Wonderful, luvvie, wonderful…

Watch? Bag? DVD?

I am really sick of DVDs at the moment. I’ve recently been granted a month off work for masturbatory purposes so I’ve had the chance to watch quite a few recently. Proper ones too – not just downloads from the… (Trigger warning for people living in China) …internet.

Let’s be honest, who of you out there honestly enjoys the back-slapping, brown-nosing, sycophantic rubbish that passes for Commentary or “Making of…” documentaries under that “Special Features” button. Here is a typical length of monologue which you are GUARANTEED to hear on every single DVD in the world:

“It was really wonderful to work on this movie with such wonderful and talented people. As soon as I heard that Jemima Winterbottom would be directing the film, I knew I had to jump at this chance to work alongside one of the most talented young people in Hollywood right now. If you look at the costume which the wonderful Hector Snuggs is wearing in this shot, you’ll see that it was made by our wonderful and hugely talented costume designer Sugar Heatherhorn, who really is one of the most wonderful people I’ve ever worked with. In fact, I had such a wonderful time working on this movie because everybody was so wonderful and talented that each day was a joy. As I was saying to our FX coordinator Frank Hesiltine – one of the most talented people in his industry – this has been without a doubt the most wonderful film we will probably ever work on. Wonderful, talented, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful…”

Richard Attenborough---22Pubdec2008

And to top it all off, the commentary above is more than likely for some straight to video garbage like Dictionary Man IV: The Search for the Missing Vowels. When you watch these insipid documentaries, you can bet good money on the following things:

1. The main actor/actress will say it’s the been the best film he’s ever worked on.
2. The director will say that he had already decided on the main actor/actress when he first read the script.
3. The main actor/actress will say that he/she had to do the role when he heard so-and-so was directing it.
4. Some boring fat bastard will explain at length how the shadows on the windows were digitally remastered using the latest in MirroShad (TM) technology.
5. Lots of people will use the word “talented” and “wonderful”.
6. No matter how good the film was, the commentary or documentary will be about as much fun as a cake made of nails.

Luvvie 2

Honestly, I’ve had more fun listening to the commentary of a Chinese football match, and that normally only consists of the words “Hao Qiu” being endlessly repeated. In fact, I’ve had more fun dripping hot wax over my testicles, which is exactly what I’m about to do now.

Thank you for being so fucking wonderful. Laters luvvie. x

Luvvie 3


If you enjoyed this post you may also enjoy my book Party Members – a dark comic fantasy that exposes the corrupt underbelly of modern China.

One for the reddit CCJ jerkers…

Renegade province seems to be the province where all the CCJ2 jokes come true. For example, look who has opened a shoe shop!

I think Vivian pushed him into it.

And what was just around the corner (no doubt being the place where Tim first made his $$$)?

Happy Giraffe English School!

But my absolute favourite thing about Renegade Province has to be these anthropomorphic gas station machines. The “male” one even has a cock.

Mmmm, pump me full, baby.


If you enjoyed this post you may also enjoy my book Party Members – a dark comic fantasy that exposes the corrupt underbelly of modern China.

Babes in the (Victoria) Wood


Fellow faggotty British readers will know that this week saw the death of funny woman (is that an oxymoron?) Victoria Wood. I’m guessing that she was a big fan of this blog as I was planning on continuing my musically-themed week of China songs with a song that I wrote back in 2007 based on one of her skits. I had it all set up on the laptop ready to publish and then she went and died the same week. If you did that just to help give me a clickbait title and help my blog hits, thank you from the bottom of my heart Victoria – you really didn’t have to.

(On a side note, I seem to have a habit of predicting celebrity deaths. In the 90s I was watching Planes, Trains and Automobiles the day before John Candy died and had mentioned to my sister that looking at the size of his bulk, John probably wasn’t long left for this world. I did it again in 1997 when at the height of Princess Diana’s media coverage I again told my sister “God help us if she dies, we’ll never hear the last of it.” Next day – bang – Paris. So with my track record I’d like to officially announce that Xi Jinping will be dead by Tuesday.)

