Jamster

If you ever brave the murky depths of cable channels, you’ll find yourself swamped with hundreds of tiny advertising nuggets. These aren’t proper ads. They’re visual and sonic assaults on the mind designed to tattoo a brand on your brain with deft swiftness. You fnd yourself remembering the product and the company name completely involuntarily – usually items which are of no use to you whatsoever, taking up valuable brain space you’d alloted to be filled later on in life with the works of Heidegger, Kant or Linsey Dawn McKenzie.

Jamster, the mobile ringtone, wallpaper, gimmick and pornography augmentation service, indulge in such examples of advertising. Their marketing output is the equivalent of an infectious sales-rottweiler, dribbling on the sidelines of MTV2, ready to pounce when the ads come on and happy to sink teeth into your temples when you’re buried to the hilt in the middle of their ten minute ad breaks.

The ad that got me scratching my head and shouting at the television set (again – I must curb this habit) came on this morning without warning, and was attempting to sell an X Ray mechanism that you can apparently download onto your mobile and, as a result, see through your hand and, at a push, LADIES’ PANTS using its incredible machinations.

I am an adult and am aware that this is guff. Though if I were a child, I might not. I invested in some X Ray Specs from a ‘Smiffy’s Joke Shop’ catalogue (anyone remember them?) when I was pre-10, so if I were a nipper now and blessed with a cell phone – they seem to dish them out at birth these days – I’d probably waste a fiver or however much they sell this shit for on this useless, unamusing and rip-off rubbish.

Even more disturbing is the advert for a mobile phone ‘Partner Tracker’.

Apparently this enables the user to find out where their other half is using mobile technology. So if you’ve jumped to the conclusion that your beloved is up to no good, you can find out if they’ve gone where they’ve said they’ve gone as you sit alone, drinking own-brand gin in your bedsit. Healthy!

So, jealous lovers, if you’re an untrusting brute or you feel you’ve been saddled with a two-bit, cheating swine who may be making a cuckold of you, for three or four quid you can use this application to ruin your life whether your suspicions are confirmed or not.

Brilliant!

Except it’s not brilliant. The small print sadly gives away the cold hard facts… and they make for saddening reading. I’ve been duped.

This software is for entertainment purposes only and does not require GPS or a network connection. It doesn’t locate your real whereabouts but nevertheless it is a fun application

I’m sure it is, Jamster. I’m sure it’s a lorry load of neverending fun, you shameless, no-good shysters.

The Friday Question: You are MASTERCHEF!

It’s a simple conceit. For today’s Friday Question, you, humble reader, are THROUGH to the final stage of the quarter final. It’s time to demonstrate your ability to the two spoon-loading pudgers with your signature three-course service.

So what would you cook up for Greg Wallace and John Torrode if you magically found yourself in the studio?

What do you cook best?

We’ll need a starter, a main and a dessert.

Then it’s over to Greg and John who are just like, hanging out at mine today (by coincidence) and will instruct me on what they think of your complex flavour combinations.

What three courses would you cook for Masterchef then, eh?

IMPORTANT NOTE:
Lurkers, now is the time to show yourselves!

Slumdog Millionaire

Hype, hype, bastard HYPE.

It’s not the fault of Danny Boyle or his talented young cast that Slumdog Millionaire has been so ridiculously overhyped this past couple of weeks. It’s the fault of journalists and TV magazine shows, all champing at the bit to speak with supposed expertise about a film they consider to be not only beautifully shot and acted (which it is), but also worthy. They think that by singing the praises of the film without questioning any aspect of it, they earn themselves kudos rather than cynicism from those of us who, having watched it and made our own minds up, have realised the film’s got a few problems in the process.

It doesn’t help, when wishing to watch with fresh eyes, that the movie has been endlessly trailed. You’ll have seen about three quarters of it, including pivotal moments, before you even enter the bloody picture house. You’ll know exactly what the first half’s about and you’ll have guessed the outcome of the second half if you’ve got even one lobe left in your grey matter after the endless barrage of praise that accompanies each plot-ruining clip featured on every current affairs or entertainment show going.

So I don’t need to run through the plot. If you’ve seen it, you’ll know it. If you haven’t, you’ll have been told. What I can tell you is that, in my humble opinion, the first half is visually brilliant and depicts the life of the Mumbai slum-children sympathetically, if simplistically. The flashback scenes using children under the age of sixteen, speaking in their Hindi mother-tongue, are the best aspect to the movie. I wished it had stuck to format the moment the two male leads grew older and the dialogue snapped to English. As it did, the believability of the first half was binned in favour of an ill-advised take on magic realism that didn’t satisfy this here curmudgeon.

Reducing the sufffering of the characters to a fabricated Millionaire wish fulfilment conclusion just felt half-arsed. This was compounded by the fact that the love interest had barely a line in the whole film and we had no sense of who she was and how they had fallen for one another. All we’d seen them do was share a mattress, aged seven or eight.

