The Archbishop Of Canterbury Dr Rowan Williams' Face

Today as I was walking through town to pick up a new tub of hair wax and cancel a lost debit card I invented a new game to keep my mind off the numbing banality that sometimes occurs within my 24 year old existence. The game was simple in premise; guess the position of employment held by the random stranger judged by their appearance and snatches of overheard conversations. This soon  gave rise to an interesting question as to whether people take on the personality required to fulfil their job role, or if it is their original demeanour which dictates the position they eventually end up with.

Nothing says you're all going to hell in a hand basket
better than this face

Consequentially I began to link certain key aspects to different industries; orange skin and perroxide hair led me to believe the owner worked either in beauticians or tanning salons, flabby bellies and sunburnt right arms belonged to truck drivers and Australian accents were the sole requirement of people in the service industry. These findings caused me to begin thinking about more famous figures, and whether they too showed similar signs of having their appearance tailor made to their role. Piers Morgan came first to mind as an obvious choice, for what better person could wholeheartedly fill the position of the most loathed and detested ex-tabloid editing, vomit-inducing,  pointless waste of fully functioning kidneys than that testicle faced cretin? The answer is no one, because only Piers has that particular face, the kind of face that makes any normal person want to train in Ju-Jitsu for twenty years just so they could land the perfect falcon punch right into his squishy visage.

And so to the topic of today's review; the spiritual leader of the Anglican church, the representative worldwide of the C of E, Dr Rowan Williams' face. Religion is what some may call a 'hot' topic and so I should probably advise those of you who are easily offended by radical points of view towards beliefs based on ideas over two millennia old to swiftly exit the same way you came in. Not that I will be touching on any of these topics, I just really want you to go away. Most of you will have already looked at the picture above without my telling you, but for those of you who read the words first and look at the pictures later, look at the picture above. That is the face in question. It is not always in that position, sometimes the mouth is open, sometimes it is blinking or even winking. It is capable of a host of different expressions including ecumenical, pious, thoughtful, diplomatic and vengeful.

Viva la Reformation!

Let's take a moment to explore the features of this ecclesiastical ambassador to see how well they fit within the role of one who acts as a spiritual revolutionist to many, and as a role model and leader to even more. Thanks to the power of PhotoShop we can compare Williams to that of a figure well known for leading a revolutionary band of rebels to overthrow the authority figure of the time in the same way the protestant church was set up to challenge the Roman Catholic principles. At least to the extent the Henry VIII could get his end away with more then one woman. I do not think it is mere coincidence that Dr Rowan's face superimposes so perfectly onto Che Guevara's as it is the epitome of one which shows all of the characteristics of being a strong commandant.

The strength mostly lies in the far-off distant gaze. It suggests a higher state of mind, one not content to stare directly at the person straight in front of them, but over the left shoulder as if waiting for someone more important to arrive, leaving the viewer in a constant state of inadequacy. This is further exemplified by the down-turned mouth, suggesting a relentless disapproval of the individual in front of him causing said individual to feel that they must improve in whatever it is that they are doing. It is not a face which leaves the viewer completely disenfranchised however, the upward spiralling eyebrows suggest a slightly audacious side to the personality and therein lies the true power, indicating a deeply human side to what is on the whole an otherworldly countenance allowing for the possibility of acceptance provided you follow exactly what he dictates.

What has been seen can never be unseen

Conversely, it is not the face of a fifties sex icon in any way shape or form, thus leading me to further believe my original theory that we fit into our working roles based on our appearance. You don't have to imagine what Marilyn Monroe would have looked like if she had Rowan Williams' face because I have provided that image for you, and you may thank me for any childhood infatuations destroyed later, preferably in the form of a cheque. He possesses none of the coquettishness of the young Norma Jean, and brings nothing to the image other than an instinctual feeling to bleach ones eyes out with lava. If Elton John were writing a song about this figure, it would be less 'Candle in the Wind', and more 'Burn it with Fire'. Thankfully it is a face which we never have to see in any dress other than the all covering purple papal robes, because it is a face designed for the sole purpose of being the symbolic head of the Anglican Communion, not a sexy fifties starlet.