(On another side note, being a China related blog I would be amiss if I didn’t mention that the female wrestler and jazz movie actress Chyna passed away this week. I read on her Wikipedia page that she actually sank to the depths of being a TEFL teacher in Japan once her wrestling career had ended. Sweet Jesus… TEFL. Death must have been a release for her. Just after Chyna passed away, so did Prince. All these one-name celebrities are dropping off like flies. Fingers crossed for Madonna. And Sting, the cunt.)

Is it racist to “green-up” for an Avengers themed bongo film? Here’s Chyna as She-Hulk in the Jazz-themed version of The Avengers. I’ve actually watched this – and yes – before you ask, I did.

Anyway, back to Victoria Wood. If you aren’t a Britfag, you’ll probably need to watch this Youtube video of one of her famous songs first. It’s called “Let’s do it” and features a conversation between an old northern couple who discuss whether or not to indulge in a spot of the old in-out, in-out.

So I really used to have a lot of time on my hands back in those days. For some reason that is now unknown to me, I decided to write a parody of this song based on what would happen if Victoria Wood left her timewarp of 1980’s Britain, moved to China, became suicidally depressed, and a Chinese friend tried to talk her out of throwing herself off a cliff. This was the result. The verses in italics and non-italics differentiate the verses sung by either the depressed Victoria or her Chinese friend.

Let’s do it, let’s do it, do it while I’m feeling low.
It’s annoying, soul-destroying,
When the locals shout “HELLOO!”
Fuck my health, I’ll kill myself, flatten myself with a cheap Chinese shelf!
Let’s do it, let’s do it tonight!

Don’t do it, don’t do it, the thought makes me quite ill.
This is China, nothing finer,
It’s developing just like Brazil.
Look White Man, This isn’t Iran, we Chinese stand united against the hordes of Japan!
Don’t do it – don’t do it, tonight!

Let’s do it, let’s do it, while I’m really in the mood.
I’m quitting, too much spitting,
Why do you have to be so rude?
It’s insane, life’s a pain, I’ll throw myself in front of the Maglev train!
Let’s do it, let’s do it tonight!

Don’t do it, don’t do it, invest in our great land.
Use chopsticks, date our chicks,
We’ll call you an old China hand.
Life is seedier, read the media, just don’t try to access Wikipedia!
Don’t do it, don’t do it tonight!

Let’s do it, let’s do it, I really want to scream and shout.
Where’s the queuing, trouble’s brewing,
I’ve really gotta get out!
Something’s amiss, it’s my wish, that you’ll all stop trying to make me teach you English!
Let’s do it, let’s do it tonight!

Don’t do it, don’t do it, China really is the best.
You’re too cautious and nauseous,
To see it’s much better than the West.
Take our invitation, find salvation, bask in the glory of 5000 years of civilization!
Don’t do it, don’t do it, tonight!

Let’s do it, let’s do it, I really don’t like the food.
I keep shitting, my head’s splitting,
Cos of the way Tsingtao is brewed.
I despair, hear my prayer, I hope I get killed by a tank in Tiananmen Square!
Let’s do it, let’s do it tonight!

Don’t do it, don’t do it, we Chinese like laowai.
We want your dollars, and your scholars,
And our goods you should continue to buy.
China’s funky, you are hunky , you can always find work as an English teaching monkey!
Don’t do it, don’t do it, tonight!

Let’s do it, let’s do it, I feel like the time is right.
The pollution, and prostitution,
Are just making me feel like shite.
Perhaps I’m arty, but who can be hearty, in a country still ruled by a Communist Party!
Let’s do it, let’s do it tonight!

Don’t do it, don’t do it, I’m asking you one last time.
Here this verse, things can’t get worse,
Look beyond the grief and grime.
But don’t foam, when in Rome, if you don’t like it laowai then go back home!
Don’t do it, don’t do it, tonight!

Let’s do it, let’s do it, really make the bedsheets red.
I’m so happy, don’t be crappy,
Very soon I will be dead.
I tried, thanks for the ride, but the time has finally come for some suicide!
Let’s do it, let’s do it tonight!


If you enjoyed this post you may also enjoy my book Party Members – a dark comic fantasy that exposes the corrupt underbelly of modern China.

