Posts Tagged ‘War’

Big Brother 8, 10.7.07

July 10, 2007


It’s already getting boring. Too many people in the house for the stage we’re at, too much time invested in a fabricated relationship. And as for the ‘fake’ sub-plot for the week, it’s day one and we’ve already over-milked the bloody thing. The arrival of Pauline (or ‘Pooh’ as the housemates are expected to believe her nickname to be) was a vaguely interesting prospect at first until the BB producers, as ever, fucked the whole thing up.

On Friday the housemates were shown the video (as were viewers) of an Aussie housemate about to go in. She was fanciable too, which upped the ante. But only briefly, when it was revealed that she’s an actress working for Big Brother. But then we learned that she’s an actress from Swindon who can barely manage an Aussie accent, let alone fake a background spent in the antipodes.

By the time her entrance came halfway through last night’s show we laready knew that Carol was on to her, with chinny scarecrow Tracey following her lead. Even earlier than that, the supposed simpleton Charley (who is actually clearly a criminal mastermind) had twigged the possibility that this might all be a sham.

In the past, natural paranoia has ensured that contestants have accused other housemates of being moles. When Makosi was taking direction from Big Brother, the cry of MOLE went up so quickly that the house divided into two camps overnight. The point being, if this was to be successful, it might’ve been prudent to use and ACTUAL FUCKING AUSSIE in the lead role of Australian? Otherwise the game might be up on the first day when the actress was asked where in Australia she was from. Without any knowledge of the continent she replied ‘Wallah Wallah’. If you can call it a reply, it’s more just a moronic, four-syllable outburst thrown in the direction of Australasia. Throw in a real Aussie, I say, in the mole role and let her interfere properly with the housemate’s affairs without her having to muck about with alien intonations.

It reminds me of the time, a few series back, when a housemate in with the inspired idea of pretending to be Italian. Her accent was so shit she lasted 5 minutes in character and everyone else, bar none, thought she was a weirdo and voted her out at the next opportunity.

I feel for the girl, who in reality is one Thaila Zucchi. She’s had previous work on Balls of Steel, the living excretia on the sole of TV comedy and now she’s having to live through the agony of being the centrepiece of another cringeworthy Big Brother non-event. My prediction is that this will all be over by day three. Her accent keeps slipping at the end of a sentence like a kraft cheese slice flopping down a shop window.

I suppose we should thank heavens for small mercies, however, as the first half of yesterday’s show saw the phoney Chiggy and Zanelle romance grind to a halt. After watching their break up, any sympathy for either party has shrivelled to a brittle husk. You get together for pathetic reasons – he: thinking it’d bolster his chances of winning, she: wanting to be a sub level posh and becks on leaving – and then you’re suprised that you’re sick of each other within a fortnight?

From what I’ve heard, the Zacharia character is largely getting the blame for all this (apparently he put his willy in her – I didn’t see that episode so if anyone’s got a youtube link…). If he did bone her – more fool her (what did she expect from an ex-boyband wannabe surfer slimehat?). If he didn’t, then she’s a complete psycho, employing every tactic in the book to syphon sympathy from the ever-ready endless supply the other housemates keep tanked up. Either way, they’re both idiots.

Rather than taking sides, we’d probably be better off not encouraging this shit. But the addiction rolls on and on, and I’m at the point where I’m running out of veins, patience and sanity.

The Apprentice, Series 3, Ep. 1

March 29, 2007


I’d be lying if I stated any kind of ambivalence to the Apprentice. Of course I watch it – I’m addicted to reality television – the lower the quality, the better. In this instance though, we’re talking about a high quality, big budget show, the difference being that the contestants are picked especially for their glaring idiocy. Perhaps Sugar thinks one or two are potential big-money earners, but I’m sure most of the heap are chosen simply because they’ll make amusing TV. Think of Syed last series, who obviously had a CV embellished with phoney claims to genius, to the point where it fell apart in the hands of the reader, weighted down by the amount of sheer bollocks on the page.

This season we opened with millisecond vox pops from the contestants, a kind of getting-to-know-you epileptic fit with a couple of words from each. The standout was big Andy (I think) saying: ‘I’m dynamic’. Who actually says that about themselves? I might say it about a superhero, maybe a pushbike, but about myself at work? Balls to that. It stinks of ‘idiot’ the minute you say it. Imagine using it in everyday language – in a cafe for example. ‘Sorry, the service was so non-dynamic my eggs have gone stone cold, can I have a refund please?’. It’s a stupid word unless you’re talking about a fancy sports car, so stop it.

We had the usual introduction from Sugar, who seemed to have tailored his spiel to diss Syed, the aforementioned berk who made the last series such a success. ‘I hate schmoozers’ he said, as he did last year, but then he went on ‘and more than anything I hate people who claim to have had a rough background and come from nothing and all this and that’. Weird really, considering that’s what Alan Sugar does in every interview he sits for to promote this very show.

The task itself saw two teams of corporate mongs try and sell coffee. We learned that if you’re trying to sell cafe latte, cappuccino or espresso, the place NOT to do it is Chapel Market in Islington. I say ‘we learned’, I live very close to that area, and if I were to take you down there on a weekday you’d see immediately, so immediate it’d be like a knuckle-duster to the hooter, that it’s absolutely fucking dead. Add to this that the people who work on Chapel Market are far more likely to prefer a watery Nescafe with four sugars to take back to the bookies and you’ll see why they only sold 11 cups all morning.

In a bizarre turn of events, Sugar fired the bullshit-stuffed but actually quite likable Andy, simply for being Team Leader. Or Project Manager. Or whatever they call the fuckers these days. Andy had allowed the women to screw things up, was the gist of the argument. I felt this was unfair, as the big blonde lady (whose name my brain has wiped off the memory banks to try and escape the trauma of having seen her snooty, undignified face) was a complete arse and should’ve been saddled with the blame, if only to crush her festering smugness. She thinks she’s Dawn French, she’s more Rose West. She’ll be one to watch, guaranteed.

Then it was over, and the voiceover declared there were ‘only 16 left’. 16?! That’s two small companies-worth. And 14 weeks of sacking. Sugar’s arm is going to drop off at this rate.

Come and See

January 24, 2007

Come and See 

Actually don’t.

I sat through this festival of utter misery for well over an hour before I was forced to turn the bastard off.

Feral-faced Russians populate a creepy albeit lush forest amid scene after scene of poverty, crying faces, corpses, skulls, uniforms and all round squalid shit. And mud.

There is no denying the quality of acting/cinematography/direction blah blah but I felt alienated and uncomfortable. It’s been said of Come and See that it’s the best war film ever made, hence my feeling of alienation and discomfort I should imagine. That may be the case but I confess, and in opposition to my nature, secretly wishing a cigar chomping Kurt Russell/Nicholas Cage etc., even that little turd Jean Claude Van Damn would appear framed by a fucking massive fireball and proceed to spray a million bullets into the foray.

I still feel depressed even now I didn’t watch it too the end. I don’t care what happens to the miserable boy and his peculiar companion.

To summarise. A pile of corpses outside a wooden shack in a godforsaken village.