Archive for August, 2007

Star Psychic

August 17, 2007


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.

Picture the Loan

August 16, 2007

Money. Boy, it can be a bugger sometimes can’t it? There’s never enough to go around. There’s never enough to cover all the bills and still buy that new luxury car, family holiday and all the technological products that you desperately need to make your life fulfilling. Never mind. In years past people would have worked to afford their products or possibly gone without, having realised the sliding scale of income and outgoings have to at least partially balance.

Not any more though. Now you can have all the trappings of a materialistic lifestyle within days, with one easily arranged loan from any number of highly dubious, unregulated money shops. There’s Freedom Finance, Norton Finance, Intelligent Finance, Clearway Finance, Lombard Direct, Marble Loans,… there are now so many adverts for these fuckers on daytime television and across the board on cable that they’ve practically become a programming genre of their own.

The adverts are a mixed bunch. Some target those who’ve had bad luck in the past by using heavy-handed yet desperately amateur, metaphorical imagery (it’s raining on those in debt but the sun shines for those with a loan) while others bombard your senses with clip-art representations of desired material possessions. What binds them all though is that they are run by unscrupulous thick-necked bastards operating a bizarrely legal scam out of a shitty one-roomed office somewhere in a forgotten B-town in England. They’re not about helping you consolidate your debts, they’re about trying to get their mitts on your house when your financial guard is down.

Top of the pile for me is Picture Loans with an advert that simultaneously demonstrates the flippant and highly irresponsible approach they have to money management whilst treating their audience / potential customers like idiots. If we are to believe their advertising, they want people to make highly uninformed financial decisions on a whim, to willingly offer up their homes as collateral to afford a holiday and bind themselves to 25 year contracts with a company who think having ‘no paperwork’ for such a monumental decision is a virtue.

Just look at the advert above, or the second example that is at the end of this article, to see their dangerously casual approach to money. On both occasions the loan amount is decided in the moment, as if they were choosing the colour of new bathmat and the couples are so excited by the prospect of being given more money that they fail to realise they’re going to be paying back near double what they’ve borrowed.

“Yes” they all say “we’ve got a mortgage… and how much will that be a month?”

The casual indifference with which home ownership is presented is truly terrifying. It’s not a home, nor an investment, nor a nest-egg for your children – it’s a simple tradeable asset that you can cash in when your Ford Mondeo becomes more more than three years old. The couple in the advert below are actually filming themselves on a camcorder as they gleefully sign away the children’s inheritance, as if in years to come they can proudly pull out the projector and show the whole family exactly when they fucked up their futures.

The reason why these adverts are so wrong is simple; their key audience is the gullible, the stupid and the financially disastrous but they can’t put them on the telly as they’re unappealing. Instead they transpose the characteristics of the common moron onto the middle class, as if to say “hey, look, they’re just like you – or just like you want to be. If people with a nice house and abundant family can treat £25,000 as if it’s nothing then you can too.”

Picture Loans, and all those companies like them, are bastards. Quite how they can legally co-exist alongside the countless news reports and articles about the rising debt problem in this country is beyond me. They’re the equivalent of the dodgy man talking his way into your Grandma’s house before conning her out of her valuables… they target the desperate, the weak and the stupid and they do it under a pretence of wanting to help.

Then again, there’s always the argument that if you believe this shit in the first place you probably deserve everything that comes to you…

Bernard Matthews’ Turkey

August 15, 2007

Enjoy it on a MonDaY, a TueSdAY a WEdnesDAY etc.,

Please notice the attempts to accentuate different words, the advert does that you know. Different ages and genders, in a variety of tones and accents to show how diverse fucking turkey is and to show how everyone, despite everything (taste included) enjoys Bernard Matthews’ Turkey…

I don’t recall many people enjoying it a few months ago when his farm was condemned with H5N1 – Avian flu to you and I – which can be transferred from bird to human, resulting in a long and painful death by suffocation. Really, you’d think cancer was a gift in comparison to this little fella.

…a ThurSdaY, a FRIday a SaTURDay.. and so on.

Anyway, chuckles aside, thousands of birds were killed to control what was potentially one of the most serious outbreaks of disease in the western hemisphere since the ‘flu pandemic that took place in the 1920’s. I wonder if the birds killed would’ve preferred being burnt alive or being used as baseballs by two workers as happened in 2006? Decisions, decisions.