I hereby award the face a spiritual 8 out of 10, because despite it's perfect ability to fit the role of Archbishop it is long overdue a trim.

The Argee Bhajee, 88-90 George Street, Walford

Nothing says fine Indian cuisine like blue wrought-iron lattice

Before I begin, I would like to apologise to you all for my three day hiatus. I know many of you have come to depend on this blog as a mini-guide to understanding the World around you, and for that you have nothing but my unreserved pity and a vague feeling of disgust. However, I have in my absence prepared for you a delectable review of one of England's least understood and oft-forgotten stalwarts of Indian culinary delights; The Argee Bhajee.

Firstly, a brief history of this fine establishment. Originally owned by the Di Marco family and operating as an Italian pizzaria under the name 'Giuseppe's', it was eventually taken over in 2000 by an elusive restaurateur who refuses to disclose any information as to his or her personal life. In late 2010 Walford's leading Indian restaurant briefly became the subject of much debate between rivalling entrepreneurs when it mysteriously appeared on the market, resulting in a fierce auctioning war eventually won by a local family known as the Masoods. Is it possible that these previous market stall traders have the ability to maintain and preserve the Argee Bhajee's reputation? Let's tighten our napkins, ask politely for a jug of tap water and prepare to delve into this three course meal of a review. I hope you've saved room, because this one's super-sized.

My excitement at being one of the first people to experience the newly revamped Argee Bhajee was immediately quelled on walking through the door. Part of the secret to delivering the perfect evening to one's customers as a restaurateur is to create an ambience which not only makes your guests feel relaxed and at ease, but also displays the restaurants own character, which should be instantly recognisable through the decorations and layout. It was obvious that the new owners were in a rush to open as soon as possible, because on walking in I was greeted with what I can best describe as a half finished building, in the most literal of senses. 

You're right Sir, she does look like a tandoori chicken

There was only three walls in the building, leaving a gaping hole in one side which led to what appeared to be a local production company. This sharing of workspace was obviously not working fairly in the Masood's favour, as what appeared to be an entire film crew had spilled through the wall and were taking up most of the paltry space in the restaurant. I noticed there was only one other couple in the entire place, who for good reason seemed slightly agitated with the various cameramen and sound people who for some reason had clustered around them. 

Unnoticed by any apparent Maitre d' I decided to quietly seat myself in a far corner and wait to see how long it would take to be served. After a final glance at the couple in the centre of the room continuing to argue with each other amidst the bizarre collection of production crew around them I decided to see what the menu had to offer. I could not believe it when I picked up the orange backed laminate only to discover a single shet of A4 inside it with absolutely nothing printed on it. As I reached for another menu to see if this was just a single mistake, a piercing shriek wailed out from the middle of the room; "RICKAAAAAAAY", and I turned to see the flame-haired female, understandably upset with her boyfriend for taking her to this bombshell of a restaurant, dousing the spade-faced cretin with her glass of Pinot Grigio.

At this point I decided I had had enough, and stood up to seek out someone who would be able to provide me with some sort of menu, that I could finally eat something, anything. I went over to one of the crew and asked him if he knew where the waiter was, as I was absolutley starving. "Waiter's not in this scene mate" came his gruff reply, "buffet's over there if you're hungry, but I didn't think we had any extras in this scene." Ignoring his other comments as he seemed a bit simple, I noticed the buffet he had pointed out laid out on the other side, comprising of some poorly slapped together triangular sandwiches, minature pork pies and a few bowls of crisps. I nibbled on what I thought was a breaded onion bhajii, doubtless part of the nouveau-cuisine style I expected the Masoods were going for, but immediatly spat it out when I realised it was nothing more than a scotch-egg.

