Archive for April, 2007


April 18, 2007

Fizzy piss

Adverts are a really easy target. They have a limited time to deliver a very specific message and that must be prioritised ahead of normal storytelling logic; you don’t need to know why the Englishman is involved in the mass exodus of a city during a Latin America Revolution, you just need to know that wearing Lynx makes him calm doing it, and it impresses the shit out of really hot women who are also inexplicably caught up in said revolution.

It’s a form of social contract between the advertising industry and the audience. The audience accept that the adverts will not stand up to scrutiny and therefore do not ask for greater detail than they are given. In return the advertising industry get to rape all that is good and holy in the world, and are allowed to systematically destroy societal values, culture, language and laws until the population bow down before the almighty God of consumerism.

Anyway. Their simple nature gives them a form of exclusion from too much dissection. A man could go mad trying to chart and satirically write about all the logic flaws contained in adverts, and who really cares? Blot on the landscape of life they may be, and sociological fascination most definately, but the simple narrative is too insignificant to spend too much time worrying about.

The internal worlds that TV adverts exist in are very fragile. Mostly we’ll accept the fictional version of reality as they present it, but if they step outside that carefully constructed world the whole thing falls apart. It with this in mind that I’d like to discuss the new Strongbow advert – the first from their new “aaaaaah, first pint” campaign – and one specific section of it.

Strongbow ad

First off, it’s quite a good advert. The idea is clear and concise, the target demographic well catered to and the presentation slick yet charming. The basic concept is a good one – we’ve all experienced that lovely first hit of a cold pint on a summers day and they are saying that by drinking Strongbow you can prolong and heighten that sensation. The man in the advert goes into some kind of orgasmic trance when tasting the stuff, but that’s a good enough representation of the idea.

Or is it? I have issue with the background action of this advert, and I believe it’s broken its contract with the audience and has failed to stay within the confines of its set universe. The first question to ask is how long a period does this incident take place over? Judging by the amount the two lager fans drink, I could estimate no more than ten minutes, which I think is a fair time to consume a quarter of a pint. Ten minutes is statistically long enough to run into a charity collector in a pub. It’s low odds, but it could happen so I have no problem with that indicator of the passing of time – what worries me is the football match.

There is no football match playing when they enter the bar, nor is there one playing when the main character comes out of his alcohol induced coma. This can mean one of two things – that either a flash mob of sophisticated football fans overran the place for ten minutes before beating a hasty retreat, at the exact same time as our man first sipped his Strongbow (statistically very unlikely) or he was engaged in a buddhist experience of the liver for well over two hours.

This would mean not only did he miss a good portion of his evening out, but also that he didn’t see the football and his two friends will be a good three pints in by now and probably quite pissed. What is the message that Strongbow are trying to send out? That their drink is so fucking good you will become paralysed for several hours and totally incommunicable to the outside world? Maybe their grand plan is to create a nation of zombified alcoholics? Pubs across the land will be filled with exhaling Strongbow drinkers, grinning like petrified corpses and making noises like the recreated humans in Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

Of course that’s not the case; the football match was just used as a visual indication of the passing of time – but this is what I mean by a poor narrative within adverts. The advert has failed to make me want to buy the product as every time I see it I think “Christ! Poor bastard, how long was he there for?”

Of course it could be argued that since I’m talking about it the advert has succeeded in raising the profile of the product. Then again, the fact that it tastes like sugar fermented in pomane and mixed with piss also guarantees that I’ll never drink the stuff, no matter how good or how crap their adverts are.

Hairy Bikers. Ride again.

April 16, 2007


Being both a biker and, I suppose, hairy and enjoying cooking, this programme seemed, initially, to be right up my tin pan alley.

I don’t remember the first series and the alarm bells should’ve gone off when the ‘ride again’ graphic appeared in that fucking awful luminous italic font as if an afterthought on a wankers shopping list.

