Really Rubbish Waxworks
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Really Rubbish Waxworks
Any idea? Without cheating...............
Nah Ville Sky Chick- Miss Whiplash
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
That ain't s'posed to be our Brit is it?
felix- cool cat - mrkgnao!
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
It could have been, but NO
Nah Ville Sky Chick- Miss Whiplash
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
Is this one any easier? Honestly, I laughed so much I cried when I saw this, it's dreadful.
Nah Ville Sky Chick- Miss Whiplash
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
Strawberry Jam wrote:Anna Nicole Smith and Paul McCartney?
No and Yes. How on earth did you get Paul McCartney, it's absolutely dreadful
Nah Ville Sky Chick- Miss Whiplash
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
Strawberry Jam wrote:And if the blonde one isn't Anna Nicole Smith...it can't be supposed to portray the original? Marylin?
No
Nah Ville Sky Chick- Miss Whiplash
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
I was about to say it is McCartney too, but I finally thought it wasn't him.
At first glance it has something that makes you recognize him but if you stare at it for longer than a second it doesn't.
At first glance it has something that makes you recognize him but if you stare at it for longer than a second it doesn't.
sil- Posts : 371
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
How about this then?
Nah Ville Sky Chick- Miss Whiplash
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
Gadaffi?
(I know it's not)
It reminds me of someone... I don't know who
(I know it's not)
It reminds me of someone... I don't know who
sil- Posts : 371
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
guacamayo wrote:Gadaffi?
(I know it's not)
It reminds me of someone... I don't know who
Gadaffi, I see what you mean, ha ha no it's not him.
Nah Ville Sky Chick- Miss Whiplash
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
Nah Ville Sky Chick wrote:
How about this then?
Geldof? Nah, surely not.
Young Diana Dors?Nah Ville Sky Chick wrote:
Any idea? Without cheating...............
Blimey, I was looking for a pic of young Di to illustrate my guess - and up pops this very waxwork. Well, stone the flippin crows.
felix- cool cat - mrkgnao!
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
The man, he looks like a North African...
sil- Posts : 371
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
felix wrote:Nah Ville Sky Chick wrote:
How about this then?
Geldof? Nah, surely not.Young Diana Dors?Nah Ville Sky Chick wrote:
Any idea? Without cheating...............
Blimey, I was looking for a pic of young Di to illustrate my guess - and up pops this very waxwork. Well, stone the flippin crows.
Yes Diana Dors , No not Geldof. This one seriously looks nothing like the person.
Nah Ville Sky Chick- Miss Whiplash
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
I am lost for words
Nah Ville Sky Chick- Miss Whiplash
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
^
Nah, this is the best really rubbish waxworks pic:
The Bullingdon Club.
Nah, this is the best really rubbish waxworks pic:
The Bullingdon Club.
eddie- The Gap Minder
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
Young, rich and drunk
The Bullingdon Club draws its all-male members by secret ballot from Oxford University's social elite. Barney Ronay explains the raucous rituals that unite this band of yobbish toffs
The Guardian, Friday 9 May 2008
It's been quite a week for the Bullingdon Club. As Oxford University's most exclusive all-male dining society, the Bullingdon has long been a magnet for titled youths with an urge to slip into a footman's outfit and wobble about the county raising genteel hell. With the election of Boris Johnson as London mayor, however, the Bullingdon seems to have taken another step towards becoming a varsity recruitment arm for the front rank of the Conservative party. Johnson's triumph at the polls completes a key triangulation of biscuit-waistcoated power, alongside fellow ex-Bullingdon members David Cameron and George Osborne. Soon three of the most powerful positions in the country could be occupied by men whose wardrobes contain, somewhere near the back, a crumpled royal blue tailcoat with a faint aroma of vomit.
But nobody seems to have much idea about what the Bullingdon actually is or does. Its shadowy nature was underlined when permission to show the original photograph of Cameron and Johnson at a Bullingdon dinner was withdrawn by the Oxford photographers Gillman & Soame, presumably because it was afraid of losing future business. Without information, the general response has been to assume the worst. Never mind the evidence of drunken, vaguely twittish figures with bowl haircuts: bring on the anarchic toffs bent on wresting power on behalf of a secretive aristocratic elite.
