Chris Moyle’s Quiz Show

This week I was struggling to think of telly programs to write about. Skins is over, Friday was shrouded with the emotions of Sport Relief – which only relieved me of money, albeit for a remarkable cause, and TV to spitefully review. So here it goes…

Whilst looking through what I’d missed over the weekend I came across something which I already had relatively low expectations for and it dropped them considerably lower this series. Chris Moyle’s Quiz Show has, over the past few weeks, forced ennui through every pour of my body, as if it was some sort of bafflingly boring osmosis. So as I sat here starting to sharpen my fangs and drain that bad boy like the homeless drain Tenants Super, he only went and bloody made a slightly more bearable episode.

Since the start of this term of Moylesy’s Quiz I found my self each week actively turning it off half way through after making some form of effort to watch it. It was more boring than watching a pub quiz in a quiet country side village full of idiots.

This week however Jimmy Carr was drafted in the save this drowning ship. The common thing about Jimmy Carr is that he’s on every program everyday – but there’s a reason for this. Jimmy has an excellent blend of comedian with a great talent as an adult presenter (not like an omnipotent porn commentator), as well as being about the best darn joke machine there is. Even with his middle-class charm he can’t drag this from its slumps, although he did make it watchable, being vulgar and entertaining as always (‘God Kyle, why don’t you just blow the guy?’, I hear you saying….)

Fearne Cotton and James Nesbit were also guests who provided their ample remit of celebrity numskulls. Miss Cotton who I wrongly like butchered a Take That song like no other, such a beautiful face screeching out such rancid, screechy notes has to be applauded for her give-it-a-go attitude. James Nesbit did his bit too having pubish ironic banter with Jimmy Carr and making it, to my disbelief, actually okay viewing. Hate me if you must.

Now, to the Moyles-meister (I thought his target audience may use a term similar to this). You really see that he wants to get this to work, and it does if you really get him, which means I’m free to call you what I like here as you are most certainly unable to read. Obviously it’s low brow, mainstream kind of thing, so I can’t really complain.

They try and jazz up the questions with a celebrity overdose, but this just detracts from the celebrities they already have and you feel a numb nothingness as you blankly stare at the screen which by about half way through could have anything on it. It could have been lap-dancing Teletubies using their antennas as a probe to satisfy their dirty master. Or even armless necrophiliacs caught in the act and you wouldn’t notice a thing because you’re in a mindless zone of nothingness. No night. No day. Just The Quiz.

One of the guests being Peter Crouch, who looks like a pirate symbol with skin vacuumed over it, asks questions he can hardly pronounce let alone understand and process, bless him. The other is Ozzy Osbourne which I refuse to make comment, as it is simply too easy.

Regardless of these inherant let downs I find myself still at least attempting to try and watch it so maybe it’s Stockholm syndrome. That’s it. I need help.

Eddie Izzard: Marathon Maniac

Seen as it’s fast approaching Sport Relief day I thought I should write about something I have been watching that comes to it’s finale this Thursday evening. Not Skins. I’m talking about Eddie Izzard’s 43 marathons in 51 days.

Dress like a lady, eat ice cream and run around, this may sound like a task on the Generation Game – but it this program is much more. Transvestite comedian Eddie Izzard’s effort for Sport Relief seems on the face of it to be some sort of biblical happening, and after watching it God himself would piss off with his water into wine tricks – this is something really impressive. Embarking on a world record smashing adventure he: crosses 4 countries; running 1100 miles in only 51 days to raise money for a great cause; whilst reminiscing along the way which is something truly spectacular.

The 47 year old didn’t get off to the best start after deciding to take up this challenge as we see in episode one. As he (what I will loosely call) ‘prepares’ for his endeavour he visits Olympic doctors to get a health assessment. After telling the Doc he’s never done any real running and has only been training for 2 weeks with only 4 weeks until the start date, the Doctors eyes have a clear mixture of both disbelief and a healthy amount of incredibly likely failure stuck in them. After strapping him up to techno magic machines until it’s coming out of his arse, looking like a home-made praying mantis from metal gear solid series, he begins his treadmill run – which indicates a number of problems, like flat feet and old injuries.

Eddie confidently stomps on with his medical team in toe (excuse the pun) for his first trial run of a marathon distance. As I’d expected he conks out after not long and confirms the preconceptions we all would have at the synopsis. Storming on he completes a marathon in a snaily 8 hours, but this is still shocking due to his dearth of preparation and the early aches and pains.