As the programme started I begun to remember why I didn’t remember the first series. That’s right – it’s all coming back to me now – it’s fucking shit. The hairy bikers are a pair of camp, bearded, Geordie fatties who get a good portion of ones licence fee to travel the world on two very boring and expensive motorcycles. I am positive the only time they get on the machines is when the director asks them to ride from one side of the shot to the other. In actuality they travel in the back of separate limousines being blown off by whatever local sex industry is available. Ladyboys, in this instance.

Most of the programme features them in ‘anecdote’ mode, taking turns to pull funny faces at the camera following one scripted ‘quip’ after the other.

‘Eee by gom, this Chorizo is right good Si’,

‘Ay, and if you have anymore, you’re going to look like a Chorizo, Dave…’


(The genuinely funny comments are totally ignored, last night for example ‘Ooh, my helmet is all sticky, Dave’ and, ‘Si is so hungry, he’s eating my helmet,’ etc, are ignored without so much a fucking blink)

But perhaps the most annoying thing about HB is the fact they hardly cook anything at all. Instead, we are witness to these two cardiac-cases stuffing food into their mouths, hardly able to speak due to half the world’s food programme being masticated in their beard-holes. We also get lots on ‘interesting’ ‘facts’ about whatever godawful third world environment they happen to be escorted to, I mean bike to.

Last night we saw them in a boat looking at a whale in the distance (‘Blimey, isn’t it big, Dave?’ ‘Ay, nearly as big as you, Si.’ *gurn*). We were also treated to them lying down with Elephant bulls in the far distance (‘Blimey, isn’t it big, Si?’ ‘Ay, nearly as big as you, Dave.’ *mug* etc). Christ.

When they do cook, it’s always pre-cuts of meat. They roll meat in meat, fry it and serve it with some salsa, which they never, ever touch. They will do bread or cheese at a push though, especially with meat in it.

Anyway, this tires me. The show finished last night with the pair of them getting their first ever tattoos, matching tattoos I hasten to add, of Che Guevara on their arms. That’s two male TV presenters in their mid 40’s getting the same tats. Of Che.

*double gurn*

Sex In Court

April 13, 2007


I had never seen this pile of dross before. I didn’t particularly want to watch it the other night, but I felt it was my duty to observe and report back to WWM.

Sex in Court – for pity’s sake – it’s bound to be awful isn’t it?

It’s basically Judge Judy, only concentrating on the ancient art of rogering and all that lies with it via an unwelcome peer into the seedy highs and dirty lows of the bedroom capers of ‘ordinary’ members of the public.

Once upon a time in this country talking about our sexual endeavours in public would have been considered perverted, perhaps even deviant behaviour and was simply not done. These days however, people are chomping at the bit to go on national television and discuss aspects of their private life that frankly, I don’t want to hear.

On a personal level, a mature and open attitude to sex is surely the way forward, while giggling and whispering about it as though some old woman on the bus has just laid a corking great egg of a fart seems sadly pathetic.

Maybe it is our unwillingness to confront these issues as a nation that has created an aura of taboo around the act of sex rather than it being a natural fact of life, and maybe this is the reason eight year old kiddies are allegedly rodding each other senseless left right and centre, and maybe that is the reason Britain has the highest rate of teenage pregnancies in Europe. Maybe.

So what is it that is ingrained into the psyche of our country that has made so many Brits at first coy and now overly forthcoming concerning their attitudes to the supremely enjoyable world of carnal activities?

Answers on a lewd postcard from Skegness please.

The first couple under scrutiny in this cul-de-sac of piffle consisted of a berserk looking French chump who couldn’t persuade his fiancé to fellate him for neither love nor money. Actually, I don’t recall him mentioning offering money. Maybe that would have worked. Maybe.

She was of the opinion that it was not favourable from her point of view, and that it didn’t make her feel very sexy. I think she was slightly missing the point regarding who is meant to feel the sexiest in a blowjob scenario. Anyway, call me mad, but I always thought that providing pleasure is in itself a pleasurable experience. Plus she seemed to have no complaints in letting our French chump take the headfirst trip downstairs on her behalf.