I came across the Bullingdon a few times as a student at Oxford. To an outsider they seemed a vaguely slapstick crew, pear-shaped and amiable, decked out in terrible stag-do-style get-up. Many already looked like Tory MPs, or baby-faced QCs out on a spree. When news of Osborne's involvement with the club emerged, a spokesman for the shadow chancellor insisted: "George was a prizewinning scholar who worked hard and was involved in many serious activities." This sounds about right: the Bullingdon were largely solid high-achievers who saw this kind of thing as a social networking experience, up there with making a splash at Oxford's debating society, the Union. The public perception is of a cartel of elite obnoxiousness. In practice, you really couldn't hope to meet a more confident and charming bunch of arrogant upper-class drunken fops. As one recent Bullingdon member told me: "It would be much more interesting if it was massively secret and dangerous like the Skull and Bones at Yale. The truth is, it's all rather courteous and cordial in an old-fashioned kind of way."
Which all sounds great. So where do I sign up? This is a difficult one. Even among exclusive all-male drinking clubs, the Bullingdon is a notably exclusive all-male drinking club. A quick survey of known recent members reveals that around 60% are Old Etonians; the rest simply went to really posh public schools. Osborne is said to have been ragged by fellow Bullers over having attended St Paul's, the top London day school, which is, apparently, not posh enough. A good school, then, but this in itself isn't sufficient. You've got to have a certain standing. An impressive lineage helps. As does a degree of jaunty charisma, either as a titled clown with a good line in drunken buffoonery, or as - someone with whom it might be handy to have an "in" when it's all over.
Prospective new members are proposed by a current member and then subjected to a club vote. This is all done in secret. You can be "put up" and blackballed and never be any the wiser. The first a new bug knows about it is when his rooms are invaded (ideally, via the window) and ceremonially trashed by way of initiation ("they overturned some of my flower pots," recalls my source). The financial costs run to the outfit, which at close to £2,000 is safely beyond most student overdrafts. There have been rumours of wealthier members paying an annual stipend of up to £10,000. And then there's the budget for a Bullingdon beano, a fairly open-ended prospect depending on champagne consumption and collateral damage reparations. Not that this matters much in practice. If you can't afford to be in the Bullingdon, you're extremely unlikely to be asked to join in the first place.
Once you're in, the Bullingdon year revolves around two annual events: the breakfast, a colossal booze-up at which each member is allotted his own bin bag to assist in vomiting without leaving the table (a club offence); and the dinner, a gut-tighteningly opulent affair of lobster, foie gras, suckling pig and so on. This is usually held at some unsuspecting rural restaurant where a table has been booked under a pseudonym, partly because the Bullingdon's reputation for casual vandalism precedes it; and partly to avoid any unpleasant comeback if things get out of hand.
Breakages, scraps and bust-ups seem to be a hazard of membership. Standard Bullingdon practice is for club members to pay off in cash any injured party (usually a bemused restaurateur with a private room full of broken china). It's this high-handed brand of yobbishness that has drawn most public opprobrium. It's not so much the damage that causes offence. It's the attitude, the innate sense that position and - more specifically - wealth will always be able to make good any inconvenience suffered by "civilians".
This kind of thing can be quite shocking. On one occasion the Bullingdon hired a string band to play at a garden party and ended up smashing up all the instruments, including a Stradivarius. Which might have been quite funny if it was the work of the Drones Club, Bertie Wooster's old school platoon of policeman's helmet-stealing Pall Mall ne'er do wells. But this isn't a light comic novel; also, none of the Drones ever made any serious attempt to convince you he was actually just a really regular guy. This is the problem Cameron faces with the Bullingdon. Nobody has ever witnessed him actually hurling a bicycle through a hospice window or anything like that. But in the context of the Buller, his man-of-the-people, call-me-Dave politician's shtick starts to look rather creepy and bogus. You would almost prefer it if he just came out and said, "Yes, we had a right old tip-top time ragging the plebs - now stand aside and let me get on with running the country."
This is, of course, the big question. Is membership of the Bullingdon really a fit student occupation for a future minister or mayor? It might be best to list the actual charges against the club. There's the air of lurking violence, and above all the sense that its members consider themselves above the law on such occasions. There's the extreme public drunkenness, although as far as revelry goes, the Bullingdon has always been about champagne rather than drugs. As my source put it, "The Bullingdon was quite square. Drugs were for the cool kids."
Then there's the Bullingdon's committed and longstanding misogyny. It's not just the all-male exclusivity, more the tales of hiring strippers to preside at the initiation of new members at the annual breakfast. Plus the trapped, frantic and vaguely sexual energy of the whole thing. The Bullingdon is simply a no-go area for women. These are teenagers almost exclusively from an all-male boarding school background. It's no real surprise that some of the naive, hostile and retarded attitudes fostered there resurface at a university reunion. You just have to hope they grow out of it.
