Posts Tagged ‘Laura’

Charlie Brooker’s Screenwipe

October 11, 2007

Brooker 

Right, we’ve been skating round this one for long enough now.

Early on in the days of WWM, some little tool piped up and, in other words, called we contributors ‘Brooker-lite’. Needless to say, he was subject to a written stream of abuse and pretty much to this day the names ‘Charlie’ and ‘Brooker’ have become WWM’s equivalent of paedophilia-scat. Piss.

The main issue here is that Brooker does pretty much what we do. He slags off telly using lots of hyperbole, metaphors, cynicism and witticisms e.t.c… for the sake of amusement and largely at the expense of genuine criticism. Yet we don’t mention him on here, which is a bit weird seeing as I’m betting that most of us watched Screenwipe on Tuesday night and found it fucking funny. Why do we dare not speak his name? A sense of pride? Jealousy? Competitiveness?

Brooker has two weekly columns in The Guardian, his own TV show and is turning into a bit of a celeb. He’s fucking won already. Pretending he doesn’t exist (and we do whether you acknowledge it or not) is bizarre.

Here I go then. Firstly, this series isn’t as good as the last one.

Already I am putting myself in the firing line by suggesting Brooker has lost it, is past it, is somehow not as good as he was, when I’m merely saying he’s going over similar ground from series one and the first time round it was funnier. That’s all.

In the first series there was something self-deprecating about the way he presented himself. Innocence, if you will. He was clearly uncomfortable being filmed yelling at the TV and couldn’t help smirking at his own overacted rages. There was something rather, well, endearing about it and about him, like Stephen Fry crying himself to sleep.

Now Brooker has had a second series commissioned and probably a third because it’s jolly good, it leads one to thinking that all of his ‘oh isn’t the TV biz awful’ stuff is a tad misleading, even divisive. I mean he whacks off in perpetuity about how shit it is getting into TV, yet there he is on TV after essentially getting known through a short Saturday column in one of the less popular broadsheets. Indeed, my brother was a runner for about a year before ending up with a great job at the BBC as an editor a few months back. Yes, it can be a bit shit but doing anything for the greater good is, right?

Brooker is now becoming a pastiche of himself. Now, this needn’t be a bad thing. To be frank it’ll probably work out well but at the moment I’m still watching the transition. He’s polarised between the real Charlie, a funny defamatory TV critic, and Brooker, the shouting TV comedy reviewer actor-clown. Christ – he even tried slapstick last night.

So, this series isn’t quite as good as the last one. So what? Despite a few niggles, it’s by far and away one of the best, and funniest, shows on TV.

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Big Brother 8 – 18.6.07

June 18, 2007

 Charley Big Brother 8

Thank fuck Shabs has gone. She was actually starting to cause me medical complications; so unremittingly illogical and affected was she that I was finding myself mentally rewinding back through pyschobabble comments in conversations just to assure myself that, yes, this is really a genuine psychopath I am watching. MIND (the charity for mental health) have openly criticised Channel 4 for allowing a Looney Tune onto their show. The psychologists on ‘On the Couch’ have clearly been briefed on damage limitation here, I mean Shabs could have genuinely lost it live on air, we’re not talking about the odd burst of random giggling here, we’re talking about a woman on all fours with someone’s bollock hanging out of her mouth.

If you care to go on Youtube and do a bit of research you’ll already know that a few weeks ago Shabs appeared on ‘Britain’s got Talent’ in a scene so mortifyingly toe-curling, my shoes nearly burst open. If this isn’t bad enough (it really is, watch with restraints) she also appeared on Channel 4’s embarrassing illnesses. Her ‘embarrassing illness’ was a bit of an itchy head, yet she pitched this medical irrelevance as if she had eyes for fucking nipples (or vice versa if you like).

This twat knows no bounds, you’ll see her again, probably on the news but I’m bracing myself for the gutter press to leak the story that she’s starring in an adult version of Happy Feet.

So, the new contestants. Frankly I don’t mind any of them, though how on earth how Billi has the balls to call himself a male model is beyond me. You could open a manhole with that nose. In addition he has the figure of Britney Speares, cameltoe included. Liam seems a nice straightforward sort, Jonathan could become a handful I think but at this stage, fine. Brian too seems okay, despite his Christopher Lee playing Dracula haircut and unashamed intention of doing something so disgusting to those twins I should imagine their father is muttering at a kitchen knife.

The rest of the housemates haven’t really done anything to cause a radical rethink of my recent blog on this topic. Laura, Nicky and Carole are odds on to win, I still don’t mind the Greek bloke despite his musical accent, Tracey is still barking like a rutting stag all the while gurning like Jim Bowen with cataplexy, Seany remains a prize blue-eyed berk and Chanelle is still a worrying combination of both the Barbies, the doll and Klaus Marie.

Fucking Charley is now the most awful housemate of all time. She seems unable to leave those melted plastic armpit implants alone, she fiddles with them perpetually. Sometimes one will poke out of her shirt like a dead otter’s head, always accompanied by an intense frown she’ll half heartedly try to drop it back into the position intended by nature. She always fails of course, hickory is more flexible. She’ll have someone’s eye out you mark my words.

Speaking of words, or to be more accurate, belt-fed mortar bursts of aggression being fired out of the mouth of the Gorgon, who is incandescent with rage because someone failed to respect her bogies, how does she manage to find time to inhale mid-oration? I’m convinced all that hair is some sort of crude third lung; it’s the only possible solution.

