Posts Tagged ‘Horror’

The Apprentice, Series 3, Ep. 2

April 5, 2007


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.

The Apprentice, Series 3, Ep. 1

March 29, 2007


I’d be lying if I stated any kind of ambivalence to the Apprentice. Of course I watch it – I’m addicted to reality television – the lower the quality, the better. In this instance though, we’re talking about a high quality, big budget show, the difference being that the contestants are picked especially for their glaring idiocy. Perhaps Sugar thinks one or two are potential big-money earners, but I’m sure most of the heap are chosen simply because they’ll make amusing TV. Think of Syed last series, who obviously had a CV embellished with phoney claims to genius, to the point where it fell apart in the hands of the reader, weighted down by the amount of sheer bollocks on the page.

This season we opened with millisecond vox pops from the contestants, a kind of getting-to-know-you epileptic fit with a couple of words from each. The standout was big Andy (I think) saying: ‘I’m dynamic’. Who actually says that about themselves? I might say it about a superhero, maybe a pushbike, but about myself at work? Balls to that. It stinks of ‘idiot’ the minute you say it. Imagine using it in everyday language – in a cafe for example. ‘Sorry, the service was so non-dynamic my eggs have gone stone cold, can I have a refund please?’. It’s a stupid word unless you’re talking about a fancy sports car, so stop it.

We had the usual introduction from Sugar, who seemed to have tailored his spiel to diss Syed, the aforementioned berk who made the last series such a success. ‘I hate schmoozers’ he said, as he did last year, but then he went on ‘and more than anything I hate people who claim to have had a rough background and come from nothing and all this and that’. Weird really, considering that’s what Alan Sugar does in every interview he sits for to promote this very show.

The task itself saw two teams of corporate mongs try and sell coffee. We learned that if you’re trying to sell cafe latte, cappuccino or espresso, the place NOT to do it is Chapel Market in Islington. I say ‘we learned’, I live very close to that area, and if I were to take you down there on a weekday you’d see immediately, so immediate it’d be like a knuckle-duster to the hooter, that it’s absolutely fucking dead. Add to this that the people who work on Chapel Market are far more likely to prefer a watery Nescafe with four sugars to take back to the bookies and you’ll see why they only sold 11 cups all morning.

In a bizarre turn of events, Sugar fired the bullshit-stuffed but actually quite likable Andy, simply for being Team Leader. Or Project Manager. Or whatever they call the fuckers these days. Andy had allowed the women to screw things up, was the gist of the argument. I felt this was unfair, as the big blonde lady (whose name my brain has wiped off the memory banks to try and escape the trauma of having seen her snooty, undignified face) was a complete arse and should’ve been saddled with the blame, if only to crush her festering smugness. She thinks she’s Dawn French, she’s more Rose West. She’ll be one to watch, guaranteed.

Then it was over, and the voiceover declared there were ‘only 16 left’. 16?! That’s two small companies-worth. And 14 weeks of sacking. Sugar’s arm is going to drop off at this rate.

WAGS Boutique

March 23, 2007

WAGS Boutique 

 For some reason the above picture came up when I googled ‘wags boutique’. It seems strangely apt. Now look. I watched Freaky Eaters again last night but don’t tell anyone. It was actually not as bad as the others, but it was still shockingly terrible television. But not bad enough to be described in any detail beyond this:

Bald gay man learn how cook.

What I did watch was the repulsive ‘WAGS Boutique’ on ITV. The opening credits spell the title in that format, as I’ve just done, even though it’s patently incorrect. I think (and I’m trying my best here) it should be W.A.G.s’ Boutique. But no, they conveniently forget that we’re talking about the possessive of a collective noun, which is in itself an acronym, and they just go and write ‘WAGS Boutique’ with the ‘s’ capitalized even though it’s not even part of the acronym and should be apostrophised, if apostrophised is even a word. It’s ‘wives and girlfriends’ isn’t it? I suppose it might be ‘wives and girlfriends (shits)’ but then they’d have to put the ‘s’ in brackets, and they haven’t.

No wonder this country’s gone to pot.

W.A.G.(S) Boutique is perhaps the most empty of all the empty programmes I’ve ever seen in my thoroughly empty life. It took me a good five minutes to get my head around the concept, just after the credits had rolled. The wives and girlfriends (shits) of several famous (and not so famous, as it turned out) footballers are renowned for their ability to afford expensive designer items and their absolute inability and lack of common sense when coordinating them into an outfit. In the event, they end up looking like scrubbed up fabric-witches. So ITV rent two teams of them a clothes shop each in London’s famous Carnaby Street. Great. The formula doesn’t even look good on paper.