In the end the jury found her guilty and she was instructed to attend – wait for it – fellatio classes. (Sounds ridiculous at first, but in my humble tongue-in-cheek opinion, it should be a compulsory part of every ladies’ further education, similar in a sense to national service. The world would certainly be a much nicer place for me to live in).

Anyway, the second nauseating set of polyps included a gloomy faced pork-woman and a tragic delta-male who had the kind of runt-of-the-litter based properties that could only be produced as a result of conception during a cider-fuelled tramp-orgy in a peat bog.

Their problem was that he was quite fond of waking her up at five or six in the morning with his pole at the ready, demanding sex.

He defended his actions in court by saying “I’ve got mother nature on my side”.

The jury however, defied mother nature, finding runt-boy guilty of pestering pork-woman. This is my favourite part – the judge pulled out some bog roll and porn mags (seriously!!) and instructed him to five knuckle shuffle his way to orgasmic glory of an early morning instead.

This programme should never be watched by anyone. It’s not educational and it’s not entertainment. It’s actually the worst kind of nasty-arsed voyeurism going.

This show has its own resident sex expert who would occasionally talk about 69ing or point to diagrams of penises and such like, but it could hardly be called educational stuff.

Further crass moments and uncomfortable watching came in the form of the jury discussing each case between verdicts and talking about ‘avin’ a wank, or doing rim-jobs. Among the jury were a couple of old women and the way they talked about sex was about as elegant as I’d imagine it would be to hear some football hooligan effing and jeffing his way through his less than scant knowledge of the finer points of transcendental meditation.

To coin a phrase; this shit (less than reluctantly) sucks.

Get Your Act Together With Harvey Goldsmith

April 12, 2007

Heavy Fucking Metal 

I am fan of what may be termed as ‘metal’. The term ‘metal’ is a little bit embarrassing. It has a stigma, more of a smegma, attached to it, whilst Iron Maiden must take some responsibility for this state of affairs, the overall blame lies squarely at the feet of Saxon, an 80’s incarnation of so called ‘metal’ but really, you’ll find more metal in pack of cup-a-soup.

In Tuesday night’s ‘Get Your Act Together With Harvey Goldsmith’, the latter attempted to revive the career of the former. I’m a big fan of HG but I really wished he’d left this lot alone. Whilst the programme was entertaining enough I don’t need to be reminded of them. I would rather listen to Matt Bianco and Five-Star copulating in an echo chamber.

Saxon arrived on the metal scene at about the same time as I became a teenager, to my credit they were spurned quite early on by yours truly, but the stigma (smeg) of their hoarse screeching, heavy fairylight sound and ‘style’ (spandex, long mullets, all-round cuntiness) without doubt lasted right up until grunge hit the UK in the 90’s.

Saxon consist of a bunch of extras cast as tramps, charisma retarded sex offenders led by the dreadful Biff Byford, a sort of Lidl-lite Lemmy crossed with Ecce Thump. The man is an utter prick, stuck in an 80’s time warp with a wholly misguided and inappropriate ‘rock-star’ opinion of himself. Poor Harvey, firm but fair, simply wanted to bring them up to date, he ejaculated ideas like a little fat winkie which were met with derision, insults and misplaced attitude, all from Byford as the rest of the band were too thick to actually speak.

In the middle of all the mouth from Byford, Harvey managed to get Saxon a gig which resulted in a bunch of teenagers enthusiastically moshing out in a modest club in Lincoln, a minor achievement, yes, but it indicated that Harvey’s task wasn’t quite as impossible as I’d supposed. This brief moment of positivity was deliciously negated at half time during a football match in Sheffield when Saxon attempted to break the Guinness (Book of) Record for the most air guitarists in one place. They got booed off. Actually, they got chanted off – accompanied by lots of synchronised pointing.

Harvey got Saxon a gig at some big town-venue in Sheffield. It held 18,000 and work needed to be done to promote the band, as this was supposed to be Saxon’s homecoming tour and ticket sales were predictably slow.

