Another Exclusive New Offer from WordJam: The Kamala Harris Talking Doll!

Everybody knows Kamala Harris is a powerhouse of diplomacy, charisma and common sense, so to mark her historic trip to Eastern Europe this week to discuss ongoing security, economic and humanitarian support for Ukraine and her neighbours, WordJam proudly presents our new seven-inch, fully poseable Kamala Harris talking doll available exclusively through this blog!

The Kamala Harris talking doll comes with five all-purpose glib phrases, non-sequiturs and tension-breakers, ensuring every playdate is a masterclass in statesmanship!

So don't delay:

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[Calls cost $500 from a landline. Mobile charges will be considerably higher and may require you to remortgage your house. By using this service you automatically agree to receive promotional literature for the Democrats and mandatory Covid vaccinations for your children.]

The Grumpy Bastard Returns

I know, I know, it's presumptuous and more than a little arrogant of me to assume there's anybody out there desperately waiting for WordJam to kick back into life. That said, the visitor stats don't lie, so here I am to offer a sleight of hand apology for my absence and a few words on where The Greatest Blog on the Etherweb™ is going next.

Naturally, satire and commentary will continue to be at the top of WordJam's priorities (after all, casting a snarky, wry eye over current events is this site's bread and butter), but I'm also keen to get back into doing film reviews, which I freely admit seem to have fallen by the wayside in the last couple of years. Since I can't be arsed going to the cinema these days (partly due to the fact I can't find anything worth watching, but mostly because other cinema-goers get on my tits) most of these reviews will focus on older films. Call me a stuffy, old contrarian if you like, but I can't imagine, say, House of Gucci or Scream 2022 holding the same exalted place in the hearts of movie-hounds that Dodsworth or Son of Frankenstein continue to enjoy. Plus, with the benefit of hindsight, older films tend to have more resonance than the celluloid Happy Meals we're offered today.

On a more practical note, I'm also seriously considering migrating this blog and its contents to another server. Host sites are all very well and good, but they don't allow you the freedom to express yourself without the threat of content strikes or delisting. After posting several articles in 2020 and 2021 satirising, among other things, Covid measures, the Capitol Riot and self-styled liberal progressive activism, I received quite a few emails from readers saying they were having trouble accessing this blog. I'm not saying this was censorship, but given the current state of online media I don't want to take any more chances. Whatever happens, I'll keep you updated.

And that's it for this post. I'll see you in a few days when normal service resumes. In the meantime, keep watching the headlines.

WordJam: Flattening the Curve of Festivity

Merry fucking Christmas x

What You Didn't Miss: The Beatles: Get Back (Disney+, 2021)

Screen black.  

Caption:                                     THE BEATLES: GET BACK

                                Directed by Michael Lindsay-Hogg Peter Jackson

Fade in.

Caption:                            Twickenham Film Studios, January 1969

Paul McCartney sits on a sofa, idly strumming his guitar. John Lennon walks in with a large sack of tambourines. He sets them down and slumps himself in the chair opposite Paul.

JOHN: All right, Paul.

PAUL: 'Ey, John.

JOHN: Wha' ya doin'?

PAUL: Just writin' a song.

JOHN: Wha's it called?

PAUL: Get Back.

JOHN: 'Ey, who d'yer think you're callin' a get, ya cheeky get?

PAUL: No one, ya dozy get.

JOHN: [Grins] Had ya, though, didn't I?

PAUL: Ya smug get.

George Harrison walks in wearing a turban, rubbing his hands from the cold.

GEORGE: [Nods] Namo Buddhaya, fellas.

JOHN and PAUL: All right, George.

GEORGE: Wha's goin' on?

JOHN: Paul's writin' a song.

GEORGE: Wha's it called?

PAUL: Get Back.

GEORGE: 'Ey, peace out, lar. I was only askin'.

JOHN: That's the name of the song, ya dopey get.

GEORGE: Anythin' for a sitar?

PAUL: On yer bike.

Ringo Starr enters carrying a copy of Drumming for Beginners under his arm.

RINGO: 'Ow do, banderinos.

John, Paul and George share a furtive, annoyed look, then-

JOHN: [Sighs] Ringo.

RINGO: Wha' youse up to?

GEORGE: Paul's writin' a song.

RINGO: Oh, eh? Wha's it called? 

GEORGE: Get Back.

RINGO: 'Ere, don't you call me a get, ya get.

JOHN: Ya soft get...

Fade out.

Caption:                                          TWO HOURS LATER

Fade in.

GEORGE: I'm just sayin' maybe we should try another concept album.

JOHN: Like wha'?

GEORGE: I dunno... Vikings or sum'n.

RINGO: Wha'-? Gladiators an' all that shite?

PAUL: That was the Romans.

RINGO: Wha' did the Vikings 'ave, then?

PAUL: They 'ad longboats.

