Posts Tagged ‘Swearing’

NewsGush – Grade/Commons Comment on Cussing

November 13, 2008

According to the BBC, Michael Grade and a handful of politicians are getting themselves in a bit of a tizzy regarding all the bloody swearing on the bastard TV. Frankly, they think it’s a fucking disgrace.

It seems the focus of their ire is Channel 4’s Jamie Oliver who, it has to be said, did swear a hell of a lot on his last outing – Jamie’s Ministry of Bollocks Food.

Channel 4’s Head of Programming, Julian Bellamy, said the following:

“When you watch these shows it’s very clear that the fruity language he uses is a real response to the shock and anger at what he sees [and] his passion and determination to change things.

“People know what to expect from Channel 4 and we have a duty to push boundaries.”

I’m not sure being sweary pushes any boundaries, but it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. If you spend any time on crowded public transport, on a busy street or even at the pub you’re going to hear a hell of a lot of rude words – so why pretend in TV-land that everyone’s awfully polite and well-mannered?

 And do politicians have nothing better to do than react publically to the indiscretions and naughty words of public figures? The lazy bastards.

MFI advertisment

July 16, 2007

 

I think in the history of TV the MFI ads must stand as the worst pitched commercial advertising ever seen.

The three I’ve seen so far begin as if they’re an advert for The Samaritans / Childline / NSPCC / Sane etc., as they involve screaming matches between couples / families. Such is the vitriol of the performances they make for genuinely uncomfortable and, frankly, upsetting viewing.

The latest incarnation involves an elderly man being given both barrels by his screaming wife for not putting the toilet seat down. (If women put the fucking seat up after they’d been, none of this would happen, incidentally). The elderly man in question looks totally distraught as his spiteful cunt of a wife vents spleen in his face, to the point she seems just short of slamming his dick in the door and plucking off his balls.

It’s genuinely harrowing stuff and I was on the verge of tears when quite suddenly in walks an MFI rep walks in.

‘I see you’ve made yourselves at home already!’ he ‘quips’. The camera pans out and we discover that this whole argument has taken place in a showroom, yes, THAT’S how comfortable punters feel when in the lap of MFI goods, it means they carry on as if at home. Rowing. All of them having blistering fucking rows.

What does this tell us about MFI furniture? One thing only, that the people that buy it don’t just argue perpetually, they fucking hate living in the same house as each other to the point that it could easily end in a bloodbath, court and incarceration in prison or a high secure unit for the insane.

In order to redress the balance whilst maintaining the whole ‘made yourselves at home’ aspect I’d like you to indulge me with a more suitable version, if you don’t mind.

So, the scene opens with a man in his mid 20’s lifting up a short skirt of a pretty young brunette of the same age…

‘You fucking want it don’t you, you bitch’
‘Uh, fuck me daddy, fuck me where it hurts’
‘You fucking dirty whore…’ he says as he unzips his fly and gets out his throbbing tool.
‘Oh, fuck me so hard inside…’
Man spits on engorged weapon a shoves his member into her arsehole
‘Uh, you fucking like that don’t you. Bitch’
‘Make your balls slap hard against my cunt, daddy’
Man proceeds to bang away like a belt fed mortar.

Rep walks in

‘Jesus! I see you’ve made yourself at home’
Rep gets out dick and starts masturbating as he approaches the rutting pair.

We now have a dialogue free scene for a full 30 seconds punctuated by grunts and groans. Then suddenly…

‘I’m going to cum in your arse so fucking hard you’ll taste it (bitch)’
‘OH. MY GOD!’

The rep yells ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ and spunks all over the young ladies face just as the man withdraws his engine, shit flies out all over the mans thighs and whilst the rep is slapping his spent cock over her ecstatic face the man pisses over her back.

I was thinking that MFI could appear with each letter formed respectively of urine, semen and excretion?

Perhaps that’s pushing it a bit far.