After being called a ‘fucking wanker’ by Byford, Harvey convinced them to record a new single that moved away from their usual fayre of metal brotherhood and ‘oooh, I have sex with a lady’. Byford came up with a socially aware number, some tosh about ‘guns and knives’ on the street because, apparently, Byford had been a ‘bit of a criminal’ back in the day. I bet that shop keeper in Yorkshire had to re-mortgage his shop after Byford nicked a tube of Spangles in the fucking 40’s.

Following a style makeover which Byford really enjoyed but pretended he didn’t, the band’s completed single, new graphics, band photo etc., were presented in front of the rock press. Down to some nifty production the single didn’t go down too badly with the journos (though I’ve heard it and I thought it was cack). It did have the desired effect on the gig in Sheffield though, but it wasn’t quite as packed out as Harvey said it was. The cameras don’t lie and the audience were predominantly male and looked like aged Eastern European refugees.

Harvey also managed to get them to some Rock Awards thing at some posh hotel in London (I was flagging by this point) in which the band were encouraged to mingle with the rock glitterati. Byford and Harvey made the effort to work the room, the tramps scuttled off nowhere to be seen and it is at this stage that I need to mention the Saxon manager.

From the outset of the programme a large man who wasn’t appearing on stage or in band photos always seemed to be just there. He didn’t speak a word – just lurked. He was a bizarre looking thing, like a new super breed of Welsh lesbian with a serious drink problem. Harvey ordered him to mingle but he looked confused. Actually I have to admit I felt a bit sorry for him, he wandered into the middle of the room where he was greeted with a sea of turned backs and posed like a five year old trying to not do a wee wee.

The only time I heard him speak was the follow-up show on E4 when they were reviewing the half-time football incident. I can only presume he’d had a couple of bottles in the green room. Harvey was berating the band for, essentially, being pussies and not giving the crowd some ROCK when Pat Butcher suddenly lost it and stepped in. ‘VEN FOOTBALL CROWDS LOSING ZER IZ NUZZINK ZAT CAN BRING ZEN BACK, NUZZINK!’ He looked livid, his face was redder than a stoplight, I laughed heartily…

…My laughter was cut short. Harvey had done a better job than I could comprehend; the fucking cunts are appearing at the Download festival. They will be on the same bill as Slayer for fucks sake. So thanks Harvey, I will sit back and watch what kudos was clawed back by these masters of metal dribble down the drain as I face another round of social isolation and mockery.

I hate Harvey.

World’s Worst Sex Change Surgeon

April 11, 2007


I’d browsed an article in some shoddy broadsheet about this chap somewhere down the line and been slightly disturbed by what I’d read. That doesn’t compare to how disturbed I was by what was shown on TV last night. Christ. Any man that watched it without clutching his family jewels at least five times has clearly never received a kick to the knackers, snapped their banjo or caught their old chap in their fly. This was ‘ooyah TV’, the kind of thing that makes grown men weep and women shudder with nausea. My missus, in fact, spent almost the entire show behind a cushion, which was weird because she was the one who changed the channel to this parade of nastiness in the first place.

Clearly, you can guess from the title of the show what was going on here. John Ronald ‘Butcher’ Brown is quite a narcissistic chap, seemingly bent on operating on hapless cheapskates despite never having earned a license to do so. Add to this the fact that his specialism was gender realignment and you’re guaranteed some of the nastiest real-life TV you’re ever going to see. Brown operated from his garage on transsexuals unable to find a willing doctor to operate on them, and unable to stump up the cash for the op. Brown offered a cheap service that apparently worked very well for some. His technique, according to those who’d successfully undergone his blade, was to lop off the little fellow, remove the chads and then ‘minimise’ the winky – thus making it a clitoris. Now, I’ve never seen a clitoris that looks like a bell-end in terms of size, shape and colour before (and I’ve read a bajillion jazz pamphlets in my time, believe you me), but apparently his method was successful from time-to-time. Blimey.

