Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

When I was a kid I used to love "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" and so I'd
watch it about 5 times a week on our massive Grundig tele, which, at the time, was state
of the art technology and at the forefront of televisual advancement. It was one of them
big bulky ones in a wooden casing that you see as the major prize on repeats of "Blankety
Blank" on Challenge TV. I'd sit crossed legged on the living room floor in my Flintstones
bib and brace and stare longingly at the convex screen, dreaming of one day being as
lucky as little Charlie Scuzzbucket. The kid had hair like a shattered bread crate, and
wore clobber that a scarecrow would feel a cúnt in, but still, I envied the fictitious little
vermin so much. I'd take the tape out of it's massive plastic case and slide it into a tape
deck that popped up from the top of the recorder, before settling down to enter a world of
pure imagination. My mouth would water as the opening credits rolled, my young eyes
witnessing the mass production of fantastic and miraculous confectionary, that I would
later realise was just a manual conveyor belt with a few of them shítty teacake
marshmallows that you get from Home & Bargain. The sweets in the film seemed so
much more exotic and exciting than the ones I was used to and I was consumed by
jealousy, despising the five góbshités that wormed their way into Wonka's paradise. I was
under the impression that Wonka's chocolate was something special and so I was
traumatised when I finally discovered that it was just a few Wagon Wheels wrapped in
some different packaging. We had about 9 packets of them in the fridge at the time and
they were fúckíng disgusting. They tasted like the decaying underlay of the living room
carpet, but my mum would still buy them every week without fail, even though nobody
ever touched the fúckíng things. I'd say; "Look mum, do yourself a favour and stop
buying them Wagon Wheels, alright? They're horrible!" But, as she was unpacking the
shopping the next day, out would come a long packet of fúckíng Wagon Wheels. It was
like Mary Poppins' handbag as she unfurled a twenty-foot long packet of the cúnts from
an eighteen-inch Farmfoods carrier bag. Yes, I did say Farmfoods. I was Liverpool's
answer to Charlie Bucket. I used to have to take my P.E kit to school in an inside out
Farmfoods carrier bag, but you could still blatantly see the stigmatised logos. As clear as
day they were. You'd have thought I'd have accepted our poor social standing with
dignity, but no, I was ashamed, and so tried to hide the fact with ineffectual tactics, such
as the reversal of translucent carrier bags, and coating my Reebok Pump trabs with about
four inches of shoe whitener to make them look new. I used to pray that it wouldn't rain
while I was in school, because a heavy downpour would strip the whitener clean off my
wheels, meaning I'd leave a trail of blotchy footprints in my wake. You could say I was
the contemporary Charlie Bucket, carrying the inherited torch of the social deadbeats.

One of the first scenes I remember from the film is "The Candy Man" song in the
sweetshop, where some oily haired oddball is belting out these woefully saccharine lyrics
about a reclusive confectioner, and mincing about with a gang of kids; all of whom are
bedecked in some of the most abysmal 1970's get-up you are ever likely to see. Out of
absolutely nowhere this fúckíng heretic in a bowtie opens his neck and just bursts into
song, and one of the lines goes; 'The Candy Man can 'cause he mixes it with love and
makes the world taste good'. Now, is it just me, or do the words 'mixes it with love' evoke
some really ugly and sinister mental images? Hearing that line as an adolescent made my
blood run cold, and the words sent an icy cold shiver down the curvature of my spine, as
the diabolical images made their very unwelcome appearance behind my eyes. There, as
clear as day in my minds eye, was a vision of Willy Wonka, stark bóllóck naked in the
cooking room, and tightly gripping the base of his cóck as he frantically stirred a pan of
melted Bourneville with his eight inches of hardened panic. His cóck had the same
dimensions as a long can of Insette hair lacquer, and he was just standing there, whisking
a pan of milk chocolate with his chaos as though it was the most natural thing in the
world. He had a look on his face that said; "that's right, I'm churning chocolate with my
carnage, what's your fúckíng issue here?" He howled demonically with laughter as he
mixed it with love, and then trolleyed his scrogg right into the mix, firing out a couple of
cóck snacks directly into his special recipe. He wasn't remotely interested in basic food
hygiene or health and safety regulations. He just uncorked his cóck and hurtled a couple
of sachets of stagnant sterri right into his magical formula. It's supposed to be a song
about spreading love to kids and the promotion of happy thoughts, but, all's I got as a 12
year old were ghoulish apparitions of Skip Donohue from "Stir Crazy" emptying his
bootbag all over the snozzberry wallpaper, and violently hiccupping his cóck drink all
over the giant novelty lollipops.

In fact, the entire film appears to be laced with songs that contain highly suggestive and
somewhat provocative lyrics. For instance, upon entry into 'the chocolate room', which
was the most extravagant room in the entire factory, Willy Wonka sings; "Cúm with me
and you'll be in a world of pure imagination". Again, maybe it's just me, but can you
honestly tell me that this line does not at least nod towards the concept of group
masturbation and group ejaculation? He's basically saying; "partake in my sordid wánk
fantasy kids, and let's all web our motion muck in unison. And, if you're up for it, we'll
bukake Beauregarde". It wouldn't surprise me if the lyricist of these songs, Leslie
Bircusse, was in fact a paedophile. As well as all the controversial songs in this film he
also wrote titles such as "We Don't Wanna Grow Up" and "When You're Alone" for
another well known children's film called "Hook". The circumstantial evidence is
mounting here, don't you think? I think he intended his works to be deliberately
ambiguous so he could refute any potential accusations of indecency, and so he could
then twist it around and blame our perverted minds for the interpretation. I think he must
have grown a bit nervous in 1978, though, when he penned the anxiously titled "Can You
Read My Mind" for "Superman". Yes, I can actually, mate, so stop thinking about
fúckíng kids, you despicable monster. Some paedophiles actually try to justify their
actions by attempting to place their desires and urges into some sort of context via a
perversely twisted logic. They'll say something like; "You may have an addiction and that
addiction may well be chocolate. It just so happens that my addiction is children. I'm
addicted to children. We both have addictions, only to different things. We're
fundamentally the same, so what exactly is the difference between you and I?" I'll tell
you what the difference is shall I? I don't go around fúcking innocent Dairy Milks up the
ársé and destroying their childhood innocence in the process. Just stop shággíng kids, you
fúckíng animal.