After which you're left with the poshness, the elitism and the sudden and unnerving ubiquity. Cameron and Osborne might have been a coincidence. With Johnson this starts to look like an era, or at least a trend or a nouvelle vague. There might be something in this. The spike in the Bullingdon's profile could be seen as a consequence of the Conservative party returning to something closer to its old self. Certainly, under Margaret Thatcher and John Major a generation of biscuit-waistcoated toffs missed their window. Thatcher didn't much like the old Bullingdon kind of Tory. Or they didn't fancy her, which amounted to the same thing. As ever, there was an element of class about it. In her memoirs, Thatcher recalled that when she sacked Lord Soames he gave her the feeling he had been "dismissed by the housemaid". The Bullingdon is simply the elite student arm of a class of people who, while they might have been marginalised during a decade of New Labour, certainly never went away.
Cameron may have assumed something of Tony Blair's every-guy persona, but in terms of his background he belongs to an older tradition. As does the Bullingdon itself, which remains what it always was: a university perk of those born posh and powerful - albeit just a tiny part of the actual business of getting on with being posh and powerful.
Where the Bullingdon might be useful is in helping to understand what Boris Johnson is all about. Much has been made of his unique charm, that barefaced and terribly winning refusal to do or say anything other than exactly what he fancies. It's a very Bullingdon kind of attitude. And London has eaten it up, bent its knee in the face of this wonderfully uncompromising sense of entitlement; the unswerving belief that - terribly politely - you're just going to go about saying and doing whatever pops into your head. This is the odd thing about Boris. He doesn't look like a Tory politician who was once in the Bullingdon. He looks like he's still in the Bullingdon - all the time, even when he's doing his mayor bit.
By way of illustration: the club enjoyed a famously explosive dinner at the White Hart near Oxford in 2005. "All the food and plates had been thrown everywhere and they were jumping on top of each other on the table like kids in a playground," recalled the pub's landlord Ian Rogers. The part he found strangest was that each time he confronted a member of the club "they apologised profusely but offered absolutely no explanation".
Now, really, who does that remind you of?
guardian.co.uk © Guardian News and Media Limited 2011
The Bullingdon Club draws its all-male members by secret ballot from Oxford University's social elite. Barney Ronay explains the raucous rituals that unite this band of yobbish toffs
The Guardian, Friday 9 May 2008
It's been quite a week for the Bullingdon Club. As Oxford University's most exclusive all-male dining society, the Bullingdon has long been a magnet for titled youths with an urge to slip into a footman's outfit and wobble about the county raising genteel hell. With the election of Boris Johnson as London mayor, however, the Bullingdon seems to have taken another step towards becoming a varsity recruitment arm for the front rank of the Conservative party. Johnson's triumph at the polls completes a key triangulation of biscuit-waistcoated power, alongside fellow ex-Bullingdon members David Cameron and George Osborne. Soon three of the most powerful positions in the country could be occupied by men whose wardrobes contain, somewhere near the back, a crumpled royal blue tailcoat with a faint aroma of vomit.
But nobody seems to have much idea about what the Bullingdon actually is or does. Its shadowy nature was underlined when permission to show the original photograph of Cameron and Johnson at a Bullingdon dinner was withdrawn by the Oxford photographers Gillman & Soame, presumably because it was afraid of losing future business. Without information, the general response has been to assume the worst. Never mind the evidence of drunken, vaguely twittish figures with bowl haircuts: bring on the anarchic toffs bent on wresting power on behalf of a secretive aristocratic elite.
I came across the Bullingdon a few times as a student at Oxford. To an outsider they seemed a vaguely slapstick crew, pear-shaped and amiable, decked out in terrible stag-do-style get-up. Many already looked like Tory MPs, or baby-faced QCs out on a spree. When news of Osborne's involvement with the club emerged, a spokesman for the shadow chancellor insisted: "George was a prizewinning scholar who worked hard and was involved in many serious activities." This sounds about right: the Bullingdon were largely solid high-achievers who saw this kind of thing as a social networking experience, up there with making a splash at Oxford's debating society, the Union. The public perception is of a cartel of elite obnoxiousness. In practice, you really couldn't hope to meet a more confident and charming bunch of arrogant upper-class drunken fops. As one recent Bullingdon member told me: "It would be much more interesting if it was massively secret and dangerous like the Skull and Bones at Yale. The truth is, it's all rather courteous and cordial in an old-fashioned kind of way."