When it went wrong, it really, really went wrong. After moving surgery to Mexico to escape the police, at one point Brown operated on a couple of gay chaps who fetishised amputees. One of them actually wanted their left leg removed as they felt it would improve their sex life. As no normal surgeon would do this, they gave our mate, Butcher Brown a tinkle and he did the honours. Chap turned up, leg came off, chap died of blood loss, thankyou very much. Nice work, Butcher Boy. After this slight mishap, a truly depressing (and thoroughly minging) turn of events. Brown performed a sex change operation on the butchest bloke you’ve ever met and made a right bloody mess of it. In turning the winky inside out he punctured the rectum. This resulted in the transsexual involved being given a fanny that pooed. I’ll repeat that. A fanny that leaked poo.

Think about that.

A fanny that leaks poo.

Now. With that in mind (a fanny that leaks poo), imagine a million shots of grainy actual footage from Brown’s surgery of him cutting off members willy nilly, in some cases with a not-fully-anaesthetized patient moaning in pain. Imagine those shots interspliced with the narrative of the documentary, seemingly randomly, and have a think about whether you could’ve handled watching it. Bet you couldn’t. I could, because I’m tough.

At the end, Butcher Brown was interviewed in prison.

– ‘Do you feel any guilt for what you’ve done?’
– ‘No. Not really’.

At least he’s honest.

Impossible is nothing: Beckham’s new Adidas ad

April 10, 2007

Impossible is Nothing 

Have you pointed your beady little eyeballs at that new Adidas advertisement?
Thank the lord for the painful struggles and personal anguish of David Beckham; a martyr who has suffered immensely on our behalf so that we may now bask in the warm glow of his infinite wisdom.
Through his own hardships he has shown us how we too can rise above our problems – for ‘impossible is nothing’.
“This is my story” he announces in a voice that sounds like a castrated Nigel Mansell muttering in his sleep, or alternatively, a tormented squirrel feeding a struggling gopher into the whirring blades of a waste disposal unit.
He follows this intriguing introduction with some other wearisome noises that I assume were probably words, though my brain refused to process them as they seemed to blend into other easily-ignored sounds, like the tedium of a ticking clock or the distant drone of cars passing outside.
I drifted back in to it just as Beckham was regaling us with his monotonous outpouring of grief regarding his sending off against Argentina. This was followed by his mundane explanation of his arduous and pioneering battles against adversity and tribulation.

Try telling it to one of life’s real victims. How about conveying your trauma to a double amputee lying in a hospital bed with cancer of the face, having just lost their job, friends, partner, car, house, dog and money?
“Well, basically, at the end of the day, yeah, I got sent off against Argentina and I wasn’t very popular for a bit, yeah? But it’s all alright now coz I moved out the country”.
Yep, thanks Dave, you’ve been a great help. Now fuck off you clueless turd, before I batter your thoughtless face in with a bedpan.

I genuinely consider this kind of advertising to be an insult to 99% of the population of the entire planet. So what, his ego took a slight bruising. I’m pretty sure his extreme wealth went some way towards healing the blow.
In actual fact, the pansy-arsed wufter wouldn’t know real strife if it taught him how to speak proper like.
Oh, but it’s so hard being David Beckham – “ooh the press hate me, blah, blah, blah”.
Well here’s an idea for you; how about not turning yourself into a fucking celebrity?
See how that works for a bit.
You cock.

Anyway, what’s with all this ‘impossible is nothing’ shit all of a sudden? Is this Beckham’s new motto or something? Sounds like a rejected subheading from an inane Tom Cruise saga to me. I could almost believe that Beckham’s despicable friend has thrown the dog a bone there. But I don’t.
But is this new-fangled phrase supposed to mean nothing is impossible?
If not then I’m guessing the message is – “Impossible? That’s nothing!”
Maybe he’s right. After all, he can kick a ball so it lands 60 yards away.
Strange how he seemed to find memorising his lines for this ad a bit impossible though. Ask yourself this; if his ‘heartfelt’ words are genuine, then why the fuck is he reading them off a board?