If you're not already convinced that the lyrics are extremely questionable then here's
another example for your consideration. When Veruca Salt is singing her showpiece song
she utters the words; "give it to me now" on four separate occasions. Once I could
forgive, but four times? That's just begging to be ravaged in my opinion. I wouldn't have
blamed Charlie and Mike Teevee if they'd have steamed in and took her up on her
desperate offer. If a girl your own age is singing "give it to me now" at the top of her
voice, what are you supposed to do; stand there like an idiot, or get lung deep in fánny
wax and then blast your velocity vinegar into her timepiece? I know which option I'd
pursue, and it heavily involves my salty boom juice. As if the dubious lyrics weren't
enough; what area of the factory does she choose to express these words? That's right, in
the goose room. She sings "give it to me now" in the goosing room. There isn't a jury on
Earth that would convict a man that had chosen to ignore his inhibitions and go right
through that brazen whóré. In fact, exhibit A of the defence team's case would be the
following lines from the song; "I want the works, I want the whole works! / Presents and
prizes and sweets and surprises in all shapes and sizes." If that's not pleading for a
massive gáng-báng then I don't know what is. The judge would bang his gavel and
declare "not guilty" within minutes. Incidentally, did you know that Roy Kinnear, the fat
cúnt that played 'Henry Salt', died when he was flung headfirst from a horse during the
filming of "The Return of the Musketeers" in 1989, shattering his pelvis on impact, and
bled to death as a result? A man like that had absolutely no business riding around on
such an animal, so in a way, I'm glad he went over the handlebars and permanently
winded himself. Roy Kinnear, the expired Musketeer.

During the "Candy Man" song the shopkeeper starts scaling ladders and throwing sweets
all over the place as the kids go berserk, foaming at the mouth because he's flinging out
half a dozen Fox's Glacier Mints. Ask yourself this question and then think very carefully
before you answer. If you had to choose the kid from that sweetshop that was most likely
to mature into a homicidal maniac, or the one most likely to deflate his nan's thought tank
with a claw hammer; which one would it be? My answer would be the little sociopathic
cúnt that's sitting on a stool at the counter, filling his greedy lungs with a double helping
of homemade apple crumble while there is fúckíng pandemonium all around him. There's
about 50 kids crammed into the shop, off their fúckíng clocks on sugar and pure
adrenalin, and this freckle faced vermin is sitting there in the eye of the storm, chowing
down on a pastry based dessert. There has to be something mentally wrong with any kid
that can sit calmly while some clown is showering the masses with trowelfuls of dusty
mint imperials, let alone sit and eat what is effectively the pudding that followed your
school dinner. Near the end of the scene the children begin taking liberties and start to
help themselves to whatever they want; it's a free for all and everybody takes advantage
of the unusual situation. Then, the camera pans slowly across the shop to reveal Charlie
fúckíng Bucket, standing gloomily outside the shop window with a heavy heart and a
longing stare. Instead of wallowing in self pity and embracing the role of victim, why
doesn't he just go inside and stuff his slacks full of Black Jacks? It's all free you little
prick. You've got no excuse this time, so stop trying to bring everyone else down with
your pathetic little sob story, you morbid little Catweasle. In fact, I think Bill, the candy
shop owner, must be running his business at a loss because he hardly ever seems to
charge anybody for anything. In hindsight, the film is a load of unrealistic búllshít, but as
a kid I thought the whole plot and the scenes were entirely plausible. After seeing this
particular scene and witnessing the unbridled joy on the kid's faces as cóckswípe doled
out the free pear drops, I excitedly and expectantly went to Barry's sweetshop by ours,
and secretly hoped that the 'Candy Man' scene would be magically recreated. Upon entry,
some fat cúnt who I presumed was Barry violently screeched; "take your bike outside,
you little príck!" What a bad fúckíng arlarse. Barry wasn't wearing a novelty bowtie,
singing songs or giving out free treats at all; he was handing out dream shattering
diatribes and wrecking my fúckíng life. I was totally and utterly shell-shocked, and stood
there motionless for about 20 seconds, tears welling up in my eyes as my bottom lip
started doing impressions of Cerebral Palsy. I'd sailed into the shop on my bike, standing
on one pedal with both feet like a postman, full of optimism and high on life, but within
seconds I was in ruins, reversing my 'Airwolf' bike dejectedly out of the narrow doorway.
Stringfellow Hawke would have been ashamed that I was using a bike that he'd endorsed,
so I never used any of the special effects buttons on the handlebar soundboard for the rest
of the day, as a sign of respect to the charismatic helicopter pilot. How naïve could I
possibly have been? Thinking about it now, there is just no conceivable way on this Earth
that Barry, a fat miserable twát from Breck Road, was ever going to crack out the
melodies and give away half of the stock that he'd just bought from Parfetts wholesalers.
The fat, soulless cúnt.