Which all sounds great. So where do I sign up? This is a difficult one. Even among exclusive all-male drinking clubs, the Bullingdon is a notably exclusive all-male drinking club. A quick survey of known recent members reveals that around 60% are Old Etonians; the rest simply went to really posh public schools. Osborne is said to have been ragged by fellow Bullers over having attended St Paul's, the top London day school, which is, apparently, not posh enough. A good school, then, but this in itself isn't sufficient. You've got to have a certain standing. An impressive lineage helps. As does a degree of jaunty charisma, either as a titled clown with a good line in drunken buffoonery, or as - someone with whom it might be handy to have an "in" when it's all over.
Prospective new members are proposed by a current member and then subjected to a club vote. This is all done in secret. You can be "put up" and blackballed and never be any the wiser. The first a new bug knows about it is when his rooms are invaded (ideally, via the window) and ceremonially trashed by way of initiation ("they overturned some of my flower pots," recalls my source). The financial costs run to the outfit, which at close to £2,000 is safely beyond most student overdrafts. There have been rumours of wealthier members paying an annual stipend of up to £10,000. And then there's the budget for a Bullingdon beano, a fairly open-ended prospect depending on champagne consumption and collateral damage reparations. Not that this matters much in practice. If you can't afford to be in the Bullingdon, you're extremely unlikely to be asked to join in the first place.
Once you're in, the Bullingdon year revolves around two annual events: the breakfast, a colossal booze-up at which each member is allotted his own bin bag to assist in vomiting without leaving the table (a club offence); and the dinner, a gut-tighteningly opulent affair of lobster, foie gras, suckling pig and so on. This is usually held at some unsuspecting rural restaurant where a table has been booked under a pseudonym, partly because the Bullingdon's reputation for casual vandalism precedes it; and partly to avoid any unpleasant comeback if things get out of hand.
Breakages, scraps and bust-ups seem to be a hazard of membership. Standard Bullingdon practice is for club members to pay off in cash any injured party (usually a bemused restaurateur with a private room full of broken china). It's this high-handed brand of yobbishness that has drawn most public opprobrium. It's not so much the damage that causes offence. It's the attitude, the innate sense that position and - more specifically - wealth will always be able to make good any inconvenience suffered by "civilians".
This kind of thing can be quite shocking. On one occasion the Bullingdon hired a string band to play at a garden party and ended up smashing up all the instruments, including a Stradivarius. Which might have been quite funny if it was the work of the Drones Club, Bertie Wooster's old school platoon of policeman's helmet-stealing Pall Mall ne'er do wells. But this isn't a light comic novel; also, none of the Drones ever made any serious attempt to convince you he was actually just a really regular guy. This is the problem Cameron faces with the Bullingdon. Nobody has ever witnessed him actually hurling a bicycle through a hospice window or anything like that. But in the context of the Buller, his man-of-the-people, call-me-Dave politician's shtick starts to look rather creepy and bogus. You would almost prefer it if he just came out and said, "Yes, we had a right old tip-top time ragging the plebs - now stand aside and let me get on with running the country."
This is, of course, the big question. Is membership of the Bullingdon really a fit student occupation for a future minister or mayor? It might be best to list the actual charges against the club. There's the air of lurking violence, and above all the sense that its members consider themselves above the law on such occasions. There's the extreme public drunkenness, although as far as revelry goes, the Bullingdon has always been about champagne rather than drugs. As my source put it, "The Bullingdon was quite square. Drugs were for the cool kids."
Then there's the Bullingdon's committed and longstanding misogyny. It's not just the all-male exclusivity, more the tales of hiring strippers to preside at the initiation of new members at the annual breakfast. Plus the trapped, frantic and vaguely sexual energy of the whole thing. The Bullingdon is simply a no-go area for women. These are teenagers almost exclusively from an all-male boarding school background. It's no real surprise that some of the naive, hostile and retarded attitudes fostered there resurface at a university reunion. You just have to hope they grow out of it.