The Singing Corner

Swing your pants
It’s time to swing your pants! (Absolutely NONE of you will get this reference)

We had quite the musical time last week on I Am Meursault with not one but TWO posts featuring my humdrum poetry. If “If…” and my take on Calvin Trillin’s Chinese food poem didn’t take your fancy, let me try again by digging up some other old musical endeavours of mine.

Please remember that aside from a lifelong love of the Pink Trombone, I have no discernable musical talent whatsoever. However, here are a few ditties to swing your pants to:

One Night in Beijing.

One night in Beijing,
I was playing with my thing,
But the action was really quite slow.
So I found a dirty hooker,
Down an alleyway I took her,
And it only cost me 三块六!

Yang Wei Had A Little Lamb.

Yang Wei had a little lamb,
It’s fleece was right as snow.
He smashed it in the head one day,
And now he eats yang rou!

And thus, a legend was born

The Chinese Communist Party Official Night Out Song.

One Chivas,
Two Chivas,
Three Chivas,

Chivas Man
The target market for Chivas in China

Hotel Fucking Bastard Calfornia.

(First in a planned series of revised covers heard too often in China. Look out in future for Bat out of Fucking Hell, Fucking Angels, Knocking on Heaven’s Fucking Door, Mustang Fucking Sally, and Hey Fucking Jude. All of them will be sang by talentless fucks at an Open Mike Night in a Tier 3 city near you soon.)

In a bar selling Chivas, and flat Tsingtao beers,
Dickheads smoking Chunghwas, all dressed up like queers.
When ahead on the dark stage, I saw a shining spotlight,
Here was a chance to screw some local girl,
Tonight was Open-Mike Night!
Normally I’m just a teacher,
At some shitty Middle School,
But I was thinking to myself, No more Warcraft! I should try to be cool!
So I picked up my guitar, and asked my new friend Ding:
“Take care of the dice for a sec or two,
For tonight I will sing!”

“Hotel fucking bastard California”
What a bag of shit,
Even I admit,
Only complete cunts sing Hotel California,
I have no skill, my life’s gone downhill.

If this wasn’t China, no one would like my song.
But because the folks here have piss-poor taste, I’m a Zhongguo Tong!
They’ll shout out I’m hen shuai, perhaps I’ll get laid.
I’ve fucked girls before, but last time I paid.
I can’t really play guitar,
I only know three notes.
I might be a talentless shit, but even I can sow my wild oats.
Act like a chimp and you’ll be treated like a king,
So come now my fellow Western losers,
Join together and sing:

“Hotel fucking bastard California”
It’s a song for turds!
Who don’t know the words!
Raise your Chivas to the Hotel California,
It’s no big surprise, back home I’m despised…

(There was actually an audio version of this recorded by some friends of mine long ago, but it has long been lost in the mists of time sadly.)


If you enjoyed this post you may also enjoy my book Party Members – a dark comic fantasy that exposes the corrupt underbelly of modern China.

I like Chinese food

It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining high in the sky, the birds were singing, and I had finally finished JK Rowling’s absolutely terrible book The Casual Vacancy so I could finally burn it and stamp its ashes into some dog shit. My pug was curled up beside me and I had a fresh chilled can of F-Max – the lightly sparkling fish drink – in my hand. All was good in the world.

So obviously I decided to completely ruin my good mood by logging onto the internet and seeing what ridiculous shit people have been offended about this week.

You can say what you like about Americans: you can call them fat, stupid, arrogant or any number of things. Yet you must admit that they are an incredibly creative people. Never in the history of man has there been a race of people who can keep finding new and unusual things to get upset about. Whether it is not enough black people in the new all-female Ghostbusters, enough black people in the new Star Wars film but they were doing the wrong things, or even the fucking word “too”… someone, somewhere in America can find something offensive. Hell, I’m British: I call the little dot at the end of a sentence a “full stop” rather than a “period”. There’s probably some lady in California with a very useful Liberal Arts degree who probably thinks I’m dismissing women’s menstrual struggles by doing so.

This week people are upset about a man writing about Chinese food.

