Big Brother’s Big Mouth

 Russell Brand made his name through Big Brother’s Big Mouth, a show which seemed destined for failure from the off. Unknown presenter, no-budget set, limited material… it all seem somewhat empty. Given the fact that the only issues the audience would be able to discuss would be Big Brother related, it seemed like even the 20 odd minutes of time the show ran for would be light on content. But nobody (aside from Endemol) banked on Brand’s personality clicking with the national mood. His flights of fancy were often ludicrous, but he’s an erudite man with a very large vocabulary and an extraordinary gift for crafting sentences, so we forgave him all the talk of ball-bags and swines. The fact of the matter is, Brand was like an accommodating schoolteacher in his manic John Stapleton role, lurching around the seating areas, sitting on laps, poking his microphone into peoples faces. One second he would declare love for audience members, the next he would squeal at them in a Kenneth Williams voice, berating them for being ‘orrible pigs’. The format worked and in many ways was far more watchable than the main BB show itself.Sadly, whether it’s due to the Shilpa Shetty race war business or the turnaround in his career trajectory, Brand has opted not to take part any longer. A shrewd move, some would say, rather like a rodent hurtling itself from a sinking ship. I heard Brand wouldn’t be working on the show around March, though I don’t remember any press release being issued, just rumour and word of mouth. Clearly Endemol felt that if the news got out, Big Brother would be cursed. Let us not forget that Brand was their success story, where Davina and Dermott have institutionalised themselves by working on their own strands of the BB wig. I can’t see either of them successfully fronting their own shows in the future. Remember Davina’s talk show outing? I’m trying to forget it.

In the interim, a few rumours circulated about how this void would be filled. The strongest of these was that Peaches Geldof, offspring of a sanctimonious old anachronism and herself a vapid waste of molecules would be fronting BBBM. I, and I hope the rest of the show’s audience, was astonished and bemused. But then even worse news arrived. The Peaches rumours were unfounded. Chris Moyles would be fronting Big Mouth.

Chris Moyles.

Chris fucking Moyles.

Oh Christ. Thankfully it would only be for a week, and the role would be rotated among other celebrities – at least this is what we can interpret from the garbled mess of crap emenating from Moyles’ anus-mouth last night.

Moyles, for the uninitiated, is a sexist, occasionally clumsily racist, sweating micro-penis who fronts Radio 1’s breakfast output alongside his mate, ‘Comedy Dave’, the living misnomer. Every morning they bleat on about Leeds United (relegation’s what you need), birds and beers, garnering decent ratings because they appeal to the vast majority of the populace – i.e. other idiots. How Endemol thought it would be a great idea to replace a handsome, witty and manic presenter with a pot-bellied hog with the grace and language skills of a backwards walrus is beyond me.

Last night, his second attempt at fronting the programme, Moyles didn’t exactly impress. He waddled around the arena where Brand used to bounce round it, Tigger-like. He repeatedly called any male guest ‘fella’, probably the most annoying salutation since Maxwell called all and sundry ‘geezer’. He mocked one of the contestant’s weight, when that contestant probably weighs a stone or two less than him. In the past, he has been picked up by Haile Berry for having a ‘racist moment’, yet he decided a member of the audience ‘looked like Beyonce’, despite the fact there was no resemblance whatsoever besides skin colour. In addition to this, he insulted several other members of the audience without any semblance of humour, as bales of tumbleweed flew by.

The man is an arse. I hope this rumour of a week-long tenancy are proved to be true, otherwise Endemol, if it’s possible, have dumbed themselves even further into the dust.

Fat Man’s Warning

 

I’m glad I’m not fat. If I was, I would be even sicker than I already am of all of the health based scare-mongering going on.

This time it’s a fat American who thought he’d drag his unwanted, sagging mass into the
UK to warn us that we’re heading for a plague of pigshit if we keep munching burgers and cakes, etcetera, in Fat Man’s Warning, last Sunday.

His name is Steve Daly. Apparently he’s a comedian but I wouldn’t be surprised if his act just consisted of him poking fun at himself for being fat in the hope that others might not.

It’s hardly worth mentioning that his feet are too fat for normal shoes or that he can barely do anything other than eat. Nor is it worth saying that he’s on the verge of death, they always are in these programmes about massively obese food botherers. Anyway, there’s no way his heart can keep pumping blood around that mess for much longer.

I read an article about his quest in a local rag prior to it’s airing, and I recall a quote by Daly in which he claimed that “Britain is about four years behind
America, and soon you’re all gonna be as fat as me”.

Later in the show he again reiterated that Britain is about four years behind America.

Two things here, This unsightly shit is an arrogant arse, who clearly thinks we are so stupid and ignorant about the weight debate, that we need some stinking pile of shit to come over here and ‘save us’ with his one man crusade. Well I happen to think he should sort himself out before he mouths off outside KFC or McDonalds with his banner aloft, trying to spread fear among the public.