The Apprentice, Series 3, Episode 11

June 7, 2007

Back off 

Tonight we learned that the humble CV can act as a window to a lorry-load of bullshit. In the penultimate episode of this series, we joined three of Alan Sugar’s most trusted business advisers. They were so important that I’ve forgotten their names. One was a sleazy slimeball with unkempt hair and a clear inferiority complex about his lack of a degree, one looked just like a permanently unimpressed Mark Heap and the other, a troubleshooter, was bald, firm and fair. The unenviable task of trawling through the resumes of the remaining five contestants fell to this funny-lookin’ crew.

During the recap we were reminded just how badly Tre had performed in the last task. In fact, it served to remind us that it’s a miracle Tre had got this far. How did he manage it? It certainly wasn’t charm, and his sense of humour isn’t the most apparent attribute he carries. The only answer can be ‘good TV’. He swore a lot and was sexist and we found it all terribly amusing. Quite sad when you think about it.
But there he was, in the last five with Katie, Simon, Lohit and Kristina.

Before the interviews took place, in the ‘half an hour’ in which they were getting ready (no idea why they pursue this idea of them hurrying to get ready when they’ve clearly got all morning to do so), we saw them discussing the research they’d done. Simon, an Amstrad owner since he was five, ruminated on the finer points of the games he had on one of Sugar’s systems (Jet Set Willy is, indeed, a classic) whilst Tre wandered around the house, stony-faced because he had done bugger all in the way of investigation. Digging around in Simon’s knowledge and getting nothing from him, Tre demonstrated that he really wasn’t going to get anywhere this time. ‘Wanker’, he called Simon, realising the game was up. ‘No, you’re the wanker’, replied Simon, wittily.

Simon, yet again, became a walking CV. ‘I like to think of myself as a freethinker’ he claimed. ‘If I’m meant to turn left, I’ll instinctively want to turn right’ he later claimed, making him sound like Princess Diana’s driver. His schoolboy charm was a winner though, and he knew it, talking nervously from under his brow. I noticed matching shirt and socks. Bizarrely, in any office this does mark a man as someone with coordination, which is odd, as aside from shirt and tie, it’s the only decision on colour a man in pinstripe would have to make. It’s not difficult.

On an unrelated note, I was shocked when I noticed Lohit’s full name for the first time. Lohit Kalburgi, it sounds like a Japanese car crossed with a dutch cheese.

In the interviews, it all came frothing to the top. All the crap that had been spoken was suddenly exposed, dredged and ultimately flushed away. What we learned was this. Tre is a bullshitter, Simon is a crap landlord and little else, Katie is a psychopath, Lohit is a little bit timid and Kristina is really, really bloody good. She really must win.

Tre was dissected, literally torn apart by the unkempt interviewer who wanted, not unfairly, to boil down the facts on Tre’s experience. In his own words, Tre was apparently an international business consultant with five job titles applicable to different roles. Under pressure, it was revealed that Tre worked in his father’s business, which somewhat undermined absolutely everything he’d ever bloody said all series. I’m sure, if my retired Dad were to set up a business selling lemonade from the front of his house he’d be happy to take me on board as a lemonade taster, and would be able to give me some vague and impressive-sounding job title like ‘FMCG Analyst’. Tre stuttered and ummed and aahed and could come back with nothing when asked if the five worldwide businesses he operated from were actually bedrooms. The interview became a post mortem, and Tre’s days were numbered. When asked, as a self-styled ‘computer-expert’ why he hadn’t done any research, even googled Sugar’s business, he blankly stared ahead and muttered weird little nothings.

Lohit, who appeared very little (both in terms of stature and screentime), was effectively told by the same interviewer that he was a nice guy, but not what was needed. Better to be honest, rather than waste someone’s time with a needless grilling I suppose. He didn’t manage to claim any points back with the other interviewers, and it all fell apart. Still, when he was eventually fired, he was given a nice send off. ‘You’re a good, fine fellow’, Sugar said, as he departed.

