get into a car and gleefully drive it off a bridge to end it all. It’s great fun.
2013: A Year of Things – Part IV is available here.