Posts Tagged ‘Fame Academy’

American Idol

March 30, 2007

After watching a single episode of American Idol on T4 I have discovered a previously unrealised sympathy for Islamic Fundamentalists and those merchants of doom who wish to see the fall of Western society. Seriously, I get it now. If tried to live a life of devotion to God and abide by the laws of a higher power then the gurning, squirming, trivial, capitalistic, moronic fucktards that populate this bastion of distraction culture would be my first target. Forget financial institutions and government buildings as these no longer carry any sway, instead wander into a blindingly lit TV studio that contains the apex of the countries karaoke singers and you could guarantee the further wrath of the illiterate 30million people who vote weekly in this sham of a competition.

Of course this isn’t American Idol like the Americans get to see it – with voting and all the excitement of a live broadcast – no, this is the UK highlight version, chopped of all interactivity and completed by the flickering lo-res quality of an untreated NTSC signal. In place of the legally obliged advert break every two minutes, we get the budget constraints of Cat Deeley doing filler links. Poor Cat Deeley – when we was told she’d be doing the US version of Pop Idol she must have been so excited, only to discover that she was being hidden away in a tiny studio with only a camera and a weight loss issue to keep her company.

“The main studio is just behind me” she gushes enthusiastically “you could not be any closer to the action if you tried.” Well actually Cat, you could. You could be in the main studio and involved in the actual production instead of trying to pretend that they even know you’re here as you try to create the illusion that anything you’re doing is in any way live. You could be co-hosting with US megastar Ryan Seacrest – destined to be the face of Just For Men the moment he hits 40 – instead of being a contractual obligation that Simon Cowell tacked on to ensure his resale rights were protected.

Like Tony Blair before her, Cat Deeley has hit the American shores in search of adulation and employment; primped and preened to within an inch of recognition she has instead found herself to be nothing more than a surgically placed arsehole waiting to be screwed again. That’s why her eyes are so dead while she struggles to enthuse about a culture that has rejected her. It’s sad, really.

The patronisation of the British edition continues with hastily shot UK-centric questions to the Ritalin restricted contestants – “The Beatles / Rolling Stones / Coldplay are the best British band of all time” they chirrup with scary uniformity, reaching out to their fans in the UK. “I looooove Lulu” one identikit teen coos, seemingly unaware that claiming long-term adulation of the mentor you first met last week hardly makes you a big fan.

The contestants are the same shambolic collection of high-school enthusiasts, morally and culturally retarded to the point where an excited “woo hoo” is their only form of communication. They represent each cliche from each section of youth society – look there’s the sweet geek, there’s the handsome surfer, there’s the fat black girl with a voice of gold, there’s the ditzy prom queen, there’s the retarded monkey boy who face-fucks the judges, there’s the juggling nazi sympathiser who just wants to entertain… they are identical in their slavish devotion to the idea of fame, in their willingness to do whatever they are told to do to achieve a fleeting sense of purpose before being casually discarded to the land of the alcholism and the sudden realisation that they are worth nothing in this world.

To give Cowell and his gaggle of opinion-goons their credit, the show is a perfect success. They are vain, money-driven people looking for easy-led, mid-talent lackeys who they can sculpt into carbon copies of a successful format and run into the ground in their endless pursuit of more profits. The format of the show is representative of the shallow contestants, the shallow contestants are pitiful incarnations of the creators and in the end the whole thing will eat itself in one big orgy of pointless self-indulgence.

Unless the terrorists get to it first.

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Comic Relief Does Fame Academy

March 13, 2007

Vine 

Karaoke Torture on BBC 1 

Comic Relief does Fame Academy. Oh dear.

Comic Relief does Fame Academy up the shit-pipe.

Make that Comic Relief does music up the shit-pipe hard, and agonisingly.

In fact, this isn’t a singing contest, its brutal murder. The spirit of music is being slowly and excruciatingly skull-fucked to death by a hapless bunch of wannabes, tronabees, never-gonna-bes and Christ-will-you-stop-now-please?!

Like most reality television these days, it’s partly a who’s-who of who-the-fuck-are-they-and-why-are-they-alive? It’s got fat Barry off Never-enders, who to be fair, seems like a nice bloke, (although he snacks on deep fried foetuses for all I know) and Tim Vine, a squeaky clean comedian who, if memory serves, holds the current British (maybe world) record for most gags per minute. (It’s something ridiculous like 15 jokes per second, 14 of which are just various parts of his face and head looking odd). Having said this, his act is pretty funny and I quite like him.

Another one is Colin Brainchild or whatever his name is – that Quimhead from T4, whom I do not like because he makes me wretch from almost every orifice. Can I just stress again how much I really don’t like him; he is, to put it bluntly, a cunt who I am physically and mentally incapable of liking.

Also guilty are: unfunny fool, Mel ‘I’m wacky, I am’ Gedroyc (change your fucking name!) and that dim-witted irritant Tara Palmer-Tompkinson (I’m not even gonna bother).

Oh, and football’s Ray Stubbs, who is definitely not human. I’m thinking some kind of sasquatch cum bogey-man hybrid / chimera thing. But, for argument’s sake, I could settle for the abominable snowman. His reactions, expressions and emotions are not of this realm. Either he’s something else or he was raised by sheep-fish on an underwater mountain.

Anyway, I’ve never heard of the other half of the contestants, but they’re all either horrible or rubbish, both in some cases.

The judges just sit there like lumps of shit being clapped and booed. This format is so transparent:

The Garret creature is the ‘nice’ one, and the two cheese graters perched either side of her take it in turns to be the nasty one, although one of them (the one who I suspect feverishly wanks himself into a stupor of an evening with a crumpled, sticky Polaroid of Simon Cowell clasped in his left hand) is a fair bit nastier than his camp-arsed colleague, who tries to achieve an equal amount of cheers and boos per show. The Cowell-wanker seems to thrive off the boos as if his life depended on them and in his role as the villain, tries his damnedest to coax them out of the live audience at every given opportunity. I have observed him actually feeding off boos like a kind of reaction scavenger with an insatiable hunger for negative energy. Don’t get me wrong, he is right to tell them they’re shit, but the way it’s done is so contrived. He’s like the anti-Tim Vine, gleefully powering toward a world record of 800 boos per minute.

However, I suppose I shouldn’t really be so hard on this programme. It is for charity after all.

Fuck that – it’s sick and must be shut down at all costs.