Dawn of the Dumb
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Polite, pensive, mature, reserved ...Charlie Brooker is none of these things and less. Rude, unhinged, outrageous, and above all funny, "Dawn of the Dumb" is essential reading for anyone with a brain and a spinal cord. And hands for turning the pages.
Picking up where his hilarious "Screen Burn" left off, "Dawn of the Dumb" collects the best of Charlie Brooker's recent TV writing, together with uproarious spleen-venting diatribes on a range of non-televisual subjects - tackling everything from David Cameron to human hair.
idiots. And if you draw a blank with Terry Nation’s estate, don’t bother negotiating for the rights to the Cyber-men instead. It won’t be the same. Daleks or nothing. Pull that off and I guarantee we’ll willingly accept it. Even Shami Chakrabarti, denouncing the plan on Question Time, would have to start her complaint by saying, ‘Obviously I love the idea of Daleks as much as anyone, but…’ So come on, Reid. Stop pissing about with twittering cameras on sticks. The technology for an army of
that ‘there is no need to worry as 85 per cent of women ARE satisfied with their partner’s penis proportions. The study found GIRTH matters more than length to 90 per cent of women.’ That’s how they printed it—GIRTH, in bold capital letters, no messing about. It’s a raunchy paper, the Sun. (Speaking of suns, or rather sons, if I ever have one—a son—I’ve just decided that I’m going to call him Girth, to give him a subliminal advantage with any would-be suitors. Girth Hammer Lointhump Brooker.
satellite terms, it beats watching UK Lifestyle Hollyoaks Plus. More power to them. Oh, and that ‘make or break’ cruise I mentioned? We only got 90 minutes in Spain at the end of it Then back on the ferry for the return trip, during which we finally ‘broke’. Now that’s a holiday. Pure bling in action [25 June 2005] This heatwave’s sending me crackers. Night-time’s the worst. Since I live in London, I can’t sleep with the window open in case someone crawls in and kills me with a bit of
it whole. They’ll only discover the truth months or maybe years later, the next time they see her on TV; and by then diey’ve forgotten who lied to them in the first place—the idiots. It’s a fun little game. Even though you rarely get to see the fruits of your labour first-hand (since you’re long gone before the penny drops), poindess fibbing fleetingly makes your life seem 4 per cent more interesting than it actually is, so I wholeheartedly recommend it. To get you started, here are four brief
in and the days shrink to the length of a depressive sigh, so a man’s thoughts gradually acquire a melancholic timbre. Especially when said man is staring at I’m a Celebrity…Get Me Out Of Here! (ITV1) and sadly contemplating his symbiotic relationship with the people onscreen. They bicker and preen; I write about it. They scrabble on their knees eating maggots; I mock them for it. They blow off in a hammock; I describe the smell. I am pathetic. My life is pathetic. I truly, genuinely, might as