Our great lord and chief, our king of men (and Liverpool) and mayor Joe Anderson has presented us with a horrific ultimatum.
He has given us beautiful bikes, of great magnificence. They are both visually and actually green in colour (chic eh?) – adding to the beauty of the scheme. They will work much like the ones in the city of London, the main difference being they will not be called Boris Bikes, rather they will adopt the catchy moniker ‘Joe-Anderson-Bicycles’. And also not in London.
Joe Anderson, of no relation to the symmetry God of Cinema Wes Anderson, has ‘deleted’ all the cycle-paths from Liverpool’s roads and streets and avenues and alleyways and back-passages. For a limited time period. And maybe not all. But anyway – that sort of information just adds to the fact he’s a great guy. No really, he’s been so kind to the people of Liverpool that he has actually not sold off the WHOLE of Sefton Park, just the Meadows! And who likes meadows anyway? They basically are just screaming ‘re-develop me!’.
SO. What are we to make of these mixed messages Joe is giving us? Have a bike! Ride it on slightly more unsafe roads! Let’s inject a little danger into our roads. Nice one Joe.
You will be able to catch a Joey-Rider from any part of the city to another, but people will comment, saying things like ‘Oh look, it’s one of those what-you-call-ems…a Joey-Rider!’ – but all in all, you are saving to environment – even though there is nobody who knows how these bikes came to be in existence or the logic behind it.
On this most political of days, myself, Jack Graysmark and Tom Collier, all avid and self-identifying lefties, decided to take a tasty bite out of the Labour political Kebab.
We rode out to Manchester on the metal vessel some call a train (which shouldn’t have been privatised – am I right?). Heading to the Etihad stadium, home to some sort of critical acclaim in sport, we were keen to watch Ed Miliband and his sexy sidekick Andy Burnham soccer a metaphorical goal in the back-net of Cameron’s NHS cuts and then head butt Nick Clegg metaphorically in his metaphorical face.
For clarification, the event we saw was the announcement of Labour’s promises for the NHS for the next election/general views which oppose Tories. And bloody hell what a man. People (me included), were going bat shit crazy when he walked in, as if he was the Justin Bieber of middle-management, with well-thought out policies instead of obnoxious sex appeal. Ed strode out in a lovely suit and purple tie (one member of the audience pointed out he had the same tie as Ed – I said the audience were mental) to light indie rock music – the warm up playlist included The Kings of Leon, Alt-J and McFly – keeping the Labour sound consistent since the 1990s. This went down well in the audience of mid-thirties, middle-class public sector employees and their children.
The point that was driven home was that the NHS would die under the evil grasp of the Tories and general right,
“Mr Farage would have you pay for GP appointments”
“Waiting lists have increased dramatically”
“We should not replace public services with the private sector, only use them for support of the public sector”
But it was not just opposition, Labour were positive and acknowledging of all those working in the health sector; refreshing to the usual negative campaigning by the left against a worse (but a change-proposing) right.
But enough of the jargon and nonsense. What about over-eating greasy kebab meat? Are Labour the party for the takeaway fiend? Sure, Ed and Andy are a dynamic duo who can answer friendly questions like nobody’s business, referring to each other for answers when their knowledge fell through like some sort of political machine of tasteful answers. But when my arteries are clogged with fat and sugar, is my NHS going to be there to lypo-suck the shit out of me?
That is the question on everyone’s salty lips. But you got to remember, Labour support Hardworking people, therefore making Britain Better Off. Bit Tory you say? No! Hardworkers are those you don’t see, working BEFORE AND AFTER Mr. Osborne opens his curtains. Bankers would not benefit from this slogan, as they don’t work hard, they have build an empire of greed, see?
At least that is what Ed says. Or something like that. My issue is Bankers don’t eat kebabs, but they are lazy, which means Kebabs support positive productivity and hard-working attitudes and the Kebab supports Labour in the next EU elections on the 22th of May. Vote.
The Kebab has been well and truly grilled.
Years upon years upon years upon years have Topman yielded stacks upon stacks upon stacks of low waisted straight leg/skinny/painted-on jeans. It seems to have been taken as a given that even after the great fall of the baggy jean and the short-lived reign of the boot-cut, one will always want a low waisted trouser.
Why? Must we all follow the rap culture in having our trousers teasing our ankles? This is something one can easily pick up on from a young age and annoy mothers about. Constantly pulling down GAP jeans with odd fastenings that ensure they cover the belly button. This, in turn, cements in our minds the fact the high-waisted trouser must be uncool.
