Posts Tagged ‘Kevin Bacon’

The Restaurant

September 13, 2007

awful bastards 

I’ve seen a few of these; it’s fucking shit and getting worse.

The sort of Apprentice-lite format doesn’t work – Raymond Blanc is far too decent a chap to go down the Alan ‘you’re fire you are’ Sugar route. Besides, he sounds like Pepé the Pew doing an impression of Serge Gainsbourg.

The format of the show is simple: open nine restaurants and then get nine couples to run them from scratch. Each week, two of the shittest couples have a play-off task that sees one of their restaurants getting shut down.

The only interest comes from the jaw-dropping horror and stupidity of the contestants. One caused a restaurant Supervisor, working for Ray of course, to make herself physically sick after eating raw chicken breast. Staggeringly, this particular contestant is still in the show.

But by far and away the most dreadful coupling of humans I’ve seen in recent years on television were the thoroughly abhorrent Sam and Jacqui.

Sam is a ‘jazz drummer’ and Sam an ‘actress’. A pimp and a hooker, then. She’s a loud-mouthed oxygen thief and Sam a little toad of a creature with as much charm as The Marquis de Sade in the Bastille dildoing himself until he bleeds lumps.

In the first episode when they were trying to hire a chef. Sam was in the process of interviewing a fairly elderly chap who’d been working in kitchens most of his adult life. Unfortunately, the nearest he’d got to being a chef was chopping veg in a hospital kitchen, but instead of politely informing the elderly gentleman of his lack of suitability, Toad-boy, with the old guy a couple of feet away, called the recruitment agency and bollocked them at volume and length about sending him ‘useless people’. You could actually see the life draining from the poor old git. It was toe-curling stuff and from that moment I wanted see Sam dressed in life-threatening hives.

His recently-acquired wife took the role as front of house Manager, which meant she attempted to ingratiate herself with unsuspecting members of the public with an upside down smile that resembled a gorilla picking fleas off its winkle and a drawl that could melt glass at 100 yards.

In the meantime, instead of managing his fledgling and unenthusiastic staff, Sam threw strops and busied himself by staring at the prepared food as if a copraphiliac standing in a festival latrine looking up at defecating arses.

Needless to say they were booted off last week much to Sam’s arrogant objection and howls from his dreadful wife.

The remaining cast of nobodies are so fucking boring and lacking in any sort of creative intelligence or business acumen that I, for one, can’t even be arsed to finish th

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Sunday Methadone Television

August 6, 2007

Last of the Summer Wine 

It’s an unholy trinity that stretches back to the moment of creation. From the dawn of time there has been one television constant that NEVER changes … and never will. As the weekend putters out and you realise that work or school are the price you’ll soon be paying for your fun, this trilogy of programmes hammers the point home. They are Britain’s weekend full-stop – a televisual “That’s yer lot!” helpfully supplied by the BBC to emphasise that the time for frivolity is over. They are, of course, Songs of Praise, Last of the Summer Wine, and The Antiques Roadshow …. uuuuuuuuur.

For the benefit of foreigners and the 2% of the population that hasn’t seen these shows (and how you’ve managed to escape frankly beggars belief), a brief explanation of their singular characteristics is necessary. Songs of Praise is a Christian sing-a-long show where liars who haven’t been in a church since they got married forty years ago show up to sing Nearer My God To Thee for the cameras. Presented by Aled Jones, a grinning goodie two shoes, Songs of Praise follows a formula written in stone – hymn, prayer, hymn, sermon, outside report, hymn, prayer, Aled Jones solo, hymn, hymn, hymn, the end.

The Antiques Roadshow is the well-deserved sit down and nice cup of tea of British television. Members of the public gather at a lovely country house or interesting municipal building and have the antiques they’ve brought along valued by a team of experts. The show’s formula is written in stone – quite expensive antique, cheap tat, antique, tat, gun, antique, antique, tat, antique, haughty woman who thought vase was priceless gets comeuppance, antique, tat, jumble sale purchase turns out to be worth more than GDP of Tanzania, the end.

Last of the Summer Wine is the bitter pill you have to swallow to atone for the sins of having fun, having sex, having a wank … whatever it was you did on Saturday that you must now be punished for. It is a situation comedy that centres around a collection of Northern stereotypes doing stuff in a picturesque village in the Peaks. The show’s formula is written in stone – three old men sit on bench and observe minor character doing something which they will inevitably join in with, four old women congregate to discuss what idiots men are, the three old men join in with whatever the minor character was doing, the old women continue to gossip, an old woman tries ripping off a customer in her shop full of litter and rags, Howard’s plans to put mangy old tart Marina to the sword are foiled once again, one of the old men slides down hill in a bath, the end.