In all honesty we knew he was going to do it because it was all over the TV and news a few months ago, but I hadn’t fully comprehended how far and how long it would take – the sheer scale is horrifying, and I presumed he’d probably just walk a lot of it and blag it in a celebrity let’s-do-something-good-for-publicity-esque populist quest where it’s pretty easy and edited so it looks like he actually ran the maniacal 43 marathons. I didn’t write about it after episode one for that very reason.

And I was so very, very wrong. He makes no qualm about it and there’s no marching band at the beginning (maybe because he thought it would be less fuss if he didn’t complete it) he just gets on with it, demolishing marathon after marathon man while I concur chocolate after chocolate, sweating just watching him. His feet take a huge brunt of the running leaving the skin hanging off like an onion that’s just been kicked down the street with boils full of puss resembling a condoms filled of custard. But as the mission becomes known across the world more people join him and add their interesting story to his journey whilst eating ice creams from his personal ice cream van.

This isn’t someone super fit and young man, running a few marathons in a smug way. This is a huge feet (I’m puntastic this week) for any human and even more for someone in the psychical shape that Eddie was in, it really demonstrates a burning desire to fulfil and achieve something (regardless of experience). This overwhelming recalcitrant show of human determination is warming and sweet to watch, and though I’m a Skin-atic, and therefore I’ll be watching that series closure instead, I shall be eagerly waiting until the final instalment of Eddie is on the iPlayer. The previous episodes are on the iPlayer too and you all the donation information is shown on the program. I’m wasn’t very keen on Eddie Izzard for his comedy before, but he’s made a convert of me after this, and if he can convert me he can convert anyone.

Great Answered Questions

I stumbled upon this bit of Irish television a couple of weeks ago, originally a radio show, it is here to answer all the those ‘Great Unanswerable Questions’ making them not unanswerable at all, which takes away from the great and leaving them as just questions – albeit silly and funny questions.
As I am in England this was found by me serendipitously on the iPlayer, and there’s only one episode left in this series in which for you to catch up on, which is on Friday night and the current one (episode 7) is on the iPlayer now.
The premise of the program is silly questions like ‘who has the arm rest in the cinema?’ and the like. In which you have a bizarre host, a nervy half-celebrity, a doctor and a web-surfing geek.
Firstly, as presenters go, Colin Murphy has to be down there with the most annoying of them. He’s loud, crass and try-hardily unfunny as well as being just too silly for the show in general, I’m not saying it should be some high-brow, snotty academic program but it needs to be treated a little more carefully for its audience due to its science foundation. Murphy simply hasn’t got what is required of him, he shows no general thirst and love of knowledge and seems like a dumb American, jeering and making idiotic boobery at every opportunity instead of picking his comedic timing, making it patronizing like we can’t sit few a minute of actual knowledge. He’s got all the Irish characteristics but lacks the most crucial of them all – charm. Everything about him seems to grate on me. If I’d been placed in SAW VII and my face was covered in flesh eating insects that tucked in every time he annoyed me, I’d look like a pirate symbol after about 3 minutes.
The guests on the show are usually not hugely well known, and from the little I’ve seen, aren’t quite comfortable being there and don’t really know how to act when the clever stuff comes along: some put moronic quips in over the explanations being given; some shy away and just nod and some go straight for the Doctors jugular only to be decapitated by his razor sharp witticisms.
So let’s talk about him, the Doctor – not the time travelling, twat-tastic nincompoop. Dr David Booth, well, how can I explain him? He’s like Stephen Hawkins’ able bodied mentor, or a Frankenstein-Google-droid, without the pop-up porn advertisements. He’s so clever he understood the Da Vinci Code after the first viewing. This is where the show really takes off for me. It starts with silly questions which should be channelled towards David with more sly finesse than is done, so that he can educate us all, while better guests cleverly add to the discussion making it funny, education, witty and interesting. Doctor Booth is amazing: he breaks down complex matters for our simple minds; he knows when it’s getting lengthy as not to explode our untaught mind-boxes; he’s interesting; he adds humour to his brainy ramblings; he has a quick put-down repost for the borderline brain damaged guest; he’s got lovely eyes; a nice arse etc…. All in all I can’t say a bad word about him and his overall value and contribution to the show.
There’s also a stereotypical nerd who puts up little videos from his laptop throughout which works as a well earned break after you’ve stuffed your noggin with all that clever spiel.
All of the above seems like a huge whacking great kick in the testicles of this program leaving it hunched over gagging in pain, but all in all it is its first TV airing and it may need time to tweak and adjust to that, even though the radio show has very similar flaws. Maybe when it gets bigger and transformed for the entire UK it will have more acerbic guests and, hopefully, someone with more sophistication to host it. Right now it’s enjoyable in points with its weakness’s flapping in your face constantly, but keep your eyes out for its transformative bigger broader-audienced brother.

