Dissecting The Funniest Video In The World

I'm back, yes, whoop whoop. Started university, got money, got paid and all that nonsense. In my absence as you'd expect I've spent a lot of time on the internet, and only tonight have I encountered the funniest video I have ever seen.

Being from Wigan, anything remotely funny from there is instantly given cult status by my community, purely for the fact Wigan has fuck all else to be proud of. A little YouTube video has reached a bump in popularity over the past few days, popping up on facebook a few times, and finally I decided to click on one of the links. Here it is, anyway.

It really is terribrill (terrible/brilliant). On the surface, it's nothing more than some drunk fool falling down some stairs then getting shouted at. That's funny! But the humour is actually much deeper, and when you look into it, this could easily be one of the most well written comedy sketches of all time.

First of all, the stage is set. A shirtless man stands atop a flight of stairs, dancing like a madman, and the cameraman slurs his words poetically, to let us know that there is clearly a lot of alcohol about. We can tell from the positions of these two men (and of course the title of the video) that there is going to be some sort of stunt, which is beautifully confirmed by the well-dressed chap who makes his way down the stairs, saying 'let me get down bottom', obviously for a better view.

Here we see the first 'hidden joke'. This is something you would expect from the comedy minds of Graham Linehan (Father Ted) or Gervais & Merchant (The Office); brilliantly layered comedy. As soon as the smartly dressed boy makes his way out of the frame of the camera, a sock-bearing individual is revealed. It's just perfect. We know that everyone there is drunk and surely parading around with only a sock hiding your dignity is the epitome of all inebriated antics. The contrast between the shirt wearing boy and the almost completely naked one is almost too good to make up.

I can't quite make out what 'Gordon' is saying to the sock wearing man, but it sounds like he's saying that there's a serious risk of injury, and he wants to try it first to be safe. Makes perfect sense. Furthermore, why is he being called 'Gordon' instead of his real name, Jordan? Surely this is just an in-joke between friends, so it's safe to presume that he has been conditioned to the deliberate mistake, but what if he hasn't? He's clearly drunk enough to mishear 'Gordon' as 'Jordan', so again, this could be the work of a comedian.

Then, we just have the innocent bystander, on the landing with the camera, counting down. A typical element of comedy, he is merely there to observe and add perspective to the situation, clearly the most 'normal' person in the frame and the one you (the audience) are expected to relate to. However, he adds his own little bit of funny with the "on your marks, get set, go". 'Gordon' completely misses his cue and sends himself flying down the stairs like a rag doll. He falls to his knees completely expressionless and tumbles... it is beautiful physical comedy. Landing on his knees, we can see he is completely unfazed, proud even that his trick has worked to full effect, only to discover there are a few stairs left. At this point he just gives up and goes limp, crashing into the banister. The cackle of the cameraman gives the audience the cue to burst out laughing, topped up by his final fall to the floor and clutching of his head.

But now is when we really get professional. As he gets up, the cameraman pans perfectly across, capturing his entire erection (ooh er). The look of quiet confidence is now of complete fear and bewilderment, as a torrent of abuse spills from some woman, with the cameraman's laughter staying consistent.

The woman's foul, colloquial speech touches the funny bone of different people for different reasons. People from Wigan will find it the funniest for the pure rage that is involved; she is absolutely fuming, and the line "I'll phone your fucking Dad" is just the icing on the cake. Others will take only from the fact that we know why he's panicking, and she has taken control of the situation, completely changing the tone of the video. We are no longer laughing for the stunt involved, but at the completely new comedic situation of the muscular, shirtless man being put into submission by the shrieking anti-heroine.

Then comes the killer. "You want see state of our Wes." With the video cutting off in perfect time, the completely useless excuse for his behaviour just tips off the video in such a gorgeous fashion. With 'Gordon' in-jokes, threats to phone Dads and 'our Wes', we can see that this is a sort of family affair, and that taps into our nosy nature. We're laughing at what we can only presume is a typical night in for this household, which makes it all the funnier.