You can almost see those smiles melting off their faces

Having been subjected to enough unpleasantness, I prepared to leave but was stopped as I approached the door by a man with a clipboard. "Hey, where are you going? Extras are supposd to wait in the room back there." "Sir," I replied with as much dignity as I could muster at this point "I assure you I have no idea to what you are talking about, but you can be certain I will not be staying here a moment longer. I came here expecting to have my taste-buds tantalised and my senses overloaded with East London's premier Indian culinary prowess. Instead I have witnessed a third rate circus act performed by shouting monkeys which seems to be being filmed for some unexplained reason by an inept crew in one of the most unconvincing excuses for a restaurant setting." "Shit," he said, "that's probably the best review Eastenders has ever had."

A tasteless 2 out of 10, because they at least had cheese and Marmite sandwiches, and I love cheese and Marmite sandwiches.

Alpha 60 Silk Rhino Print Sweat

Jurgen VanTramp - The glittering career begins

Look at this photo. I mean really look at it. Take a few minutes to completely scrutinise every facet of this image, then try to think what the glaring mistake may be; bearing in mind that this is a photo designed to promote a sweater, the defining feature of which is that it has the head of a rhino on the front of it. Keep pondering over that as you read this review, and at the end we'll see if you got it right or not. (No cheating by scrolling down now, Remember: winners never cheat; unless they're Tiger Woods at a golf tournament sponsored by Playboy Magazine)

First things first, if you really wanted to look like half a rhino's face had charged through your torso and stopped just short of actually breaking through your stomach's epidermis, you would be required to pay ASOS a whopping £170. If you have a hard time grasping the concept of numerical currency, that's the equivalent of 22.31 35cl bottles of Bell's whiskey from behind the counter of the Tesco Metro on Whiteladies Road in Bristol. This in turn adds up to a grand total of 780.85cl, roughly 7.8 litres of  the cheapest mid-quality blended scotch whiskey. If you laid each of those litres end to end it would probably work out to be around the length of a Citroen Zsara Estate. Now that's a meaty length of the true amber nectar by anyone's standards, yet that is honestly how much ASOS equate the price of one of their wearable boulder-scrotums.

Fuck you ASOS, how much money do you think the average Joe spends on clothes? I myself own a fairly  snazzy suit that I bring out only for special occasions, and it cost £140. That's including every-fucking-thing; shoes, trousers, black shirt, waistcoat, red tie (hells yeah) and the crowning glory of the fitted blazer. Don't you dare try and suggest that there exist people stupid enough to spend this much money on a jumper that looks like an Easter Island statue's arse after it's sat on one of the Muppets.

Yes Jurgan, you are earning your three pounds an hour

This here is the moment the photographer obviously asked his model to turn around to flaunt the awesome two-way mirage this design portrays. As Jurgan VanTramp clearly shows, the back is the best feature of the sweatshirt because it in no way tries to emulate the skin of a rhino and thus leads to zero disappointment. According to my own private sources, the story behind old Jurgan VanTramp here is that the designer was auditioning for models to show off this tour de force of an upper garment, when in shuffled this guy towards the end of the proceedings. He was supposed to be carrying out part of his community service by cleaning up the graffiti behind the disused Anderson shelter from where the interviews were being conducted and had only briefly crawled inside to sneak a crafty cigarette away from his watchful probation officer. He wasn't exactly the epitome of what one seeks in a male model, but was hired on the spot as he'd been the only person to show up that day.

Notice how elegantly the cuff's trim matches that of the waistband, stopping dead in it's tracks any passing resemblance this jumper has of an actual rhino. This is an obvious attempt by the designer to diffuse the amount of people who would, upon bearing witness to an aficionado of animal-wear such as this on any given high street leaping head-first into the nearest shop window in a futile attempt to avoid the oncoming onslaught of what they may perceive to be a charging rhinoceros protecting its young.

Did you guess it? Probably not. Sucks to be you. 