This film had a profound effect on my formative years, and was once even the source of
my hallucinations as a ten year old, when I was suddenly struck down by a bout of septic
tonsillitis. I was lying in bed with a very high temperature and a fever; when all of a
sudden Willy Wonka appears in the corner of my bedroom with a watertight roll your
own hanging out of his grill. There he was, kneeling next to a chocolate river with his
crushed velvet slacks around his ankles, his big purple hat placed on the floor besides my
Hummel footy boots, and he was wrecking the fúckíng cóck off himself. Initially, I was
dumbfounded and merely stared at him in silence; but then, the reality of the situation hit
me and I started to scream hysterically, before burying my head beneath the covers in the
desperate hope that he would leave of his own accord. I was hyperventilating and really
struggling to retain consciousness, but Wonka didn't give a fúck about me, choosing
instead to shout out the depraved descriptions of what he was doing to himself, and what
he planned to do in the very near future. As the tears streamed down my petrified cheeks
I could hear him over by the wardrobe, moaning and groaning with pleasure and
screaming at me; "Michael, come and look at uncle Wonka! Uncle Wonka's cóck has got
the whooping cough mate, and he's going to crash his tepid rubbish all over your face,
you little shíthouse. I'm going to bend an Oompah Loompah over your chest of drawers
and bum him dead fast, and then, I'm going to empty my stubbly carrier bag all over your
pajama top." I was really frightened but I couldn't take it any more, so I dug deep inside
and summoned up all the courage I could muster and dived out of the bed in a fit of
violent temper. I grabbed my sister's plastic hockey stick and shrieked; "I'm going to
fúckíng kill you, Wonka". I charged ferociously across the room towards him and he
stopped wánkíng immediately. His complexion paled and he turned instinctively to evade
my wrath, but, unluckily for him he had his underbelters nestling around his ankles and
he couldn't quite manage to escape, falling flat on his face near the skirting board. He lay
cowering and whimpering on the floor with his hands covering his face as I lifted the
hockey stick up high over my head with both hands gripped tightly around the handle.
"I'll teach you to wánk in my fúckíng bedroom, you dirty little cúnt" I screamed, and then
rained down blow after blow upon the base of his spinal column as he curled up tightly
into the foetal position. He was pitifully begging for his life, offering me all the chocolate
I could eat and golden tickets for my whole Sunday league footy team, but I wasn't
interested; I wanted Wonka dead. I must have hit him about 200 times before he finally
stopped his pitiful and cowardly squirming. His cóck was very soft now. He looked so
peaceful, lying there in a pool of his own blood with a face like a bowl of scouse. Then,
in a flash, the whole disturbing scene just vanished from before my eyes. I came to my
senses to find myself standing in the corner of the room in my Garfield boxies, sweating
profusely and wielding the remnants of a shattered junior hockey stick. One of my little
sister's dolls lay obliterated on the threadbare carpet and my mum was standing in the
doorway with a look of absolute disbelief on her face. She couldn't work out why I was
screaming; "you dirty little cúnt" at the top of my voice and bladdering my sisters doll all
over the place at one o'clock in the morning. I later got the feeling that she'd considered
having me sectioned in Stoddart House, the psychiatric unit in Fazakerley Hospital, under
the mental health act.

Doctor: "OK madam, what can we do for you today?"

My mum: "Lad, I'd like to have this fúckíng headcase sectioned, please"

Doctor: "Excuse me? You are aware that we cannot possibly accommodate a ten year old
child at this unit aren't you? You really should be speaking to a child psychologist at
Alder Hey Hospital about your concerns. But, out of curiosity, what exactly is the
problem?"

My mum: "He thought Willy Wonka was fast-handing one out at the foot of his bunk
bed. You've definitely got brain damage if you think the affable Gene Wilder is in your
bedroom trying to greb his cóck sleet all over you. I really don't feel comfortable having
him in the house if he thinks 'The Candy Man' himself is wrenching one out into his
wardrobe. It's psychotic"

Doctor: "Nurse! Nurse! Strap this freaky little bástárd to the bed and give him 500mg of
Morphine before he kills the fúckíng lot of us. I'm taking no chances with these demented
little weirdo's, they'll carve you up if you show them your back"

My mum: "Exactly, lad. He's on top"

