Eastenders

 

Well done Mickey, you’ve managed to get rid of the only desirable cast member with your idiotic talk of marriage. She also sold knocked off DVDs and grew skunk in the larder. The perfect woman. Alright, she couldn’t act for toffee, but who really cares? Ian Beale’s got away without an equity card for his entire life, so it needn’t stop anyone.

How could you foul it up? I suspect, on Li’s part, the commitment issue was probably just a ruse to escape that incessant squeaking you subject people to. I’m of the opinion that young Mickey was starved as a child and was forced to swallow a pet guinea pig whole. Lodged in his oesaphagus, it lives off stray flakes from the bacon baps he buys from Cathy’s caff, intercepting any signal from his voicebox with a shrill squeak. It’s the only explanation.

Yesterday’s ‘enders was one in an occasional series of ‘comic’ episodes – that is to say nobody got savaged by a stray dog, not one child got maimed by Charlie’s 20 mph cab and nobody fell off the top of a helter skelter. Instead we had Stella trying to sing Barbie Girl over that peripheral fat character’s karaoke machine. Where did that chubby mate of Shirley’s come from? It’s as if Oliver Hardy’s corpse, reanimated, had a shave and bumbled into Elstree studios. We also saw Phil, on his stag night, treated to a stripper whilst wearing a really rather far out looking hat, man. On top of all this hilarity, Minty chased a sheep through the Square.

Obviously we needed a bit of misery now that the mental doctor’s defected, so we also had a dribble of the Max and Stacey affair. Max shouted a message through Stacey’s letterbox. I’ve never seen a more alarming sight than the bulging eyes of the red haired lightbulb head peering through a mail slit. It would give any normal girl nightmares for weeks, but for Stace it was simply a reminder of a great bunk up. If anyone  can think of a more perverse love triangle (only involving human adults) I’ll doff my cap to them.

Big Brother 8 – 3.6.07

 

Now Ziggy played git.

“Daddy’s home” announced Ziggy (‘music producer’ and ‘ex model’) to an entirely empty lobby. Self-consciously brushing over this hilarious display of backfired nonchalance, he entered the house. I reckon as soon as he was chosen for BB he spent endless nights thinking of what he was going to say when he first went in, he didn’t say anything when he entered the living room because he’d simply run out of ideas.

Ziggy (‘Ziggy’ for fucks sake, I bet he’s really called Colin) is a self-assured humourless prick. He has one of those prat haircuts, all highlights and product. He’s a toned, tall twat. If he liked himself any more, he’d be a permanent geyser of white-hot spunk. Ziggy has a tattoo – an ‘I’ll have that one’ tattoo from a parlour in Surbiton. We know he has a tattoo because he wears sleeveless t-shirts and points it toward whoever he’s talking at, the big butch tool.

As soon as he walked in, most of the housemates’ clothes fell off. At one point, Chantelle, the self styled Posh Spice look-alike with a brain the size of a marble and tits to match, stood in front of Ziggy in his t-shirt, coquettishly acquired a few minutes earlier and as far as I could glean, nothing else. The other protagonist of operation flap was Emily, David Cameron’s lolly, whose knees have decided to take a break from each other. Charley got her charlies out in the pool but as they’re made of rock hard glue it doesn’t count.

Speaking of Charley she’s shaping up to be the BB berk, one minute she’s abusing the Queen’s English in a diatribe of misdirected invective at whoever is within earshot and the next she’s crying, or at least pretending to do so. Her conversation, when she’s not objecting to the colour of air, is clubbin’ and Premiership footballers. She’s an unashamed namedropper, this was pointed out by Emily who was displaying the padded crutch on her knickers, Charley didn’t understand a word she’d said, so she got cross anyway.

My other bone of contention rests solely at the paws of Lesley. Lesley – the lantern jawed warthog – is a conniving, shit-stirring old battleaxe. The only person that rivals her at all for out-and-out selfishness is cyber-tits. She thinks very highly of herself and looks down on everyone else. Horrid, right down to her vulgar earrings. As soon as she opens her miserable pie-hole, someone is being patronised. She’s trying to control the group and to some degree, due to a combination of stupidity and cowardice, she’s winning. Hitler was just like that.

Tracy is a fucking mental, more volatile than a retard holding an M16; I really can’t stand this one. She’s in a league of her own. Putting aside the sound of her voice, an angle-grinder trying to burp, I’m still trying to work out how she fundamentally communicates. I can hear bits of English among her anachronistic rave twaddlings but her facial gestures have a lexical choice all of their own. She seems to permanently resemble an orangutan shitting out sprockets. Despite what I’ve said about the others, I hope she goes first as I am genuinely, genuinely afraid of seeing her naked. I’d rather examine Carol’s growler with a Maglite through an inserted toilet roll tube.

As for the rest, they seem largely okay, the okayist of that lot being fat Laura who’s not put a foot wrong by my high standards. I must admit, despite being prone to weeping without reason, I’m warming to hairy old Aunt Flo too, the political porcine that she is.

The other housemates seem to be just getting on with it, I’ve not heard a peep out of the dear little twins, bless their cotton lobotomies and I think Shabnam has absconded.

Still, I’m enjoying it thoroughly but as already mentioned, I’ll enjoy it a heck of a lot more when Tracey has gone back to her haystack.

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.

Freaky Eaters. Again.