The reality is such a tedious non-event that an hour went by and I honestly couldn’t remember a single thing that had happened in the show once the end credits had rolled. Every single WAG(S) is a blonde (without even the common sense to break that stereotype) and a brainless husk. They’ve willingly submitted their entire existence in the Universe to being ‘the ‘wag’ of someone based on their ability in the much-celebrated ball-kicking arena. That’s fine, I consider myself a football fan, with a fair bit of knowledge in that area, but even I was squinting at some of the big name’s these girls are seeing and saying ‘who?!’. One of the biggest names was Justin Hoyte, a 22 year old at Arsenal who occasionally gets a game in the Carling Cup but has barely been seen in the Premiership, let alone Europe. Hardly a superstar.

So there we go – another hour of my life wasted, and all for you. I hope you’re satisfied.

Deal Or No Deal

March 22, 2007


And so begins another edition of my favourite display of greed and pomposity.

It starts with the intrusive Edmonds positioned unbearably close to the camera as he waffles his way through his usual introductory repertoire, something about identical boxes and there only being one question – ‘deal or no deal’. It is this final line which he painfully attempts to deliver with different accentuation every time, complete with dramatic pauses. There are however, only so many ways you can say four words before it just sounds plain demented, and more often than not it does – “deal! Or? … No… DEAL?”

And cue the music. The blaring din which sounds like the same kind of Casio keyboard nonsense shat out for the Paul O’ Grady and Richard and Judy shows. I’d happily bet that it’s the work of a zombie, who seemingly does the theme tune for everything Channel 4 coughs up between three and six in the afternoon. I’m sure I could find out who is to blame if I really gave a monkey’s.

During the show, Edmonds slopes about the floor with doodles on his hand as though he is God’s gift to entertainment. The fact is, he wants a fucking good kicking.

He oozes a smugness that Craig David would be proud of, always with a different colourful shirt tucked pristinely into trouser. The shirts smack of Edmonds’ wanton desire to be seen as some kind of playful extrovert, when really he’s profoundly dull. He must have an entire house full of those arsing shirts.

Edmonds (get a haircut) tries to dupe us into thinking that every game is unique. Well I’m sorry Noel, me old cock-germ, but you ain’t fooling me. Each game may differ slightly I’ll grant you that, but not in the way that you’re suggesting, you lying prick. Fingerprints are all different, but they’re all located on the end of a fucking finger.

The desperation of the man to see this show reach cult status is apparent with the insertion of certain mawkish expressions such as ‘The Crazy Chair’ (the player’s seat) and ‘The Power Five’ (the largest sums of money available), but within the uttering of these phrases also lies Edmonds’ reckless attempts to appear cool. It’s only a matter of time before he’s saying ‘far out’ or ‘cosmic’.

It has to be said that people scare me and given that the contestants are supposedly your average Brit, I can officially announce that our country is full of dangerous tossers. Who are these fuckers and which sorry corner of our country are these pointless rectums normally holed up in?

It has become a trend for the chosen contestant to say “its fine, it’s ok” when they lose £35,000 or whatever, the way I would if I dropped 2p on the pavement and decide to leave it there because it’s barely worth bending down to pick up. Then they pace the floor and meaninglessly yell “Come on!” which seems to whip the audience up into a frenzy every time. If these people are representative of the peak of human evolution as we know it, then please; stop the world, I must get off.

But it’s not just the over-excited contestants (and fellow panellists) that concern me here. Who are the audience? Why are they there? Who are these people that care so much about the financial gain or shortcomings of others? Would you really care whether or not a complete stranger pockets a quarter of a million quid? I try hard not to watch this utter shite but I know when I’ve seen it in the past I am more eager to see them go home with 1p.

Incidentally, I have never met anyone who would waste their time sitting in on a show like this, or any show for that matter, with the exception of something genuinely entertaining such as a comedy product. The audience must consist of the same kind of pond-life that make up the audiences for shows like the National Lottery Draw and ‘Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?’ and so on.

I could go on and on about how Deal Or No Deal winds me up, but I think that’s an aneurism I feel brewing. I will say this though; I would rather watch Bill Oddie looking for badgers than sit through another episode of this toilet juice, although conversely, I would rather stab myself repeatedly in the chest, sew up my eye-lids, and pour boiling water in my shell-likes.