Remember Charlie's grandparents, the four decrepit old bellenders that were confined to
that disgusting double bed for about twenty years? I can only begin to imagine what it
must have smelled like underneath that decaying and festering yellow blanket. The putrid
stench must have imitated the inside of a two manner tent and would have smashed poor
Charlie's fod off when he came home from a hard days graft, with his little brown satchel
wrapped around his unimpressive, malnourished frame. He probably opened the rickety
door as slowly as possible, knowing all too well that he was about to have his clock
bingoed off by an indescribable and most unholy aroma, just like your typical scruffs
house, whereby you get a warm waft of chip grease thrown at your nostrils upon entry.
Imagine that bed on hot summer nights. Just imagine lying toe to toe with Grandpa Joe
when the heat is sweltering at night. Little George, the spin-eyed góbshite is sitting there
with his bold rimmed bins and his sidies cello-taped to the side of his drum as a result of
the heatwave, and Georgina's fánny smelling like a warmed up salmon paste Vol-au-
Vont. I couldn't handle it if someone tried to hand me a bowl of steaming hot cabbage
water while I was lying in bed on a scorchingly hot summer afternoon, staring directly at
some cóck-eyed cripple and sitting next to a wooden toothed pensioner with bedsores and
a haircut like Jesus Christ's manger. They only had two small rooms in their diminutive
wooden shack, so Charlie and his mum must have had to sit and eat their morale sapping
gruel whilst breathing in the otiose fumes of those four shameless deadbeats. If it wasn't
enough that Charlie and his mum had no money and no prospects, they had to come
home from a hard days slog to run around after those four freeloading cúnts. Imagine
coming in from work and seeing the four of them sitting in bed in the living room. It
would only have been a matter of time before I tipped up the bed and booted Grandma
Josephine all over the floor as a result of an emotional combustion. What self-respecting
person could spend their days in bed while their grandson was out delivering the
Merseymart until all hours of the night just to maintain their existence? Do the
honourable thing and fúckíng kill yourselves, you lousy burdens. Stop ruining your poor
grandson's life and just cancel your direct debit with God Almighty. They just sat in bed
twenty-four hours a day and expected to be fed, washed and entertained. What were the
chances that all four of them would end up bed-ridden? What a coincidence that a whole
generation of that family couldn't walk three feet to put a fúckíng pizza in the oven.
You're telling me that not a single one of them could drag themselves out of that pit and
go for a leccy card? It's just plain fúckíng laziness if you ask me. They can pretend to be
nice grandparents all they like, with their transparent attempts at humility followed by an
overcompensation of false compassion, but I can see right through all that amateur
bóllócks. They just want a free ride and poor little Charlie is going to pay through the
nose for it, and, the sad thing is, the little góbshíte will do it without complaint, because
he thinks he's doing a noble deed for his loved ones. Wake up Charlie; they're taking the
fúckíng píss out of you! There's absolutely fúck all wrong with them. You're running
around the estate, making a cúnt of yourself for about ninety pence a week and they're
tucked up in bed in the living room, laughing their fúckíng bollywashers off at you. Open
your eyes, you stupid little príck. You're working for a pittance and then Grandpa Joe is
slotting half of it into the ársé bin of his Lee Coopers to buy a tin of shág, that he'll
immediately transform into a twenty deck of roll your own cancer candles. The whole
Bucket tribe goes berserk when he brings home a Warburton's thick sliced loaf, and his
mum even makes a cúnt of herself by saying; "we'll have a real banquet", but good old
Joe doesn't give a fúck about a decent meal for his impoverished family as long as he gets
his 50-gram wallet of Golden Virginia. Good humoured old Joe will sit up in bed at night,
spark up a wafer thin splinter and blow his worries up into the sky, while his withering
brethren are slipping in and out of consciousness as a result of violent hunger pangs. Old
Josephine is doubled up in agony with stomach cramps and George is hallucinating as a
result of starvation and dehydration, but Joe, the fúckíng human Koala bear, is banging
out nauseating smoke rings that Georgina makes a desperate grab for, thinking they're
nourishing doughnuts. I bet as soon as Charlie fúckéd off to school they all filed out of
bed and had a game of three and in with a size four Mitre Delta. Grandma Georgina
probably pulled out a pair of Sondico goalie gloves from under her pillow and started
tipping George's violent half vaulters over the makeshift crossbar. I couldn't have stayed
in that bed for twenty years with three other pensioners, though. Imagine sitting there in
the morning, eating your tepid bowl of cabbage water, while old Josephine is forcing out
a pebble of shít into a hankie. As soon as I saw her face contort or got the faintest whiff
of fresh human faeces, I'd have rolled sideways out of the bed and straight onto the stone
cold floor, where I'd have lay whimpering in the foetal position until Mrs. Bucket came
home and scooped me up.

There appears to be no mention whatsoever of Charlie's father throughout the entire film,
so I'd like to think that his arl fella took the easy way out and killed himself, because he
blamed his only son Charlie for his own poor quality of life. I like entertaining the idea
that he strung himself up one night because he realized his job was futile if he couldn't at
least go for a sociable pint after work. And who could honestly blame him? If I had the
choice between familial incarceration and asphyxiation, I'd choose the ligature every
time. However, it's much more probable that the audience will assume he died of natural
causes or has simply abandoned his family and left them to fend for themselves. Charlie's
arl fella, Graeme Bucket, probably realised that he was trapped in a squalid hovel with
his disenchanted wife and his disconsolate and parasitic elders, and so loaded up his
Sergio Tacchini rucksack with what little food stuffs they had and deserted the whole
gang of bloodsucking stinkrags before they pulled him too deeply into their detestable
little realm. Late one night he crept quietly into Charlie's bedroom, looked over his son as
he lay peacefully sleeping, and then clenched his fist dead hard and held it against his
son's nose, his entire body shaking with violent temper as he did so. It made him sick to
his fúckíng stomach to think about the prospect of spending his days taking care of four
old age wheezebags and a young kid that had hair like a shattered bus stop window, so he
bailed out of their lives without so much as a backwards glance. I think the audience was
supposed to feel more sympathetic towards Charlie as a result of him being from a single
parent family, but it's extremely hard to sympathise with a kid that's got a haircut like a
Lego soldier's helmet.