Let’s Mince for Sport Relief

Usually if you told me to watch Saturday night TV you would shortly be pulling the laces of, what were, my clean white pumps from your arse (because I’m out throwing shapes so sharp they call me The Octogen on Saturdays). And if you then were gutsy enough to tell me it was a celebrity dancing TV program my eyes would likely wrench themselves from their homely sockets and, using their retina crawl out of the room, while my ears curled up like frightened hedgehogs, leaving me in my bedroom stumbling around trying to find the door like Stevie Wonder in a rave. Which is why I was pleasantly surprised by ‘Let’s Dance for Sport Relief’.

In the first instalment it kicked off with Rufus Hound and his utterly fantastic dance rendition of Cheryl Cole’s – Fight For This Love. Merely explaining that a middle aged, heavily tattooed overweight comedian was going to cross dress and perform that dance is curiously funny. The thing is, he was actually really good, which made it some how funnier. It’s not on the iPlayer any more but you can see it on Youtube, and I strongly suggest you do, if it doesn’t make you feel warm and tickled in side get to the doctors because your funny bone is shattered – either that or you’re dead. After winning Mr Hound was genuinely overwhelmed and touched which made it all the more humbling. The reason I think it’s different is because it’s for charity, so you can’t see the tragically desperate pain plastered on their face wanting to stay in ’til next week so they can get a minute more in the spotlight.

Katy Brand was the second person to go through with her performance of Beyonce’s – Single Ladies. I don’t even generally like her but this was slightly funny, even if she did look like an accidentally caught whale, wrapped up and flawing in agony, thus further entangling itself in the netting.

Snooker Vs. Darts was another highlight for me from this episode, with their cringe-worthy attempt at Run DMC and Aerosmith’s – Walk This Way. The dotty quartet, have a combined age of around 300 and the agility of a limbless animal of your choice. Without the flashy lights and audience, it would simply look like the old folks home had had a power cut in the dementia ward while, coincidentally, four of the patients had not taken their medication and were having breakdowns. This was followed by JLS who sang One Shot, which left me wondering how I could kill, or at least savagely damage all four of them with one simple shot.

Unfortunately as I tuned eagerly in this week my high hopes were quickly curtailed and it left me feeling conned. I didn’t watch it for annoying happy-clappy, pat-each-other-on-the-back viewing and teeny-bopper dance routines, but that’s what I got. The celebrities just weren’t as good or humorous, as well as it having become the campest thing to have graced television, it was like watching Gok Wan turned up to 11. It was so poor I shan’t even mention the celebrities, I’m too appalled. This episode was more like a friends reunited version of High School Musical, set in 2040.

So with exactly a 50% rate of being any good I wouldn’t stay in to watch it this Saturday (19:15), but I will be iPlayering it and so should you, even if it is hit or miss. And as I’ll be catching up and not watching it live, therefore not being able to vote, I’ll be giving some money to Sport Relief regardless. So while you’re sitting their worrying if there’s a dead pixel in your 1080p HD screen, Googling pictures of nudey ladies, and moaning that your 300 trilobyte broadband isn’t loading those boobs quickly enough on your 29,366,487GB of RAM laptop, there are people in need (without sounding like a pretentious do-gooder, which I obviously do). So follow the link by clicking here and give some money – and don’t worry about that pixel.

A Short Story About Two People – Part 2

Owen had enjoyed the last 23 years, it had flown by for him. After all, he was in love. To him hours had felt like minutes, minutes had felt like seconds and everything had gone by so quickly. All of a sudden he was 33, married, a father and had a job that – however creatively frustrating – was what he wanted. Owen had become a freelance technical drawer. He had drawn blue-prints of many things, but he was most proud of his small involvement in the design of a sandwich toaster – simply because he loved toasted sandwiches.