After which you're left with the poshness, the elitism and the sudden and unnerving ubiquity. Cameron and Osborne might have been a coincidence. With Johnson this starts to look like an era, or at least a trend or a nouvelle vague. There might be something in this. The spike in the Bullingdon's profile could be seen as a consequence of the Conservative party returning to something closer to its old self. Certainly, under Margaret Thatcher and John Major a generation of biscuit-waistcoated toffs missed their window. Thatcher didn't much like the old Bullingdon kind of Tory. Or they didn't fancy her, which amounted to the same thing. As ever, there was an element of class about it. In her memoirs, Thatcher recalled that when she sacked Lord Soames he gave her the feeling he had been "dismissed by the housemaid". The Bullingdon is simply the elite student arm of a class of people who, while they might have been marginalised during a decade of New Labour, certainly never went away.
Cameron may have assumed something of Tony Blair's every-guy persona, but in terms of his background he belongs to an older tradition. As does the Bullingdon itself, which remains what it always was: a university perk of those born posh and powerful - albeit just a tiny part of the actual business of getting on with being posh and powerful.
Where the Bullingdon might be useful is in helping to understand what Boris Johnson is all about. Much has been made of his unique charm, that barefaced and terribly winning refusal to do or say anything other than exactly what he fancies. It's a very Bullingdon kind of attitude. And London has eaten it up, bent its knee in the face of this wonderfully uncompromising sense of entitlement; the unswerving belief that - terribly politely - you're just going to go about saying and doing whatever pops into your head. This is the odd thing about Boris. He doesn't look like a Tory politician who was once in the Bullingdon. He looks like he's still in the Bullingdon - all the time, even when he's doing his mayor bit.
By way of illustration: the club enjoyed a famously explosive dinner at the White Hart near Oxford in 2005. "All the food and plates had been thrown everywhere and they were jumping on top of each other on the table like kids in a playground," recalled the pub's landlord Ian Rogers. The part he found strangest was that each time he confronted a member of the club "they apologised profusely but offered absolutely no explanation".
Now, really, who does that remind you of?
guardian.co.uk © Guardian News and Media Limited 2011
eddie- The Gap Minder
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
Sorry, folks. I should really have posted the Key, identifying the members of the Bullingdon Club. Here it is:
(1) the Hon. Edward Sebastian Grigg, the heir to Baron Altrincham of Tormarton and current chairman of Credit Suisse (UK)
(2) David Cameron
(3) Ralph Perry Robinson, a former child actor, designer, furniture-maker
(4) Ewen Fergusson, son of the British ambassador to France, Sir Ewen Fergusson and now at City law firm Herbert Smith
(5) Matthew Benson, the heir to the Earldom of Wemyss and March
(6) Sebastian James, the son of Lord Northbourne, a major landowner in Kent
(7) Jonathan Ford, the-then president of the club, a banker with Morgan Grenfell
( Boris Johnson, the-then president of the Oxford Union, now Lord Mayor of London
9) Harry Eastwood, the investment fund consultant
(1) the Hon. Edward Sebastian Grigg, the heir to Baron Altrincham of Tormarton and current chairman of Credit Suisse (UK)
(2) David Cameron
(3) Ralph Perry Robinson, a former child actor, designer, furniture-maker
(4) Ewen Fergusson, son of the British ambassador to France, Sir Ewen Fergusson and now at City law firm Herbert Smith
(5) Matthew Benson, the heir to the Earldom of Wemyss and March
(6) Sebastian James, the son of Lord Northbourne, a major landowner in Kent
(7) Jonathan Ford, the-then president of the club, a banker with Morgan Grenfell
( Boris Johnson, the-then president of the Oxford Union, now Lord Mayor of London
9) Harry Eastwood, the investment fund consultant
eddie- The Gap Minder
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
Nah Ville Sky Chick wrote:
How about this then?
Kev 'Permaperm' Keegan?
felix- cool cat - mrkgnao!
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
felix wrote:Nah Ville Sky Chick wrote:
How about this then?
Kev 'Permaperm' Keegan?
Yes, ain't it awful
Nah Ville Sky Chick- Miss Whiplash
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
I cannot believe anyone will get this without cheating.
Nah Ville Sky Chick- Miss Whiplash
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
This is not who I thought it was
Nah Ville Sky Chick- Miss Whiplash
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
Ahah! I see the waxwork on the google image page...
felix- cool cat - mrkgnao!
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
Yes, it's Shirley Bassey, I thought it was a really bad Michael Jackson.
Nah Ville Sky Chick- Miss Whiplash
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
This is impossible without cheating
Nah Ville Sky Chick- Miss Whiplash
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Re: Really Rubbish Waxworks
^ Sportsman?
felix- cool cat - mrkgnao!
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