They didn't have a decent tele to watch, and it was very unlikely that one of them was
going to get off their árse and walk down to the video shop for a DVD, so the only
pleasurable option that was available to them was to belt out a couple of lethargic wánks
at night. I reckon the little old fella with the bins, Grandpa George, used to just sit there
wánkíng all day long under the double quilt. At about two in the morning little spool eyed
George would probably wake up his wife Georgina and whisper; "Listen love, I know
you look like the old ghost from the library in Ghostbusters but can you do me a quick
favour, please? Would you suck the stringy cóck drink out of my bóllócks? I'm bored
shítless here and I am absolutely dying to shatter my pepper all over your photo negative
teeth, so what do you say, can I burst my bang butter all over your mudguard?". There
must have been times when he just sat there all day long with a cóck as hard as granite
and thought; "I can't wait for these prícks to fall asleep so I can belt out a neat one into
my headsock". The day must have dragged on and on, just waiting for them each to nod
off so he could have a very slow, steady wánk; barely moving his hand in an attempt to
not awaken anybody. Just as he was throwing his cóck chewy into a neckerchief
somebody would stir and quietly enquire; "George, what are you doing, there?" and he'd
just lay face down in silence, ballooning his wreck into the bedsheet. He desperately
wanted to answer the question, but physically couldn't, as he was intermittently pulsing
his gruck all over the varicose veins on the inside of his left leg.

To be fair, though, the four archaic árseholés must have been inundated with boredom,
and so I could perhaps understand if they'd at least considered the concept of sexual
experimentation, and maybe broached the subject of swapping partners for the night to
engage in a sordid session of sexagenarian swinging. And, who could blame them?
They're debilitated and depressed, and are all willing and consenting adults, so there's no
real problem. Except morally. I don't think the notion is as improbable as you might like
to think it is. Just consider this scenario before you totally dismiss the idea. It's a cold
Tuesday night, they've got nothing worth living for and their options are severely limited
to what they can do within the confines of their loathsome doss pit. Charlie's asleep in
bed wearing the illuminous Trespass coat that he got from the school grant, his ma is
boiling Slugworth's Bermuda's in the washhouse, and any sort of distraction or escape
from the hunger cramps is a blessing as far as they're concerned. They arrive somewhat
logically at the lurid conclusion of acting awfully with each others partners, and set about
filling the room with the rancid stink of senior citizen intercourse. The next thing you
know, they're in the throes of passion, and Josephine has got George's half pumped
density rammed up the inside of her bone dry spinach glove, which happens to be
horrendously hirsute, covered with wiry pubes that are whiter than 'Mark Sloane's' muzzy
in "Diagnosis Murder". Meanwhile, over on the other side of the bed, Georgina is
creaking on all fours, her árseholé exposed to the elements and resembling the grungy
neck of a half empty bottle of brown sauce, as Grandpa Joe smears his bullhead with his
own foul smelling saliva and prepares to tear it up. His tóssér looks like a waffle, but
once he maneuvers it inside her powdery anus, he gives her fourty five seconds of
ferocious fastarsing intensity before withdrawing his magnitude and spraying his príck
pellets all over the back of her legs. He leaves her rectum hiccupping and gasping for
breath as she weakly croaks; "whoa there, mellow out a bit lad or you'll have me in a
nappy. My shít will be flopping into a Pampers if you don't chill your fúckíng pips". They
both collapse with exhaustion and begin a downward spiral into unconsciousness,
remaining alert just about long enough to faintly witness George's legs turning to astro
belts as he opens his veiny valve and bladders his grok gas all over little Josephine's
wrinkly chopping board. Three minutes after commencement they're all tangled in a heap,
covered in fetid pensioners spud juice and disgusted with themselves for what has just
happened. There's nothing like a face full of cock snacks to bring you back to your
senses.

Charlie Bucket is famed for the exceptional practical jokes he used to play on his family
and would often be seen telling them that he'd won a golden ticket, only to shatter their
cries of elation seconds later when he'd reveal that he was just fúckíng about to avert his
mind from the deprivation. Perhaps his most famous caper was the time that he steamed
into the shack and declared; "I'm fed up of cabbage water, it's not enough" and they all
recoiled in horror at his unexpected and unprovoked outburst. Of course, he was playing
the classic 'lull everybody into a false sense of disappointment and then wham, you pull
out a dry crusty loaf' trick. He wasn't being malicious or cruel with his pretence of
discontentment and he wasn't really ungrateful; he just liked to brighten the place up with
a rare injection of humour. But hang on a fúckíng minute, let's analyse their reaction to
Charlie's false outpouring of disapproval. He made a muted complaint about a communal
bowl of cabbage water not being enough to eat and they all gasped for breath in total
disgust. Give the poor lad a fúckíng break, eh? He had every right to tell them that he was
sick to the back teeth of eating that paltry hippy juice. I can't believe they were even
shocked at his objection to be perfectly honest. They should have responded with
overwhelming agreement and said; "yeah, fair enough Charlie; it's a fúckíng nightmare
isn't it? But hey, what are you going to do when your grandpa Joe is pretending he can't
even walk?" That was the best day of their lives when he pulled that loaf out of his
paperbag with his filthy bare hands, and then his mum had the cheek to sing the
patronising ballad "Cheer up Charlie" when his patience finally expired and he
momentarily blew his top. He got a knitted red scarf and a Wagon Wheel for his birthday,
had no mates to speak of and lived in a dilapidated garden shed, yet his mum was singing
lines like 'just be glad you're you' down the road after him. I'll tell you what Mrs. Bucket,
why don't you stick your idealistic and sentimental horseshit up your fúckíng arsehole?
Don't you dare tell him to be happy when there isn't a person on the planet that would
swap places with him. There were starving kids in Ethiopia filling Diadora shoeboxes
with rice and teabags to send to him at Christmas because they felt so sorry for him. In
fact, there was even a special segment on "Granada Reports" where Gordon Burns was
interviewing AIDS riddled teenagers in the heart of Africa and asked them how they
managed to stay so positive knowing that their death was imminent. A lad of about
fourteen, covered in cutaneous lesions, said; "there's always somebody worse off than
yourself isn't there, lad? I could be Charlie Bucket and have to wear a navy blue bomber
jacket and be forced to shít in an empty ice cream tub. I thank God every day for these
small mercies".