Over the past few years the jean/trouser waistline has been steadly heading up, gradually and incrementally rising – but still remaining low. A rather fitting parallel for Britain’s economy if you will (that’s satire!). But the likes of Dappy mean the national perspective on jean wearing has shot back down to bumcrack ridin’. You could even say we are entering a double-dip waistline recession (stop now).
But why must our fashion icons be scruffs like Dappy? Well, they are not. Footballers like David Beckham and Danny Welbeck are taken in higher regard and are far cooler. If we are to impliment real change in fashion it has to be through these models of masculinity that are already not averse to the whole ‘classically stylish’ thing.
Is this snobbish? Probably. But the general move in fashion is to commonly cited eras like: ‘the 40s’, ‘the 20s’, ‘the 50s’ and even…’the 30s’! All of these require smartness. Basically let’s bring back some high-waisted trousers. I know its radical, and seems a bit nerdy, but get the right people to wear them and you can do it!
Chinos and corduroy will help this trend, but we all need to get used to it for jeans. Sitting comfortably just on the belly button, it means no underwear or naked bums are on sight, just comfortable and well rounded denim.
To conclude, we will not ever have to struggle with the horrible crotch bag again. So Topman please give us high, middle and low waisted jean/trouser sizes. Choice breeds true freedom of expression.
First thing to pop out of the way, in terms of this Christmas-themed article, is that sadly…there is no Christmas in Russia.
Bit awkward now. I mean, there is these days for some of those modern citizens, but, throughout the 20th century, New Year’s was basically Santa’s day to shine in Russia, not Christmas. Whilst, in turn, Jesus’s day to shine was the 7th of January, as the Orthodox church (the one that got all defensive when them punk girls performed a song in its house), in its orthodox nature, follows the pretty outdated Julian calendar.
But, considering the fact that Santa brought presents, whilst Jesus only brought mass salvation back in the day, obviously New Year’s was the highlight of the winter months, even years ago. Thus, naturally, Jesus’s day got cancelled and New Year undeniably remained. “How did this come about?” one may inquire.
Well. Communism was pretty darn awesome back in its day, wasn’t it? So there was, of course, no longer a need on religion or anything like that! However, everyone obviously still wanted presents in the icy winter months. Thus, the Bolsheviks ‘rearranged’ with Santa (or ‘FATHER FROST’ as he’s known in the Motherland), and asked him to pop by in the night of the 31st of December instead.
Now, this is as confusing for the youth of Russia as it is for this readership. It gets especially confusing now that communism has been banished back to its shackles of historical theory and Christmas is suddenly welcomed again; the Bolsheviks literally ruined Christmas. And now Christmas has made a comeback. It’s so confusing. When, oh, when shall Santa venture down into the enigma that is the Russian Federation? He’s not sure whether to venture EAST on the 24/25th, New Year’s, the 7th or, to spice things up a bit, the 13th of January (‘Old New Year’, as its know, again, due to the flipping Julian calendar. FLIPPING JULIAN, whoever you are).
Many a debate upon this complicated issue has been had –
English kid: “Mate, there is no Santa!”
Russian kid: ”Yeh there is! I’ve seen him fly past!”
English kid: “Mate, how’s he even meant to land on concrete!? It’s your mum and dad that put stuff under the tree! ”
Russian kid: “Well, my mum and dad said that its only since we moved to England that they have to do that, because Santa can’t live here. It’s too hot. In Russia, there’s still snow so he still lives THERE!”
English kid: “Whatever mate.”
Controversial stuff. Alternative viewpoints suggest that industrial production of ‘Santa DON’T stop here’ and ‘Father Frost keep going!’ signs thrive upon the lack of celebration at the usual date. Similarly, the Christmas tree industry thrives; sending their remaining post-Christmas outcast trees over to Russia to sell at the same price in the days approaching New Year, rather than cheap outcast prices over here. Yay, Soviet quality in Russia! Back in the USSR!
But, nevertheless, Christmas is a time for love not judgement. Thus, wherever you are, whatever your belief (whether you believe in Jesus, Santa or EQUALITY IN THE ECONOMIC AND SOCIAL DISTRIBUTION OF PROPERTY), at Christmas, feel free to enjoy some of these classic Christmas delicatessen – Some beetroot and garlic mix, butter and caviar sandwiches or even a cheeky bit of mayo and pickled herring salad. Merry Christmas and a happy New Year.