Katie scared the shit out of me. With the cold, hard stare of a genocidal maniac, she claimed that, out of ten, her CV displayed an eight on the ‘ruthlessness scale’. Considering she’d written (on her fucking CV) that she’d stolen a married man from his wife because she ‘wanted him’, I’d say she warrants a ten. What sort of mental freak would put that in a CV? And why, when it came to the boardroom, did they all say she had something special? Thankfully the Mark Heap lookalike chipped in with some negative comments but she was defended to the hilt by the sleazy sod, who clearly fancied her. Her interview with him was like the split beaver scene in Basic Instinct. He even looked a little bit like Newman out of Seinfeld.

Simon, having taken the mantle of comic contestant from Tre some time ago, teetered on the brink of triumph and disaster constantly, providing the show’s real entertainment. Without entering the room, his CV had already insulted the bald interviewer on age discrimination grounds. ‘I’ve achieved more than people double my age’ it asserted. ‘I’m more than double your age, and I’ve done more than you’, he countered, to silence and a little chuckle from the boy Ambrose. It came to light that Simon’s only real enterprise was as the landlord of a house. It was a piece of genius to bring out the testimonial of one of his tenants, who complained of television ariels being replaced by coat hangers and horrible blocked bogs. Again, Simon chuckled his endearing chuckle and took the flak, to his credit. Better to admit your failing than do a Tre and get bolshy (as such). On the positive side, he knew everything there was to know about Amstrad, thus fulfilling a very important criteria. If you know nothing about the company you’re looking to work for, it’s very unlikely you’ll fit in. Simon could identify areas where he’d excel, so he’s readymade for working there. Smart thinking.

But not as smart as Kristina. We’ve all known, since those sausages started sizzling in the week they went to France, that Kristina would be in the final. And she sailed through the interviews as though she were applying for a job in Tescos. No question rattled her, and the interviewers struggled to find fault.

The boardroom went weird. Tre and Lohit were easily disposed of. But then, against the wishes of every viewer and the basics of common sense, Katie was pronounced to be ‘in’. Despite the fact she was a body language car crash with the face of the Joker, she had wormed her way in, probably using some abrasive hypnosis. Which meant it was between Simon and Kristina. One had to go. Shocking, you would think, but then a twist. Sugar questioned Katie’s suitability for the role in terms of outside commitments. And she backed down. Whether it was Sugar’s lack of faith in her or her own priorities, she backed down and the final two were then decided. Very strange. I’m not sure what I make of the whole palaver, but I thoroughly bloody enjoyed it.

It’s between Kristina and Simon, and unless something goes horribly, horribly wrong for Kristina (ie, she chooses Katie and Tre to work with her), she should run away with it.

The Apprentice, Series 3, Episode 9

May 24, 2007

 Bunch of Apprentices

Bad timing. In the same week that the Cutty Sark – that symbol of defiant English trading – burned to naught but a shrivelled nub in suspicious circumstances, the BBC transmitted Sugar’s secretary calling the remaining contestants, first thing in the morning on one of Amstrad’s ludicrously massive phones. Guess where she told them to assemble to meet the big man? That’s right – Greenwich, home to the Sark. Immediately this episode felt like a bit of a relic, something knackered and wheeled out from the past.

Sugar appeared on the quayside flanked by his henchman and woman. Canary Wharf loomed in the background actually forming a bishop’s mitre around Alan’s big ears. The concept of international trading would be the basis of the task, we were informed. Tre would lead JadineSimon and Lohit whilst Katie would lead Kristina and Naomi. If Katie’s team lost we had a chance of ousting either the revolting Katie or the smugly professional Kristina. My fingers were already crossed to the point of fracturing my knuckles. But then the fear set in. Look at the state of Jadine! She’s blubbing! The editors are telling us something (and they’re not being very fucking subtle)! SHITE! Obviously Tre found Jadine’s femininity disgusting. ‘You know what women are like’ he said, like the sexist shitbag he is.

