Posts Tagged ‘Noel Edmonds’

NewsGush: Icke and Tina Edmonds

September 15, 2008

Not content with one former TV presenter howling at the moon, the planets seem to have called upon Noel Edmonds to go all David Icke on us.

Have this for starters. Notice the quote marks – I’m not making this shit up..

Orbs are little bundles of positive energy and they think they can move between 500 and 1,000 miles per hour. They look like little round planets but they come in all shapes and sizes. Conventional photography can’t pick them up but digital cameras can.

They think?


“What are these orbs?” you may ask. What are ‘they’ that think?

When Edmonds was pressed, more Bedlam waffle dribbled from his fucking beard.

My belief is that these are something to do with some form of positive energy and, possibly because I miss my parents like mad, I like to think they are them. I’ve got loads of photographs of me at home with two orbs that visit me.

Edmonds, brain age of 96, is a follower of the New Age theory of Cosmic Ordering which involves writing a wishlist and asking the planets to carry it out. So that’s cleared that up then.

In case it’s not, he continues:

The two that I have are about the size of melons. One sits on my arm and the other is usually in the back of the shot, sitting just over my right shoulder.

Personally I think the bit about them being the size of melons sums it up. Edmonds has has been maddened by constant exposure to his 37 year old girlfriend’s tits following the divorce with his over-the-hill wife a couple of years ago, probably.

Undeterred, the man behind Mr. Blobby – possibly the most disgusting character created since ‘The Wandering Jew’- and snuff movie mogul insists that he can cosmically order stuff for others.

He barks on:

I’ve got a few nice little orders in at the moment. I’ve got one in for a friend who would like to meet the man of her dreams. And another for a couple who had some difficult financial issues recently. I’m confident they will come true.

I’m confident you should order yourself an ambulance, Mr Edmonds. You pointless fuckarse.


July 3, 2007

Jasper Carrott 

It’s hard to hate ITV these days. For decades the ‘opposition’ channel was a major player in the world of British entertainment, but in recent years it has become dwarfed by the twin suns of BBC and Channel 4 and seen its audience share obliterated by the arrival of satellite and cable TV.

A few years ago, maybe, I would have been frothing at the very mention of the substandard broadcasting taking place across their airwaves, but these days it feels a little like kicking a dying dog when he’s down. You have to feel sorry for ITV – they’re trapped in a funding black hole with little or no creativity at the top, the public and critics alike largely deride their programmes and they’ve been forced to dedicate over a quarter of their daily output to extortion thinly disguised as a quiz show in a desperate attempt to replace the falling advertising revenue.

Rather than cultivate talent, they lure away established stars with big money offers and then place them in wafer thin vehicles. The offer of a solo vehicle on ITV now spells the death knell of a career, but with a big paycheque first. Those few who do survive, the Ant and Dec’s of the world, are then kept in repetitive positions, churning out the same style of entertainment lest the fragile audience balk at something fresh.

What is most telling, though, about ITV’s lost chance to be a major network competitor is their ability to poach, steal and imitate successful formats, and the subsequent failures of these attempts. Rather than lead the pack, they follow humbly snapping up the crumbs in a hope of tasting some success. If this was a cold, calculated business plan then there would real cause for concern, but it’s not. ITV are near dead in the water, hanging on a with a combination of soaps and gambling shows and their imitation of other channels formats is more a desperate attempt to survive than anything more machiavellian.

Which brings us nicely to Goldenballs, ITV’s new afternoon game show. The inclusion of the word ‘balls’ is both deliberate and appropriate, no doubt intending to be risqué and tongue in cheek but ending up as an admission of inherent crapness. The show should have been called ‘Greenballs’ such is the amount of jealousy on display over the success of a certain Channel 4 game show that uses boxes, and the format is a very badly disguised rewrite of said show.

First off, Goldenballs begins immediately after Deal or No Deal so as to pick up viewers still hungry for shape related games, and features a former has-been presenter given the comeback job of a lifetime. In place of comfort-beard Edmonds we have the hawk-nosed Jasper Carrott, still peddling 20-year-old lines and visibly struggling with the sole direction of “try and make it tense.” Goldenballs also attempts to give us some investment in the personalities of the contestants, but where Deal skilfully let’s their characters be stage-managed by Edmonds, ITV simply relies on the natural showbiz flare of their entrants. Put simply, showbiz flare is not something typically contained within people who apply to be on a Jasper Carrott fronted game show and there are often moments of cringe-inducing silence.