Words by Natalia Kondrashova
Yo Kebabites. Time to get festive. Dance with me under the mistletoe and we can spoon all night long. It is the day to end all days in terms of food. The Woah-mama of Feasts. It’s CHHHHRIISTMAS, or, if you like to make unpleasant turns of phrase re-surface, it’s Crimbo. Urgh.
So what does one like to do on Christmas? Fifteen mile cycle followed by a board meeting and some lunges? No. You guessed wrong. Let’s review the Sh*t out of Christmas.
Right, presents eh? What’s that all about? Eh? Get a gift, pass another gift on? You might as well buy your own thing, at least it would be something you want! Am I right, fellas and the ladies? This of course doesn’t apply to children, as they are really poor, so anything, even an Action Man, is worth gold to them. Literally, they place value on mass produced sweet that are essentially just boiled sugar – not even a gram of Kebab meat in sight.
But, on to food:
Turkey – Okay, but you would never really eat it any other time of year. Not actually as good as chicken (Controversial – See Co-Editor Elliot Ramsey’s diet for Evidence of DAMN-Tastiness) but quite big physically. Expensive too – may I suggest a different meat, say a nice bit of Duck leg or maybe a HUGE side of Beef?
Roast Potatoes – Here is were it starts to get interesting. There are all sorts of techniques here, pick your favourite to get them fluffy and crisp simultaneously. Good Job MUMS!
Parsnips – For variety they are included, though never as popular, like the slightly uglier older sibling who you’d still snog but no sexy-sexy-time. Treat the bastards like they are chips.
Gravy – Essential. You already know what this is. I suspect for soft-as-a-feather-down-pillow Southerners this is the only time a year you have it – make sure you make it from real stock from the bird etc.
Cranberry Sauce – You can tell these are coming in a random order. Buy Fortnum and Masons and accept no substitutes. Got to be sweet, it adds a tang to the whole meal, offsetting the meat. Don’t be afraid to let it mix with the Gravy, it may be scary at first, but its nice (and scary still) when you try it.
Stuffing – At first I was like…what is that? And then I was like – oh yeah that’s right…PLATE FILLER! Nah but it soaks up gravy well.
Cauliflower Cheese – Sometimes you have to just add something a bit crazy to your plate. This is one of those times.
Pigs in Blankets – DON’T FORGET THE PIGS IN BLANKETS! Oh we forgot to put them in! Oh no! not again. Why does everyone always forget their secret favourite part of the meal? Maybe it’s a metaphor for mankind.
Bacon – Sometimes people have bacon. Well what do you know? So unhealthy. Overkill.
Brussel Sprouts – Lovely little things, just pop one in your mouth and chop. Why is it traditional this time of year? No one will ever know. Well, a quick Google would help, but I am not going to do that, you can. Seriously quite nice, they add some different texture, especially after a little light frying with butter. Also I’m going to lump broccoli on the end here, it’s nice but not necessary – though a great gravy absorber.
Bread Sauce – An odd but nice additional sauce. People, when inventing the tradition of a Christmas dinner, were really worried about the amount of moisture on the plate. Sauces galore, although this one is very lumpy. Some hate, I like.
Nut Roast – Well, I’ve never tasted it. So I can’t review it. All I know is it is what the vegetarians are eating whilst longingly looking on a nice bit of Turkey. Make sure you burn it a bit for them, and don’t offer them gravy (necessary to moisten something so dry) on the grounds it’s made from real stock. I told you to make it from the Bird Gibblets etc.
Salmon for a Starter – Okay, fair enough, it’s nice-ish, but save room for what is coming. It is like ironic statement on the over-indulgence of the Christmas Main meal to have something so refined for a starter.
There we have it. CHRISTMAS DINNER. Done. In the bag. Don’t put it in a bag, it will be disgusting. Whoever is washing up, make sure you crank the Christmas tunes up loud!
He has been vilified by sections of the media in Liverpool’s student community as the future of the British far right, the worst fashion disaster since Tom Bee’s bee, and the sole cause for the extinction of the white rhino, but in an astonishing climb down from official red top policy, The Tab Liverpool has been forced to admit that its favourite social pariah, third year politics student Jack Buckby, is in fact a creation of its editorial team.