The characters in this 23 second video are so fantastically layered but we don't even notice. This really is the funniest video on the internet. Now it's easy to say that I could do this for any video, but this one just caught my eye, and is perfect. This really is just the best video on the internet. The accidentally professional camerawork, unintentionally multi-dimensional characters... perfect. And why have I written about it? Because I want to. Deal with it.

The Famous Peter is back, thanks kids.

My Personal Hangover

We've all had a hangover. Whether it be from ale, an overwhelming Christmas dinner or an innocent drugs binge, they're not particularly pleasant. A heavy head, dry mouth and stench of your misdemeanours is never a good way to start off a day, so you're always in a vile mood for the next few hours. They're not particularly entertaining to recount to friends, or to watch someone else have. They also have varying degrees; you can have mega bad ones. These are once in a lifetime hangovers, usually experienced after one's 18th or wedding, where Armageddon is a particularly attractive prospect as you lug your decrepit, aching body round your obliterated bachelor pad you bought to be independent, only to forget a microwave is something you should buy before a plasma telly, you ridiculous cretin. But imagine you have two of these really bad hangovers... in the space of about two years. Where you've pissed the bed, smashed your computer and sent hate emails to every friend, ex, acquaintance and potential employer you can think of. That's shit. Too soon. You still haven't recovered.

Well, I feel like that's happened to me; and I've never even had one of these mega-hangovers. My hangover calls itself a hangover, and even though it's not really, it's just as painful, just as pointless, and it feels like a worse version of stuff I've already experienced. My hangover is The Hangover. The film, The Hangover.

"Peter, that's a shit start to an article. They just share the same name. Fuck off and go and write for a newspaper you gayboy."

The problem is, they share more than a name. Hangovers aren't funny. Hangovers for me are at their worst where you can really feel them for about 90 minutes, then they fade, but the pain is still lingering. You always hear people talking about hangovers, and how they were worth it.

The Hangover isn't funny. The Hangover is terrible for 90 minutes, then stops, but its shitness lingers. Everyone talks about The Hangover 2 and says it was worth the wait and whatnot. The Hangover is having a hangover effect. As someone who uses a popular social networking website reasonably frequently, it's unavoidable. After a night out, I always check popular social networking website to untag photos and the like, and it's always there. Morons 'liking' pages dedicated to individual quotes from the film, and then the abhorrent main page for the movie, which is littered with retards saying things like (actual posts) "ITS LOVE FILM", "i wish monkeys had skype" and "great great movie... alen ur the best ....n drug dealer monkey too". It's sad, really.

What is the point to these films? It's typecasting at its very worst. I actually feel sorry for Zach Galifianiakis, he's actually really funny when he wants to be. Instead, he plays the same character in The Hangover series, Due Date and Dinner for Schmucks (which I know of). The strange, bearded weirdo that you feel you've got to love to enjoy the film. Although I can't complain too much when Tom Hanks has been doing a separate character over and over for the past 20 years. The film itself is drawn out and boring. It's a typical American comedy: unusually different protagonists in a harsh, unfamiliar environment, who are introduced to fucked up and unrealistic side characters in the process of following the story which is usually to find or take control of someone or something just to get everything back to normal. From the greats like Airplane! to the bargain bin select that is Burn Hollywood, Burn!, the formula is being replicated over and over again in today's films. Zombieland, Hot Tub Time Machine, Date Night... the list really does go on. It's easy to say that it's just one of the basic comedy recipes, but there's no proper originality any more. I'm not going to give suggestions but I will slate the whole 'lost/confused in the big (possibly foreign) city' storyline, usually Las Vegas. One of the actors, Ed Helms, had the cheek to claim it was original somewhat: "I think part of what's special about this movie is that none of the comedy comes from the characters being clever, like you see in a lot of sitcoms or movies..." That's original? Stupid people? That shows just how stretched they are for originality nowadays, they have to fake it.

As if that's not enough, I haven't even mentioned (although you've hopefully already noticed) that the Hangover 2 is another sequel. Films aren't films any more, they're franchises. Even if the first film was funny, a tired, unnecessary sequel like the Hangover's completely eradicates any sort of merit or enjoyment. Sequels can be overlooked (Jaws 2, An American Werewolf in Paris), but when they're in mediocre to shit franchises (Scary Movie to the Hangover), therefore liked by complete morons, the idiotic studio gives gigantic quantities of publicity to them, and inevitably become impossible to avoid.