The formula never changes. It never has. Recently unearthed cave paintings in Southern France depict three old men on a hillside, one of whom is sliding down it in a bath. Hieroglyphics on the walls of the Great Pyramid at Gizeh speak of a line of slaves, dutifully queuing up to have their rice bowls valued by the Pharoah. It is said that what did for King Edward II was not a red-hot poker up the arse, but a surfeit of hymns on a Sunday afternoon that caused his inner organs to relax to the point they ceased to work. T’was ever thus, t’will ever be.

As the dying sun consumes the inner planets and Earth is consigned to a footnote in the history of the cosmos, the last words that will escape into the stars will be “Two thousand pounds? As much as that? I’d better get onto the insurance company.”

You don’t actually have to watch these shows to know how they’ll go. The formula for each is so imprinted in your mind that you can, in fact, miss them entirely and still think you’ve watched them. This is a particularly British trick. “How was your Sunday?” someone will ask. “Oh, you know,” you’ll reply, “Songs of Praise, Antiques Roadshow, Last of the Summer Wine, suicide attempt, bed … the usual.” But the thing is, your Sunday contained none of these shows. You din’t see them, you just assume you did. It’s Sunday therefore, ergo, Songs of Praise, Antiques Roadshow, Last of the Summer Wine have been watched … haven’t they? You know them so well that, even if you’ve not seen them in twenty years, a niggling trick of the mind makes you think you’ve watched them every Sunday since the dawn of man. “Well I certainly have a memory of an old man going hell-for-leather down a hill in a bath, so I must have watched it,” you reason.

They are the only shows in the history of the world that do not need to be watched to be watched.

Celebrity Wife Swap

April 3, 2007

Celeb Wife Swap 

I have always hated the fat-arsed bones of Vanessa Feltz, and watching this celebrity edition of Wife Swap has only cemented my opinion of her. What a rancid wank-stain she absolutely is.

For those who missed it, Feltz and her fiancé; Ben something from Phats and Small (who looks like a missing Fashanu – Awooga!), traded places with Paul Daniels and the allegedly ‘lovely’ (where’s the evidence?) Debbie McGee.

Whenever I watch Wife Swap, celebrity or otherwise, by halfway through I have decided which couple I prefer. Sometimes it’s a tough call, because the couples are usually so extreme in their belief systems that it’s hard to relate to either of them.

After having watched the trailer for this show though, I had already made my mind up about whose side I would be on, if things should snowball into a to squabble to the death.

In this case, I would happily be the one to beat the Feltz creature about the face, neck and head with a chainsaw.

Within ten minutes of the show Ben Fashanot is giving the viewers a much needed reminder of exactly who he is (although I’m still not sure) by singing his song ‘Turn Around’. This appears to be the only song he’s ever done and is the only reference to his ‘success’ in the whole programme. As I recall, Turn Around was on an album called ‘Now Phats what I Small music’ which is frankly, a laughable title, but not as amusing as the fact that a couple of years back, I saw the album wallowing pathetically in the bowels of bargain basket of a music shop for 99p. Ha.

Meanwhile the mild mannered Daniels, (a warped and aged Louis Walsh) seemed fair enough. I really expected him and Debbie McGee (an anorexic swan) to irritate me more than they did, but to be honest, they didn’t. Ok they’re a bit sad and pointless, but thoroughly inoffensive, which is more than can be said for the hateful Feltz and her wretched disciples.

Despite being disturbed by the very sight of Feltz alone, the most blood-curdling moments came when we were subjected to the utterly evil image of the Fashanot and the vulgar Feltz passionately kissing. I use the term ‘kissing’ loosely, because what I was seeing was a scene devoid of anything resembling romance and would have looked more at home in a Wes Craven effort. They were chewing each others fucking mouths off. At this point I was this close to sticking safety pins in my eyes. That or changing the channel.

Feltz, who looks like the bastard love-child of Rodney Dangerfield and tub of margarine, is a woman so monstrously repulsive, that if I was trapped on a desert island with her as my only company, I would immediately despatch her, subsequently opting to starve to death rather than use her as a source of food, not only because I would feel unclean for the rest of my days, but also through the fear that I may inadvertently absorb some of her soul. Mind you, I could use her bloated carcase as a kind of boat. But would I want to? Even if I were trapped in a lift with the grotesque ape and was somehow assured that we would be rescued within twenty minutes, I would still have to eradicate her for the sake of my own sanity.

To be serious for a second, I’m no psychologist, but it’s clear that this woman is mentally unstable and not at all comfortable with her own inner self. When she went to the Daniels’ residence and was faced with the opportunity of two weeks of quiet contemplation and relaxation in the country, she went up the wall.