Now I don't pretend to possess many Photoshop abilities, everything I know of that particular Adobe program is self taught. Yet even I can turn the original photo into something that better shows off the sweaters' capabilities. Simply by having asked Jurgan to pump his right arm, the photographer could have given the impression of this 'Silk Rhino Print Sweat' as actually having a horn. I mean seriously, who wants a photo-realistic print of a rhino's left eye and nostril? If I wear a t-shirt with a rhino print on it, I want to be making up for something. I want to prove my manliness to the whole world. I want to be able to walk into any bar in Glasgow and scream "I've got a rhino on my t-shirt, and if any of you try to fuck with me I will destroy everything you've ever seen!" 

And you can be sure it is never, ever, going to be capable of that unless it has on it the rhino's pinnacle of evolutionary manhood, the same kind of defensive organic horn that middle aged men the World over crush into little blue pills in the vague hope of emulating the same structures' constant virility. I hereby award it a paltry 3 out of 10, and that is just because ASOS managed to find a model as pathetically dishevelled looking as the actual piece of clothing they were trying to sell.

Similes

They even sound like this, that's how amazing they are

Similes are as sweet as sugar coated cherry pie dripping with amaretto, floating in a swimming pool filled with treacle and high-class hookers. They are like waking up on a sunny day, sandwiched between Angelina Jolie and Carmen Electra in 2005, before the wrinkles set in and the economy collapsed. They have the ability to transform the most mundane of sentences into a piece of art similar to Monet screwing Van Gogh and splurging the resultant man-dew over every wall, canvas and instillation in the Louvre.  Similes rock the literary World so hard that listening to them is like bearing witness to the greatest festival on Earth, resplendent with exploding pyrotechnics, free-floating inflatable pigs and every greatest band ever; all performing at the same time. They conduct themselves with as much dignity as Ghandi visiting a brothel. In this review, they receive as many points out of ten as the cloud I am on just thinking about them.

Arachnophiles: Lovers Of The Unlovable

Everyone else in this room is backed up against the wall
pissing themselves with pure fear

It is estimated that every room in every house in England contains on average ten spiders. In Australia this number is multiplied by 6 and at least 90 percent of them have the capacity to either kill you or turn you into a mumbling excrement factory for the rest of your life. Most spiders catch their prey by spinning webs, which in themselves are terrifying concepts; structures  built from the strongest material known to man by shooting it out of their arseholes for the sole intent of capturing flying insects to torture and starve until the spider deems fit to end the poor soul's misery by sucking their inside's out. Those that can't spin webs have their own equally evil means of trapping unsuspecting ground based animals via holes in the ground which act as trapdoors , and failing that can run at the human equivalent of 120 mph to attack and destroy anything that moves.

Understandably, the vast majority of us humans are born with an instinctive revulsion and hatred of these scummy invertebrates, naturally fearful of their evolutionary superpowers and content to either stay as far away from them as possible, or at least destroy every one of them on sight. The focus of today's review however, is on the small minority of us who actively enjoy the presence of these hell-spawn, technically referred to as 'arachnophiles'.

If you see a happy face here, you may be an 'arachnophile'

Aesthetically, the very name 'arachnophile' brings to mind sordid scenes of balding, bespectacled, middle-aged men hanging around tarantula enclosures in unmarked vans, clutching a bag of dead flies and waiting for the last bell to ring. Honestly, it would be much easier for me to believe that these sorts of people would be the only ones sick enough to want to be near spiders. Yet 'arachnophiles' actually come in all shapes and sizes, walking among us pretty much unnoticed. They generally only give themselves away by being the only person in a room rushing to get a piece of A4 paper and a glass, pleading everyone else perched on the furniture not to throw their shoes at it. 

In order to better understand the subject of today's review, I decided to track down a willing member of the spider-hugging community and find out exactly where they should rank on my definitive rating system. One particular volunteer piqued my interest more than the others. He introduced himself as Chris LeSuavier and told me he owned a small hut in the woods surrounding the Medway section of Kent, in a little known village called Snodland. I travelled there with camera and notebook packed nice and snug in my rucksack, and arrived at his shack at around 10 pm GMT. I knocked and knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Instead, I noticed by my feet a small wrapped parcel with my name hastily scrawled on the top. To cut a long story short, the parcel contained a video-tape, I took it home, found a working VHS recorder yada-yada-yada obvious set up to a crappy scary story. Oh how I wish this were just a story.