So Katie (I spit a huge phlegm-cob into the dust every time I say the name) went off with Naomi (who is hopeless at everything apart from looking good in a frock and will not win). They sold a fair few pieces of tat having decided on going with the Canadian trader. They were selling a weird insole (effectively a fancy odour eater), a solar panel which I think was meant as a tanning soloution or possibly to ward off S.A.D. and a rug/jigsaw thing that they found impossible to flog until Kristina did the business, again marking herself out as the future winner unless something goes very, very wrong for her.

One of the buyers Katie and Naomi sold to was very clearly taken only by one of the sellers’ appearance. And I think we can conclude that we’re talking about Naomi rather than Katie. Slime oozed off him when he said ‘I’ll take a cent’, meaning ‘I’ll buy a hundred off you, cos I fancy the crumpet’. He didn’t exactly do wonders for the reputation of sellers of Chelsea rubbish. Faint echoes of Harry Enfield’s ‘I saw you coming’ character wafted across the eardrums. After the deal Katie bigged herself up on a wave of confidence. ‘I have taste’, she exclaimed, clearly forgetting the racks of sub-regal pink suits she has at home.

On the other hand, Tre and Simon chose Swedish goods. Firstly there was an air filter which Tre said he liked for its ‘ethical qualities’. How wasting electricity on getting rid of a bit of pollen is ethical is beyond me, but Tre has started to make it clear he is intelligent by, instead of swearing, using the words ‘as such’ as a suffix to every sentence, as such. So he admired the filters ‘ethical qualities, as such’. What a thicko. They also chose a weird heatable fluffy toy beanbag monstrosity and something else I can’t remember. It was probably useless.

Jadine’s sensitive outburst was clearly going to be her downfall, despite the fact that she and Lohit made the biggest sale for their losing team while Simon (who did precisely fuck all) and Tre, as such, made few sales and farted about like bickering shoolmates. With about a grand less in profit in comparison to the ladies, they ended up Sugarside and Tre took Jadine and Lohit with him. Tre let off Simon in a show of camaraderie which made me nauseous. How is Simon coasting through so easily? It seems mighty unfair to me considering he’s got so little to offer aside from a nice-but-dim manner spiked by the occasional borderline-racist ethnic impression. But the rules dictate that only two need to go through for the final showdown and Jadine and Lohit were destined to face the rap as they weren’t key members of the Tre/Paul massive.

Lohit really didn’t deserve to be there and he defended Jadine very well. Unfortunately, though Sugar had said how tough the decision was, it seemed he’d already made his decision. He criticised Lohit for ‘talking the talk’ and essentially made him do a 360, turning him on Jadine so that, as the boss, he could fire Jadine with everyone’s backing. At least he gave her a good send-off, praising her to high heaven and sending her on her way with the best sentiment displayed so far.

In the closing moments, Tre revealed his devastating game-plan. ‘Keep tellin’ people you’re da best, and soon enough they believe it’. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot. He’s paved the way to his own exit with that statement. As such.

Wife Swap: When The Police Get Called In!

May 21, 2007

Noelie & Robin

After a weekend of all-out boozing I can handle watching any old shit, and so it was that I managed to watch all of Shipwrecked (trustafarian, fake-tan berks bitching) and then got myself involved with Wife Swap on Sunday evening. But this wasn’t just any old Wife Swap – this was Wife Swap: When The Police Get Called In!

I’m so pleased they put that tag line after the colon there – I don’t trust myself to process information and I’d like, at this point, to thank Channel 4 for taking my idiocy for granted and telling me exactly what was about to happen, thus rendering the show pointless. Not only did they make it obvious from the title, before each ad break they showed about five seconds worth of footage from the next chunk, in each instance pretty much all you needed to know about the next fifteen minutes. Again, this made any peripheral footage redundant.