Despite all that, the film’s worth a look for the visual aspect alone. The amazing opening half’s a seductive vision of a nightmare, paradoxically enough. Just don’t believe that it’s profound, feelgood, or deals sensitively with major issues. Because it doesn’t really do any of those things.

Golden Globes – Winslet’s Acceptance Speech

Did you see the clip above on the news yesterday?

It made my blood boil with impotent fury.

Acceptance speeches, along with awards shows, are meaningless idiot-parades. Winslet’s Golden Globe means as little to the public at large as the award I gave myself for washing up last night after I tackled a particularly challenging pot. Why should anyone care?

The most grating aspect of any acceptance speech is, of course, the fake-sincerity. And as far as that goes, Winslet delivers a belter. From the expression her face creases into as she walks to the stage (veering between death throes and hyperactive delight), to the squeals of forced delight as she hugs her wealthy husband on the way up.

Then she apologises to the other nominees, forgetting Jolie’s name in the process, hilariously, and everyone chuckles at just how normal she is. Streep looks on, so pleased for Kate, whilst Angelina grits her teeth and crushes Brad Pitt’s fragile hand between her thighs under the tablecloth.

As she tells herself to ‘gather’, twice and then reels off a pre-prepared list of thankyous, the thing that strikes you – and if you’ve ever watched an awards show before, it won’t be the first time – is the arrogant self-importance of it all. As though these awards, or the Oscars for that matter, actually carry any meaning. As if this film is worthwhile  simply because a panel of bores thinks it is, rather than the public who largely are yet to even see it.

By the time she’s thanking hair and makeup, you thank Christ she manages to stop herself short. But then she carries on and is licking the boots of Leonardo DiCaprio. Cut to Leo himself, lapping up the praise as a paid-for-patsy tugs him under the table.

In a final incestuous flourish, she thanks her husband (who directed the film)
and, by this point, the one fake tear she managed to prise out of dry tearducts has run down the length of her cheek, so she’s doing that Hollywood motion whereby sobs are produced without the presence of moisture so that it looks like the sobber themself is a mentally challenged toddler.

Can’t we make awards ceremonies less regular? Every five years maybe?

Fire Kills – Pull Your Finger Out

It’s incredible that a thirty-second public information film can cause such intense irritation. It’s like stinging-nettle whiplash, the Julie Walters smoke-alarm campaign. And the worst thing about it is they double them up. Firstly, at the top of an ad break, you’ll have Walters asking if you fancy saving your family from dying, then telling you to ‘pull your finger out’ (presumably of your arsehole, as the proverb dictates) and test your smoke-alarm. Then, after you’ve sat through the malevolent maelstrom of all the other ads, she reappears to reiterate her message.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so annoying if I didn’t already know full well that my smoke alarm works just fine. Maybe I wouldn’t get so wound up if it didn’t bleep at an ear-splitting volume every time I tried to lightly fry bacon. It might be that this campaign wouldn’t nestle on my tits and wrap itself around my wick if my smoke-alarm didn’t wail like a deafening banshee every time I put some cheese on toast under the grill.

Or maybe, if it wasn’t Julie Walters trying to tell me what to do like a stern, friendly teacher, I wouln’t want to kick the screen to smithereens. There’s something about Jules that sends me into a blind rage. The vastly overrated association with Acorn Antiques and Victoria Wood, the appointment to national treasure status that occurred off my watch and the chuckling mum persona she conveys on the TV, despite the fact she’s NOT MY MUM.

I fully realise that this is a twisted, personal pet-hate and most people will wonder what the hell I’ve got against Walters. It’s irrational, perhaps.

I admit it. It’s not you, Walters. It’s me.

The Friday Question: Your Own Radio Times

There’s been a fair amount of decent TV on this week, for my money. My evenings have kicked off with the BBC’s The Diary of Anne Frank which has surpassed expectations in terms of quality.

Masterchef, May and Clarke on top of an above-mediocre CBB have provided enjoyment in the schedules – a rarity indeed.

It made me ponder what the ultimate TV schedule would involve. An evening is limited to a maximum of five hours viewing (we’re imagining this is a school-night), so how would I cram 5 hours of fun into such a limited space? Here’s my take on this challenge. I’m imagining I’m coming to all the programmes fresh – new episodes of each show:

7.00 – Eastenders: I know it’s usually on later, but this is a game, alright? A perrenial evening favourite – unremarkable but, for me, unmissable.

7.30 – The Apprentice: An hour of smart, manipulative, hilarious television that makes a hypocrite of the viewer and a screaming fool of the contestants. Reality TV par excellence.

8.30 – The Wire: An episode from season three or four would fit the bill perfectly. I don’t really need to explain this one.

9.30 – Twin Peaks: Something filmic but beautifully condensed into weekly hour-long slots. Still amazingly weird and radical even watching after all these years.

10.30 – Curb Your Enthusiasm: Some absurd, rich Americans acting like idiots for half an hour should clear up the surreal residue that Twin Peaks smeared the screen with.

