Posts Tagged ‘Fat Boy’

How To Make A Trisha Show

May 2, 2007

Trisha Goddard 

Take one uneducated primate with concerns that his idiot girlfriend is cheating on him and put him on television. Ask him questions he doesn’t understand whilst laughing at him. Bring on his aforementioned idiot girlfriend and laugh and laugh when you discover that:

  1. The couple have been going out for a month.
  2. She’s 17 and has already had two children – or ‘babbies’ as she calls ’em.
  3. He sends photos of his cock to his heroin addict ex-girlfriend.
  4. He slaps her about and she puts fags out on his arms when he’s monged out on dope.

Next, bring on the idiot girlfriend’s mother. She’ll be utterly appalling and come running at the boyfriend hell-for-leather, shouting and screaming like a banshee. Sit her down and get an audience member to tell her to shut up. Ask her a series of questions she doesn’t understand either, making sure you find out:

  1. She’s as bad as, if not worse than the other two.
  2. She’s had eight children by eight different fathers – all born before she hit her twenty-first birthday.
  3. She has a husband/boyfriend who’s just as bad as her daughter’s other half.

Bring on the husband/boyfriend. He’ll be dressed in what amounts to rags and will sport a comb-over and moustache. Ascertain that he has a problem with:

  1. Gambling.
  2. Drink.
  3. Keeping it in his trousers.
  4. Keeping control of his temper.
  5. Employment.

To counter-balance the parents of the idiot girlfriend, bring on the primate boyfriend’s dad. He’ll be sporting a tracksuit and pony-tail and lots and lots of gold – a display of ostentatiousness that’s hard to explain considering he’s not worked since James Callahan was Prime Minister. After he’s stopped shouting in an incoherent Northern accent, ask him, as sarcastically as you can, a series of questions that will leave the audience in no doubt that he is:

  1. A cheat.
  2. A benefits scrounger.
  3. A liar.
  4. A bastard.
  5. Unable to communicate above the level of a monkey.

 Now reveal, through a semi-scientific lie-detector test, that:

  1. The primate boyfriend has fucked six girls on the estate, impregnated three of them and has contracted anything from syphilis to AIDS.
  2. The idiot girlfriend’s pregnant again and has caught anything from syphilis to AIDS from the primate boyfriend.
  3. The mother has been cheating on her husband/boyfriend with a knock-off tracksuit salesman. She has contracted AIDS.
  4. The husband/boyfriend has AIDS, is nearly dead, and turns out to be gay.
  5. The father is a lying, cheating, benefit-scrounging thief with AIDS.

Now you have revealed the truth about this pack of sub-human jackals offer them counselling and tell them to get out of your studio. The counselling will do them no good because they’re no better than apes.

Congratulations – you’ve just made your first Trisha show.

Sweet Baby James

April 23, 2007

James Martin 

Aren’t there enough celebrity TV chefs in the world? Ainsley Harriot, Delia smith, Gordon Ramsey, Gary Rhodes, Nigella Lawson, Jamie Oliver, Jean-Christophe Novelli, Anthony Worrall-Thompson, the list goes excruciatingly on.

Among the population of TV cooking arses, there stirs James Martin, of ‘Sweet Baby James’ on BBC 2.

As much as I don’t like Ainsley Harriot, at least he’s passionate. At least Ramsey swears. At least Worrall-Thompson is untrustworthy. At least Oliver has a speech impediment. Martin has no outstanding features whatsoever other than that he could be described as a fairly tall man.

This episode sees Martin return to his old secondary school to perform a food-based facelift on the canteen menu. A highly original idea other than the fact that Jamie Oliver did it yonks ago. Besides which, Oliver clearly already has his grubby mitts all over the whole school dinners issue.

In fact, Martin is like a no-frills charisma-less Jamie Oliver in more ways than one, which is saying something as Oliver himself is as bland as post-modern architecture.

While working out the point of Martin, it is difficult to avoid drawing certain comparisons. I couldn’t help thinking of him as the kind of cooking equivalent of Steve Leonard (The boring nature-twat). Leonard’s programmes frustrate me because he seems to think that his blank face is as interesting to the viewers as the wildlife he is meant to be exploring. Martin is guilty of the same. If I tuned in merely to learn some cooking tips I would be disappointed as ¾ of the programme is just Martin poncing about like the self indulgent bore-monger he patently is.

He also seems to be the masculine interpretation of Nigella Lawson (at least she has colossal thighs) in TV’s bid to present food as ‘sexy’.

I say this because Martin clearly fancies himself as quite the ladies choice. The start of the show sees him roll up to his old headmaster’s house in a sports car. I couldn’t tell you which type – cars bore me – but the point is that he seems to be eagerly putting himself forward as some type of TV lothario. The style of the shows production also betrays the programme-maker’s intentions to drum home the ‘food is sexy, honest!’ concept. The editing is sleek and vigorous and furnished with a funk/soul soundtrack giving the impression that food preparation qualifies as sexy action, with Martin being clumsily misplaced within as some sort of culinary action-man.