Bernard Matthews appeared on TV in the 1980s. Famous for not being able to fucking well speak properly, this retarded businessman managed to ingratiate his way into the hearts and minds of mentally sensitive mothers and fathers over the country. He cut an unlikely figure in the tits and teeth world of commercial advertising, that’s for sure, the silly fat cunt.

But somehow his Norfolk GM shit became part of the tradition of Sunday lunch; it’s affordability and convenience even allowed for families to indulge in mid-week sessions of carnivorous mastication. I’d love Bernard to try to attempt to read that out loud before I smashed off his head with a spade…

So, back to the advert where food stylists in their dozens have done their utmost in making flat bland strips of yellowish stuff appealing. We see it waved through various sandwiches stuffed full of crisp salad, weaved through spaghetti sauce, ribboned over pizza, lolling out of wraps, exploding out of fucking stir fry all surrounded by a cornucopia of vegetation in order to scream HEALTH into your confused mouth.

But, hey, lets take a step back. The very same firm that threatened the population with Avian Flu, (that’s a sore throat, muscle aches, headache, lethargy, conjunctivitis, fever, breathing problems, chest pains, death (note final word)) the company that only this year was no more than a burning pile of 160,000 dead creatures, as was televised,  all over the press and in our faces for weeks, is still in business.

How the FUCK has that happened? They’re not just in business they now have the audacity to tell us their product is healthy! Is a sore throat, muscle aches, headache, lethargy, conjunctivitis, fever, breathing problems, chest pains, death healthy? I don’t know actually, I’ll just look it up in a medical dictionary. Mmmm, hang on, no, no IT DOESN’T CUNTING WELL LOOK LIKE IT.


Desperate Times

August 14, 2007

Smell my cheese 

It’s finally happened. Television programme makers are so desperate for ideas that they’ve resorted to watching that old episode of ‘I’m Alan Partridge’ for fresh concepts. You know the one – Alan has a lunch meeting with the Commissioning Editor of the Beeb and, realising that his failing career is about to go down the shitter once and for all, panics and resorts to pitching a stream of ever more ridiculous ideas for telly programmes. How else can you rationally explain the following programme?

‘Robbie Coltrane’s B-Road Britain’

Yes, you read that right. The fat Scottish comic turned fat Scottish credible actor is plonked behind the wheel of a classic 1950s car and embarks on a journey from London to Glasgow, avoiding the motorways and stopping off wherever his fancy takes him. In my mind, the programme conjures up visions of Coltrane parked up in a lay-by, sweating profusely as he struggles with an oversized road map of Britain, espousing the joys of the B4009, which “…follows the route of the ancient Roman road, Icknield Way, and is *takes slug from giant bottle of Glenmorangie* the besht fucken B-road EVAH!”.

OK, so when you actually get away from that godawful excuse for a title you start to realise the programme may have some depth. Coltrane is a genial fella with a decent sense of humour, and the Great British Public™ are eccentric enough to ensure he’s bound to encounter some interesting people along the way. In fact, as per Napoleon’s piece below, it’s got classic Sunday methadone telly written all over it (it’s being shown on a Wednesday though, which seems to me to be a massive scheduling error).

In the first episode, Coltrane is in High Wycombe where he watches the Mayor getting weighed. He also meets some girls performing acrobatics on biplanes, and plays Frisbee golf in Warwickshire and tiddlywinks in Cambridge. See – the old farts will love it. And anyone who’s had a frontal lobotomy. Smackheads. The infirm. Obese people who’ve eaten their remote control and can’t be bothered to get up and change the channel. There’s a vast audience there for sure, in combined weight at least.

It seems to me like they must have came up with the title first, stuck the fat bloke behind the wheel and sent him off praying to Bruce Forsythe that something representing entertaining telly would be the end result. They probably had John Thaw pencilled in to do it, but then remembered he’s dead, so approached John Nettles (touring in Bergerac’s Bentley), but he turned them down. Les Dennis in a Skoda? Nope, Cracker in a vintage Jag – BINGO. Televisual gold.