JOHN: Oh, yeah? How long did they 'ave 'em?

PAUL: Ya saucy get.

A technician enters followed by a figure wearing a fur coat and a pirate hat.

TECHNICIAN: Visitor, John.

He steps to one side to reveal Yoko Ono.

JOHN: All right, Yoko.

They rub noses.

YOKO: Klaatu barada nikto.

Ringo leans over to George.

RINGO: [Whispers] Wha' she say?

George motions to keep schtum.

JOHN: 'Ere, lars, I've been thinkin'. Any chance Yoko can do sum'n on the album?

PAUL, GEORGE and RINGO: No.

JOHN: Oh, eh! Come on - she plays a mean tambourine.

PAUL: So I've 'eard. Someone should report her to the Royal Society for the Protection of Musical Instruments. She's worse than Ringo. [To Ringo] No offence, lar.

RINGO: None taken.

JOHN: It's avant garde!

PAUL: Avant garde a clue, more like. Ya chi-chi get.

JOHN: No, you get.

PAUL: Ya great get.

JOHN: [Grits teeth] Get.

PAUL: [Mumbles] Get.

JOHN: Ya GET.

There's an awkward pause, then-

PAUL: You wanna hear me song, then?

JOHN: ...Yeah, go 'ead.

- Continues for another unbearably smug, mind-bendingly pointless six hours.

WordJam Productions Presents: Quatermass in the Shit (AKA. "Five Million Years to TERF")

With apologies to Nigel Kneale and Roy Ward Baker.

NB. Click images to enlarge.

While working on the extension to the Hobbs End underground station, a group of builders make a horrifying discovery:

Satisfied there's no evidence of foul play, the authorities send in forensic archaeologist Dr. Matthew Roney. After making an analysis of the remains, he holds a press conference to explain their significance:

As the army set to work, Dr. Roney and Miss Judd reflect on this strange turn of events:

Meanwhile, the bomb disposal squad have questions of their own:

That afternoon, Professor Quatermass arrives at Hobbs End, where Dr. Roney presents him with another mystery:

True to his word, Quatermass meets with Colonel Breen - but they fail to see eye-to-eye on the situation in hand:

Breen submits, and they investigate the interior of the strange craft:

 

But despite Quatermass' best efforts, dark forces begin to interfere:

Undeterred, Quatermass takes a more direct approach:

Next morning at Hobbs End:

Released from custody, Quatermass is called to Whitehall to see the Home Secretary:

On the day of the parade, however, tensions spiral out of control:

At the same time, back at Hobbs Lane, unseen by human eyes, the alien spacecraft begins to come back to life:

Not far away, as London descends into chaos, Quatermass and Miss Judd are confronted with an awful and devastating truth:

WordJam: Giving Legacy Media a Black Eye

At ease.

Live from COP26, it's the Little Amal Show!

Instead of resting up after her grueling but nonetheless lucrative 8,000km trek from the Syrian-Turkish border, Little Amal, an 11ft papier-mâché woke monster designed by British and South African activists, decided to make a surprise appearance at the COP26 climate conference in Glasgow on Tuesday to promote 'Gender Day'. From the doe-eyed, seal-like responses of Our Leaders, I take it this is what we used to call (pre-Marvel and Covid, that is) A Big Deal.

I can't help noticing, though, that for a puppet specifically designed to raise awareness about the plight of migrant children she suspiciously seems to represent all things to all people. Just take a look at her Twitter feed. Climate activism? She's got it covered. LGBT rights? She's on it. Systemic racism? Oh, you better believe she's fighting that battle, too, mister. Strange then how tight-lipped she appears to be on the conflict in Syria, which is, after all, her whole raison d'être. You'd think she'd mention having to leave the country due to both a sustained aerial bombing campaign by western coalition forces and the brutal occupation of townships by western-backed 'moderate' rebel groups (in this instance, of course, 'moderate' is an euphemism for fundamentalists who obligingly only cut people's heads off when the cameras aren't rolling), but so far we haven't heard a peep out of her about that. Perhaps the puppeteer's got a frog in his throat, or sprained his Tweeting finger?

Either way, that's all academic since we know that the majority of migrants who formed the 2015 refugee crisis were North African and Middle Eastern men. I'm guessing the people behind our cage-bellied friend are aware of this, which is why we have Little Amal and not Little Ahmed. I mean, let's face it: a bearded fat man in a vest holding a copy of the Qur'an in one hand and a kebab scoop in the other isn't likely to win as much sympathy from the public at large. And it certainly wouldn't have commanded the same level of shameless, empty virtue signalling we saw when Little Amal poked her head into the conference hall yesterday. But the smiles, applause and snapping lights aren't enough to conceal the grotesque irony of the situation: that the west has taken a crisis of its own making and turned it into nothing more than Disneyesque street theatre.