Exorcist – The Beginning

March 16, 2007

Exorcist The Beginning 

Now then …

The man from Pirates of the Caribbean is asked by the man from Chariots of Fire to go to post-war Africa to retrieve an artefact from a church that’s just been unearthed by the bloke from The Madness of King George. The man from Pirates of the Caribbean flies off to Africa and hooks up with the man with the horrible teeth from Snatch, some woman I can’t remember the name of and a priest who may, or may not, have been in some teen films I haven’t seen. The man from Pirates of the Caribbean used to be a priest in the war but gave it all up (or lost his faith) after having to choose who was to be shot in the face by a Nazi who had just shot a five year old. The woman (who’s very attractive but does not, I repeat not, get her tits out at any stage in the movie) has a tattoo she got in a concentration camp, the man from Snatch has a face covered in ugly yellow sores and the priest from teen films (probably) has a side-parting and excellent teeth.

Something evil is afoot! The man from Pirates of the Caribbean, the teen vicar and a black man who is supposed to be African (but is clearly from Stroud) descend through the roof of the buried church and discover Jesus on the cross upside down – this signifies Satan’s on the loose again. The man from Pirates of the Caribbean goes to talk to the attractive woman who doesn’t get her tits out about something whilst the priest goes off to do something else. Next, the man from Pirates of the Caribbean goes off to Nairobi to witness a bald French man (who has carved a swastika on his chest) stab himself in the neck and bleed to death.

Meanwhile, back at the camp, two boys argue over a trowel.

One of the boys is eaten by dogs. The other boy is placed in hospital where he is cared for by the attractive woman who may or may not have great boobs if only she’d pull ’em out (which she doesn’t). Whilst all this is going on (or possibly after it’s happened) a tribeswoman outside gives birth to a baby covered in maggots. This is a bad thing.

The man from Snatch (who’s face looks bloody awful by now) is killed whilst trying to grab a bottle of booze. The man from Pirates of the Caribbean spends all night digging up coffins and having flashbacks whilst tribesmen try to free the child with the trowel of evil spirits. The boy (or the Devil perhaps) breaks their legs. The next day the man from The Madness of King George finds the man from Snatch strung up in the church. This angers him for some reason, so he shoots the chief of the tribes-people. Later he shoots himself after a butterfly comes out of his mouth.

A sandstorm descends and everyone kills everyone else. Meanwhile, the two priests discover that Satan is possessing not the boy (as you’d been led to believe for the last two hours), but the attractive yet sadly fettered woman who used to be in a concentration camp. The priest with the side-parting goes off to the church and is killed by the attractive woman. The man from Pirates of the Caribbean then turns up at the church and, through a series of holy adventures, casts the Devil from the woman’s body.

She dies anyway.

Finally, the man from Pirates of the Caribbean has a second meeting with the man from Chariots of Fire where he gives him a burnt piece of something. He then goes to the Vatican. This is the end of the movie.

You get all that?

I fucking didn’t. 

Freaky Eaters. Again.

March 15, 2007


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?

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.

Twenty Ate Days Later

January 25, 2007

28 Days 

Yes, ‘ate’.

I saw it again last night on Film4, but instead of occupying my usual position in the lounge I was reclined in my bed with wines and grass like a fucking KING.

Anyway (I was naked, ladies) it hasn’t aged well and had some classic ‘British Movie’ cock-ups.

Firstly, the contemporary soundtrack. Sheer luck for the producers – Dave Brock of Hawkwind wouldn’t have two beans to rub together to sue for plagiarism, the budget of the production of said plagiarised tunes is clearly lacking, as is technical know how, the resulting din wouldn’t sound out of place performed by a sixteen year old in the first term of Brit School. Then suddenly a song by Granddaddy appears…! Mental.

Secondly the haircut of the just-missed-being-beautiful black lady… It wasn’t made in the 80’s was it? No. Yet she looked liked she’d just been turned down for Bananarama. Judging by the way it had been coiffured, spiked and gelled she’d no more survived a pandemic than I had, lolling in my bed and sucking back on a fat bifter.

Now we get to the leading man. Apart from his Vidal Sassoon transformation midway through the film, there was woeful lack of characterisation at the end when he goes on a mad killing spree, at about the same point at the plot descends into twaddle. Quite honestly, despite the makeovers, up until the point that Christopher Ecclestone appears (and despite outclassing all the acting talent in one fell swoop) the film was engaging, and in places genuinely gripping.

We are led to believe that he can take on a bunch of fully armed up soldiers (stripped to the waist I hasten to add, it’s fucking cold and raining, he’ll catch his death) who he despatches brutally without necessity. And lets be honest, the Ecclestone character made a fair point, putting aside the plot-driven ‘I promised them women’ referring to the gormless lascivious troops who seemed to increase and decrease in number at will, if there was only one woman left in the world it’s fair to assume that the whole future of the human race depends on her.



Of course I am, friends

So, nice idea, a good effort with sections of imposed belief-suspension (London Cab driving over a pile up?) and some thrilling shots of an abandoned London, it’s largely let down by the end, and I don’t find that acceptable.