Wife Swap’s always been a parade of grotesques and last night was no different. Usually we’re served up a middle to upper class couple clashing with a working class/ poverty line partnership and then invited to watch the fireworks go BANG. This time, in only a very minor change to that formula, the middle class types swapped with a nouveau riche couple, all garish clothing and tasteless decor. Noilie, a strange man-woman with what looked like augmented breasts, leopard-skin leggings and two costumed lapdogs was the partner of Robin, a multi-millionaire. Robin beat John Inman on the camp-scale and I found it hard to believe he wasn’t out and proud – from his dangling gold jewellery to his pink pringle sweater by way of his pencil moustache. Everything about him screamed ‘screaming homosexual’. But their relationship seemed to work, she attending to his every need and he apparently charming her faux-satin socks off.

In the middle class coupling we met Adam and Melissa. She, as with many of this new generation of middle class mothers, was obsessed with all things organic, eco-friendly cleaning products and living as ethically as possible. She used a lemon to clean the toilet. On the opposing team, Noelie used a full kettles-worth of boiling water and half a litre of bleach, daily. I’m surprised her bog hadn’t dissolved. Despite Noelie and Robins’ complete lack of regard for the environment (which is more forgivable than outright snobbery), they weren’t as dumb as one might have thought.

During a polite dinner, having had a gutful of sanctimonius bullshit from the insufferable Adam, Noelie raised the hilariously apt point that Adam drove an enormous 4×4 – thus making him a complete hypocrite. He couldn’t defend himself from that accusation and this is where the swap ended. The reason the police were called in? Over in the other house, Robin and Melissa were having drinks with a friend of Robin’s called Malcolm. Malcolm was pissed out of his tree. At one point (we didn’t see this) he apparently ‘patted’ Melissa’s bottom. We did see him try to give her a peck on the cheek. She seemed amused by the whole situation and told him to go home to bed.

It would seem that, after Adam called off the swap, he and Melissa flipped out, possibly due to embarassment and decided to go to the police with this bizarre claim of a sex attack. Melissa knew that the cameras would have got everything and dropped the charges two days later, but those two days were a front-page nightmare for Robin and Noelie. Malcolm, the alleged perpetrator of the ‘attack’ was filmed in tears, worrying about his nine year old daughter.

At what point did Channel 4 think it would be best to stay out of the investigation, only voyeuristically filming with no actual input? What did they do to protect Malcolm? Apart from the tagline, this was packaged as an average, run-of-the-mill Wife Swap, when in fact it contained evidence that someone had lied to the police to besmirch someone else’s reputation. Fair enough, but where was the condemnation of the accuser who was blatantly making her story up? Watching this whole sorry, stinking farrago made me feel dirty.

But not as dirty as Pornography: A Secret History over on UKTV History a bit later.

Filth And Fury – Last Night’s TV

May 11, 2007

Adolf 

It was dictators and dirty jokes last night on Channel 4. First up was Saddam’s Tribe, a docu-drama dealing with the last few years of Saddam Hussein’s reign in Iraq as seen through the eyes of his daughter Raghad. Much moustache twirling ensued as Saddam (played with gusto by Stanley Townsend) and his revoting son Uday (Daniel Mays) murdered their way through the years, occasionally coming to blows over Uday’s compulsion to kill everyone around him. Saddam was suitably evil, even cackling like a pantomime villain at one stage, and the portrayal of his family as either layabouts, maniacs or naiive saints added to the whole ‘he’s behind you’ cartoon feel of the piece. At one stage a poor unfortunate had his tongue cut from his mouth, which was vile, and at another Saddam shoots a load of Rottweillers to teach his son a valuable lesson (the lesson being: if you shoot my brother and all his friends with an AK47 because he’s taken the piss out of your speech impediment, my boy, I’m going to damn-well shoot all your dogs in the face … you dig?). Saddam was also very forgiving of his runaway daughters … though he did have their husbands murdered – give with one hand, take away with the other. As is customary with biopics about dictators, we also learned that Saddam (or ‘Grandad’) was really nice to kids … even murderous lunatics have a soft underbelly, bless.