He worked from home now, and that meant he was able to take his two daughters to school everyday and collected them after they had finished. Owen didn’t understand his love for his daughters, to him it was bizarre. It was like nothing he’d felt before. He couldn’t explain how much he loved them, although he tried to tell them every day, but he didn’t need to explain it. It was obvious, you could see it plastered across his face so proudly like a I shiny sticker of achievement with ‘worlds happiest dad’ on it. Sometimes he was so amused by how bloody cute they were he couldn’t tell them off or control them as well as he should have been able to. They knew they had their dad under their thumb, and their dad knew they knew they had him under their thumb.

Sammy was 4 and was attending nursery, and Jessica was 6 and was in year 2 at primary school. They were both undeniably sweet and mischievous with their shoulder length blindingly bright blonde hair (with crooked fringes because having their hair cut was far too exciting to remain still while it was actually being cut), button noses and emerald green eyes. One day on the bus to school (they caught the bus because Owen wanted to help the environment, as well as him hating driving, even though he had never learnt) Jessica had picked up the last Metro newspaper. Sammy grabbed at the corner and yanked trying to get the paper, to which Jessica had responded with equally as much gusto in trying to retain it. Owen saw this quibbling and said ‘Stop it!’ and took the paper from them placing it back in the rack. Neither of them could really even read. Owen found this adorable as did the rest of the bus. Everyone found it even more hilarious when they saw that Sammy had managed to keep a half-column-corner which was unreadable to the literate, let alone her, yet she still remained smug and acted as if she was reading it just to spite her older sister, grinning with smugness. This caused a huge smile on Owen’s face and actual laughter from some of the other commuters.

After dropping them off and kissing them goodbye he would begin his journey back on the bus. This was his daily pattern. As he got off the bus his wife got on. He looked at her, smiled, kissed her on the lips, looked into her eyes and said ‘love you’, to which she smiled and they both went on their ways. This was to laugh in the face of adversity and the monotony of everyday life, a small glimpse of happiness in a grey Britain. The love for his wife was second only to that of his daughters. They’d been married 5 years now, and the honey moon period had long gone and they had settled into the contentment and consistency of family life, a bit more of a ham sandwich period rather than honey moon. In the earlier days they were a little more wild: they had partied all night; had sex in more adventurous places; been on exotic holidays where they’d swam with dolphins; seen snake charmers in Marrakesh and even the day-to-day had been more spontaneous. One day she had seen that there was a flasher that had been reported in the local newspaper, and Owen couldn’t resist what he did next. When she was out he got naked, drew a moustache in black Biro, put on a long green mac and matching hat on and waited two hours ’til she arrived home. When she was home he ran out and wrestled her onto the bed leaving her in a fit of laughter at his stupidity, while her eyes poured out floods of tears pertaining to her laughter at his unfaltering idiocy, and just out of the happiness she felt being with him.

But today was a different day, a different time and a different view on life.

It was a cold January morning and he could see his warm breath in the air, trying to blow rings like he’d seen film stars do with cigarettes – with no success. After taking his daughters to school he went home on the returning bus. As he got off the bus she got on. He looked at her, smiled, kissed her on the lips, looked into her eyes and said ‘love you’, to which she did nothing and said nothing and they both went on their ways. He walked back to their house, put his key in the door, clicked it over and the door slowly opened and the corridor was unlit. He didn’t have any work to do today. His daughters were supposed to be going to their grandma’s after school so he was alone until 5 when his wife got home.

So with this vast empty day ahead of him he pondered on the thousands of things he could do with his day, and sighed. Sighed not because he was in any way sad or bored with his life – quite the opposite – but not having his wife and children there made it all less fun. He flicked through the Metro which he had obtained on his return journey and saw yet another suicide of a popular figure. Owen wasn’t pessimistic in any way, optimism was Owen’s general vibe. But he looked at things differently than anyone else: most people were shocked and appalled at the suicides; and whilst Owen didn’t understand why anyone would do that he remained firm in his belief that there must be something in it if people keep doing it – a lot like sprouts he thought.

He went into the bedroom, took off his clothes, got a Biro and draw a moustache, found out his mac and hat and put them on. He thought this would bring back those times (if only briefly) and be a bit different from the rut he felt she was feeling. As his daughters were at their grandma’s for the night he thought this was the perfect chance to conduct this youth reminiscence.

He sat there watching TV dressed like a flasher for hours, waiting and sinking further into the settee.

It was 4:45pm and he sat eagerly on the edge of his seat ready to pounce on her arrival.

5:15pm came around, and he presumed her bus was late. It was dark now and the curtains were closed and all that lit him was the flickering of the television which was on mute.

6 o’clock came and went and still no sign, he had concluded she had gone to her mums. So her gave her a call. It rang. It rang again.