The rules of the game are inexplicable, and the show has definitely spawned from the title downwards. Having already had a failure that played before Deal using Nicky Campbell and some rods, some quick-thinking commissioner concluded that they had chosen the wrong shape and shifted it to balls, rather than boxes and rods, and the game was created from there. It involves a pair of legs issuing balls of money to four people, who then lie to each other about how much is contained within them and then voting each other off because of the lies. Then some more balls appear, the audience turn off and one of the contestants fails to get more than a couple of hundred quid…

Everything about the programme is wrong; it lacks any amount of tension, understandable rules or personable contestants. It has no flow and is demonstratably contrived, both in conception and production and the editing in particular robs the show of any drama or charm. Jasper Carrott is a great choice on paper, but his recycled material and lack of gravitas just makes his performance a little pitiful.

I would be far more withering towards this show if I felt it deserved it, but it’s simply another insignificant glitch in the slow downfall of a nationwide broadcaster. To tear this programme apart more savagely would to give it a status beyond what it deserves – in a matter of weeks it will slip quietly away and ITV will debut a new show featuring cash ovals hosted by Shane Richie. Goldenballs is indicative of the piss-poor programming and, if you’ll forgive the pun, total lack of balls that exists at ITV these days.

It’s not even so-bad-it’s-good. It’s just bad.

World’s Worst Sex Change Surgeon

April 11, 2007


I’d browsed an article in some shoddy broadsheet about this chap somewhere down the line and been slightly disturbed by what I’d read. That doesn’t compare to how disturbed I was by what was shown on TV last night. Christ. Any man that watched it without clutching his family jewels at least five times has clearly never received a kick to the knackers, snapped their banjo or caught their old chap in their fly. This was ‘ooyah TV’, the kind of thing that makes grown men weep and women shudder with nausea. My missus, in fact, spent almost the entire show behind a cushion, which was weird because she was the one who changed the channel to this parade of nastiness in the first place.

Clearly, you can guess from the title of the show what was going on here. John Ronald ‘Butcher’ Brown is quite a narcissistic chap, seemingly bent on operating on hapless cheapskates despite never having earned a license to do so. Add to this the fact that his specialism was gender realignment and you’re guaranteed some of the nastiest real-life TV you’re ever going to see. Brown operated from his garage on transsexuals unable to find a willing doctor to operate on them, and unable to stump up the cash for the op. Brown offered a cheap service that apparently worked very well for some. His technique, according to those who’d successfully undergone his blade, was to lop off the little fellow, remove the chads and then ‘minimise’ the winky – thus making it a clitoris. Now, I’ve never seen a clitoris that looks like a bell-end in terms of size, shape and colour before (and I’ve read a bajillion jazz pamphlets in my time, believe you me), but apparently his method was successful from time-to-time. Blimey.

When it went wrong, it really, really went wrong. After moving surgery to Mexico to escape the police, at one point Brown operated on a couple of gay chaps who fetishised amputees. One of them actually wanted their left leg removed as they felt it would improve their sex life. As no normal surgeon would do this, they gave our mate, Butcher Brown a tinkle and he did the honours. Chap turned up, leg came off, chap died of blood loss, thankyou very much. Nice work, Butcher Boy. After this slight mishap, a truly depressing (and thoroughly minging) turn of events. Brown performed a sex change operation on the butchest bloke you’ve ever met and made a right bloody mess of it. In turning the winky inside out he punctured the rectum. This resulted in the transsexual involved being given a fanny that pooed. I’ll repeat that. A fanny that leaked poo.

Think about that.

A fanny that leaks poo.

Now. With that in mind (a fanny that leaks poo), imagine a million shots of grainy actual footage from Brown’s surgery of him cutting off members willy nilly, in some cases with a not-fully-anaesthetized patient moaning in pain. Imagine those shots interspliced with the narrative of the documentary, seemingly randomly, and have a think about whether you could’ve handled watching it. Bet you couldn’t. I could, because I’m tough.

At the end, Butcher Brown was interviewed in prison.

– ‘Do you feel any guilt for what you’ve done?’
– ‘No. Not really’.

At least he’s honest.

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.