Like this, only much much worse

The footage on the tape seemed to be the inside of what must have been Chris's hut. It was fairly sparse, just a desk on one side and a bed on the other. The cam-corder was positioned just next to the bed, possibly on some form of night-stand. The events began with Chris sat at his desk, writing something illegible on bits of yellowed paper. This ended quickly, as Chris put his pencil down and crawled into bed, fully clothed. No sooner had Chris closed his eyes, than any number of species of arachnids scuttled out from their myriad of hidey-holes and climbed down from their webs to throw what appeared to be an illegal spider rave on Chris's head. The ensuing scene was much like one found in any nightclub or party venue over the World, only hideously deranged and completely batshit insane. The hairy bad boy tarantulas with the legs of pure hate skulked around his chin, nodding back and forth and hastily puffing on minuscule spider joints. The slender ones with the tiny bodies performed the YMCA on his eyebrows whilst the smaller ones raved to their own beat, tripping their mandibles off on fly wings and space-aphids. Whenever any of these individuals took too much moth dust or whatever they were snorting up their tiny noses, they would go round back for some fresh air and be pounced upon by the horny females of the species, who would have quick unsatisfying sex with them in the alleyways of his neck, biting their heads off then lay the eggs in his ear. As I began to claw my eyes out in terror, Chris's own eyes opened. He looked straight at the camera, winked at me, and said, "You have no idea what you're missing." The tape ended there. 

So, in conclusion; spiders: bad, everything to do with spiders: bad, and people who like spiders? Fuck 'em. Fuck them all to hell. A resounding 0 out of 10.

Coming Of Age: A Comedy Of Requirement

Young people like graffiti and numbers no bigger than six, right?

Since the dawn of mankind there have existed a huge variety of different tribes and cultures on this curious planet of ours, each adapting to their own specific natural habitats and environments in order to eke out as prolonged and satisfactory existence as possible. Different though a large proportion of them may be to one another and despite having never met, certain similarities appear in the study of the preserved traditions and values of these ancient sects. One of the most prolific of these similarities is that of the 'Coming of Age' ritual, wherein a young boy or girl is put through a series of rigorous tests and trials to prove that they have truly entered into adulthood. 

For some it is a relatively simple transition; for example the Japanese are not recognised as adults until the age of twenty, where they are required to attend a conference hosted by various speakers and afterwards are given their first taste of adulthood; a nice fat tax-free cheque from the government. Hah! I had you going there didn't I? Of course, it being Japan, they must enter the super-fun-happy-rampage-rollercoaster dome dressed in the traditional neon-sumo-squid outfit and enter a glorious battle to the death between 80 foot high spinning flowers that shoot lasers from their grinding vortex petals and 'TechnoBaby', who is every bit as demented and cruel as he sounds. For others it is an altogether simpler affair. A little bar mitzvah here, a sleep in the wilderness there, top it all off with a little sprinkling of the first taste of alcohol or the first smoke of a cigarette and you've got the perfect recipe for a dignified initiation into a World of maturity, responsibility and inconsequential sex. 

Guess who plays the stupidest character. Yeah, all of them.

The passage into adulthood here in England is one of the cruellest and most bizarre rituals found in the modern world; the ability to sit through one episode of BBC 3's situational comedy entitled 'Coming of Age'. Every child when reaching their thirteenth birthday is taken to a top secret location, forced into a straight-jacket and strapped to a chair in a theatre facing a 20'x6' projection screen. They are then observed from a separate room by four impartial judges (hand-picked by the current prime minister) for the entire thirty minutes. They are monitored via neural signal transmitters attached to their foreheads for any sign of positive reaction to the onslaught of crass innuendos, predictable set-ups and tasteless jokes which ensue. Those that display characteristics of having their intelligence insulted and a general feeling of disgust and horror are immediately released, handed a two litre bottle of ridiculously strong cider and released into the nearest park for a night of projectile vomiting and unprotected sex with their peers, having successfully relinquished their final stages of immaturity. Any of the subjects who show any form of mirth, be it even the slightest of smiles are released, but must repeat the process every year until they display the emotional maturity required to be fully accepted as an adult.