‘Hi Susanne’ as he’d gotten past the Mrs Harbrine phase.

‘Is Kate there?’ he inquired.

‘Oh, no. Why would she be?’ she said, surprised at the call.

‘Erm I just thought she may have come to pick the girls up’ he said whilst wondering where Kate was now, with both curiosity and worry.

‘The girls? They aren’t here either Owen.’ she replied, and faded out as she realised something was wrong. ‘Sorry, Owen’.

‘Oh…. Okay. Bye.’ said Owen, stunned with his mouth drier than the morning after the night before of drinking 15 beers when he was at university.

Owen slumped back in his seat with nothing but black Biro, a mac and a hat and did nothing. Seconds turned to minutes, minutes turned to hours….

A Short Story About Two People – Part 1

He picked up his bike and saw his breath. As he cycled he pretended the warm breath was smoke, trying to blow rings like he’d seen film stars do with cigarettes – with no success. The two mile ride was extremely far for an 10 year old to travel, especially on such a cold day; without his mum’s permission or knowing; and on a vehicle which he was certain would see it’s demise or his demise before the end of the journey. But for Owen it was worth it. He really liked her. He wasn’t sure what he liked about girls yet, or what had begun to draw him to them, but he liked this girl more than he liked the rest of the girls at her school. She was different, Owen thought.

Kate loved B*witched. Owen being the esoteric 10 year old romantic that he was liked Kate so much he bought a copy of the B*witched album and learnt all the words to all of the songs. After doing so he quickly realised this was not applicable in any way, shape or form. He was 10, so Kate coming around his house; seeing the CD and quipping ‘Oh you like B*witched too’ and realising they were meant to be and then fingering the day away was not on the cards. Firstly he was too shy for his mum to know he liked a girl; secondly he didn’t know about fingering or sex things, and was a little too scared to even kiss a girl.

It’s not as if you could recite the lyrics as poetry like it was William Shakespeare or Ezra Pound and woo her that way – the lyrics: ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours/Gotta let me in/Let the fun begin’ were frankly too creepy and too rapey for their own good. The only time he could see a use for this was at a school disco, but even then he refused to dance with girls while his best trousers knees remained entirely clean, with him having free roam of the polished school hall floors to slide around on.

As he got to the end of Kate’s street he slowed down, got off his bike and walked whilst pushing the bike, as not to look flustered and sweaty and eager to impress (even though he very much was). He was uncertain as to whether she was going to be in, but he knew her mum liked him so he wasn’t as timid as he would have been ordinarily in this situation – Kate’s mum thought it was extremely cute that her daughter was so smitten by Owen, and equally cute was Owen’s doting looks at Kate. He knocked. He knocked again. Kate’s mum opened the door and gave a warm and welcoming smile at him, knowing what he was about to say.

‘Is Kate in?’ he asked.

‘Yes I’ll go and get her’ she replied, almost giggling with a giddy overriding sweet feeling.

Kate came down the stairs and out of the door, and Owen slowly lowered his bike on to the grass of the front garden, glancing at Mrs Harbrine, contorting his facein a way that asked the question ‘Is it okay if I leave my bike here?’, to which she smiled and nodded, as to say ‘It’s fine, you get on and have fun’. So they walked down the alley next to her house towards the green. They said nothing. They were simply too shy and nervous for words to play a part in this social interaction. Arriving at the green they sat on a bench and Owen began his investigation.

‘Do you fancy anyone now?’ he asked in the childishly cliché way you do when you first start liking the opposite sex.

Shocked at how out of the blue it was she gingerly replied ‘Yes’.

It was Owen. Owen knew it was him, and Kate knew Owen knew it was him. But wanting to hear it from her he continued the inquisition.

‘What form are they in?’ he bluntly asked.

‘Our form’ she said, knowing the answer was growing ever nearer – but unaware at the sheer will power Owen was about to exude, with the poorest attempt at a slightly different version of Guess Who anyone will have ever seen.

Owen then – acting the fool – ploughed on to say every boys name in their form conveniently missing himself out. Then came the climax they both knew was inevitable but neither had had the foresight to think what they would do after Kate had confessed.

‘Well, who then?’ Owen asked, pulling an over-exaggerated oh-now-I’m-stumped sort of face.

Kate waited, and left a pause so pregnant that it’s waters had broken, as she looked at Owen annoyed that she had been linguistically cajoled into this, even though they were both secretly excited and enjoying it.

