Halfway into Re-Animator, the 80s gorefest about a Victor Frankenstein type who injects a dead cat, then perished humans with his life-giving serum, the fucking DVD froze as all borrowed DVDs seem to do these days. Kicking my DVD player into oblivion with my karate feet, I decided to watch TV instead, as hyper-violent reanimated corpses were now officially off the menu.
I made my way over to good old BBC1 for an evening of quiet, pre-return to work programming, or so I hoped. Songs of Praise, Last of the Summer Wine, Antiques Roadshow – the perfect antidote to a weekend’s boozing and a pair of lungs that were inside out after Friday’s last ditch attempt to cram in as many carcinogens as possible before the smoking ban kicked in.
But the whole of the BBC’s schedule had been riddled with the kind of sentimental old shit that makes any right-thinking person want to kill. The Princess Diana Memorial Concert was in full swing. Shit.
When I switched over, Nelly Furtado was whining along to her tit-hits, all of which seemed to be in horrible minor keys and involved her bleating like a lamb caught in a snare. Her drummer’s kit was ridiculously massive and my shock at the stickman’s arrogance at least took my mind off the winsome crap the popular artist was banging on about. To make matters worse, William and Harry were bopping along with no real sense of timing, frugging away like the posh morons they are.
After dry-retching myself into a catatonic state, I was privy to Jamie ‘Coke-Fiend’ Theakston and Fearne ‘Argh’ Cotton attempting to provide filler in what was the worst constructed live extravaganza I think I’ve ever seen. Fashion-photographers and ex-toilet roll caddies lined up to say how nice Diana was to the black kids in far flung places who’d had their lips blown off by an angry landmine. They talked for an eternity about that ‘winning smile’, which to me seemed more like a sort of guilty-looking squint.
All this did was serve to show how cunning Lady Die was in her role as an insane self-PR machine. Sick of the sight of her after 10 minutes, it was like 1997 all over again. Harry, who recently outed himself as the kind of mong who finds Nazi regalia a fitting costume for a night out, mucked about with some African children whilst mugging for the cameras. Nice to see Mum’s self-celebration (and hypocrisy) has rubbed off on the little shit.
Later we had Jason Donovan and some curly goon what won Joseph singing ‘Any Dream Will Do’, joined by Donny the Osmond for a rousing chorus to the bewilderment of everyone watching. The relevance was lost on me.
Through streams of hateful tears I changed channel whilst swearing profusely out of an open window. Plucking up the courage to give it one last shot, I switched back later on. Sarah Brightman and a berk were twittering along to Phantom of the Opera as I broke every item of glassware in the house with my bare teeth. For me, this was the end, for if I subjected myself to John Elton and his old Joanna grinding out Candle in the Wind for the bazillionth time I might well have crushed next door’s cat in a fury and set fire to the entire terrace with maniacal abandon. Thankfully, I found the on/standby button and simmered for a bit.
On the news this morning, Harry was quoted as saying that the concert was a fitting tribute to his mother. The sprawling mess of an event was contradictory, cloying, confused, irritating and had had way too much money thrown at it. So for once, His Royal Highness was right. GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.