Speaking of evil dictators with a soft-spot for children, Hitler: The Comedy Years explored the ‘comedy career’ of Adolf Hitler over the past sixty years. This was one of those clip show/talking heads programmes with a smug voiceover, exploring how comedians have used Hitler and the Nazis in their acts since the war to the present day. We were told that Hitler, thanks to Allied propaganda, was derided during the war and turned into a figure of fun. The laughter died down a bit when the Russians walked into Auschwitz-Birkenau and didn’t really get going until Mel Brooks took the piss out of Mein Furher in 1968’s The Producers, arguing that ‘the Nazis had plenty of mileage out of the Jews – it’s about time the Jews had some mileage out of the Nazis’.

After Brooks broke the taboo the floodgates opened and we were presented with the various comedy incarnations of Herr Hitler from Python’s Minehead election sketch, to a porno Hitler, to Basil Fawlty’s reaction to his German guests, to Father Ted and the Chinese, to Big Train’s Hitler party sketch. I’m not entirely sure what the point of all this was, but I suppose it was entertaining in it’s way and was interesting in as much as it showed what Herr Flick looks like in real life – which is about twenty years younger than you’d expect and a damn sight camper if you can believe it.

Following on from all this Hitler-related hilarity was another pointless exercise. The Aristocrats is a film that explores the many many variations of what is universally acknowleged to be the dirtiest joke in the world. For those unfamilar with the joke it goes a little something like this:

A family walk into a talent agency, a father, mother, son, daughter and their dog. The father says to the talent agent,

“We’ve got a brand new act we think you should see.”

“Sorry,” says the talent agent, “I don’t represent family acts.”

“If you just let us show you our act,” replies the father, “I think you’ll represent us.”

“Oh alright,” the agent sighs, “What is it you do?”

There then follows a description of the filthiest family act ever devised. Paedophilia, bestiality, coprophillia, incest – whatever the comedian can throw in to make it as dirty and depraved as humanly possible. The joke ends with the family sweating, exhausted, covered in spunk, shit, piss and God-knows what else and the agent asking,

“What do you call yourselves?”

“THE ARISTOCRATS!”

And that’s the fucking punchline. I’ve heard a version of this joke from a stand-up comedian acquaintance of mine that went on for forty-odd minutes and couldn’t believe how shit the punchline was when it finally reared it’s ugly head, so I wasn’t particulary enamoured with hearing it over and over again from various comedians – because that’s all The Aristocrats is. Comedian after comedian, from Billy Connolly to Richard Lewis, Eddie Izzard to Robin Williams, telling their own version of this crappy joke over and over again. It’s a joke hardly any of them tell on stage, using it instead to prove their wits at the art of improvisation amongst other stand-ups. Because of this, The Aristocrats feels like a party you’ve not been invited to. Its’s also interminably boring … unless you like watching famous people saying the same thing over and over again for two hours, that is.

The Apprentice, Series 3, Episode 7

May 10, 2007

Nasty girl 

Some deep-seated antipathy is manifesting itself in the Apprentice. Last night was all out war between Katie (who has gone from resembling Fido Dido to being a mirror image of a rubber chicken), Kristina and Adam. All of whom were on the same team. I’ll give you three guesses as to who lost.

Up against Simon, they really didn’t have a chance – the inevitable back-stabbing would result in one of them getting fired – and it was never going to be Kristina. They should play a burst of Foreigner’s ‘Cold as Ice’ every time she flicks onscreen, for she is this year’s Ice Queen. She will win, unless she really buggers things up or turns into snow and melts before the time is over. Speaking of personal theme tunes for contestants, Katie would have benefitted from a little incidental music this time around – Foreigner’s ‘I Wanna Know What Love Is’, perhaps, given her mood-shift since her beau Paul – or Captain Mainwaring as Sugar would have it – left in disgrace last week.