 

Christ – it’s like some sort of vacuum, sucking me into it’s hideousness! Last night, Freaky Eaters managed to somehow reel me in like a fresh and naive trout on a particularly devious angler’s line. BBC3 will surely be the end of me. Along with Dog Borstal and Help! My Dog is as Fat as My Face!, Freaky Eaters is default television. It’s always on and I’m always half asleep and inclined to watch the televisual turd smears they wipe my screen with.
It’s important to point out that I found within my frail body the ounce of fortitude required to turn the TV off before my mind was sneezed out of my clenched face by a rebelling brain. Even I can only take so much.

So. Freaky Eaters, again. Yesterday we travelled to Newcastle, or Middlesborough, or somewhere up there in the land where they say ‘war’ instead of ‘your’ and enthuse that things are ‘reet canny’. Lovely people, but violent – and greedy too, as it turns out. A young lady (whose name I forget) was eating chocolate to assuage her feelings of worthlessness. No surprise there then, not a massively big deal. But when we were shown the sheer amount she was putting away, I was actually shocked. Real shock, not mock concern. She could eat nine full size Crunchies in minutes without feeling sick. And her method of eating was actually terrifying – slowly and blankly biting off huge mouthfuls and then swallowing whole. It was like watching the act of vomiting, but in reverse, and with delicious, chocolatey puke.

The introduction took a good twenty minutes and by this time I was not only completely shattered from a good, honest day’s work but also nauseous to the point of needing to wash bits of sick from my lips after watching this poor unfortunate fill her stomach with crap. When they sent the shrink in, it became apparent that his conclusion was pre-prepared. He didn’t listen to a word she actually said. He decided that fear and anger had made her so gluttonous. Nothing to do with a low self-image then? Nothing to do with the fact that her parents have a shitload of confectionary stashed away in every corner of the house? I think they should take this bastard’s PhD away. I also think that if BBC3 are going to exploit those with eating disorders, they might try and name the show something other than Freaky Eaters, which is possibly the most heavy-handed title for a show about damaged people that I think I’ve ever heard. Me and Freaky Eaters are going to have a bit of time apart from hereon in.

Now, who fancies a Blue Ribband?

Haunted Homes

How I managed to stay perched on my sofa throughout this cavalcade of pure TERROR I will never know. Shock after shock after pant-wetting shock streamed across the cathode ray as me and the missus clawed at cushions, barely hanging on to our sanity as the next world revealed to us the unrelenting horror of the spirit domain.

Not really, gang. It was utter shit.

Mia Dolan is apaprently the bestselling author of a book called ‘The Gift’. Whether that’s related to the overrated film ‘The Gift’, I’m not sure and can’t be halfway-arsed to research, but let’s assume she’s not. She is also the frontwoman for ITV2’s Haunted Homes. This is another of those shows ITV2, LivingTV and all those other nothing-television channels knock out from their no-budget production orifice when desperate to fill their schedules with something other than static, despite the fact that static would actually be far more challenging television.

The formula for this one (and I should know, I’ve sat through the tedium of two of them for some reason) is as follows:

An ex childrens’ TV presenter who clearly didn’t make the grade walks around, shedding charisma as he goes, stating the bleeding obvious at the opening, ending and between scenes. He tells us nothing of worth and only serves to annoy every viewer with his attempt at gravitas and stupid leather jacket.

He links to Mia who is sitting in a council house with two members of the idiot public, in the dark, with one of those special cameras they used in the Blair Witch. They need one of those cameras because they are sitting in the dark. They are waiting for a ghost, in the dark. Grown adults, sitting in the dark. Waiting for a ghost. And me, sitting at home, watching some grown adults, sitting in the dark, waiting for a ghost. This is a stupid, vacuous world we live in.

The night vision, I think, is meant to have the effect of making everything eery. It actually just makes Mia look even weirder, if that’s at all possible, like some mutant car crash in which Gillian Taylforth and Vanessa Feltz have merged with Pat Butcher’s arse. It also serves to make Joe Public (who generally sits there either crying or giggling) look uglier than they were in the light.
Ineveitably a member of the crew will knock over a baking tray down in the kitchen or drop a Dime bar in the bog and everyone will freak out.
‘What the [beep] was that?’ the ‘contestant’ will scream.
‘It’s just the spirit world communicating with me’ Mia will sagely inform them, nodding certainly.

You just feel like barging in there, turning the fucking lights on and kicking the shit out of everyone present.

After the event, Mia sits around with her terrified prey in a winnebago. They constantly refer to this ‘winnebago’ as a safe house. ‘We’ll talk through what we saw in the Winnebago’ Mia says. ‘Let’s go over now to the Winnebago’ to study the findings’ says the kids’ TV presenter. IT’S A CARAVAN.

After this it’s downhill all the way (if that’s possible). A molish sceptic wanders in there, also in the dark, and tells them they’re imagining it (unbelievably, he’s getting paid for that) and then Mia goes in to the property with some candles and starts an ‘ancient incantation’ to exorcise the spirit. At least, that’s what she claims. What she actually does is blather on in her husky Jackiey Goodie tones in what is meant to be Latin. I studied Latin, and she is speaking the language, but she appears to just be repeating the word ‘Omnibum’ over and overagain, which wouldn’t get you very far in the forum. I’m not sure if it’d uproot a malevolent spirit or not, but it certainly made me shift over to the other side.

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.