Posts Tagged ‘Fat Dog’

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…

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Crufts

March 12, 2007

 

Caught the last 5 minutes waiting for the Adam Curtis documentary at 9pm, that’s 5 minutes I’ve lost for good. It’s a fucking weird event Crufts, there is something unholy about it. It gives me grave cause for concern.

I think the whole aspect of have a creature then ‘making it’ do stuff it doesn’t want to do by, ultimately, being a shit to it, is horrendous. Feeding it stuff it wouldn’t eat if it were allowed to freely forage… everyone knows dogs like stuff from bins and wasps, then to fiddle and preen it as if it were ones own hair just add’s insult to injury.

All the people involved in Crufts aren’t right. That’s right – all of the people I’ve ever seen involved in this meat market for dogs are fucking strange. The winner for Best in Show, a long-haired creature, was being fiddled over by an American bot merchant. Clare Balding was interviewing him as he was ‘positioning’ his hairy dog on the podium. I noticed a magnum of champagne, was that for the dog?

Incidentally, Clare Balding. How on earth this square faced bean-flicker got on to the TV in the first place is to me an anathema. Maybe by presenting Crufts she was hoping to get a rosette for best in breed? She got a bit upset because, apparently, the winning dog was in some way related to one of her dogs, or her, I got confused. I felt sick. Why was she upset, what is the MATTER with her? Either way, I smell cheating. (The other presenter was that nice chap who won Castaway, Ben Fogle… but what the fuck was he doing presenting Crufts? Whose idea was that? Why?)

After the dog and his owner got presented with a trophy the au fait American bloke picked his dog up off the podium, put him on the floor of the arena then skipped around with his dog hopping behind. He then put the dog back on the podium, corrected the dogs hind leg as the way it was stood wasn’t to his liking and gave its hair a comb. What the fuck was he thinking? What a cunt.

I don’t know much about dogs but I know when they’re too hot they pant. In the space of 5 minutes the dog had gone from a regular pant to having full blown respiratory problems, its tongue was out by nearly half a foot and it’s mouth was so wide open it appeared as if it was trying to regurgitate a pigeon. How fucking cruel is that? Just so a few people and its weird owner could derive some sort of revolting pleasure.

It’s a disgraceful display of exploitation in my opinion, coupled with an undercurrent of bestiality. I think the BBC should take a long hard look at themselves.

Clare Balding should be put down by the way. I think that’s best for everyone.

‘stenders

March 9, 2007

Beasts of the East 

I hadn’t seen Eastenders in years. I remember Den and Ange, Arthur and Pauline, the two bald gays, one of whom spoke in such a contrived husky parlance I’m convinced that off-scene his voice was actually so high no one could hear it apart from (fat) dogs. We were supposed to believe that the other chrome dome had been in the Para’s. To make the point once in a while he’d go ‘mental’ which involved a series of posturing and hard stares that even if accompanied by the language of a docker in advanced stages of Alzheimer’s being screamed in the face of a sensitive two year old girl, the reaction would be for her to giggle uncontrollably at the cunt’s total lack of acting skills and fucking hair and gently pat his nose.

The other night I sat through 15 minutes of it, I didn’t recognise a single character outside of the one whose saggy norks fell out of her top in a Carry-On film made over 100 years ago, and some other characters I’d seen in The Bill or something.

However, whilst the cast my be a different set of thin lipped gargoyles, the relentless misery and poison inherent in the script/speech/storylines seem very much to have Spinal-Tapped their way to 11. In a mere 15 minutes I was treated to the rantings of some young slattern who, it appeared, had been knocked up by a the husband of the ‘Eastenders’ doctor, the only person who could speak proper but in true soap-style managed to have a full on fucking shit-fit, a painting-by-numbers method treatment (snot bubbles, rolling around) to then instantly revert into a scheming minx (a piggy minx I hasten to add) when her husband came home.

The uninterrupted flow of miserable ugly fizzogs, the yelling, crying and shouting, the sheer nastiness of it, why do people subject themselves to this unremitting slice of horror? I mean it’s not even fucking real. It’s not even fucking acted/written/directed or anything well. Turn on the bloody news, the unscripted repugnance therein is far worse and it’s stuff that’s actually happened /happening.

Christ it makes my blood boil.

(btw, when is it on again?)

Help! My Dog’s As Fat As Me!

March 6, 2007

Fat fucking dog

I arrived at the bottom of the BBC3 barrel by chance, only to find executives scrabbling around with a shit-scraper, trying to grind out a title that hadn’t been used before from the stinking dregs of their channel’s previous content. Freaky Eaters had been a new low. I was interested to see how low they could go. When I was browsing the schedules and saw the title ‘Help! My Dog’s As Fat As Me!’ I thought for a second that someone who writes the mini-reviews in the back of the TV Guide had suddenly been gripped by an overwhelming realisation about their own lives and that this was not, in fact, a dire new attempt at television-making and more a cry for help.

I was wrong. The show is one of the not-so-recent-any-more phenomonen of does-what-it-says-on-the-tin TV. Through tear-filled eyes I tried to switch the television off before my mind was blighted by the blindingly predictable events that were doubtless about to unfold. Through the opaque wash of saltwater I saw something about a weigh-in where the combined weight of owner and dog are measured against recent scale-based humiliations. I saw dogs being inspected for contours. I saw women crying and refusing to speak to the cameras. I saw a huge mound of furry blubber being fed a Big Mac. I saw a huge mound of furry blubber’s dog eating the same meal.I saw a morbidly obese labrador squeaking out a hideous fart, clearing the room of cast and crew. I began to smell the odour. Screaming in agony, I reached the television set and booted the off button just before the point where my brain was about to burst.