(She still has a cracking little botty though.)

The one housemate who has let themselves down most this week has to be Ziggy. He really doesn’t like any male competition at all, which is a fucking weird. He strutted about like Bernard Matthew’s pride cock for the first few days, his gander was goosed when the two new male housemates arrived but was visibly relieved when he found out that they (claimed) to be fairies.

He was just settling back into his alpha male role when four new male housemates arrive. This was too much, he looked physically sick as each one walked in and proverbially smacked the end of his engorged member sharply with the back of a cold spoon. The way he reacted to this threat was fascinating, and, dear reader, you must try and catch him at it, it’s so much fun in a despatching an injured fox way.

Ziggy gave me and I’m sure you, the impression that he was quite, well, poshish. Well spoken suburban type, clearly with an ego that spies on his self-consciousness with military precision but, nonetheless, more coherent than is necessary.

Now watch him talking to the new ‘lads’, he went from Lord and Lady Hamilton’s Lawn Tennis clubhouse in Royal Tunbridge Wells to selling pornographic postcards on the Ol’ Kent Road. This wasn’t a case of downward convergence; this was a 35 stone wide boy plummeting to his death from the top of Bow Church.

I’ve lost whatever respect I had for him; frankly, he may as well have just scrawled a schematised drawing of Che Guevara on his chest with one of his stools.

Big Brother 8 – 3.6.07

June 4, 2007

Ziggy Turd 

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.

Big Brother 8

May 31, 2007

Big Brother 8

10 Week Wankathon

And that’s just Carol, the bearded Aunt Flo who hates cock.

Davina was looking nice until she started doing that crouching, gurning Davina thing, and there we were, it’s BB as we all know and pretend to despise.

With regard to my blog on yesterday’s piqued (clang) the house made more than a passing reference to surrealism, or rather Dali. Yellow Mae West lips sofa and fish rather than lobster telephone. Ironically and tellingly such forced ‘weirdness’ is negated by an otherworldly collision of style, impracticality and cruelty. I’ll even accept the chickens in resin a la Damien Hirst’s Away from the Flock was a nice touch. This is the nastiest house yet, bath in the living room, fridge in the garden, cooker in the bedroom and Catholic in the kitchen or something.

In they came, a pair of vacuous blonde twins in minis chewing on lollies, Lolita x 2, Nabokov would pissed out his testis. They’re both as sweet as pie, cute, vacuous and wholly evil.

“Let’s put the next one in!” bellows Davina as if hysterically announcing the second solid shit she’s passed in 6 months.

Lesley, bloke-faced member of the Women’s Institute, I reckon she spends a lot of time in meetings showing the ladies of Charwood how to take out the vas deferens just by hearing. She’ll get on well with the hairy whale, if she doesn’t roundhouse her face off first.

Charley, instant bonk on, fucking fabulous body but with a face that isn’t quite as pretty or lascivious as it thinks it is. Imagine the body of a younger Tyra Banks with the head of Snoop Doggy Dogg winking at you. Quids in, gold digger. She seems like trouble but will probably keep her horns in until dick walks in…

Next Tracey, fucking awful multicoloured anachronism from the awful, hideous days of early rave. Looks like Johnny Rotten – she’s definitely been abused. Thick as Mr. T with a boner. Awful.

I’m looking forward to seeing Chanelle cry. She’s the visual equivalent of downward convergence. Really fucking thick this one, dead posh, but weirdly thinks she’s a certain footballer’s wife. I’m not even lowering myself to say which one as the cunt would appreciate the recognition and she doesn’t deserve any. Fucking fantastic arse though. Freshly dead, I would.

Shalamanom, didn’t catch her name, oddly I quite liked this one, first possible contender. She’s going to be annoying, yes, but so long as she doesn’t turn into a berk, then she’s fine by me. Full of beans, I’d like to see just one of them.

By now the women are grouping. In the red corner, screeching totty, in the blue Tragic Tracey and Livid Lesley. She’s well unhappy, yeah?

In comes Emily, David Cameron with a fresh young vagina. If that chilled you as much as me, I will say no more. Apart from the fact that if she saw so much as a fibre of a quark of tissue on your lad, she’d disinfect the tyres on her range rover.

Laura I really liked, big fat Welsh girl. Sweet, likeable, funny, eating disorder, one of those fat trendy Beth Ditto types, sort of the perfect media ‘anti zero’ size. In my opinion she’s the clear winner so far, she’s marketable out the house and I can predict the rumblings of a media drive to keep her profile sweet. Despite being the size of a chest freezer she’s pretty. After 10 pints and a microdot I’d think about it.

Nicky, straight, boring, sad, has ‘issues’. She’s adopted by the way, little too much information from the producers there, are we meant to be sympathising because she has the personality of public toilet? It’s okay though because, according to Davina as she walked into the house, ‘If Nicky was an animal she’s be a cat so she can lie in the sun all day’. So that’s cleared that up then.

Lastly, Carole, the old one. She’s been on Greenham Common apparently, I think that may well have been as recently as an hour before she appeared on camera. She’s hairier than Oliver Reed and Alan Bates fighting in front of an open fire. Not sure what to make of her, she maternal but aggressive. Outside chance.

So, there you have it, all women so far, 11 of them, that’s 22 tits! One moan, the bloke that makes the ‘crowd’ signs, especially the one for the tool holding the pointy finger sign bearing the slogan ‘you ain’t seen me, right?’. Pass on your address and I’ll send someone round without a conscience.