11.00 – Louis Theroux’s Weird Weekends: The Gangsta Rap one is still my favourite, so it’d have to be that episode. The ‘Six foot two in my Compaq’ rhyme that Louis ‘spits’ makes me jiggle jiggle.

Midnight – BEDTIME!

That’s me… I wonder how your evening will unfold?

Show us what’s in your personal Radio Times.

(Thanks to whoever made the Youtube vid at the top – it made me piss myself laughing)

Paul McKenna – I Can Make You Thin

I was always pretty much indifferent when it came to hypnosis, until a friend started training to become a clinical hypnotherapist. When he told me about the training he was undergoing I enjoyed using words like ‘piffle’ and ‘mumbo jumbo’ as he recounted the details. He took it with good grace, and we agreed to disagree.

Then recently, I read Derren Brown’s Tricks of the Mind in which, in his signature style, he discusses the subject very frankly and gives an insight into the techniques involved. I tried a couple of the rudimentary examples he gives and found that, on a basic level, they work. As he recommended, I continued – purely out of curiosity – to read up on the subject, trying at all costs to avoid the more commercial end of the market. There are, after all, clearly hypnotists out there who are as interested in lining their pockets as they are concerned for helping people out.

Then I decided to give up smoking and got my hands on an eight minute mp3 of Paul McKenna which guaranteed it could help to cancel cravings. Essentially, in this little transmission, it simply forced you to create an association between the craving and something you personally find horrendous. I chose turds with all hairs sticking out. Seriously.

It worked, for a week. I’d never given up for more than 24 hours before this little revelation – and the only reason I got back on the smokes again was because a life-changing event happened the following week, making me lose focus. Impressed, I got hold of more of McKenna’s stuff (hiding it from everyone, as it’s all got a self-help stigma following it about like a nasty smell), but with all of his other programmes, possibly because I don’t need them, I found them overlong and cheese-ridden.

McKenna’s main problem is that his techniques are all grounded in proven clinical methodology, but these alone aren’t commercially viable. To get around that, he dresses one or two simple directives in so much marketing blabber (an easy bedfellow of the suggestive language of hypnosis), that it begins to feel like he’s not only trying to change a habit – he’s also trying to make you sign up to McKenna LTD.

I was surprised that Living TV wasn’t showing his ‘I Can Make You Thin’ on a subscription basis. Again, tuning in out of  curiosity,  you find more of the same.  If you want to lose weight (I don’t, particularly), this programme will probably help and save you the expense and hassle of Atkins style crash diets.

That said, it’ll cost you in other departments. In the one episode I’ve seen, one technique – the negative association craving-buster I mentioned before – was demonstrated over the course of an hour. This took around 10 minutes. The rest of the hour was concerned with testimonials, case studies and non-stop, advertising blather.

McKenna sells techniques that work very well, but his real strength is in selling himself. The show is like some weird, apolitical rally. It’s like you’ve walked into a bizarre, born again Christian sermon, in which only 5% of the content is actually discernible – the rest being a confusing spectrum of superficially pleasing waffle-bollocks.

I preferred it when he was making people cluck like chickens on ITV.

James and Oz Drink To Britain / Three Men In More Than One Boat

I never thought I’d see the day. I found myself actively looking forward to seeing an essentially plotless vehicle for a car critic and a forgotten wine expert in which they get pissed on license-fee expenses. Weird, eh? Oz and James Drink To Britain is an undeniably fun programme, raises more than a chuckle and is well worth the half hour spent on it.

A solid drinking partner is hard to find. Spouses usually don’t work as they either can’t keep up, race off ahead of you or, even worse, are completely normal until the emotional extrovertism booze instills takes hold, at which point one of you goes completely wappy, threatening break up or marriage.

Usually, even a mate is too close to be a solid, all-day drinking partner, as
there are too many lines that can be crossed when intoxicated on the sweet, sweet boozy drinks. You might lightly mock their parentage for example, have a dig at an ex they’re still friendly with, or laugh at their dog. This can cause a gigantic upset and flung fists. I know this for a fact – I have experienced such fury.

No. A good drinking partner – one you can meet in the boozer for a midday kick off with a clutch of weekend papers under your arm, then continue to imbibe pint after pint for the next twelve hours with – is ideally someone you didn’t grow up with, can rip the piss out of without fear of repercussion and who has a similar disregard for their own safety as you do for yours.

That’s why Clarke and May make such a good quality, odd-couple style partnership and why the show is successful. It’s also why Three Men In More Than One Boat is borderline unwatchable.

In the latter, all involved are clearly somewhat in awe of one anothers’ talents, and the result is overtly fabricated. Besides – would you want to hang out with any of that lot? Dara O’Briaian is the most annoying thing to come out of Ireland since Bono, and Rory McGrath has always been the sort of bloke who makes you change channels in a hurry. Rhys Jones is alright, but not in that company.

With the Oz and James show, though most scenes are clearly a construct, they at least bicker convincingly. And they’ve got a central conceit that actually works. There’s a vague educational element to the show, on top of all the scenes of drunken, middle-aged arseholes sniping. It’s enough to make a man consider watching Top Gear.