To be fair though, Charlie did encourage a lot of the criticism and brought much of the
misery upon himself. Perhaps the best example of this is when they're in Mr. Turkentine's
classroom learning percentages and Charlie admits that he's only eaten two Wonka bars
during the frantic scramble for golden tickets. Why the fúck didn't the stupid bástárd lie?
Why did he run the risk of complete ridicule amongst his peers? His feeble excuse was;
"Oh, I don't care very much for chocolate". Absolute bóllócks, lad; remember when you
swallowed that scrumdiddlyumptious bar as though you were a reptile? The only thing
you don't care very much for is chewing, so stop embarrassing yourself and your family
with these hideous excuses. We all saw you staring forlornly through the sweet shop
window when you were skint, and we were all to later witness you going berserk when
let loose in the chocolate factory, so fúckíng pack in lying, Why didn't he just go for the
middle ground and say, "Erm, I've eaten about 80 or 90 bars, lad. I know it's not enough
to win the battle of the classroom, but it's also not the worst total either. Hopefully, I'll be
left alone as a result of the reasonable amount I've consumed."? He should have been
doing his utmost to divert people's attention from his extremely poor social standing, not
soliciting for insults and derision. The golden rule in school, no matter what, is to do
whatever it takes to not look like a scruff. He fúckéd the job right up.
Charlie's luck changed drastically when he spied a ten bob disc down a filthy grid in the
street. He was walking alongside a long row of luxury cars that were parked outside the
sweet shop for some reason, when suddenly, there it was, a shiny silver coin lying on its
back in the drain. He went fúckíng ballistic. You could see the almost uncontrollable
excitement raging in his eyes as he got down on his hands and knees and maneuvered his
arm down there as though it was a metal coat hanger. It's a good job he was a screff,
because had he been well nourished, there's no way on Earth he'd have squeezed his
grimy digits through the gap in the steel grill. I bet it was the only time in his entire life
that he was happy to be a meff. I bet you're wondering what he did with his new found
wealth. Did he buy some much needed food for his famished family members? Did he
pay an urgent utility bill, or purchase some vital medication for his ailing relatives?
Maybe he put it into a high interest savings account for the future? Did he fuck. He went
straight into Bill's sweet shop, bought himself a scrumdiddlyumptious bar and pushed it
down his tide-marked neck like a parasitic little lizard. All of his problems just drifted
away as he ingested a three foot long bar of chocolate, filling his selfish guts with ill-
gotten confectionery without a moments thought for anybody else. As he's crow-barring
the chocolate down his guilt free gullet, Bill says; "hey, hey, hey take it easy. You'll get a
stomach ache if you swallow it like that". How embarrassing is that? The only thing that
comes close to that amount of shame is when your arl fella would roar at you and tell you
to "calm down" when you were showing off in front of people as a kid. One minute you
were running around frantically in your polyester Lotto tracky, sweating heavily from
your sidies with excitement, and the next you're holding back the tears and lashing out
with temper as a result of the embarrassment. There is nothing to bring you down quicker
than your dad shouting at you in front of his mates; completely shattering your
enthusiasm and self confidence. Scruffs are fúckíng clueless and they have no idea
whatsoever how to function in normal society. I mean, if I was known on our estate to be
a bad tramp that had dirty and badly hung net curtains in our front window, then I'd go
out of my way not to exacerbate that reputation. The last thing I would do is stand in the
middle of the Co-Op and almost make myself baulk because I was eating too quickly. I'd
have played it nice and cool, slid the chocolate into my pocket and walked out of the shop
calmly, as though it was a regular occurrence for me. It's like when I'm browsing for
clothes in an expensive designer outlet and I look at the price tag. If it says "£950" for a
pair of kecks then I don't adopt a facial expression that communicates disgust thereby
letting the pretentious shop assistant know that I'm out of my depth. No, instead, I nod
my head as though it's a very reasonable figure, but then move gradually towards the exit
in a composed manner. Inside I'm gutted, because I really liked the slacks, but I'm not
going to give the pompous slág the satisfaction by displaying a look of disappointment,
especially when she's only earning £14,000 a year before tax, but thinks she's a fúckíng
socialite. Charlie goes some way to redeeming himself when he has a pang of conscience
and goes back to the counter to buy a Wonka bar for his Grandpa Joe, but he has a
fúckíng good think about it before he does. He finally decided that he would share his
good fortune, and, despite throwing it away on unnecessary treats, at least his heart was
in the right place. That is until he hears that there is still one golden ticket to be found. It
turned out that the last winner was a fraud, and, as a result, the final golden ticket was
still in circulation. Charlie fúckéd his Grandpa Joe right off and shredded the wrapper
with his polluted finger nails, revealing the last remaining voucher, and therefore an
escape from his dull and futile existence. Again, as a scruff, he demonstrates his inability
to function in typical society, and gives it full beans as he sprints through the streets,
waving his golden ticket above his thatched roof haircut in ecstasy, before bursting into
the shack in triumph.