Suddenly ‘Youth Hostelling with Chris Eubank’, Partridge’s final, desperate roll of the dice, feels like not that bad an idea. Imagine it – the monocled buffoon, in a wooden shack up a mountain in the Cairngorms, lisping through an awkward conversation with a group of bemused German teenagers. It’s got legs, admit it. Even ‘Arm Wrestling with Chas ‘n’ Dave’ doesn’t seem that ridiculous now. In the 2am slot it has the potential to become a cult student classic. Definitely an improvement on those tedious 9-hour quiz shows. Every show could end up with all the contestants swilling lager round the old Joanna as they belt out a reworked version of ‘Snooker Loopy’ called ‘Arm Wrestling Loopy’. It still needs some work, but ITV have got creative departments to sort out the finer details. The concept is a strong one.

Next week also sees the return of the daytime ITV show, ‘Have I Been Here Before?’. If you’ve got a job, you probably will have missed the first series, but the concept is that Z-list celebs are regressed by a hypnotist, and encouraged to delve into their previous lives. Fucking bizarre. I’m not really a believer in reincarnation, though nor are the participants in this piss poor excuse for telly. But they are great believers in half an hour of telly devoted to themselves and the furthering of their fading careers. I’m only flagging this up because on the same day that ‘B-Road Britain’ airs, ‘Have I Been Here Before?’ features John Barrowman and the premise is just so ludicrous I felt it had to be shared –

“John Barrowman goes back to his previous life as a clown in Budapest during the 1800s.”

I’m almost lost for words at what staggeringly “so bad it’s good” television that has the potential to be. I’ll definitely be setting the video. The following week sees David Seaman entering into a bloody medieval conflict as a gallant knight. With real blood I hope, and his to boot, the deep-voiced Gooner bastard. This whole shitstorm is presented by Philip Schofield, who really needs to get himself a new agent.

‘Robbie Coltrane’s B-Road Britain’ starts this Wednesday 15th August at 9pm.

‘Have I Been Here Before?’ featuring John Barrowman as a Hungarian clown is shown the same day at 1pm.

I’m currently formulating a pilot episode for ‘Youth Hostelling with Chris Eubank’, which I plan to pitch to ITV. I might even make the development and pitching process into a fly-on-the-wall documentary. Channel 4 are already interested. If you know of any good youth hostels in your area, please send them to me at

The Friday Night Project

August 13, 2007


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.

Clearblue – Digital

August 9, 2007

When a man loves a lady very much, he gets a strange urge to put his winky in her lady-bits. If you do this at the right time of the month you get the lady ‘with child’ – which means she gets large and eats more. After nine more months a baby pops out, which is the signal that all fun has stopped and you have to start wearing cardigans and talking about mortgages.

With this threat facing people every day, you need to have a test to see if a lady has been brought low, to let you know if trouble is on the way. This is probably so you can change your name and flee the country.

Clearblue are doing the world a service by making one of those sticks that the lady pees on to tell if she is up the duff – and boy are they proud of it.

A computer generated model of the device sweeps across the screen, while vaguely Star Wars-ish music plays in the background and a booming voice says:

“It has arrived, the next generation of pregnancy test”.

He then rambles on about how ace this test is and how it is the besterest test ever, then he says my favourite line.

“It’s without a doubt the best piece of technology you will ever pee on”.

That’s quite a claim you know. I’m a boy, we pee everywhere, especially when we are outside. What makes the line more dangerous, is that it’s delivered like a challenge.

This advert is a slap in the face for every man who has ever dreamed of widdling on an Xbox or a wah wah pedal. They’re saying that even if you get cryogenically frozen for a 1,000 years in the future you won’t get to piss on anything more technologically brilliant than this.

Well fuck you Clearblue, I’m off to pee on a jet, then I’m going to Japan to wee on a robot.

Jamie at Home / Cook Yourself Thin

August 8, 2007

Make them go away

Channel 4 again, dominating the evening schedules with the TV equivalent of the Guardian’s lifestyle section – i.e.,  self-satisfied dross.

Actually, that’s not really fair on Jamie Oliver’s new vehicle, which thankfully hasn’t got him patronising any Italians or working class mothers this time round. Instead, it’s just him mucking about in the garden of his country pile with some weird ageing hippy, getting all horny about tomatoes. Actually quite a pleasant way to spend half an hour, despite the fact it has to be watched through gritted teeth as you spend 95% of the run-time wondering just how fucking rich the successful bastard is.