An anonymous Tab source revealed ‘when The Tab was established on Merseyside early last year, it was decided that we required a unique story concerning individuals of a diabolical nature, so as to cut through the usual tepid morass of inane gossip and tattle that so intrigues the proletari – sorry, our readership, and at least suggest to prospective employers that some of us do genuinely intend to pursue careers in journalism. Thus, we agreed to ‘create’ such a story, like the Wall Street Journal created Communism, or the Daily Mail created Romanians, and so ‘Jack Buckby’, a suit sporting, side-burned Nazi with peculiar spectacles and a questionable quiff, was born.’
It is undoubtedly reassuring to know that the time-honoured journalistic tradition of ‘devising’ stories for public consumption has been embraced whole-heartedly by Liverpool’s latest media hive. What is galling is that the student body appear to have been fed their very own ‘Goldstein’ figure in whom to invest their fears and prejudices, rather than manifesting their rage against those truly deserving of humanity’s ire, such as Piers Morgan or Ed Balls. Surely we, as liberal minded, fair, peace loving human beings, have the right to freely choose who to hate, degrade and victimise?
The source continues ‘the response to the Buckby story was an unprecedented success – there were angry demonstrations across campus, Antifa finally found themselves with a purpose again, the seventeen disparate socialist and Labour societies in the University were united over something other than the fox hunting ban and an effigy of Oswald Moseley was burned outside the Eleanor Rathbone building.’ In fact, such was the wave of politically correct emotion generated by the prospect of a real life, slightly right of centre student living on campus, that the word ‘Buckby’ has been officially recognised as one of the three most emotive tabloid expressions in circulation today (narrowly behind ‘Paedo’, but still some way off ‘Norks’) whilst statistics show that Jack Buckby is mentioned at least once in 42% of all Tab stories. The LUDS actor who played Buckby in the staged photographs used to give a face to the Tabs’ brainchild, Pallav Ratra, has since been forced into hiding.
Now that the Leveson report into press ethics and standards has been published and criminal prosecutions brought against **** *******, ******* ******, and other members of Rupert Murdoch’s **** ************* group, however, high ranking Tab insiders are indicating that the publication has decided to drop the angle. Whether or not their notorious creation is based on third year University of Liverpool student Jack Buckby is as yet unclear; when attempts were made to contact him, Jack was unavailable for comment, but contemporaries have described him as ‘a thoroughly agreeable, quiet, unassuming chap, who converted to Islam in early 2009, and now refers to himself as ‘Abdul Rahim Muhammed.’
Words by Benedict Spence.
*The Kebab has censored the names of Andy Coulson, Rebekah Brooks and News International as, for legal reasons, disclosing them would lead to us being held in contempt of court. Oh, bollocks.
Let me tell you a spin you a sad yarn, a Christmas Yarn:
There is something dark brewing in the north-pole. An evil factory built on the blood and sweat of mechanised drones, putting hard working elves out of WORK.
It began with the most menial of jobs, the production of basic parts was done by giant mechanic arms designed by Amazon. Foreign Elves, specialists in electronics were hired by Santa to repair the faulty machines. These natives of South America, commonly called ‘Oompa Loompas’ were more efficient than the Christmas elves. The Christmas Elves were deemed mere surplus.
They tried to form Unions against the Oompa Loompas, but they were deemed racists.
“Coming over ‘ere, Taking our Elf Jobs”
Bloody Racist elves. It is not their fault, it is the environment they were raised in; they probably would have loved the elves under different circumstances.
More advanced technology was shipped in by Amazon, Artificial Intelligent droids were a favourite of Santa’s, because they had the human capacity for cruelty, making the elves feel more subjugated than ever. The problem was the big corporations, driven to capitalist greed by the demand of the people for satisfaction on a mass scale. They used the Oompa Loompas as scapegoats when addressing the elves to misdirect their hatred, and the elves where therefore the scapegoat when addressing the population.
It happened slowly at first, as they became more and more useless. No one really noticed, they were a drain on north pole society, from the top to the bottom. Straight to the gutter from the starry above sky. One by one they disappeared.
Kebabs became increasingly more popular in the twentieth century. There was a discovery that elf flesh was rather tasty when minced. They thought they were applying for a new job in the Manchester gay scene – a little known fact is that elves are all male homosexuals who have the ability to internally reproduce – amazing how evolution works.
But this was a rather different type of meat factory. Packing a different sort of meat entirely. Their own flesh that is – have I milked the whole horrific “eating elf” thing enough?.
So that is where all the elves are now.
Words by Alexander Ferguson