The task this week was buying. Corporate buying, obviously, not simply finding things and then buying them. They had to seek a decent discount on various items. There were penalties involved if they didn’t buy all the items on the list and penalties if they bought at cost price. For a mathematical imbecile like me, in work-shutdown mode after six o clock, the figures were quite hard to follow last night. It doesn’t take a genius to realise, however, that turning up late and incurring a fine is better than turning up on time and incurring two fines. One glance at the rules and even Frank Spencer would’ve grasped that. Buy every item at a fractionally reduced cost, maybe twist the arm of the softest couple of suckers you meet to get a big discount on the odd item and you should be quids in. Just don’t turn up with less than ten items. Seek and ye shall find.

So, Adam took the reins as the opposing Project Manager and had Katie and Kristina to manage. Foolishly, he sent them out on their own to work as a double act (they had previously demonstrated only disdain for one another) while he worked alongside the vacuous arse-on-legs that is Ghazal. Lovely to look at, but when she opens her mouth it’s akin to a neutron bomb going off. If Adam had paired off with Kristina he would have won the task. They were kindred spirits in the final three last week when they buried Paul – why didn’t Adam see that? Because he’s a salesman, and like most salesmen he has a stupefying belief in his own ability that is not only unrealistic, it’s pathologically dangerous.

Kristina and Katie, demonstrating the cold, determined will to survive that only career-women can muster, worked well together despite their myriad differences. Any shopkeeper, with two blondes approaching begging for two quid off a pot of leg-wax whilst smiling, cooing and promising to never bother you ever again, would probably let it pass, knock a couple of quid off and put it down to experience. It certainly beat Adam’s method of staring out the vendor, hand clasped to chin.

In the meantime, Simon ran around doing an excellent Basil Fawlty impression: ‘GET IN THE CAR, GET OUT THE CAR, GET BACK IN THE CAR – Tre can you move up a bit please? Honestly…’. They got all the items on the list and everything was tickety-boo. Tre provided comic relief when buying from a Brick Lane vendor by mimicking (presumably) his Dad’s accent. Jadine seemed to work well with Lohit. It was smooth-running. They even picked up the elusive Nigella Seeds, the one item that stumped Adam and Ghazal for a good six hours.

In the boardroom, the knives came out in what was probably the most sneaky and hate-filled meeting in the show’s history. Katie ‘had her head down because she’d lost her friend’ Adam claimed. While she had grown even more poisonous when speaking about Adam, she didn’t work less hard, so it wasn’t a fair thing to mention. As it was patently untrue, Alan Sugar actually had a meeting within the meeting and decided that issue should be dropped. Katie then (having slagged Adam off in the preceding vox pop for being Northern) accused Adam of being ‘a little too friendly with Mr Pinot and Mr Grigio’, implying he’s a hardened boozer. Which is bullshit. Christ she’s awful. Sorry – but as I try to relay the events, my mind wanders and I find myself focusing on quite how fucking vile Katie ‘Fido-Dido Rubber-Chicken’ is. She’s vastly hideous. If you’ve never experienced how upper-class witches speak and act, then watch the next Apprentice. But not the one after that, she’ll hopefully have gone by then.

Adam was out of his depth – sadly he had to go. But Katie’ll be next. You mark my words (and prayers).

The F Word

May 9, 2007

 The F Word

Ramsay. He’s an interesting fellow, old Ramsay. Where Jamie Oliver isn’t just a narrow eyed, chubby cheeked berk, but actually has talent, drive and passion, Ramsay, it would seem, isn’t just a scrotum-faced sac of testosterone. He may resemble a huge testicle squirting spermy insults into the faces of innocents, but credit where it’s due, the fellow knows what he’s doing. He’s got ten michelin stars for Christ’s sake. In these foodie times that’s akin to having found ten holy chalices.But still, there are problems. I have no problem with swearing, and I have no problem with confrontation, but every once in a while the mask slips a little and we see a well of rage beneath the choreographed bad-mouthing and at any moment we sense he could smack out. Is that choreographed as well? Or is it this dangerous aspect that makes Gordon appealing? For me, it does the opposite. It makes him look like my old P.E. teacher, and he was a cunt.Ramsay teaches people, has a position of authority over them. That gives him the perfect opportunity to humiliate them. Throw in a camera crew and the opportunity multiplies. Watching a recent Kitchen Nightmare, we were subjected to Ramsay mocking a chef far further down the food chain for never having cooked mussels.