I always wondered why Charlie didn't choose his mum to accompany him to the
chocolate factory. She worked triple shifts in a manky wash-house stirring Mizuno tracky
bottoms in a bath with a fúck off wooden fork; pandered to the needs of four self styled
cripples when she wearily returned home, and received no thanks or praise for her
selfless attitude. The least Charlie could have done was given his fatigued mother a day
off from her tiring and mundane routine, but no, he decided to invite a debilitated, gutless
old shítbag with a muzzie like a pasting brush. Charlie storms into the shack and waves
his golden ticket in the air, screaming excitedly with his embarrassing adolescent voice,
and Joe's legs suddenly come back to life. Grandpa Joe hadn't set foot out of bed for
twenty years, but as soon as he got wind of Charlie's golden ticket he was out of that bed
like a speeding fúckíng bullet. His incapacity handed in its P45 and stormed out of his
body, before he rifled through a picnic hamper for his dilapidated de-mob suit blazer and
went waltzing around the room in a state of elated bliss. However, he doesn't jump up
and immediately go ballistic; oh no, he puts on a whole performance for the benefit of the
watching family. If he springs out of bed in an instant then he'll blow the façade that he's
carefully manufactured, and explode the myth of his paralysis, so he nosedives into a
session of diabolical amateur dramatics in an attempt to preserve his integrity. He peels
back the corroded covers with his shaky hands and gingerly gets to his feet, before
collapsing back down onto the bed as if simply too weak to stand. Then, he pretends to
summon up some strength to attempt a few blag faints, grabbing hold of things in order to
steady himself, and therefore adding a certain sense of authenticity. But, after thirty
seconds or so he's off storming around the bed, smashing into walls, singing songs and
dancing a jig. He'll get his ársé out of bed for a fúckíng golden ticket, but when anybody
mentioned a labouring job in Widnes he could barely retain consciousness. If he'd have
had that type of motivation twenty years ago, maybe they wouldn't be living in the
appalling conditions they are. Unbelievably, the first line of his song is; "I never thought
my life would be anything but catastrophe". Well, what the fúck did he really expect
when he was packed into a bed like a sardine in a tin and wouldn't even generate enough
strength to go for a shít? He's like your typical sponging cúnt that claims disability or
invalidity benefit, with their selective memory regarding their supposed condition. If
there's a charity night in the British Legion, they're there, sanding the dance floor with
their brown bulky based brogues, hurling shapes and tearing it up to 'Dance the Night
Away' by 'The Mavericks; getting swizzled on pints of bitter mix and double rum and
cokes. However, if you happen to mention that the bathroom tiles need grouting then
they're laid up in bed with a ruptured vertebrae. That's not the only example of his
fraudulent and deceitful nature, though. Six of them were living in a shed and eating
stagnant water for breakfast, dinner and tea, and Joe was secretly ring-fencing a few quid
to squander on confectionary. Charlie's mum never had a meg to her name, and he's
buying Double Decker's, while old Georgina is wheezing into a sick bag and carrying a
generous helping of angina around in a Morrison's carrier bag. Why didn't he put the
money towards some medicine or get the family a decent hot meal? Instead, he bought a
Wonka bar in the vain hope that they would win a golden ticket, and then, didn't even let
Charlie open the fúckíng thing. He steamed right in and had his dreams shattered, which
is probably the very least he deserved. He also sings the words "I'VE got a golden ticket"
while parading around the slum with his unnecessary walking stick. Who's got a golden
ticket, Joe? Who's got a golden ticket, eh? That's right, its Charlie's you bellend, now get
back into bed you tít or I'll volley the wind out of your bony little chest, lad.

There's a scene in the film where they all get onto a boat on the chocolate river to travel
to the cooking room and Wonka acts in a psychotic manner for the duration of the
journey. There are all sorts of strange lights flashing in the tunnel, abnormal noises are
piercing the air, and Gene Wilder looks spooned out of his casket as he chants a bizarre
rhyme for no apparent reason. Everybody's árse falls out of them, thinking this absolute
lunatic shut-in is going to do something stupid. Henry Salt finally summons up a bit of
courage and shouts; "Wonka, this has gone far enough!" and manages to bring him to his
senses. I always imagined that my arl fella would have been a bit more vocal had he been
trapped on that barge of badness. He's not afraid to shout the odds in public and so he'd
have undoubtedly made a cúnt of me by screaming at the top of his lungs "Look, stop
acting like a príck, Wonka, and stop the fúckíng boat! You're doing your utmost to ruin
what promised to be a very enjoyable day out for the kids. Act your age, stop showing off
and take us to wherever it is we're going before I fúckíng lamp you! I've taken the day off
work to be here, so give your fúckíng head a wobble lad and pack in being a gobshite".
Wonka wouldn't want to lose face in front of his guests, though, so they would have no
doubt ended up squaring up to each other and doing a bit of forehead tug-of-war before
being dragged apart, as I sat in silence near the bough, shaking like a leaf. It would have
been like Elland Road in 1993 all over again. Only this time, it would have been a man
with a cane and a top hat on the end of the abuse, rather than some fat scruffy half breed
with an ear-ring and a Penn Sport tracky wrapped around his odious frame.