Next, I would beg to differ that we are indeed four years behind America. It sounds to me like something Americans tell each other to feel good about themselves.

So anyway, you get the picture, he visits
Britain’s towns and cities pestering those foolish enough to engage with him. He waddles around with a placard saying ‘I love KFC, look at me’, trying to strike up preachy conversations about food with locals.

In one scene, Daly prowls the streets protesting about himself again, and starts a conversation with some teenage lame-brain who commented that the government should ban McDonalds and the like, since they know it’s unhealthy. At this point Daly praised the boy for his intelligence in saying this.

Good idea, why not ruin it for everyone just because some fat hoovers have no self control?

Those who can’t regulate their eating habits deserve to suffer. Some may say they should be lead them down to the bottom of the garden like worn out dogs and shot for being the broken creatures they are, but obviously, I would never say such a thing.

Anyway, the show was shit. In fact, this programme was so one dimensional it felt like a conversation with Jade Goody.

Daly is a useless toilet with no people skills, who isn’t even particularly clever or articulate. As for being a comedian, he must have left his joke book at home because he didn’t crack one gag, and if he did, then I didn’t hear it.

I felt that the scene where he coaxed a bunch of young kids to climb inside his trousers was bumbling into the arena of the perverted, but somehow he got away with it. Ok, he wasn’t wearing them at the time, but still…

In one of his sermons he cries “A child, when it’s obese won’t make it past fifty three years old”. That really makes sense, I thought. That must be why I never see any fat 54 year old children anywhere.

Here is what I couldn’t understand – one minute he’s drawing crowds as he delivers his grim message of doom, the next he’s wandered off somewhere else and is scoffing chips, kebabs and the whole caboodle with fat locals. There is a scene later on where he goes into Mills store with a load of kids – yep, hanging around kids again (seemingly the only people who’ll listen to him) – and buys a carrier bag full of chocolate bars. I’m guessing he thinks he’s doing research when actually he’s sending out confused messages. He’s telling people not to eat the very stuff he’s stuffing his fat face with. I think it’s an elaborate ploy in which he plans to consume all the junk food in the world for himself.

Another pearl from the Steve Daly book of wisdom? Ok: “Blackpool is a giant toy in the happy meal of
England”.

Shit stuff.

How To Make A Trisha Show

 

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

 

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…

Sex In Court

 

I had never seen this pile of dross before. I didn’t particularly want to watch it the other night, but I felt it was my duty to observe and report back to WWM.

Sex in Court – for pity’s sake – it’s bound to be awful isn’t it?

It’s basically Judge Judy, only concentrating on the ancient art of rogering and all that lies with it via an unwelcome peer into the seedy highs and dirty lows of the bedroom capers of ‘ordinary’ members of the public.

Once upon a time in this country talking about our sexual endeavours in public would have been considered perverted, perhaps even deviant behaviour and was simply not done. These days however, people are chomping at the bit to go on national television and discuss aspects of their private life that frankly, I don’t want to hear.

On a personal level, a mature and open attitude to sex is surely the way forward, while giggling and whispering about it as though some old woman on the bus has just laid a corking great egg of a fart seems sadly pathetic.

Maybe it is our unwillingness to confront these issues as a nation that has created an aura of taboo around the act of sex rather than it being a natural fact of life, and maybe this is the reason eight year old kiddies are allegedly rodding each other senseless left right and centre, and maybe that is the reason Britain has the highest rate of teenage pregnancies in Europe. Maybe.

So what is it that is ingrained into the psyche of our country that has made so many Brits at first coy and now overly forthcoming concerning their attitudes to the supremely enjoyable world of carnal activities?

Answers on a lewd postcard from Skegness please.

The first couple under scrutiny in this cul-de-sac of piffle consisted of a berserk looking French chump who couldn’t persuade his fiancé to fellate him for neither love nor money. Actually, I don’t recall him mentioning offering money. Maybe that would have worked. Maybe.

She was of the opinion that it was not favourable from her point of view, and that it didn’t make her feel very sexy. I think she was slightly missing the point regarding who is meant to feel the sexiest in a blowjob scenario. Anyway, call me mad, but I always thought that providing pleasure is in itself a pleasurable experience. Plus she seemed to have no complaints in letting our French chump take the headfirst trip downstairs on her behalf.

In the end the jury found her guilty and she was instructed to attend – wait for it – fellatio classes. (Sounds ridiculous at first, but in my humble tongue-in-cheek opinion, it should be a compulsory part of every ladies’ further education, similar in a sense to national service. The world would certainly be a much nicer place for me to live in).