The Hangover has brought upon itself every possible wrong that is prevalent in the film industry today. But it's not entirely the makers' fault. They're feeding the audience which does exist and wants these sorts of films, and to be fair, the films are hugely successful in financial terms, they'll get praise for that. Also, the originality shortage can't be helped too much; most ideas have already been used and because they're original, the imitations have run the concept dry (The Hangover itself to me is just a Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas clone). In the end, I know I'm going to have to compromise by digging through the shit to find a half decent film. Sometimes there are really funny mainstream comedies, the most recent I can think of being Forgetting Sarah Marshall, made by a fantastic Jason Segel performance. But until Hollywood eases itself away from lusting over commercial success and kills Jason Friedberg & Aaron Seltzer,  nobody's going to win, and it doesn't look like any of that is happening anytime soon. For now, I'm just going to sit back, relax, and put Jaws on loop.

I Can't Even Explain Why

I've been away for a while, thanks for noticing. I've had a lot of work, not a lot of free time and sadly, The Famous Peter has been derelict for a good few months. It was going to be that way until about July, but something recently has really made my ears prick up. More than that, in fact; it's sent me fucking livid. I've seen war, famine, poverty and Ince, but nothing could ever prepare me for the abhorrent abomination that is Teenage YouTube Tune Sensations, or TYTS.

The first one (well, it was the first one to be noticed) appeared with Rebecca Black. I don't need to explain her to you (if you've ravaged through the internet long enough to find this dark corner you've no doubt come across her along the way), but she can't go without a mention nowadays when somebody's talking about internet trends. She got a video, x million hits later there's all manner of imitations plaguing my facebook news feed, emails and even newspaper when the cyberbullying "got out of hand". One of the most notorious copycats is a 13 year old girl called Jenna Rose. Jenna is your typical American upper-middle class girl; spoilt by her (probably) single mother and so far up her own arse she can headbutt her gallbladder. So what's special? Well, she indulged in the new fad of making a music video (much like Rebecca Black) paid for by her mother to the princely sum of roughly $2,000. Now, if I were to ask for that amount of money in my house, I'd be branded a puff and thrown into the nearest Byker Grove resembling building to sort my life out. However, she's American (and a girl). The land of the free; Bald Eagles and all that jazz. She can do whatever DA FUHK she wants.

The result was 'My Jeans'. Released on the 1st of October 2010 over the YouTubes (four months before 'Friday'), it was nothing more than a silent fart in the couch of the internet. Of course, the great wankstain that is Rebecca Black came along, so people obsessed over that, and 'My Jeans' saw a revival, as a cult following for shit music developed. Page hits rocketed, as did the media attention. She merited the same amount of celebrity as anyone who has ever been near a Big Brother house. So, when every comment is abusive, your support is purely ironic and an entire hemisphere is laughing at you, what do you do?

FOLLOW IT UP AND WHORE YOURSELF OUT.

Jenna donned some extraordinarily skimpy pants, no doubt recommended to her by a loving, attention starved mother, and filmed this abomination. It's horrible. Out of tune, everything. But I'm not comprehensively reviewing this tripe; for me it doesn't merit the title of actual music. But I will see into a few things.

Firstly, the lyrics. Now, I rarely say this as I am rarely surprised or shocked, but what the fuck is going on? This is a ~12 year old girl. Why is she singing "oh my God, she looks good, oh my God, you know you wish you could..." What does that mean? What the hell is she doing? Was this song written in part by Chris Hansen? The song does follow up to explain that she means other girls would wish they could look like her, but again, that's no example to set to kids her age. Without getting all Christian Mothers' Association, she's vile. Really vile. The sexual content of this video is higher than most Gaga or Rihanna flicks. Given that Jenna has made two videos, and 50% of her videos are sexually explicit, this makes her one of the most inappropriate artists in the music business. I shuddered as I typed in music; it's still just noise to me.