There have been lots of wild theories surrounding the character of Mr. Willy Wonka over
the years, and many have suggested that he was in fact a paedophile, locked away in self
imposed exile inside his own deranged fantasy world. I suppose certain parallels can be
drawn between Roald Dahl's quirky character living in the chocolate factory and Michael
Jackson living at 'Neverland'. Both are weird, eccentric, reclusive millionaires that
distorted their sense of reality and displayed a labyrinth of peculiar and somewhat
unsettling behavioural patterns. Oh, and they both sang songs and fúckéd children up the
ársé. I think that's why he employs the Oompa Loompas to be honest with you. They're
small and innocent looking, just like children, but if he wants to bum them then he
escapes the journey of guilt on somewhat of a technicality. Aesthetically, he's got what he
desires in the form of tiny bodies, and morally, he's covered his spineless back, because
foreign dwarves are fair game. There's somewhat of a stigma attached to the act of
bumming children, but when it comes to the raping of immigrant midgets it's fúckíng
open season. There was a rumour going round our estate when I was younger about how
Wonka would punish the poor Oompa Loompas should they ever step out of line. There
was one, by the name of Gavin, that was pushing a wheelbarrow of castor sugar up a
chocolate embankment when the wheel hit a rock, resulting in the barrow tipping over
and spilling the contents all over the floor. His ársé fell out of him and he was a bag of
nerves thinking of what was going to happen to him. And rightly so. When Wonka
discovered what had happened, he winded him by kneeing him in the solar plexus and
then pushed his little face into the dirt. He then dragged his undies down and sodomised
him. That's why they all walk funny, because Wonka bums them when they're naughty.
Speaking of midgets, have you ever shaken one of their hands? They have a very weird
feel to them, and one not dissimilar to the hand of a Cerebral Palsy sufferer. I'm not
having a go at them, but a lad that suffered from it once introduced himself to me and
offered his hand. I shook it and was extremely disturbed to discover that it felt like a
rubber washing up glove filled with broken biscuits. I recoiled in horror, thinking that his
hand was smashed to bits; but it wasn't, it was just a bog standard claw. They say you
learn something new every day, and I certainly did on that occasion. I learned that
Cerebrals have hands that are like jelly fish.

Willy Wonka kindly invited these people inside his beloved factory, exposed them to the
wonders of his craft, and even gave them an everlasting gobstopper as a souvenir of their
once in a lifetime opportunity. This generosity and kindness of spirit wasn't enough for
that deceitful, manipulative and conniving old cúnt Grandpa Joe, though. No, not by a
long shot. His avaricious and rapacious lust wasn't satisfied and so he decided to take
advantage of Wonka's hospitality, taking a dirty little mouthful of fizzy lifting drink in
spite of the kind hosts request to refrain from tasting it. The koala bear looking bástard
grabbed Wonka's benevolence by the throat and choked it out, before callously stamping
all over its haircut. Not only did he backdoor Wonka, but he corrupted poor Charlie too,
practically forcing the poor kid to fill his guts with the knock off lemmo. Charlie can't
really use Judas Joe's coercion as a viable excuse for his theft, though. He was old
enough to know that he was doing wrong, and so he had no acceptable defence for
siphoning a snifter of Schofield's American Cream Soda down his wretched little neck-
hole. There are some basic morals for any watching children to absorb throughout the
film and each of the lessons are manifested in the form of a precautionary tale, whereby a
characters vice eventually leads to their downfall. Such educational messages include the
dangers of watching too much television, the perils of being selfish, and the hazards of
consuming too much junk food. In this respect, Charlie is no different to any of the other
kids. His transgression was one of theft and deceit, and he disobeyed Wonka just like the
rest of them. I agreed wholeheartedly with Wonka when he flipped his wig near the end
of the film and went ballistic, telling Charlie that he gets nothing as a result of his
misconduct. In my eyes he was the worst of all five kids because he did it behind
Wonka's back. I was ecstatic that the little scruff was getting fúck all and wanted his
entire family to die of malnutrition as an indirect result of Grandpa Joe's misdemeanour,
but, the sniveling little góbshite gave the everlasting gobstopper back, and therefore
earned himself a reprieve. I'll tell you what, If Gene Wilder screamed right in my face in
front of my grandad; shouting so fiercely that his frizzy comb-over did a sit-up; I'd have
ransacked his office. He thought he was mad having half of a desk and half of a clock on
the wall, but if he made a cúnt out of me in front of my grandad like that I'd have
spiralled his thinking cap into unconsciousness. Grandpa Joe calls Wonka an "inhuman
monster" when he tells Charlie that he's getting nothing as a result of his rule breaking.
Joe goes off his fúckíng rocker when it dawns on him that he's not getting any chocolate
to eat in his stinking bed. "You cheat, you swindler. How can you build up a little boys
hopes and then smash all his dreams to pieces?" Charlie isn't even ársed about it. Joe is
fúckíng livid and is making idle threats and threatens to break Wonka's jaw in half if he
doesn't cough up with at least a box of Spira's. Then, Charlie gives Wonka the everlasting
gobstopper and therefore passes the loyalty test. Where the fúck does Joe's anger
disappear to? Like a sociopath, his mood quickly changes direction and his contempt
transmogrifies into contentedness. One minute he's tearing open sachets of violence and
throwing it about all over the factory, and then, his hostility just dissolves in an instant
once it dawns on him that he'll be living a life of luxury courtesy of Charlie's honesty.
Once he realizes that Charlie has just won the whole stinking family their meal ticket he's
all sweetness and light. He's out for everything he can get, the selfish, conniving, and
deceitful old muzzy faced bellend. Twelve hours previously Grandpa Joe was bedridden
and was the epitome of weakness, but all of a sudden he's in a suit from Burton's offering
a confectioner a straightener. It just doesn't sit right with me. If I'd have directed this film
then I'd have made sure that the last line was Wonka screaming; "you get nothing. Good
day, sir".