Posts Tagged ‘Jason Donovan’

Iceland Christmas Advert 2008

December 2, 2008

We live in a world where atrocities occur each and every day. Whether that be the systematic rape and imprisonment of children, the genocide of entire races of people or the false imprisonment and torture of ethnic minorities, few can deny that the world can be an ugly and brutal place.

Despite knowing of the depths of man’s inhumanity to man, despite being aware of the full capacity of evil that exists within human beings it’s still hard to imagine anything – anything – worse than the prospect of having to watch the Iceland Christmas advert again.

When the final city falls, the last creature dies and we are visited by alien beings eager to learn the tragic circumstances of our downfall (much like the ending to Steven Spielbergs A.I., in fact) they will look upon this moment and realise that everything can be attributed to the release and distribution of this advert.

As the souls of the damned burn in eternal hellfire they will be forced to watch this medley of frozen foods, Christmas carols and ITV stalwarts in ear piercing 3D futuroscope. On an endless loop, it will pierce their retinas and they will begin their unanswered cries for mercy, knowing that only an appearance by Christopher Biggins could deepen their pain.

It’s a distant and terrifying world for me; the world where frozen pepperoni kebabs hawked by fake-tittied junkies, self-hating right-wingers and formally famous pop stars can be considered appealing. These are the dregs of the celebrity world; end of the pier daytime TVers more famous for their lives than their talents – yet somehow their endorsements are seen as encouragable.

The planet may be bleeding terror and dying from environmental collapse, the soul of humanity may well be killing itself and bringing destruction upon itself and the capitalistic system may be bringing us to the edge of a societal implosion but real evil – deep true evil, the kind Buffy used to battle – is reserved for inside the cathode rayed nipple in the corner of the room, the glowing box which bears the names Katona, Nolan and Donovan.

Fear them, for they will destroy us all.

The Dark Side Of Fame: Jason Donovan

September 23, 2008

I hadn’t seen this before – anything featuring the anus-mouthed Piers Morgan tends to make me run a mile – but it’s quite interesting viewing if you like your celebrities squirmy.

The premise of the show is as follows…

Aided by faked photographs of people being pissed on, Piers Bumhole-Cakehole rattles the cage of an ex-A lister, in the process trying to get to the bottom of their vices, foibles and disastrously bad habits. So far the roster’s been made up of Pamela Anderson (past crimes = being scatty and getting her genitals out), Jason Donovan (being a coke head, coke-casualty and casual homophobe) and Jim Davidson (no explanation really needed).

Add the host, and you have the attendance list for the worst hypothetical dinner party imaginable.

I missed Jim Davidson’s and saw about five minutes of Pamela Anderson’s (ooer) so readers will have to let me know how they went. Someone already commented here that Morgan told Davidson he couldn’t help but find him funny, which is nauseating.

Jason Donovan’s was quite interesting though – and not so much because of coked up tales from Kate Moss’s 21st, but more for the critical appraisal the viewer could cast over Donovan’s appearance. Jason appears to have follicallly receded, as we chaps tend to do. But instead of conceding defeat, he’s circumnavigated the problem by attaching blond wings to the side of his head. I was fooled for the first ten minutes by this ingenious head-apparatus, but soon the trick wore off.

Donovan’s also developed the wild staring eyes of a just-released Guantanamo Bay inmate. This was probably caused by long, long nights on the blow, watching knackered out, knock-off copies of Neighbours on VHS.

I enjoyed the gravitas Morgan’s voice attached to such intense life events as:

  • Our boy Jase turning down a second contract to do Joseph for another year.
  • Donovan having a mental seizure in the Viper Room whilst on drugs.
  • Going for a grungey look which was at odds with his clean cut image.

It’s pure tabloid TV. Like a News Of The World article, paid for by the BBC.

Donovan’s take on the trial that tarnished his image – where he challenged the now defunct Face magazine’s assertions that he’s gay – was suitably weary. He must have agonised over it enough – and it sure did make him look a boob.

I think the defining moment came when Donovan was quizzed about how and when he started taking drugs…(and I’m paraphrasing here)

‘That was probably back in my Neighbours days’
‘Yeah, probably smoking a bit of weed up a mountain somewhere, you know?’
‘So Scott Robinson was taking drugs?!’
‘Yeah – but I’m sure there are bigger stories than that to be written about – than some kid from Melbourne smoking weed’

I’m sure there are, Jase.

I’m sure there are.

Princess Diana Memorial Concert

July 2, 2007


Halfway into Re-Animator, the 80s gorefest about a Victor Frankenstein type who injects a dead cat, then perished humans with his life-giving serum, the fucking DVD froze as all borrowed DVDs seem to do these days. Kicking my DVD player into oblivion with my karate feet, I decided to watch TV instead, as hyper-violent reanimated corpses were now officially off the menu.


I made my way over to good old BBC1 for an evening of quiet, pre-return to work programming, or so I hoped. Songs of Praise, Last of the Summer Wine, Antiques Roadshow – the perfect antidote to a weekend’s boozing and a pair of lungs that were inside out after Friday’s last ditch attempt to cram in as many carcinogens as possible before the smoking ban kicked in.

But the whole of the BBC’s schedule had been riddled with the kind of sentimental old shit that makes any right-thinking person want to kill. The Princess Diana Memorial Concert was in full swing. Shit.

When I switched over, Nelly Furtado was whining along to her tit-hits, all of which seemed to be in horrible minor keys and involved her bleating like a lamb caught in a snare. Her drummer’s kit was ridiculously massive and my shock at the stickman’s arrogance at least took my mind off the winsome crap the popular artist was banging on about. To make matters worse, William and Harry were bopping along with no real sense of timing, frugging away like the posh morons they are.

After dry-retching myself into a catatonic state, I was privy to Jamie ‘Coke-Fiend’ Theakston and Fearne ‘Argh’ Cotton attempting to provide filler in what was the worst constructed live extravaganza I think I’ve ever seen. Fashion-photographers and ex-toilet roll caddies lined up to say how nice Diana was to the black kids in far flung places who’d had their lips blown off by an angry landmine. They talked for an eternity about that ‘winning smile’, which to me seemed more like a sort of guilty-looking squint.

All this did was serve to show how cunning Lady Die was in her role as an insane self-PR machine. Sick of the sight of her after 10 minutes, it was like 1997 all over again. Harry, who recently outed himself as the kind of mong who finds Nazi regalia a fitting costume for a night out, mucked about with some African children whilst mugging for the cameras. Nice to see Mum’s self-celebration (and hypocrisy) has rubbed off on the little shit.

Later we had Jason Donovan and some curly goon what won Joseph singing ‘Any Dream Will Do’, joined by Donny the Osmond for a rousing chorus to the bewilderment of everyone watching. The relevance was lost on me.

Through streams of hateful tears I changed channel whilst swearing profusely out of an open window. Plucking up the courage to give it one last shot, I switched back later on. Sarah Brightman and a berk were twittering along to Phantom of the Opera as I broke every item of glassware in the house with my bare teeth. For me, this was the end, for if I subjected myself to John Elton and his old Joanna grinding out Candle in the Wind for the bazillionth time I might well have crushed next door’s cat in a fury and set fire to the entire terrace with maniacal abandon. Thankfully, I found the on/standby button and simmered for a bit.

On the news this morning, Harry was quoted as saying that the concert was a fitting tribute to his mother. The sprawling mess of an event was contradictory, cloying, confused, irritating and had had way too much money thrown at it. So for once, His Royal Highness was right. GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.