Worst of all? She's not even getting any real fiscal benefits from all this. The only good thing she's getting is a lot of attention as goodness-knows-who watches this crap all over the world, only for her to be forgotten in a few years. The studio made the video and the song; her mother paid for the production and the most she'll get is a little over reimbursement (at least this happened to Rebecca Black, although she is rumoured to independently be following 'Friday' up). It's capitalism at its worst. TYTs are pathetic, seasonal fads that plague the internet like an ecstasy tablet. Everyone's happy for the first few hours but then it just gets all annoying and terrifying; you keep getting offered new ones, as everyone else looks like they're enjoying it but you know it's bad for society and against everything you stand for... so yeah, they're bollocks.

And worse still, the rise of the TYTS doesn't seem to be fading away. 'O.M.G.' is only a week old and has already amassed 1.5m views. Mothers all over the place will be trying to get their TYTS out and show them to the world. Luckily, it seems to have contained itself within America so far. Let's keep our fingers crossed that autotune is kept illegal for children on these shores.

How Effective are our Protests?

Since the Tories have got back into government, there has been an onslaught of protests and demonstrations against their various moves and proposals. Most significantly, the proposed changes to the tuition fees system. Since the coalition announced plans to raise the cap (currently at £3,290pa) to over £9,000, there has not been a day gone by where it has not made the papers. In my opinion, quite rightly. The Lib Dems lied. Nick Clegg, a PR man much like his senior in 10 Downing Street, chose one of the top jobs in the country over his party's promises and the interests of his voters. I can remember a statistic from the election coverage which claimed that 70% of Lib Dem voters would oppose a coalition with the Conservatives. Still, Clegg managed to put himself first and threw his morals down the well. Now, one of the main, solid policies that the Lib Dems used to get the 18-21 year olds' vote was defied by the man who had pledged to follow it in writing. Since, outrage has been rife.

It started with the main London protest; the march on Millbank Tower which resulted in a fire extinguisher being flung off a roof and a few windows being smashed. And that's all you ever heard about. Forget the thousands of protesters who sat back and behaved, peacefully but assertively protesting against deceit by the Deputy Prime Minister's party; there was some violence going on. There are three possibilities we can draw from this. The first is that the media covered the story in a way that satisfied the bloodlust most British people have. We're viewed as incredibly boring and stuck up by Johnny Foreigner, but there's nothing more we like to see than a fight. The second possibility is that the newspaper writers themselves felt that the story was boring: a load of students smashing shit up. Just go round King Street in Wigan on a Friday, it happens all the time there. Problem is, they're obliged to cover it. Or, it could be that the media outlets strongly opposed the protests altogether, and decided to depict every protester as an ignorant, stupid, extinguisher throwing thug. I would say the latter is the most likely story as most newspapers (The Sun, Telegraph, Mail, Express, Guardian, Times) backed either the Tories or the Lib Dems, and it would be rather hypocritical of them to cover a mini-revolution in an unbiased way when they themselves tried to convince the public to vote how they wanted them to. However, all three possibilities played a part in how the story was covered. Journalists want to sell papers, cover what they have to, and put a bit of opinion and spin in there. That's just the basic ingredients for a good article. God, even I admit to it. I want people to read this website, cover what matters (so it's interesting, by no means am I obliged to) and get my word in. It's just common sense when you're allowed to do it.

But if we zoom out, what does this tell us about how protests are received nowadays? The only truly impartial coverage of the Millbank Tower protests were the live pictures being fed onto BBC News as they were taking place, and even then, the hooligans smashing the windows were branded 'thugs' and 'idiots'. Now, I don't doubt for a second that the minority of protesters who decided it would be a good idea to smash down the front of the building were stupid, but the BBC hesitated to insist that these people were a minority. Not until they interviewed a chap from the NUS did we know that 90% of the people at the protest had no intention of causing criminal damage, and probably half of the people storming into the building and throwing chairs and tables over were not affiliated with the NUS in any way, nor were they even students. They were troublemakers who capitalised on being able to blend into a crowd.