‘You’ – firmly putting the ball back in Owen’s court.

They didn’t know what to do next. Kate’s face was ruddy from the cold but was now becoming more and more crimson as the air went empty with a dearth of things to say. Owen smiled, tried not to seem ecstatic (which is how he really felt), but played it down and showed a smile that demonstrated he was pleased it was him. After what seemed like a lifetime to Kate, Owen began to look as if he was about to say something and break this fast of the spoken word. Here it was the moment of truth.

‘I like you too, Kate’.

Slum to Dumb

The Slumdog Children of Mumbai was based around four children, if you haven’t guessed, living in the Slums. This heart-wrenching and tragically sad documentary showed how these four lost kiddy souls went about their days, each ones story more harrowing than the next. Their were twins who decided not to go to school and earn money by fishing around in the disease riddled water to collect metal to sell on again. Their was a little girl, aged 8 I believe, who stood risking life and limb at a busy cross-road junction selling flowers – because her mother left and her grandmother was looking after her and need the money, as well as this girl having to look after her 1 year old brother. And finally there was an 11 year old boy who had travelled miles to get to Mumbai so he could beg outside the popular train station. He later found some friends who also lived on the streets who quickly got him into sniffing paint thinners through bits of cloth. It later transpired that he was being sodomised by the eldest of the group, 21. There was a transient moment where it looked like there was light at the end of the tunnel, after this kind gentle man tried to get him into a rehab school, but he fled at the end and is now back on the streets starving and probably on drugs.

Pretty hard hitting, sensitive and emotionally draining stuff right? Of course. So, how did the Channel 4 lot handle this delicate time, after the program, to not offend anyone. Well I’ll tell you. They showed some rich and famous people throwing around and wasting tons of meat with some funky music over it. I’ll break down the juxtaposition in microcosm for you, so you can get the vibe:

• • Starving children, famine and miss placed people.
  • Sodomising, heart-breaking sadness.
  • Bleak and horrific ending.
  • Adverts.
  • Oh! Look at them! They’re touching dead meat!
  • Ha. Watch him throw that bit and push it through the fencing.
  • OMG I love this jingly jangly music that’s over this bit.
  • Ah! look at the blood, all the blood everywhere ha ha.
  • It’s all really funny because no ones starving and this isn’t wasted food.
  • And they’re celebrities so this must be morally fine.

So there you go. But don’t worry, there was a point. They had to thread it through wire meshing to make a revolting fleshy cow, like a 3d puzzle for psychopaths. Let’s not leave that task until another time, that’ll fit in just fine here.

But CBB is almost over and now, and Satins creator and his tiny spine shivering pupils have left, as well as arguably one of the most entertaining house mates, Sisqo. Leaving (the hilariously named) Ivana Trump, who to me looks like a Muppet’s puppet version of Ivan Trump. There’s only one person I want to win now. So, vote Alex. He’s a big muscley moron of a man but such a sweet and pathetic sop that it’s hard not to love him. He’s constantly getting bullied and picked apart through language by Vinnie and Dane, which seems impossible considering the source. He seems like he was a bit simple at school and would have gotten picked on just because it was easy, so thought ‘I know what I’ll do I learn to fight’. But genuinely he seems so bloody peaceful and emotionally weak that when Vinnie or Dane go for the jugular it just looks like their shooting machine guns into a field full of puppies and toddlers. So for gods sake vote Alex, sure he’s desperate to be famous (probably because he’s so unfathomably unpopular generally) but he’s got a good heart. And that’s certainly what we need after the scheduling of that particular Thursday evening.

A Wonderful Blanket of White Crisp Snow.