The Apprentice, Series 3, Ep. 2

April 5, 2007


That was a weird one.  The teams were now unbalanced, with one female among the boys going up against an all girl squad. So Jadine, the feisty lady (or mouthy cow, depending on your point of view) who project managed the boys coffee task stayed with the chaps whilst the ladies soldiered on without Andy’s wobbly leadership. Wobbly in every sense, was poor Andy, wobbling when asked to decide on what to do next, wobbly in the boardroom and wobbling around town trying to give lollipops to little girls to get them to buy coffee in a sinister manner. But as we know, he’s gone now.So who was for the chop this week? Early on, Rory volunteered to lead Eclipse, the boys’ team with the one female appendage. Let’s cut to the chase early on and admit that Rory never stood a chance. He’s been bankrupted twice (how the fuck do you manage THAT? He’s 27 for fuck’s sake!) and he’s also an ex public schoolboy, or ought to be from the sound of his plummy tones. And we all know how Sugary Alan feels about the posh boys, don’t we? In addition, he also looks like Beaker from The Muppets.The girls were also led by a toffee-nosed type, but she at least has the temerity to avoid talking like Prince William. Her name is Katie,  and she is a woman who looks perfectly normal from the upper eyelid down, but above that appears to have nicked Fido Dido‘s elongated brow.

The task was to create a dog accessory, to be manufactured overnight and then sold to buyers from three major retailers the next day. The clients to be sold to were Harrods, some up-their-own-arse boutique and a company wide pet-store with branches throughout the UK. I’ll admit I hadn’t immediately seized on the idea that the nationwide pet store was a clue that the bigger sales would happen with that one presentation, but then I was half pissed, on a couch in some dirty tracksuit bottoms having a smoke. If I’d have been suited up and slick, early in the morning I reckon it might have crossed my mind. Rory, ignoring the fact he had three members of his team who worked in the area of design in some way, opted to include the witless, clearly schizophrenic Tre at the ideas stage, giving him a shot at brainstorming.

Tre is a horrifying quagmire of teenage adolescent resentment. He is presented with any form of authority and his mouth suddenly starts spitting and teeth-clenching. I bet he got expelled from school a good few times. I bet he’s beaten up a lollipop lady at some point. He can’t be asked to do anything without suddenly exclaiming his greatness and cursing the very ground anyone else might walk on. He’s like Syed but with a barbed whale-cock rammed up his arse, making him relentlessly uncomfortable and effortlessly uptight. At least Syed had a gramme of charisma. Tre’s probably considered ‘good TV’ by the BBC executives, but I consider him to be BAD TV. I don’t like watching twitchy twats being horrible on my screen, so I hope he fucks up in a big way, very, very soon and gets booted out on his bottom.

Rory opted to ignore everything that had been thrown up in the brainstorm session as well as everything that had been researched by Jadine and her branch of Eclipse. The blanket idea was a 50/50er – it could have been a brilliant success (the focus group loved it) or it could have been shot down in flames for being too simple. We’ll never know, for Rory opted for his idea, without the support of his team. It slowly starts to sink in where this bankruptcy problem he has originates from. Perhaps its his entire worldview, which boils down to shutting out everything beyond his own mind and thoughts.

The girls’ invention isn’t worth me even wasting typing-energy on. It was, as one buyer commented, a flat-pack, Formica box. With bones on the front. Great work girls. But I suppose at least they sold a few of them.

So it came to the boardroom and two of the three boys went after it was revealed their sales were hopeless. It was between the hapless Rory, Tre the braying mental and poor Ifti, the iffy Company Director of a design firm who didn’t once pitch in with a single idea, despite design being his trade. In the event, he got fired first, on account of his missing his son and presenting that as the reason he couldn’t engage with the tasks. If it was an excuse to get out, then fair enough, it worked and who can blame him for wanting to get away from the other contestants. If it was genuine, then I think only a man with a cancerous bollock for a heart could think he was soft for being a family-man. Of course, Tre found it hilarious and got told off for giggling. What a nasty little shit he is. Ifti left as possibly the only Apprentice contestant ever to depart with the good will of the nation on his side. I wasn’t expecting that.