Without the clashes, this story would've received very little coverage. Sure enough as I said before, the papers were somewhat obliged to cover it, but a little paragraph on page 4 would probably have been it in the broadsheets. As soon as they saw the chance to present the mostly peaceful protest as some angst filled rampage by a load of spotty kids, they jumped on it. I was reading the Mail the day after (it wasn't mine, I promise you), and all they decided to show was people kicking in windows. The headline read something like 'THUGS SMASH MILLBANK". Thugs did smash Millbank. But students protested against fees, and that's what's important. The actions of a few minor individuals who join in on what are nearly always peaceful protests manage to make the front pages by doing anything that is immoral. Pissing in the street, smashing a window, putting two fingers up to a policeman... with the sliminess of the papers and the stupidity of the majority of their readers, these little things can make a very meaningful event by thousands of people be personified by one man with his pants down running at a copper in riot gear, and all it takes is one headline in BIG BOLD LETTERS and a blurry picture.

Protests exist to get attention for a cause. To show how many people disagree or agree. There is no better way to get attention than through the media, but when the media is powerful and biased enough to make you look like Gandhi's following or Malcolm X's, everyone has to behave. And let's be honest, that's never going to happen. So the question still stands. Anyone can take a picture. That anyone can send it to a paper. They can write whatever they want. Facts go out the window. The readers decide what they want to decide. And when even our politicians are lying through their teeth constantly, what hope do the sensible, honest people have when they want to make a point?

The Famous Peter Visits The Rugby

It had just turned midnight. I stumbled out of Wigan Wallgate train station to see the bright lights of Mr Joe's Kebab House and the glistening taxi rank. My head was spinning and there was a huge grin on my face... I had returned to a winner's town. The home of Wigan Warriors, 2010 Super League Champions, and I was there to see them lift the trophy. Strange, considering I only saw my first Rugby match in June.

Wigan's 38-22 win over Castelford just over three months ago was my first taste of Rugby League. It was fast, physical and the crowd really got into it; with the dwindling quality and scandal (not involving the sport itself) surrounding the increasingly celebrity Premier League at the moment, it was a breath of fresh air. Keeping track of the Warriors for the rest of the season, I noticed they reached the Grand Final. Within seconds of doing so, my phone rang. A very excited man answered.

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!"

"Congratulations! And yes, I'm definitely coming."

"Right you fucking are!"

I'd invited myself along, and on the 2nd of October, at 11.35am, I was sat on a train bound for Manchester. I was with my good friend, Jack (the excited man) and his family. I was carrying a sports bag full of ale and wearing a borrowed 08/09 jersey. Me and Jack cracked open our first cans of the day, and supped for good luck and loss of memory.

"Bit early for that?" his uncle protested.

"Nah," Jack replied. "It's nearly midday, I think we're a bit late to be honest."

His uncle grumbled and looked out the window. We discussed our optimism and the past season (I smiled and nodded) whilst the train prepared to leave. Five minutes and half a Tetley's later, we were moving, and the man who had previously protested to our early start on the alcohol had a Foster's at his lips.

Sing-songs didn't work on the train journey. Considering we live in Wigan, a start before 3pm is usually unheard of, so most people were tired and appeared unenthusiastic... still, we tried to chant away, ignoring the glares.

The train pulled up in Victoria station and we headed to our first familiar destination: the pub. As we did so, we spotted a stray bag in the main foyer of the station. My instinct was to be suspicious: an abandoned bag in the middle of one of the busiest areas in the city on the day of a huge sporting event? My party has also noticed. Despite what could've happened, we proceeded to shout "BOMB" and "BAG! ON ITS OWN! CALL THE POLICE!", jokingly of course. We didn't stop to shout, and as we left, I looked back to see a man in a Turban pick up the large black hold-all. I fell silent, then laughed heartily. Does that make me racist? No, I just found it funny due to being brought up in the most terror-fearing age we've ever lived in, and if you can't laugh, what can you do?

The Oyster House by the Arndale was fit to burst when we arrived, but there was still room for more. We'd never heard of the beer they were serving (Samuel Smiths) but it was cheap and we were thirsty... perfect. Jack was on the lager while I stuck to the bitter; I don't mix beers after having learnt the hard way about 4 times this year. Suddenly, a figure appeared on the steps facing the beer garden. A man wearing all black: hoody, gloves, pants, shoes, sunglasses, the works, carrying a hold-all. He strolled around the pub once then placed his bag down on a wall by the steps and surveyed the rugby goers. He had grabbed the attention of most of us by now, and we watched him unzip his bag to reveal a cheap, tatty old boombox. He pressed play, and some obscure dance track blared out. Those of us who weren't already staring at him were now transfixed on his pose: arms outstretched to the sky, legs shoulder width apart and his face like a rabbit in a pair of headlights.