Calvin Trillin is a man I had never heard of until this week; mainly because I rank The New Yorker alongside Kleenex and Charmin’s Ultra Soft 3-Ply rather than War and Peace when it comes to literary worth. This Calvin Trillin fellow as well as sounding like a character from Douglas Adams’ Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy series is apparently some long-established writer and food critic who also occasionally writes doggeral verse for The New Yorker when the mood takes him.

Worse than Hitler. Look at him: I bet he’s sitting on some poor oppressed Asian-American who is just out of shot. And stolen his prawn crackers.

Here’s the poem that landed him in so much trouble:

Have they run out of provinces yet?
If they haven’t, we’ve reason to fret.
Long ago, there was just Cantonese.
(Long ago, we were easy to please.)
But then food from Szechuan came our way,
Making Cantonese strictly passé.
Szechuanese was the song that we sung,
Though the ma po could burn through your tongue.
Then when Shanghainese got in the loop
We slurped dumplings whose insides were soup.
Then Hunan, the birth province of Mao,
Came along with its own style of chow.
So we thought we were finished, and then
A new province arrived: Fukien.
Then respect was a fraction of meagre
For those eaters who’d not eaten Uighur.
And then Xi’an from Shaanxi gained fame,
Plus some others—too many to name.

Now, as each brand-new province appears,
It brings tension, increasing our fears:
Could a place we extolled as a find
Be revealed as one province behind?
So we sometimes do miss, I confess,
Simple days of chow mein but no stress,
When we never were faced with the threat
Of more provinces we hadn’t met.
Is there one tucked away near Tibet?
Have they run out of provinces yet?

Did that upset you? Were you left shaking with rage at how offensive it was after you had finished reading it? If so, you weren’t alone.


Calvin Trillin’s New Yorker poem wasn’t just offensive. It was bad satire.

The verse angered many readers, who took issue with its vision of interchangeable Chinese cuisines pouring in from endless Chinese provinces. Some interpreted the final lines as a nostalgic wish for the days when Americanized noodles represented white people’s closest contact with the Asian “other.” Words like stress, threat, fears, and fret—and the martial portent of food that “could burn through your tongue”—seemed to stoke xenophobic anxieties. At the New Republic, Timothy Yu located a long artistic tradition in which “the disgusting food of the Chinese serves as the ultimate symbol of their foreignness and their refusal to assimilate.”

The New York Times:

Calvin Trillin’s poem on Chinese food proves unpalatable for some.

But detractors argued online that his latest effort, which appeared in The New Yorker’s food and travel issue, reflected fear and ignorance of China, depicting it as teeming with overwhelming numbers of people and places.

Oh dear. It seems that quite a few people are unhappy with a white man talking about Chinese food. Well, at least Margaret Cho can use this whole storm in a teacup for an extra five minutes of comedy material.

Margaret Cho
She said it, not me.

It’s a good thing that all these upset people weren’t around in the year 1980. Imagine the outrage if they were aware that THIS existed:

Did you hear that bit at 1:16? “I like Chinese food. The waiters never are rude?” Wow. Just wow. Who the hell do Monty Python think they are culturally appropriating Chinese food for the use of a comedy song? No wonder The Life of Brian is still banned in Singapore after all the offence they must have caused people of Asian ethnicity. John Cleese really needs to check his privilege. However, as offensive as this song is, we can excuse Monty Python slightly for existing back in the unenlightened 70s and 80s. The same can’t be said for this RACIST FILTH though that was made in 2013:

I love fried rice? I love noodles? I love chow mein, chow m, m, m, m, mein?

OMG. I cannot even. 

In fairness, it isn’t China for once that it is kicking up a fuss about all this nonsense. It’s whiners in America. China seems to be far too busy this week in its kidnapping of Taiwanese citizens from Kenya, sticking bags on their heads and making them look like it is their turn to be “bitch” in the Guantanamo Bay Lights Out Club. However, to try and heal the wounds that all this racial prejudice has caused, allow me to help redress the balance. I’m not in any way insinuating that most Chinese people have only a shallow understanding of modern American cuisine, but I present to you:

Have They Run Out Of Hamburgers Yet?