Sugar sacked Rory. In terms of business, that makes sense. For the sake of humanity, it was the wrong decision, as we now have to bear at least another week of the stuttering, non-stop shit that comes out of Tre’s mechanised bullshit-machine of a mouth.

Celebrity Wife Swap

April 3, 2007

Celeb Wife Swap 

I have always hated the fat-arsed bones of Vanessa Feltz, and watching this celebrity edition of Wife Swap has only cemented my opinion of her. What a rancid wank-stain she absolutely is.

For those who missed it, Feltz and her fiancé; Ben something from Phats and Small (who looks like a missing Fashanu – Awooga!), traded places with Paul Daniels and the allegedly ‘lovely’ (where’s the evidence?) Debbie McGee.

Whenever I watch Wife Swap, celebrity or otherwise, by halfway through I have decided which couple I prefer. Sometimes it’s a tough call, because the couples are usually so extreme in their belief systems that it’s hard to relate to either of them.

After having watched the trailer for this show though, I had already made my mind up about whose side I would be on, if things should snowball into a to squabble to the death.

In this case, I would happily be the one to beat the Feltz creature about the face, neck and head with a chainsaw.

Within ten minutes of the show Ben Fashanot is giving the viewers a much needed reminder of exactly who he is (although I’m still not sure) by singing his song ‘Turn Around’. This appears to be the only song he’s ever done and is the only reference to his ‘success’ in the whole programme. As I recall, Turn Around was on an album called ‘Now Phats what I Small music’ which is frankly, a laughable title, but not as amusing as the fact that a couple of years back, I saw the album wallowing pathetically in the bowels of bargain basket of a music shop for 99p. Ha.

Meanwhile the mild mannered Daniels, (a warped and aged Louis Walsh) seemed fair enough. I really expected him and Debbie McGee (an anorexic swan) to irritate me more than they did, but to be honest, they didn’t. Ok they’re a bit sad and pointless, but thoroughly inoffensive, which is more than can be said for the hateful Feltz and her wretched disciples.

Despite being disturbed by the very sight of Feltz alone, the most blood-curdling moments came when we were subjected to the utterly evil image of the Fashanot and the vulgar Feltz passionately kissing. I use the term ‘kissing’ loosely, because what I was seeing was a scene devoid of anything resembling romance and would have looked more at home in a Wes Craven effort. They were chewing each others fucking mouths off. At this point I was this close to sticking safety pins in my eyes. That or changing the channel.

Feltz, who looks like the bastard love-child of Rodney Dangerfield and tub of margarine, is a woman so monstrously repulsive, that if I was trapped on a desert island with her as my only company, I would immediately despatch her, subsequently opting to starve to death rather than use her as a source of food, not only because I would feel unclean for the rest of my days, but also through the fear that I may inadvertently absorb some of her soul. Mind you, I could use her bloated carcase as a kind of boat. But would I want to? Even if I were trapped in a lift with the grotesque ape and was somehow assured that we would be rescued within twenty minutes, I would still have to eradicate her for the sake of my own sanity.

To be serious for a second, I’m no psychologist, but it’s clear that this woman is mentally unstable and not at all comfortable with her own inner self. When she went to the Daniels’ residence and was faced with the opportunity of two weeks of quiet contemplation and relaxation in the country, she went up the wall.

She clearly needs to keep herself busy all the time in order to escape her own thoughts. (Remember when she went nuts on Celebrity Big Brother?)

You could tell her that her dog had just died but she would still have the same awkward grin etched across her ugly chops

All I can say is that I wish Daniels had sawn her in half a couple of times and then made her contemptuous body parts magically disappear.