Anyway, the second nauseating set of polyps included a gloomy faced pork-woman and a tragic delta-male who had the kind of runt-of-the-litter based properties that could only be produced as a result of conception during a cider-fuelled tramp-orgy in a peat bog.

Their problem was that he was quite fond of waking her up at five or six in the morning with his pole at the ready, demanding sex.

He defended his actions in court by saying “I’ve got mother nature on my side”.

The jury however, defied mother nature, finding runt-boy guilty of pestering pork-woman. This is my favourite part – the judge pulled out some bog roll and porn mags (seriously!!) and instructed him to five knuckle shuffle his way to orgasmic glory of an early morning instead.

This programme should never be watched by anyone. It’s not educational and it’s not entertainment. It’s actually the worst kind of nasty-arsed voyeurism going.

This show has its own resident sex expert who would occasionally talk about 69ing or point to diagrams of penises and such like, but it could hardly be called educational stuff.

Further crass moments and uncomfortable watching came in the form of the jury discussing each case between verdicts and talking about ‘avin’ a wank, or doing rim-jobs. Among the jury were a couple of old women and the way they talked about sex was about as elegant as I’d imagine it would be to hear some football hooligan effing and jeffing his way through his less than scant knowledge of the finer points of transcendental meditation.

To coin a phrase; this shit (less than reluctantly) sucks.

The Apprentice, Series 3, Ep. 2

 

That was a weird one.  The teams were now unbalanced, with one female among the boys going up against an all girl squad. So Jadine, the feisty lady (or mouthy cow, depending on your point of view) who project managed the boys coffee task stayed with the chaps whilst the ladies soldiered on without Andy’s wobbly leadership. Wobbly in every sense, was poor Andy, wobbling when asked to decide on what to do next, wobbly in the boardroom and wobbling around town trying to give lollipops to little girls to get them to buy coffee in a sinister manner. But as we know, he’s gone now.So who was for the chop this week? Early on, Rory volunteered to lead Eclipse, the boys’ team with the one female appendage. Let’s cut to the chase early on and admit that Rory never stood a chance. He’s been bankrupted twice (how the fuck do you manage THAT? He’s 27 for fuck’s sake!) and he’s also an ex public schoolboy, or ought to be from the sound of his plummy tones. And we all know how Sugary Alan feels about the posh boys, don’t we? In addition, he also looks like Beaker from The Muppets.The girls were also led by a toffee-nosed type, but she at least has the temerity to avoid talking like Prince William. Her name is Katie,  and she is a woman who looks perfectly normal from the upper eyelid down, but above that appears to have nicked Fido Dido‘s elongated brow.

The task was to create a dog accessory, to be manufactured overnight and then sold to buyers from three major retailers the next day. The clients to be sold to were Harrods, some up-their-own-arse boutique and a company wide pet-store with branches throughout the UK. I’ll admit I hadn’t immediately seized on the idea that the nationwide pet store was a clue that the bigger sales would happen with that one presentation, but then I was half pissed, on a couch in some dirty tracksuit bottoms having a smoke. If I’d have been suited up and slick, early in the morning I reckon it might have crossed my mind. Rory, ignoring the fact he had three members of his team who worked in the area of design in some way, opted to include the witless, clearly schizophrenic Tre at the ideas stage, giving him a shot at brainstorming.

Tre is a horrifying quagmire of teenage adolescent resentment. He is presented with any form of authority and his mouth suddenly starts spitting and teeth-clenching. I bet he got expelled from school a good few times. I bet he’s beaten up a lollipop lady at some point. He can’t be asked to do anything without suddenly exclaiming his greatness and cursing the very ground anyone else might walk on. He’s like Syed but with a barbed whale-cock rammed up his arse, making him relentlessly uncomfortable and effortlessly uptight. At least Syed had a gramme of charisma. Tre’s probably considered ‘good TV’ by the BBC executives, but I consider him to be BAD TV. I don’t like watching twitchy twats being horrible on my screen, so I hope he fucks up in a big way, very, very soon and gets booted out on his bottom.

Rory opted to ignore everything that had been thrown up in the brainstorm session as well as everything that had been researched by Jadine and her branch of Eclipse. The blanket idea was a 50/50er – it could have been a brilliant success (the focus group loved it) or it could have been shot down in flames for being too simple. We’ll never know, for Rory opted for his idea, without the support of his team. It slowly starts to sink in where this bankruptcy problem he has originates from. Perhaps its his entire worldview, which boils down to shutting out everything beyond his own mind and thoughts.

The girls’ invention isn’t worth me even wasting typing-energy on. It was, as one buyer commented, a flat-pack, Formica box. With bones on the front. Great work girls. But I suppose at least they sold a few of them.