He's so stupid he can't even grasp the concept of gravity.

It is for this reason I feel privileged to be the only reviewer to give this BBC3 sitcom a perfect 10 out of 10. For whilst many may have lambasted this atrocity of British comedy for a script including lines such as "Could you try and stick it up my fru-fru [sic] instead of up my poo-poo?" and "She's big, she's fat and she's minging...I can't wait to stick my jam in her doughnut," they have missed the point entirely. Long live 'Coming of Age', and it's rigorous societal placement regimes.

Voodoo Doll Vending Machines

Baron Samedi must be spinning in his grave.

Outside my local supermarket is a series of vending machines offering the usual array of child-based products; colourful sweets, bouncy rubber balls and various plastic nic-nacs. I'd never really paid too much attention to them until today, when a small skittering child ran past me and fell almost head-first into the collection of them, his raging mother chasing behind him. It was then that I noticed one of the machines seemed slightly different to the others, it had a green glowing interior and the word VOODOO printed in huge letters across its front. Inside  of this machine are a variety of coloured balls, which each contain their own personal voodoo doll. They cost a single pound each, and the only instruction to come with them is the ominous sentence written at the bottom of the machine: What Will You Do With Yours?

'Whiskey McRabies' - My new best friend

Thus, todays review will be on this cheeky little chappy right here. It's my very own personal voodoo doll whom I immediately named 'Whiskey McRabies' on account of his whimsical yet strangely sinister appearance, like a drunk tramp in a park who's hilarious to watch from a distance, but would probably bite you if you got too close. My favourite aspect of Whiskey is the little stitch sewing his mouth closed. That innocent grin and raised arm at first give the impression that if he could talk he would probably say "Why wuv woo vewwy much," but then you look a little closer and you realise that Whiskey can talk, but what he actually is able to say is so soul-tearingly awful that his creators had to sew his dirty little mouth up.

Well so much for the aesthetics review, it's time to see my Haitian hell-child in action. Having gone to the supermarket for the sole purpose of buying some beans, and it being a Sunday and thus having very little to do, I decided to target one unsuspecting shopper and subject them to various tests which would determine Whiskey's voodoo abilities. In order to keep this study fair, I chose one male subject whom I felt represented the hegemony of society which reside in my city; a white, middle-class student. I also felt that if I was to be found out for my experiments, this subject would be least likely to either press charges or punch me in the face.

Before I release my findings, I would like to point out that I am not the sort of person to stalk people around shopping centres. However, in the interests of science and product reviews, one must sometimes step outside the boundaries of what is deemed socially acceptable. You also must understand prior to these events I had already stared into the inky blackness of Whiskey's eyes for a good solid twenty minutes and by this point was beginning to question whether my actions were truly guided by myself alone. 

'Subject A - A Study in Terror'

So; onto 'Subject A', an average guy in his mid-twenties, largely unshaven and wearing a hat in a supermarket. The blurriness of the photo is due to the fact it was taken hastily on my phone, as one must never let ones subjects know that they are being tested on, for skewed results and restraining orders all too often hamper scientific progress. My vague recollection of voodoo practice (based solely on one James Bond film and an early nineties graphic adventure game called Gabriel Knight) was that in order for a voodoo doll to work, one needed something of the person you wanted to enchant. Luckily, 'Subject A' was a rather scruffy individual and his clothes didn't seem to have been washed in a while, so I believe by merely standing close to him and holding whiskey I was able to collect a few free-floating skin cells.