She clearly needs to keep herself busy all the time in order to escape her own thoughts. (Remember when she went nuts on Celebrity Big Brother?)

You could tell her that her dog had just died but she would still have the same awkward grin etched across her ugly chops

All I can say is that I wish Daniels had sawn her in half a couple of times and then made her contemptuous body parts magically disappear.

Really Really Old Heartbeat

March 26, 2007

Berry

PC Nick Roan (Nick Berry) is mortified to discover his wife (Niamh Cusack) has leukaemia. Meanwhile Greengrass (Arthur English) and his dog are foiled by PC Ventriss (him out of Dempsey and Makepeace) in their attempts to steal tractor parts from Farmer Bickerdyke (Burt Reynolds). At the pub Geena (Raquel Welch) gives Sergeant Yesprimeminister (pre-eczema-Paul Eddington) a blow-job and he cums all over her face roaring “TAKE IT! TAKE IT BITCH! ALL HAIL THE SEXUAL REVOLUTION!”

PC Bellamy (meanwhile) captures the crew of the U-Boat and locks them in the church hall. The captain of the ship tells Bellamy his name will go down on a list, now what is it?

“Don’t tell him Pike!” shouts Captain Mainwaring (Mahatma Ghandi), snapping his corset (at this point Fletcher (Ronnie Corbett) slips Mr. Barraclough’s (Foggy) wallet into his trousers and Nick Berry’s (Wicksy) wife dies).

Everything turns out alright in the end.

Comic Relief Does Fame Academy

March 13, 2007

Vine 

Karaoke Torture on BBC 1 

Comic Relief does Fame Academy. Oh dear.

Comic Relief does Fame Academy up the shit-pipe.

Make that Comic Relief does music up the shit-pipe hard, and agonisingly.

In fact, this isn’t a singing contest, its brutal murder. The spirit of music is being slowly and excruciatingly skull-fucked to death by a hapless bunch of wannabes, tronabees, never-gonna-bes and Christ-will-you-stop-now-please?!

Like most reality television these days, it’s partly a who’s-who of who-the-fuck-are-they-and-why-are-they-alive? It’s got fat Barry off Never-enders, who to be fair, seems like a nice bloke, (although he snacks on deep fried foetuses for all I know) and Tim Vine, a squeaky clean comedian who, if memory serves, holds the current British (maybe world) record for most gags per minute. (It’s something ridiculous like 15 jokes per second, 14 of which are just various parts of his face and head looking odd). Having said this, his act is pretty funny and I quite like him.

Another one is Colin Brainchild or whatever his name is – that Quimhead from T4, whom I do not like because he makes me wretch from almost every orifice. Can I just stress again how much I really don’t like him; he is, to put it bluntly, a cunt who I am physically and mentally incapable of liking.

Also guilty are: unfunny fool, Mel ‘I’m wacky, I am’ Gedroyc (change your fucking name!) and that dim-witted irritant Tara Palmer-Tompkinson (I’m not even gonna bother).

Oh, and football’s Ray Stubbs, who is definitely not human. I’m thinking some kind of sasquatch cum bogey-man hybrid / chimera thing. But, for argument’s sake, I could settle for the abominable snowman. His reactions, expressions and emotions are not of this realm. Either he’s something else or he was raised by sheep-fish on an underwater mountain.

Anyway, I’ve never heard of the other half of the contestants, but they’re all either horrible or rubbish, both in some cases.

The judges just sit there like lumps of shit being clapped and booed. This format is so transparent:

The Garret creature is the ‘nice’ one, and the two cheese graters perched either side of her take it in turns to be the nasty one, although one of them (the one who I suspect feverishly wanks himself into a stupor of an evening with a crumpled, sticky Polaroid of Simon Cowell clasped in his left hand) is a fair bit nastier than his camp-arsed colleague, who tries to achieve an equal amount of cheers and boos per show. The Cowell-wanker seems to thrive off the boos as if his life depended on them and in his role as the villain, tries his damnedest to coax them out of the live audience at every given opportunity. I have observed him actually feeding off boos like a kind of reaction scavenger with an insatiable hunger for negative energy. Don’t get me wrong, he is right to tell them they’re shit, but the way it’s done is so contrived. He’s like the anti-Tim Vine, gleefully powering toward a world record of 800 boos per minute.

However, I suppose I shouldn’t really be so hard on this programme. It is for charity after all.

Fuck that – it’s sick and must be shut down at all costs.

Skins. Again.

March 10, 2007

“She watches it so you don’t have to!”