Last week if you’d looked out, gazed across a moor you’d have seen a pure, beautiful, serene and wonderful blanket of white crisp snow. Now if you look out you’ll see soggy mud, riddled with the corpses of children from 45 years ago. Which is all well and good if you’re a necrophiliac paedophile – but most of us aren’t, I’m certainly not, but Pat Sharp sure as hell looks a little shifty, I know he was doing the sex-tango with those twins from Fun House, and I’m not certain they were of age to consent. The pervert – I’m just jealous really and I’m masking it with Pat Sharp shaped hate.
I’m sick of the constant snow bashing that occurred last week, you bunch of miserable shits. We get it once in a while, and want it, then when it’s here we whine and moan and get angry and commuting turns to pot. Now it’s gone, so I imagine you sullen lot will be glad, back to the grey pavements, chewing gum, monster munch packets and skag needles that reappear. Snow is like ejaculating on someone’s face – at the time it’s a joy, sure, but when it’s all done and gone, washed away, it reveals the flaws and cracks in your life and reality.
Children enjoy the snow: sledging and snow ball fights; old people falling over in it, what’s not to love? That’s who it’s for really: children. They get it off school, they go and have fun, and adults just sneer and huff and puff. Adults are constantly trying to make children ‘grow up’ and ‘act their age‘, it’s depressing. It’s bad enough they’re banged up in institutions most of the year doing things that you’ll either forget or doing things you don’t want to do.
Children’s beauty pageants make me sick – they dress little girls and boys up to look like adults, wearing make-up and high heels (well not the boys, unless there is some sort of drag queen children’s pageant, which wouldn’t surprise me – in fact it’s probably being pitched to BBC3 as you read this, let’s call it ‘pre-teen-puff-pageant‘ just for alteration sake), I mean what next? ‘My Little Shotgun’? Or ‘Dunkin’ Dildos’? Or even ‘My First Strap-On’? You may as well just get Gary Glitter to do a demonstrative sex-education lesson, if Channel 4 hasn’t hanged him already.
When I was younger all I wanted to do was play in the woods. Nothing more, nothing less. How can dirt, trees, a ditch and rope swing make you so happy? We used to go sledging in the summer. Except there was no snow. And no sledge. Basically you just sat and slid on your bottom down this bank. We called it bumsliding – which I can now see as a sinister sort of euphemism for anal sex; or something Sarah Jessica Parker would order at a cocktail bar in Sex and the City – but at the time we really didn’t realise.
We also found porn there, that mysterious porn that all small boys look for and some how find. I’ve heard many stories about people finding porn in the woods, none of which end in a bleak as way as mine. So here it is. Our porn got ruined by my friend having a poo in the woods and using the magazine as toilet paper. Yes, simple as that, just whipped his arse on our pornographic gold. The equivalent faux pas to that now would be shitting on the internet, all over google, and destroying every lovely bit of porn within. Coprophila is not big, nor is it clever (I just googled how to spell Coprophilia – that was a mistake – I hope you have to google it too).
Now, if you don’t mind I’m off out with SJP to drink some Bumslides; get a bit woozy; get diddled by some rugid, rich older man; then chat to my other slagish friends about said diddling – because that’s what the Sex and the City plot dictates, and we’re all really cool and liberal and left wing and free to poke one another’s genitals, yeah?

Oh, and as a side note, I think you can subscribe to this blog thing, somehow. Click somewhere see what it does. Go nuts. Ache yourself mental with clicks and RSS feeds – whatever they are.

Watch this too – let’s face it you’ve got nothing better to do: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MN4Bz9HDS_Q

That really isn’t the point.

I’m a late comer to Gavin and Stacey, mainly because I’m and obnoxious snob, who presumed it would be low brow humour and poor saps for characters. It is pretty low brow sometimes, and in my humble opinion it’s not ‘laugh out loud funny’ a lot of the time, but that really isn’t the point of Gavin and Stacey. The program has a blue-whale-sized heart which carries it from strength to strength through every episode. The idiosyncrasies, cross-referencing and call-backs to subjects and characters makes you really feel part of the two family’s, making it so bloody warm it feels like being spit roasted (not in that way, filth) whilst being hugged by the cup-a-soup arms.
Gavin and Stacey are pretty much the dead wood of the entire thing, giving it the stability for the rest of the cast to be these odd and individual, but completely recognisable, bunch.
Stacey goes from first-series-adorable, to second-series-annoying-swine, and back to lovable in the final series – making her character arc more of a semi-circle, while Gavin remains stoic and reliable throughout. And to be honest I don’t ever want to miss out on any program that has serial killers’ surnames for their surnames. A highlight for me are Dawn and Pete (Suttcliff), who’s twisted, dark and hateful relationship is full of hilariously sinister interactions, which is only ever noticeable in contrast to black and white; chalk and cheese; or Richard and Judy.
Now on the subject of bilious and repugnant people: Celebrity Big Brother. We all knew there was an idiot amongst our presence when Steven entered the house, but who would have known he was the son of the anti-Christ? As they always do, crazed, obsessed religious types turn ever more scary the further right they go. Steven is so hideously frightening that he makes Jeremy Kyle look like a puppy. There’s something so black in his eyes that they consume your television, and make you suspect that at any moment: horns may sprout from his head; his skin will rip off; a fiery staff will appear in his hand and some devil minions would surround him and sing the crazy frog song in high pitch eerie voices, while Steven mutilates children and copulates with small innocent animals. He’s forever trying to in intoxicate the house – scratch that the nation – with his backward views, which is more annoying than them all sitting around and laughing at each others farts. It’s getting to the point now where I feel like some action needs to be taken, I’ve locked my doors and stocked up on tinned food with a loaded shotgun at hand, I sleep in the corner with the lights on and one eye open. The apocalypse is here.
Just as a post script: the Eastenders vs Coronation Street debate. I’ll sum it up for you in a few short sentences. Eastenders is full of murders, deceit and who’s-done-it’s. It’s like a mob film set in the east end with a production fee of around £100 that goes on for an infinite amount of time with a lot of ‘apples and pears’ accents (which, to me, sounds all right as a on-going entertainment show). It has its critics though, who say the obvious, that it isn’t ‘realistic’. But is it realist for a women who looks like a particularly buck-toothed rat, crossed with a child with that ageing disease and a wig on (Gail), to be getting married for a fifth time? I think not.