I decided for my first test to determine whether I could force 'Subject A' to remove his hat. As he moved closer to the delicatessen I hung around the bakery section and held Whiskey next to a freshly baked tiger loaf which had just been prepared. My heart skipped a beat as his hand almost immediately moved to his head, but only lingered long enough to result in a vague scratching movement, which could have been construed as his automatic response to deciding over which cold meat to buy. However, I saw it as a sign that my totem did indeed posses magical powers, and was determined to discover how else I could manipulate my new puppet.

For my next experiment, I rubbed Whiskeys belly in a clockwise circular motion. Success! No sooner had I applied pressure to Whiskey's midriff than I noticed 'Subject A' respond  by picking up what appeared to to be a medium sized jar of pickled eggs and place them in his bag. It was at this point I realised I held in my hand an object far beyond human comprehension. No mere mortal choice could possibly be the impetus behind buying a jar of vinegar soaked eggs, and I decided to end my experiments there and then, content that I had for a few minutes played the hand of God on an unwitting member of the public.

I have since deeply cleansed Whiskey in a herbal mixture of rosary beads and various Herbs de Provence, a time honoured ritual which 'Wikipedia' assures me is the only way to remove a person's soul from an authentically vended Voodoo Doll. I hereby award Whiskey McRabies a very respectable nine out of ten, for both aesthetic qualities and practical application, no mean feat for a toy which can be bought for one pound from most high street shopping centres. 

The Bagger 288

Why? Because it fucking says so, that's why.

What better way to begin a blog which aims to review everything than with this monstrosity of pure destructive decadence? What we are looking at here is a German-built strip-mining machine created for the purpose of shredding the arsehole out of anything that gets in its way. It's so aesthetically hardcore it would make Satan tremble in fear at the thought of standing next to it to piss at a urinal.

It's vital statistics show it to be 220 metres long and  96 metres high with a rotating saw weighing in at a hefty 21.6 metres in diameter. In 2001, when it was last used for its purpose of displacing excess earth prior to coal-mining, it could move at a lumbering ten metres per minute when supplied with a staggering 16.56 megawatts of electricity. Luckily for mankind, this power hungry beast is no longer in practical application having been put out to stud over a decade ago involving an epic transportation of 22 kilometres away from its mining stronghold, costing the German economy over 150 million Deutsch marks. 

So how does one begin to review a leviathan of such epic proportions without being bogged down in phallic imagery and pure testosterone fuelled panting? Well, let us begin by studying the first and most notable segment of this machine, the mounted circular saw. Both practically and aesthetically this is the crowning glory of the Bagger 288. Not only was it capable of shredding through 240,000 cubic metres of overburden in one day, it has the physical presence of an atomic bomb at a World Peace convention. It doesn't just do exactly what it says on the tin, it probably had those same tins queuing up round the block to be melted down and allowed to be part of its awesome being.

Jesus Christ Stefan, what will it take for you to admit we're lost?

However, avert your gaze from the destructo-section of the Bagger for a moment, and take a longer look at the structure holding that saw up. It looks exactly like the helicopter I tried to construct from the meccano set I was given when I was six. You'd think for the world's largest circular powered saw the designers would at least try to spice up the structure a bit. Maybe some kick-ass flames spray-painted on the side or a half-naked lady straddling a dragon, you know, something subtly more impressive. To be fair, this is the same country which gave us the Volvo, one of the least physically appealing cars ever invented, unless you have a box fetish. 

Minor aesthetic gripes aside, let's take a look at the Bagger's efficiency. I've already mentioned the massive amounts of power needed to put this mechanism in motion, but if there's one thing the Germans do get right, it is efficiency. For every megawatt the Bagger consumed, it revealed and mined over twenty times that in coal. The reason it's no longer used is because the moment it stopped working to maximum efficiency, it was hauled away to await its next calling. Let's hope North Korea never hear about this.

Finally, I find it pertinent within any review to study ones subject from the general ambiance and pleasurable satisfaction it exudes from not just my own personal perspective but from a societal aspect as well. In this instance however, I think it would suffice to merely bow down to the Bagger 288 as our new overlord and give it whatever it demands.