ITV have an uncanny knack of churning out shoe-string budget works of low quality. In fact it’s such a reliable occurrence that I’m beginning to think its down to skill rather than error. I mean, it actually takes some ability to be so consistently bad. There’s an art to it. It’s what’s known as ‘bad art’.
In this particular shoe-string budget-work-of-low-quality, a bunch of so-called celebrities meet Sally Morgan who is wider than she is tall. As if this freakery alone were not enough, she claims to be a psychic. In fact she reckons she’s one of the best psychics in the world, though clearly not one of the more modest best psychics in the world.
“It’s an incredible ability to have”, she chirped. “In fact I’m in awe of myself!” Strewth.
The only thing I was in awe of throughout this entire fucking sham was how she manages to even walk: Although she is only about 4 ft something, her vast rump is an epic mess of sweaty overhanging nastiness. In my opinion, her only supernatural skill is the balancing act she puts on. Anyway, the roly-poly Morgan met money-faced rake Victoria Hervey in the first of her ‘challenges’ of this episode. Her challenge on this occasion clearly being to regurgitate memorized facts she’d earlier googled about Hervey’s family. This is the reasonable assumption to make because the nuggets of information she reeled off were not necessarily shrouded in mystery, or even secrets. What a wet start.
Next, she met a group of Free-Runners and proceeded to give them the old cold-reading treatment. Well, whoopee-shit. It was at this point in the proceedings that it became apparent how much of a muppet Sally Morgan is, as she addressed each of them in the kind of condescending tone in which people speak to young children or their pets and, by Christ, her posterior is huge. I genuinely expect it to burst into a grim shower of blood and shit at some time in the near future.
After those less-than-impressive scenes, the chunky little lass was off to meet Phil Tufnell. Before this occurred, she was shown a photograph of Tuffers to see what she could ‘pick up’ and reacted to his picture in a way that suggested she had no idea who he was and as though she had never before laid eyes upon him. Slightly surprising, but fair enough. Again though, the facts she spewed forth were underwhelming and could easily have been acquired through ten minutes worth of research.
The next celebrities featured were Goldie Lookin’ Chain. Well, Eggsy and Maggot anyway (apparently the only members of the band willing to appear on this type of shit). And surprise, surprise – she had no clue who they were or what they looked like before being shown their mugshots. Now I come to think of it, didn’t she claim she had no prior knowledge of Victoria Hervey’s existence too? A pattern is emerging here.
I found it difficult to concentrate during this part though, on account of being distracted by the realisation that Maggot, who resembles an abused dog, is turning into a strange kind of working class luvvie. A bad career move, given the nature of GLC’s music.
The final celebrity meeting was with zonked-out Bez (whom Morgan had no knowledge of) and his girlfriend. By this point, any ‘psychic’ revelations were redundant and it all just sounded like this; blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Then it was mentioned that Bez and his slightly irritating missus are acquainted with that irrelevant dimbo, Lily Allen. “Lily Allen the singer? Oh wow!” exclaimed Morgan. So let’s review this a moment – she’s never heard of Victoria Hervey, Phil Tufnell, Goldie Lookin’ Chain or Bez, but she IS aware of Lily Allen. What’s going on? Was this woman born last week or something? Well, I’m prepared to put my cards on the table now and declare my belief that Sally Morgan is a LIAR. I’ve got a nose for lies y’see, and she stinks like a big piece of rotten meat. She would probably claim she’d never heard of Jesus if it made her look clever later on – “I’m getting a cross, and some kind of prickly headwear. Does that mean anything to you?”
As well as being cheap, tacky, one-dimensional television, this programme couldn’t even muster enough honesty to include any of the obvious inaccuracies which are bound to have occurred in Morgan’s various ‘readings’ during this whole charade. Imagine the horror of being the poor cock whose job it was to sit in a darkened edit-suite somewhere, trawling through hours upon hours of dud footage in the heroic attempt to find five minutes of usable material for each celebrity’s sequence. I’d like to see this shyster do a few rounds in the psychological arena with someone with real brain-skills, such as Derren Brown. She’d get mentally pummelled in, and consequently be exposed for the charlatan and the liar that she patently is. The bulbous-buttocked moron.