Then he started dancing. It was extraordinary. His wrists couldn't bend. His face didn't change. He looked like an arthritic Rod Stewart trying to get a possum off his back. Now the chanting had begun, from "TAKE IT OFF" to "YOU'RE SHIT, AND YOU KNOW YOU ARE", everyone had an opinion and it wasn't considered valid until you shouted it a the top of your voice... which is typical of this day and age: even if what you're saying is completely stupid, talk loud enough and people will believe you. Away from sociology, this was funny, and 'Ray' proceeded to hold up his big cardboard sign, showing his name followed by "BRITAIN'S GOT TALENT X FACTOR YOUTUBE SUPERSTAR", attracting more cheers. He carried on for a good 15 minutes, even gathering a crowd outside the beer garden and having one or two drunkards join in: his 'fans' only stopped cheering to quite rightly boo any passing St. Helens fans.

4 cheap pints later, we finally headed to the stadium. Of course, we stopped off in another pub on the way. Inside, I came face to face with the one cross section of the Manchester community I did not want to meet. United fans.

This was a rugby day! Not football! The walls were plastered with "MUFC SUPPORTERS CLUB" stickers and the like, as we were a 5 minute walk away from the stadium this was no doubt one of the main watering holes of the Red Devils. I weaved through the fat, sweating fans (trying my best not to touch any shirts, they burn) to the bar, and felt relieved as I ordered in the next round.

On my way to the beer garden, I spotted a man on an electronic games machine. What made it special was he was on Battleships. And he was getting science questions wrong. I did what any sensible citizen would do and stood by him, shouting out answers at the top of my voice to aid him. He didn't win; I gave him a wronganswer intentionally at the end. Why? A, he was wearing a Manchester United top and B, feed the machine! I slotted in 50p. 10 minutes later, I was £1.50 down. I decided to finally head back to my companions. We wolfed down a good 3 beers and after one of the most nomadic drinking sessions of all time, Old Trafford was calling our names.

We entered the stadium positively buzzing. I sprinted up the stairs, looking like a retard, but I didn't care. For once, unlike a football game, all of the fans were talking about the game ahead. They were talking about players, stats, and the opposition through their teeth, rather than beer and the latest affairs of their reserve striker. I skipped buying a £4 programme and settled down in my minimum-legroom seat, which was perfect for me, a six foot twobloke. We chilled for twenty or so minutes, until it began. The players came out to an unbelievable amount of noise. A sea of cherry and white dominated my field of vision, and the sound of manic passion drowned out the speaker system.

Then, the players lined up to dedicate a minute of silence to the deceased Terry Newton, who had died a week earlier. Now, I always stay quiet, no matter who it is. Munich air disaster, Hillsborough, Alan Ball, when they were remembered I was silent. But anyone who was at Old Trafford on the 2nd of October will know how disgraceful that minute was. I don't know who they supported or what they were saying, but about a dozen retards were asking for a kicking... you never interrupt a silence.

Either way, the game was nearly underway. I grinned to everyone around me and they all replied with an even bigger smile. The teams were lined up, and the Super League XV Grand Final was ready to go.

And the rest is history.

It was good. Very, very, very good. We headed back to Wigan (after two more pubs) with our heads high from euphoria and hanging from excessive alcohol and tiredness. My voicebox was shredded and my eyes were fuzzy, but it was worth it. To see my hometown team win the biggest trophy in the country was just excellent. There was not a single sad face on the train home (because it didn't go through St. Helens) and the singing continued right up until the crowd filtered away outside the train station. A portion of chips and cab ride later, I was home at the admirable time of 1.30am. I collapsed into bed and fell asleep smiling.

It was a great day, and one that 35,000 other people alongside me won't be forgetting anytime soon. I'm a Warrior, and it's going to stay that way for as long as I can see.