Having seen many an ‘arthouse movie’ in my time, I am quite used to seeing deviant nudey sex stuff on screen (I’ve just realised that ‘arthouse movie’ looks like a euphemism for porn in that context. Well it’s not, I CAN ASSURE YOU). However I was quite surprised to switch Skins on the other day and witness a straight teenage boy fellate his gay friend while his girlfriend cried silent tears of misery. In a Russian youth hostel. If this had been on in an trendy leftfield cinema, I’d have been stroking my chin and going “yes, what an interesting sexual representation of the essential dichotomy between men and women in the heterosexual relationship” (ok, really I would have been sniggering at the word blow-job).

So, Tony is turning into a sexiopath (that is a proper medical term what doctors use), and using his smug-faced, funny-eyebrowed good-looks to weave his evil web round the rest of the Skins, male or female, gay or straight.

In yesterday’s episode, Michelle finally broke free of his manipulative tentacles. Side note: not that you would know this from her myspace profile where she proudly exclaims that “My Brad Pitt is the one and only Tony Stonem. He’s definitely the fittest boy in Bristol (and quite possibly the world!) He’s gorgeous, a total genius, supremely confident and…did I mention he was fit?”. Come on Michelle, it’s not that hard to click ‘edit profile’ (though as mentioned before, I have my doubts that these profiles are actually maintained by the Skins themselves).

I shall now reveal what Tony did to her yesterday and you can decide whether or not she should rethink whether Tony can stay in her ‘top friends’. After giving token gay Skin, Max, (poor Max doesn’t merit a myspace page, bless him) a blowjob while Michelle watched in horror, AND getting off with a posh girl in front of her (yeah, yeah, quite bad I hear you say – I will add the information that this was on a stage in front of about hundred people including Michelle and her friends, after serenading posh girl with “God Only Knows”), Michelle finally got rid. Being a pretty lady, she was not lonely for long however, and soon met posh-girl’s brother and got on very well with him (so well that they were naked in bed about 10 minutes later). This ANGERED Tony, who then took loads of photos of posh-girl in various states of undress, including one that I believe can be likened to a shot of a big-toothed river mammal in certain circles, arranged for posh-girl’s brother’s phone to be nicked (keep up), transferred the photos to posh girl’s brother’s phone, then sent them to Michelle so it looked like posh-girl’s brother had taken some saucy snaps of his very own sister!

I think that is absolutely amazing commitment. When I was a teenager and you split up with someone and then wanted to get back together with them you just plied them with cider and black, wore your nicest Levellers t-shirt and then snogged them on Taunton High Street. Sorted.

‘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?)

Kids’ Heads That Go Bump In The Night

March 8, 2007

 

When I was but a doubtless annoying child, believing in the existence of supernatural goings on was flippin’ marvellous. I couldn’t get enough of reading about ghosties, aliens, Loch Ness monsters and all that caper. And any shrivelled up talking-bonce on the telebox who appeared to be pissing their logic on my bonfire was just a plain baddie. But alas, I grew up, my brain caught up with reality and now I’m a right cynical bastard. So when I see programmes like ‘Interview with a Poltergeist’ on channel 4, I can empathise, to an extent, with the whimsical fancies of these want-to-believers, but a larger part of me wants to hundred-hand-slap some sense into them with extreme prejudice.

I mean, come on! Most of the content of this programme is based simply on hearsay and Chinese whispers, etc, etc, and surprise, surprise, there was no actual sodding tangible sodding evidence by the sodding end of it to sodding well support this massive crock of sodding pigshit.

The peak of the excitement seemed to culminate in a grown man whining that he was struck on the eyebrow by a bit of Lego. Ooh the pain.

Even if this did happen, you can bet it occurred in near darkness, nobody spotting the small brat-child cowering under the table, pelting said Lego, to extreme delight.

Some old codger ended up misplacing his tape recorder, then finding it, then bumping into a cardboard box, thus reaching the only logical conclusion that his one track mind could muster; it was the devilish work of the spirit world. Duh, obviously!

The last half hour of this embarrassingly puerile ejaculation of shit focused on the odd behaviour of the family child, an eleven year old girl, who knocked out a few spooky drawings and began bashing her head against a wall, followed by energetic bouts of rage where she leapt about rooms like a tragic mess making weird noises.

The really sorrowful thing about this is the way the rest of the family rallied round, along with the Press, inviting the world and his wife to view this sideshow freak supposedly being tampered with by a naughty ghost, while her demented cry for help was interpreted as more spooky goings on. Meanwhile, it was plainly obvious to me that this poor child was clearly messed up beyond all recognition due to the climate of Poltergeist fever created by the adults of the household. Hey, that’s child abuse! Anyway, what’s the point? It all happened decades ago.

The golden quote came from the now grown up freak child, who has masterfully bloomed into a class A dull bitch: “Call me what you like. Call me a prank”.