So it came to the boardroom and two of the three boys went after it was revealed their sales were hopeless. It was between the hapless Rory, Tre the braying mental and poor Ifti, the iffy Company Director of a design firm who didn’t once pitch in with a single idea, despite design being his trade. In the event, he got fired first, on account of his missing his son and presenting that as the reason he couldn’t engage with the tasks. If it was an excuse to get out, then fair enough, it worked and who can blame him for wanting to get away from the other contestants. If it was genuine, then I think only a man with a cancerous bollock for a heart could think he was soft for being a family-man. Of course, Tre found it hilarious and got told off for giggling. What a nasty little shit he is. Ifti left as possibly the only Apprentice contestant ever to depart with the good will of the nation on his side. I wasn’t expecting that.

Sugar sacked Rory. In terms of business, that makes sense. For the sake of humanity, it was the wrong decision, as we now have to bear at least another week of the stuttering, non-stop shit that comes out of Tre’s mechanised bullshit-machine of a mouth.

KFC

 

‘Mum’s night off’, suddenly, before we’ve even fucking begun I’m suddenly looking over the fence into the white underclass of guttershites that pervade this country, the same cunts that buy huge fucking buckets of fast food are the same cunts who moan about blacks taking their jobs and how all Muslims should be deported, jailed or killed.

‘Mum’s night off’ from the usual… dad rolling in from spending all the family support in the bookies and on booze, urchin children picking each others’ noses on a threadbare couch in front of a brand new flatscreen TV bought only last week from a skinhead in a tracksuit for a monkey. Mum herself haggard well beyond her age and as fat as a fucking walrus, dirty sparse roots leading to a dry frizzing blonde, too much eyeliner and a perpetual Superking drooping over her smeared pink lippie.

This night, she doesn’t need to pierce the film on a packet Lasagne from Lidl and fling it in the crusty microwave, open a can of supermarket brand baked beans, or even so much as pick up a plate, for tonight Wayne, 15, two ASBO’s and a court case pending, has returned from the KFC with buckets of fucking pig slop, chips, fizzy piss and vast clods of melted cheap foul chocolate, all for a fucking fiver.

But the best bit, the great part is that while this squadron of pricks loll about in front of The Bill, wiping sticky, greasy fingers on their nylon jogging pants, Shereen, 12, all gold hoop earrings and G-strings only has to stuff all the cardboard and plastic into the giant fucking bucket the fried shit came in and drop the whole lot into the bin.

Recycle? Equality? Health? No – it’s Mum’s fucking night off in an England racing towards it’s own self-serving grave.

hooked

 

The fat bloke on the Nationwide advert is actually quite funny. I’ve seen him in other comedy offings in the past – he’s quite a card – a good character actor. Bloody fat though.

Quite obviously, he’s getting paid quite a lot for these ads as he’s leading the brand and has been now for a few years. I say ‘quite clearly’ because, unlike Michael Winner who has shrunk, the NW bloke, on account of a huge, enormous salary and the resulting food budget, has ballooned to quite staggering proportions. Maybe he and Winner did some sort of fat exchange? I don’t know, anyway, he’s a really big fat bastard now to the point I’m not finding the adverts that funny anymore as I can see that behind the cheeky comedic quips and mugging a deeply insecure and disturbed porker has evolved into an eating machine as a means to cope with something he’s buried deep within his psyche.

He’s clearly not happy, and you all sit there and laugh at this porcine hippopotamus with a very serious and deep rooted psychological condition, stemming from the need for oral gratification (his mother may have rejected him when he was a child, or he might have been interfered with by his dad) which results in him eating everything that doesn’t smell of plops.

Anyway, my point is this, in the latest NW ad, another advert has become coincidentally entwined. Currently the government is attempting to put off smokers by realising a metaphorical hook. The grim grey commercials depict a selection of average Joes being caught in the cheek by ‘the smoking hook’ only to smugly disgorge said hook with such a sanctimonious air of implementation (‘Hey, it’s that easy!’) that it makes one feel like smoking an entire pack at once outside the cancer ward at Whipps Cross Hospital just to spite the cunts that made it…

The fat bloke in the NW ad does the same ‘hook’ thing, but he’s using his hook to describe how banks ‘hook’ one in with a low rate only to bump up charges later on. Tedious, isn’t it? The biggest problem here is that whilst the anti-smoking adverts are just the tossy results of a lack of UK film funding driving all of our creatives into the moronic world of advertising, the fat bloke is clearly ‘hooked’ on pizza, burgers and kebabs, harming his health as much as smoking does and subsequently dropping me into a confusing universe of self imposed irony and subsequent depression.

The NW ad guy should start seeing Fearne Britten, because she only eats low fat Ryvita products which is how she keeps her svelte Mount Fuji figure.

Next week ‘Laboritoire’ Garnier. TAKE CARE