King Alex. The poor sod.

So the last ever Big Brother is here. And to make it more obnoxious, it’s a Celebrity Big Brother. Every house-mate has been booed so much on entering that the crowd may as well have shat into their own hands and launched them at their faces as a dirty filth protest against the show even beginning. So let’s have a quick nosey at the ‘celebrity’ contestants.
Stephen Baldwin, the least famous of the Baldwin brothers, well, I’ve only ever seen him in one thing, and that’s what matters. The deluded evangelist is what Alan Osmond is to The Osmonds, just another blood swine to cling to the ones with the talented genes.
Alex Reid seems to be the key piece in the entire event, because he’s fingering Katie Price – which doesn’t make him so much of a one off, but as he is the current fingerer he holds some recent celebrity tittle tattle credence, relevance and, dare I say it, gravitas. If I told you of a friend that rolls around with men in a cage getting sweaty in tight shorts and dresses like a women from time-to-time you’d think of a transsexual, homosexual in a sex dungeon at 4am in Soho – well if you’re inclined to think in that manner you’d think that. But this cage-fighting-cross-dressing beefcake of a numpty, is however the king in this D-list chess match, as most of the other house-mates are there to either distract him from Jordan: like the ‘top totty’ they’ve thrown in (Katia Ivanova and Nicola Tappenden); or others because they’ve knobed his girlfriend (Dane Bowers) or will emasculate him (Vinnie Jones). I feel sorry for the poor bugger.
The, ironically named, ‘Lady’ Sovereign came in dressed like a Good Luck Troll who’s lived on a council estate her whole life, but is incessantly insistent that she isn’t a chav, when she most blatantly is a chav.
And just when you thought the cretins couldn’t become any more odious, Sisqó performs for as his entrance; and an entrance which he probably kicked and flailed and cried and whined about until they let him do. But the pint sized (actually make that a half darlin’) R’n'B star did slightly redeem himself by being one of the possey not to presume everyone in there knew him already.
Heidi Fleeis is the one who may arrange for the pretty tarts to bump rudey’s with Alex, as her profession as a Hollywood madame can only be rekindled in the British Celebrity Big Brother house – OK she’s gone down the ladder, but she’s stuck at it, which we surely must applaud. After losing her looks since her Nick Broomfield days, she has aged as gracefully as Jackie Stallone, as well as visiting her butcher of a surgeon. Amongst some of the other P.Y.T‘s in the house she looks understandably nervous and uncomfortable. Who wouldn’t? When you look like a cold scrotum that has stumbled serendipitously into an American children’s beauty pageant – with possibly the same ramifications to follow.
Vinnie Jones seems like the only vaguely human in-mate, mainly because he still talks like a proper-well-’ard-fak’n'-geezer, and because in his VT it announces he gave some cash to a hospital – a hospital with which he’s put more people in than his money will have recompensed. He’s really just paying back the system for what he has amounted. Like a bar tab for criminals.
The rest of the house-mates are simply fillers in this less than meaty sandwich. So now to humiliate them by cramming them, sardine-ishly into an ‘old skool’ mini, yeah. The only pity in this act was that it wasn’t controlled by a sadist – like myself – who would have driven it through the suburban streets of dignity; after passing through the windy lanes of self-respect and finally pulling over in the mean streets of I-wish-I’d've-made-different-career-choices.