In between putting on the bubble and squeak and flipping it over I happened across the National Lottery Midweek Draw. (I’d like to point out to readers of Piqued that I wasn’t actually waiting to see if I’d won anything…)
I’ve never seen the midweek National Lottery programme. I’ve come across the Saturday one with a live studio audience and adulate orange-faced presenters lauding it over baying low-income families, but the midweek one is like going back in time.
Allow me to indulge you. Back in the 70s, solo artists would punctuate light entertainment shows (such as Morecambe and Wise and The Two Ronnies) with singing. The main acts would halt comedic proceedings for one of the duo (it was always Barker in one camp and Wise in the other) to crawl onto the stage and announce in almost reverent tones, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the beautiful Elkie Brooks/Tina Charles/Angela Ayers/Lemmy etc., and allow some twittering twat in a fucking massive glittering dress to vibrato her overly made up face into the nation’s living rooms. The screeching orchestra hidden, the artiste would stand quite alone save maybe a puff of dry ice and a salacious wink.
These are the days when females on TV would dress like they were orf to Buckingham Palace for snuff with the Queen and men would wear bow-ties and tails just to read the fucking weather. They were also the days of strikes, flares, IRA/NF, drum solos, hammer attacks and more pertinently, canned laughter, canned clapping and canned Fray Bentos steak ‘n Kidney puddin’, less pertinently.
So, the midweek draw. Fuck me… It’s presented by Kirsty Gallacher, an athletic looking bit of milf-fluff (flilf?) who according to Stan Collymore, “did things with chocolate fingers that have stopped me looking at them in the same way since”. I’m not sure if this was before or after he beat the shit out of Broadcasting House bike, Ulrika…
The show opened with lots of crashing and banging and enthusiastic, hysterical applause. Dressed to the nines in a red ball gown thing (1970s anyone? Here – catch!) the show opened with ‘banter’ between the obsequious Nat Lott voiceover and the prick-teasing, chocolate-inserting flilf which was of such poor quality it destroyed valuable brain cells as I tried to squeeze my head into the vacuous space this shit was occupying. Obviously if I’d known about Kirsty rubbing her wet vagina/botty hole with a chocolate finger, licking her lips at Stan, inviting him to clean her out with his big footballer’s tongue, I wouldn’t have given a tinker’s cuss if the they were pledging allegiance to Sheikh Abu Hamza.
Stuff was then done with machines and spinning balls, a man from some place pushed some fucking buttons and shit, I’d not a clue what they were doing and then everything stopped. In the same reverent tones I remembered as child, Kirsty, her flange smothered in a glass and a half of pure milk chocolate and bits of soggy shortbread I shouldn’t wonder, introduced us to some bloke who was about to perform Carly Simon’s classic ‘You’re so Vain’.
Cue enthusiastic, hysterical applause, actually the exact same enthusiastic, hysterical applause I’d been hearing for most of the programme, and upon realising there was no studio audience a bloke appeared alone onstage save a puff of dry ice and a salacious wink, and proceeded to croon. Jesus, no…
This extraordinary painful experience ended in the same canned enthusiastic, hysterical applause and we were dumped back in front of the toothsome flilf and her brown crack for the Lotto results.
By this time I was lolling in my chair wondering if it was time for bed – yet all confused about my school uniform and Twiglets. It was a horrendous episode I never wish to repeat. For last night I actually went back in time, to a place of British Rail curled sandwiches, Tony Blackburn, Nixon and thin skateboards.
Still, at least I am sated with the thought of Kirsty Gallacher lasciviously coaxing open a box of Cadbury Fingers and lifting up her fucking skirt…
The bubble and squeak was lovely, incidentally.