‘You’ve never cooked mussels?!’

‘No.’

‘YOU’VE NEVER COOKED MUSSELS?’

‘No.’

‘YOU’VE NEVER COOKED MUSSELS?’

‘NO. I’VE NEVER COOKED MUSSELS’

At this point Gordon proceeded to start doing a ‘joey’ impression at the chef, who reciprocated the gesture, and any semblance of adult behaviour disappeared. It’s only fair to point out that GR was berating the ‘chef’ of what was little more than a greasy spoon during this tirade, so his not having cooked mussels wasn’t exactly a massive shock.

Herein lies the problem. Walking around and calling people ‘big boy’, telling them to ‘stop playing with their doo dah and put the fucking tortellini on’ and continually (and I mean endlessly) asking them ‘where their balls are’ is exactly what a games teacher would do. And what’s the big deal anyway? Tortellini, mussels? Who gives a shit?

Now we’re into the second series of the F Word. This consists of Gordon wandering around a conceptual restaurant, teaching normal people to cook. With bursts of the worst theme music I’ve ever heard in my life buzzing in unneccessarily at any given moment.

GR arrived in the kitchen this week and slammed down the bloody carcass of a deer, shouting ‘THERE’S DINNER’. Echoes of Brando in Streetcar Named Desire. Primal man and his bloody package. Yeah – terrifying. The problem is, the highlights in his schoolboy hair rather shattered the image.

This week it was a group of ex-Etonians who Gordon quite rightly tore to pieces. They were put there for a reason – to make Gordon with his working-class authenticity (where the fuck did he get that accent then, big boy?) look good. And they couldn’t have chosen better targets from his bile – one of the chaps had an opening spiel that ran thus: ‘Yah, Dad set me up on a pretty solid share scheme so I get a pretty healthy income from that’. To top that off, he resembled a rapist.

Gordon also cooked a dessert with Natasha Kaplinsky, a woman so artifiicially constructed that I have genuinely forgotten what happened in her ten minute segment. Did she even speak, or did she stand there with those reptilian eyes, staring the camera out? I can’t for the life of me recall. By the time we got to the section where Gordon caught a facehugger in Lapland and cooked it, I’d only just come round. This section of course featured the obligatory Gordon topless shot. Every Gordon show features Gordon topless. He must have it carved into his contract in the producer’s blood.

An hour is a long time to spend on a cooking show, so obviously some junk is going to get chucked in. In series one, Ramsay had the excellent Giles Coren to fall back on for small pieces to camera about this and that, but he made his mark and has his own (far superior) TV shows to make these days, so Ramsay has called in Janet Street Porter (argh!) to fill his shoes. If anyone can tell me what was going on in her attempted assassination of Prince Charles’ food range last night, please give me a shout at the email address in the top right margin. She seemed to be trying to fit two ‘Supersize Me’ type shows into a ten minute slot and believe me when I tell you, it was a garbled fucking mess. With her narrating it, it was always going to be.

Finally, on top of this (where does he find the time? Oh yes, he’s got a whole bloody hour to fill) Gordon interviewed that very current, very ‘now’ comedic figure, Dawn French. Is that the best they could do? I know she’s still working (if you can call The Vicar of Dibley working, rather than just turning up) and she clearly digs her food, but really – how are three separate interviews with her over an hour possibly going to be any fun? Dawn has kissed Gordon! Ha ha ha! Dawn and Gordon keep saying ‘fanny’! Great! Oh look! They’re kissing! Again! Faaantastic.

The problem is, I’ll probably keep watching. The food is good and the format is hit and miss, with more hits than misses. If only Gordo would stop behaving like a 12 year old who’s taken crack instead of his normal Ritalin dose it might be a bit more bearable.