You must have been there; having a quiet Friday night in, only to find that channel four have insulted the core of your very being by leaving you in the crippled hands of The Friday Night Project. Then let me guess what you did next – you put a hurting on your own loved ones with a series of swiftly applied karate chops out of the pure frustration of it all. But it’s ok, it’s not your fault. TV made you do it. Really – you were imagining that you were pounding the life out of Justin Lee ‘Mad as a Lorry’ Collins or shaking the last vapours of ill-deserved breath out of Alan Carr’s deviant little lungs by way of a good neck-wringing. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
Besides finding your front room occupied by thousands of wasps, very little is more likely to make you leave the house than finding this on your fucking telly. Sometimes changing the channel just isn’t enough. The fact that we’re expected to lap this kind of crap up is guaranteed to ruin the rest of your evening should you dwell on it for long enough. Mark my words, I would rather have my daily mealtimes restricted to licking the filthy sleep out of a tramps eyes than be the kind of person who laughs at this muck.
Seemingly, it’s not enough that we’re subjected to TFNP of a weekend, it’s then repeated on Wednesday nights. On the episode that drove me to write this, Big Brother animal Charley was playing up her agro image for laughs, or that’s what was supposed to be happening. Actually she was just being herself: A prize twat. That sums this shit up; bottom of the barrel twats, churning out bottom of the barrel sketches and ‘gags’, in a thoroughly bottom of the barrel manner. All broadcast in a prime slot on a Friday night. But why even allow the thoroughly ugly and pointless Charley any further opportunity to pursue her dream of becoming a celebrity? I thought it was a unanimous view that she is worse than cancer and should be cast into the bowels of Hades like a no-good pile of festering, badly soiled tampons.
A regular feature of the show seems to involve the dual cretins dressing up as women to reconstruct some of the TV highlights of the week. This is rendered in a way that is so void of intellect that it makes the Driller Killer’s preferred method of execution look subtle. Men dressed as women. How outrageously forward-thinking. The concept itself as a comedic tool was a genuinely amusing enough sight to behold not so many years ago. That was until those equally witless Little Britain knob-ends Walliams and Lucas got hold of it and ruined it for everyone for ever. So anyway, Toadstool head Collins dresses up as a woman and the idiot audience think it’s hysterical, presumably because he wears a beard. Carr puts on a dress and suddenly you’re witnessing the sickest thing this side of a paedophile’s wet dream. In fact even a necrophilia-dabbling paedophile would wake up blowing chunks had such a sight crept in and corrupted his sexual thoughts.
Really it’s as simple as this; Collins is no better than an old perv, constantly trying to cop a feel of any attractive lady-guests who happen to be invited onto the show, and who also, incidentally, spends more time changing the highlights in his hair in a day than real men spend churning out big fat creamy dumps in a fortnight. And as for that Carr thing, he should just grow the fuck up. He’s about 45 isn’t he? Anyway, where did these two wrong-cocks spring from and what are they doing inside my television? Get them out.