Posts Tagged ‘Ray Mears’

Grand Designs

January 30, 2008

Kevin McCloud 

Digital T.V. is ace, especially free digital telly. The combination of the history channel and Dave means a chap can watch either a program about the Nazis or some macho broadcast about survival in a jungle at almost any time of day.

In the afternoons on Dave you can watch porky survivalist Ray Mears learning to bludgeon a deer to death with it’s own antlers in the traditional Navaho way. In-between bouts of Ray terrorising the local animal population and turning them into wicker spoons, there are lots of adverts. Long strings of dull adverts for manly things, because Dave is the channel for blokes, but still adverts none the less. I hate watching adverts so I switch over to another channel while they are running and watch something else.

That’s how I first got caught by Grand Designs – like members of the Who or mildly creepy comedians, I didn’t mean to get into this horrible perversion – it just sort of happened.

I should hate everything about Grand Designs. If someone at a party starts talking about their kitchen, I have to fight the urge to scribble on their face with a pen. Property bores the pants off me so much that I think about buy-to-let mortgages as an aid to delay ejaculation. Just entering Ikea or Homebase brings me out in a murderous rage that can only be placated by gin and Swedish meatballs.

The people on it are terrible. Smug middle-class types who have spent a life of wealthy mediocrity in a large detached house outside Surbiton are suddenly filled with hubris and a compulsion to build some monstrosity out of baked bean tins and concrete as a way of finally expressing themselves before they die.

They fret over window-fittings and spend thousands of pounds getting a shower that is just the right shape. One couple spent thousands having the interior of their house spray-painted to get just the right texture on their walls – and then used wallpaper instead.

It is everything I hate in an hour slot, but I can’t stop watching it. At first I watch the show with a sneer on my face, occasionally flicking Vs at the screen just to show how much I hate everyone in it, but after only five minutes I’m hooked, like the bitch that I am.

I really hope their build doesn’t go massively over-budget when they decide to get the cat flap made out of Tuscan Marble, I’ll think. Sometimes I jump for joy when they find that the asymmetric windows made from recycled spam fit in their oblong shaped floating bathroom.

I hate that I love it so much and that I’d do anything for another fix of it. Now, when I watch Ray on Dave, it’s only so I can switch over to Grand Designs and fret over if Mr and Mrs Grape-nuts have chosen the right shade of mauve for their Mock-Colonial mansion made out of old biscuits.

The Wild Gourmets

October 4, 2007

Wild Posh Wankers 

Before we’ve even fucking begun, the names of these two hooray henry arseholes is enough to warrant crimes against humanity, she is called Thomasina and he, Guy. Of course Guy calls her ‘Tommy’ but being the upper class twit that he is he pronounces it ‘Tom-air’, because he’s so fucking well to do he can’t be pissed to bleedin’ talk proper like what the rest of us peasants does.

Tom-air looks like she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards, she’s so bloody horsey-trot-on, she can’t even be bothered to run a comb through her fucking hair.

Permanently maintaining an expression on her face of ‘yar?’, only he, Guy, can rival her in terms of being the most vacuous, pointless git on the television. In my life, I’ve never met a Guy who doesn’t deserve being doused in an accelerant and being set alight. This one is no exception, though an additional kicking would make me feel better.

The premise of the show is dangerously banal, take two privately educated Country Life inbreds and make them ‘live orf the land’. So far they’ve largely failed to meet any of the necessary criteria that justifies the words ‘gourmet’ and/or ‘wild’. Guy has seamlessly failed to catch fucking fish. Even when they do get permission from Daddy to shoot mammals they wind up buying them orf the landowner. Actually, they buy most of things they are supposedly foraging for from passing lower class ruffians.

When they did actually catch and cook something it obviously tasted like shit –Tomair caught some eels which she cooked there and then. Guy actually spat them out, the cunt.

Obviously Channel 4 has been watching BBC2, specifically the Sunday evening joy that is Ray Mears who fucking lives the life for real. Ray actually trains the fucking SAS in survival techniques. These two I wouldn’t trust with directions to the nearest Waitrose.

They permanently impress on us that living outdoors doesn’t mean that you have to rough it. Guy spent most of last week’s episode making Tomair a chod bin out of saplings; she ended up having to climb a 6-foot pyre of birch in order to lay a cable. Ray would just shit in a hedge, Tomair needs a fucking throne (though I reckon Guy needs it more so he can watch all shit coming out, probably from the privacy of, and ironically, a hedge).

Just to ram the un-roughness of living outdoors we left the over privileged trust funders languishing in opulence in their ‘shelter’. The bloody thing was decked out with chairs (chars) soft furnishings (sarft farnourshings) and a fucking huge wood burning stove with a fucking chimney if you please (a beeping whooge ward barning steeove weeth ar beeping cheemnay)

It makes me fucking SICK.