Let’s get this straight now – food is not sexy, and food is not art. I plan to eat it and shit it, not fuck it or frame it.

James Martin has been around for a while, but what is all this ‘Sweet baby James’ bullshit out of the clear blue sky? I can only think that it is a sickly and transparent attempt to endear an audience to a man who is the pinnacle of TV dreariness. He has no wit whatsoever and is merely a drone who can cook a bit.

The thoroughly tedious nature of the show is reinforced by a sequence late on in which he teaches a bunch of yuppie-types how to cook a crumble. How quaint. How extremely mind-numbing.

“It’s all in the marshmallows mate!” seemed to be his wittiest quip in the whole show. Laughing yet? Me neither. I do understand that he’s not a comedian, but where is the justification in his existence as yet another TV chef? Entertain me dammit!

He is simply a non-entity. He brings nothing new to the table, other than his claims to be a sweet baby who drives around in a sports car.

So why doesn’t he find his own niche? Perhaps cooking with drugs, or how to introduce untraceable poisons into a dish in order to get away with a murder?

That, I would watch enthusiastically…

Britain’s Fattest Teenager: Hidden Lives

March 19, 2007

Fat Kid 

Although it may seem at times that I’ll watch any old shit, I am in fact quite particular about which kinds of shit I allow to seep through my eyes and penetrate my brain. I enjoy programmes that I can get a laugh out of, albeit for the wrong reasons and ‘Britain’s Fattest Teenager: Hidden Lives’ (Not very hidden if it’s on TV, I thought) last Wednesday was no exception. This slice of health propaganda was a kind of televised fat kid sandwich placed lovingly in between ‘Bodyshock: World’s Biggest Boy’ on Tuesday and ‘Mind the Fat: Does Fast Food = Slow Kids’ (shit title) on the Thursday.

Hidden Lives (Channel 5) concerned itself with big, fat blubber-boy Jonathan Wallace, an eighteen year old chubbawit from
Hartlepool who was truly digging his own grave with his teeth. Until my eyes had grown accustomed to his unholy appearance I was genuinely staggered by the sight of his bulbous head which I half expected to burst at any moment and spray volcanic ash in all directions, the way the swollen lump that was protruding from Mount St Helens had in 1980.

The programme followed Wallace’s journey toward a gastric bypass, a journey in which we see him stuffing his face every five minutes and generally just looking like a hideously distorted interpretation of a human being.

As well as being morbidly obese, he suffers from sleep apnoea as well as being dyslexic and plain thick. For these reasons I was trapped between sympathy and disgust watching this, although any sympathy I had for this grotesque figure eventually gave way to utter displeasure due to Wallace’s attitude.

His philosophy seemed to be ‘fuck it’, which would be fair enough if it wasn’t for all the personal and medical help he was being offered to shed his mammoth load, which was, in my opinion, more than he deserved.

During the part of the programme where my sympathy was still intact, we see Wallace explain how is life is a kind of living hell, in which he had obviously suffered the cruelty of bullying. I was slightly taken aback as he explained “They call me a fat cunt and that”. Then again it was Channel 5. The bullying had also included taunts of ‘Waller, Waller, Waller’ (as in Rik Waller), in a Kebab shop of all places. It regularly cut to shots of Waller, sorry, Wallace as he walked down the street trying to mind his own business, which proved impossible as his epic proportions encroached on the freedoms of others in various ways, consequently becoming other peoples’ business.

The camera also looked on mockingly as every now and again we would see the behemoth truffle-shuffle his way through a kickabout in a park with a load of what looked like 12 year olds.

“Ironically, he wants to be a chef”, says the narrator’s voice. How the fuck is that ironic? This titan worships food! It seems completely natural to me that he would want to spend his every waking moment around food.

It is around this time that we are informed by our narrator that he’ll probably be dead in five years if he doesn’t alter his lifestyle.

On top of this we are told that his bypass op could finish him off, I listened to this piece of information with cold ambivalence, unsure as to whether I could even give a fuck if it did.

One of my favourite moments was Wallace’s guided tour of his fridge freezer. In particular the part where he waves a box of Cod in Parsley sauce before the camera and proudly declares – “I can eat five of these at once”. I also enjoyed the part where his mate says; “He loves leftovers!” with the misshapen Wallace sitting next to him, grinning uncontrollably in agreement.

The low point of the show was graphic shots of the stomach stapling op and the inside of the lard-arse’s guts, something which neither man nor beast should have to have witnessed. After the op, he is told his appetite will shrink dramatically and that he will only be able to eat very small amounts, a warning Toad-boy disregarded as he frequently continued to over-eat, making himself vomit in the process.

A process which I’m confident will never end until he finally stops soiling the earth with his vile presence.

Britain’s fattest teenager was just one in a series of programmes that explores the media’s current obsession with fat, but quite what-in-shitting-Christ the point is beats me. There are fat people and fat kids everywhere, always has been and always will be. But all of a sudden we human beings want to be perfect. Well we’re not. We’re a bunch of cunts. Deal with it.