Have they run out of hamburgers yet?
Or is it as endless as their debt?
McDonalds came with Big Macs and fries,
Soon even Zhengzhou had a franchise.
Next came along old Colonel Sanders,
Pushed new stores through Party back-handers.
Everyone flocked to eat their Zingers,
The spice had all licking their fingers.
Burger King was entry number three,
Pushing aside even KFC.
Then Hunan, the birth province of Mao,
Even they loved to eat Han Bao Bao.
So much fast food out to ruin ya,
And here’s one more: fucking Carl’s Junior.
China was full of burger trendies,
Hoping for Taco Bell and Wendy’s.
Home-grown Dico’s was classed as shitty,
Never growing beyond Tier-3 city.

As the burger chains gain in vigour,
Chinese waistlines seem to get bigger.
The French fries, mayo and burger grease,
Combine to make China more obese.
We need to enforce stronger treaties,
To stop this laowai diabetes.
Close down their sites on the internet,
That’s how we deal with a foreign threat.
Do they have McDonalds in Tibet?
Have they run out of hamburgers yet?


If you enjoyed this post you may also enjoy my book Party Members – a dark comic fantasy that exposes the corrupt underbelly of modern China.

Yang Wei #9: Trump

Trump. Trump. Trump.

You can’t open a newspaper or a website these days without seeing the immaculately coiffured hair of Donald J Trump shining back at you.

It seems there’s no stopping the Trump Train. News of the man that the Chinese alternatively call “川普” or “Not the black one” has even reached the bottom tier cities where Mr Yang Wei calls home. Let’s see what this esteemed individual has to say about America’s potential next Commander in Chief…


I wrote a version of this way back in 2007, but this version is better. It’s probably the most indulgent thing I’ve ever written, but at least it has iambic pentameter. For those of you not familiar with Rudyard Kipling’s poem, you can read the wonderful original here.


“If you can keep on lying when all about you

Are seeing through your lies and blaming it on you,

If you can blame others though all men doubt you,

But do it loudly enough to carry it through;

If you can’t wait and get tired by queuing,

Queues are for the weak, don’t bother with queues,

Hate the dissenters, no matter what they’re doing,

Don’t listen to others, ignore their views:


“If you can cheat – and cheat others faster;

If you can bully – and bully those who aren’t the same;

If you can look at victims of environmental disaster

And laugh at the wretches with disdain;

If you can’t bear to hear the truth when it’s spoken

By Taiwanese separatists or Tibetan slaves,

Or you live in a country where everything is broken,

And you don’t stop your son when he misbehaves:


“If you can look at all that is good and true

And deny it all for the sake of face,

And ignore SARS, AIDS, and bird-flu

For the honour of the Motherland and her “pure-blood” race;

If you can litter the earth with piss and shit

And imprison grannies who study Falun Gong,

And hold up high your right to spit

Though others look at you and shout “You’re wrong!”


“If you can blend in crowds and join the mob,

Or drive your Audi down a cycle path,

If you only sip tea and eat banquets in your job,

If you see others hurt, and choose to laugh;

If your good deeds can be summed in a minute

And lies and corruption are all you’ve done,

Yours is the world and all the gold in it,

And – which is more – you’ll be a Han, my son!”

Yang Wei #8: Virgin Airways

If you have eyes, fingers and an internet connection, you probably read recently about the latest round of drama involving Mainland Chinese tourists on plane flights. The difference this time is that instead of being the one commiting some obnoxious offence, the lady in question claimed she was verbally abused on a Virgin Atlantic flight and called a “fucking Chinese pig” by a Western passenger.

Much drama ensued…

I am a seasoned traveller around Asia and I find it astonishing that anybody could call a Mainland Chinese tourist a “pig”, fucking or otherwise. I’m 100% sure that the Mainland Chinese tourist did absolutely nothing wrong at all to warrant being branded as a pig – normally they are respectful and polite passengers who are very considerate to other people around them.

Shit… it’s no longer April 1st, is it?

Mr Yang Wei was so incensed after reading this slur on his people that he had to take a holiday to calm down. Let’s see what happened.