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Showing posts with label Giles Coren. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Giles Coren. Show all posts

Tuesday, 9 December 2014

Giles Coren disses chocolate

Giles Coren disses chocolate in his latest  Time Out column

'... let's face it, chocolate is pointless, containing mere calories without nutrition, coveted by fat idiots the world over thanks to a centuries-old marketing campaign that has succeeded in linking it, quite randomly, with sex.
...
... the sugar rush that passes for pleasure in people who are too fat to have actual sex. And after the rush, the body's chemical response: secretion. Chocolate doesn't make you sexy, it makes you obese. 

And it makes all your teeth fall out. And it's time we stopped telling lies about it.'

Hmmmm pass me the 70% cocoa content, single Estate...

Tuesday, 8 June 2010

It's just not cricket

Giles Coren has some unconventional views about 20:20 cricket and how it should evolve, do read the whole piece.

Here's a photo of what set him off...






And here is how Giles Coren finishes his article:
'I would infinitely rather watch a live open-air sex show in Hove with a little bit of silly knockabout cricket in the background than watch grown men in brightly coloured romper suits and enough armour to survive a nuclear blast pretending that what they are doing is playing cricket.

If cricket cannot pay its way any more, then instead of reducing it and reducing it until it is just one man with a ball hitting it in the air with a rubber stick and a load of morons cheering because the match only lasts 23 seconds, let’s just get loads of naked girls involved. It’s not cricket any more as it is, so let’s turn it into sex.

Let’s have the dancers taking everything off and old boys stuffing tenners in their pants. Let’s give them poles, out there on the square, and then, like the famous tree at Canterbury, it can be four if the ball hits it. And then maybe she can fire it back out of her wotsit, like I’ve heard they do in Thailand. That’ll get the crowds in and ramp the revenues up. And that’s what’s important. Let’s get the girls giving massages in the stands, naked, and offering happy endings for whoever guesses the next wicket-taker.

And I see in the papers this week that Wisden is to start publishing books on subjects other than cricket for the first time in 90 years. No doubt they are already in negotiations with Hugh Hefner to produce the Playboy/Wisden Almanack of Topless Girls Holding Cricket Bats. It’s the perfect combination of the only two things in life that matter: sex and cricket. What could be better than rifling through the county averages with the occasional pause to ogle a nice pair of jugs? And what a perfect starting-point for a little light S&M, as the sound of summer mutates from traditional stereotypes to the gentle thwack, on village greens across merry old England, of well-oiled willow on buttock.'