At least his presence on the TV has been hard earned. He’s a chef with some flair, which is more than can be said for the priviledged quartet who make up the Cook Yourself Thin team. Christ knows where they found this bunch of public school fuckwits. Actually, scratch that, I know just where they found them. Sipping cocktails in the same hell-on-earth bar as Polly Vernon, n’doubt. Given a job in journalism because they could afford expensive frocks, I imagine they were then wangled a pitch in front of Channel 4 bosses because they’re, y’know, soooo fab and rilly, rilly presentable.

Cook Yourself Thin is a televisual concentration camp, wherein these non-entities cut every corner imaginable to try and cut calories in some poor, neurotic cow’s diet. How many of these members of the public are lining up to stand in a whiteout studio showing off their entirely normal body shape and moan about it? It’s seemingly endless. The lady last night looked to be in pretty good nick for a mother of two approaching middle age. So obviously she needs to be patronised on prime time TV so that the rest of us with a gut can feel ashamed of ourselves.

Instead of eating a crunchie everyday, the four airheads recommended she makes herself a load of champagne truffles and has two of those a day, thus halving the amount of calories from that snack. What utter fucking genius. Of course – a champagne based mini-cake – that will stop me from expanding! Why not have half a chocolate bar? Why not one every other day? But no, if these overpaid twats reckon you should bankrupt yourself buying Veuve Clicquot and making stupid little confections out of it, go for your life. They’re on TV, they clearly know more than us fame-deprived plebs. For fuck’s sake, when they made the cake thing they said it would be unwise to make the chocolate ‘grumpy’ during mixing.

At that point, as my blood boiled, I tried to work out how exactly one would make chocolate ‘grumpy’? Channel 4 lost a viewer for the night at that point, so if anything groundbreaking occurred I apologise for not covering it. I somehow doubt they followed it up with anything other than a few more minutes of schedule-filling bollocks.

big bruvverz

August 7, 2007

Pure, unadulterated vomit 

I suppose I’d better do a fucking Big Brother review.

It should be clear to all and sundry that this year has been a total washout, boring housemeights, boring tasks, boring house and boring boring.

Two major characters have been evicted, Charley, her with the plastic norks, boys bum and a mouth that ran better than your momma on crystal meth. She pumped more sewage into my ears in the time she was there than Thames Water do in a year. I hope we hear of nothing of her until 2050 when The Star discover she’s now a toothless old hooker blowing off tramps for two fingers of KitKat.

The other housemeight to leave was Chanelle, her with the huge alien forehead and long-cheeked botty. All of her facial features were shoved so far down her gormless face, her mouth was under her chin and her eyebrows began where I have my nostrils. This one was more hysterical than a low achieving Russian peasant woman having her daily bread taken off her; she’d go fucking berserk if you so much as looked at your nails in a funny way. Still, she had the courtesy to leave of her own volition rather than the public vote, so she retains some sort of dignity. Perhaps, we’ll see.

The reason for her departure was of course Ziggy, the ex-boy band blowhole with whom she’d had the lack of foresight to become acquainted. The public schoolboy pseud has an ego larger than his capacity to process basic human behaviour, making him the world’s biggest liar in order to maintain his own warped reality of himself. Subsequently he blew hot and cold quicker than Eskimo twins taking it in turns, Chanelle not being the brightest sausage in the world (and being 19) ended up doubting her own sanity on account of his disgusting manipulative behaviour. I’ve never actually seen someone say ‘you’re a bitch’ and then when called to task for using such a word, vehemently deny it within seconds of its utterance.

Ziggy thinks he’s brilliant and because of this perpetually considers himself hard done by. In his world he’s a bloody good bloke; in mine he’s a fucking turd.

The other housemates are conglomerate of nothingness, there’s the Greek one, nervous, bright, whining. The Geordie one; randy, thick, bemused. Amy; tarty, damaged, vain. Carole; fat, sweet, moaning. The twins; thick, vacuous, daft. Brian; stupid, lovely, annoying. Tracy; grunting, blokey, moronic. Kara-Louise; vacant, drippy, dull and Jonty; giggling, weird, odd.

Last week I think I caught a glimpse of this thing; it resembled a fat teddy bear in pink grinding itself into a horrified face. It had a paint stripper laugh and I think it had a dog ears attached to the front. Must’ve been a nightmare. Either way, it’s no longer there.

So, Brian to win? Why not? Actually, who gives a fucking shit.