tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-121258492024-03-05T20:33:06.258+00:00Telly CriticReality TV Reviews by Phil GardnerPhilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comBlogger74125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1136621967252813962006-01-07T08:02:00.000+00:002012-08-16T07:14:47.842+01:00Intermission<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNcX61RbXiW6kGoUwFoDrJJRAy1vKpfvrFO75vlesZOE3ca-ORwTxBATXMJTT1vdxN8jV6NUeJjDWZn3brhKo_uOLYdBSR6ifo8BJgRT8tpm4dPIB-6VigpIXAIbsAO2wV23tT/s1600/testcard1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="102" width="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNcX61RbXiW6kGoUwFoDrJJRAy1vKpfvrFO75vlesZOE3ca-ORwTxBATXMJTT1vdxN8jV6NUeJjDWZn3brhKo_uOLYdBSR6ifo8BJgRT8tpm4dPIB-6VigpIXAIbsAO2wV23tT/s320/testcard1.jpg" /></a></div>For personal reasons I've decided to take a break from writing this blog, in order to spend more time with my family. Which, if I were a politician, would mean I'd been caught on Hampstead Heath with a Rastafarian. Fortunately I haven't. Well, not with a Rastafarian. Come to think of it, I don't even have a family. Oh well...Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1134564017239059842005-12-14T14:42:00.000+00:002012-08-16T07:53:44.418+01:00Life of Brian<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv0kt8BqIHI64uLeeP8nd2hsMnaqho1yfNgGbdNXi-OQdunClFUtoNH7B-SsyI-cbrnatfe_ZbYmMyVp2Cm9wsKwx5T9fy5irb0jn7Ikea0IsQ9lKtqBN1_i1K9ySiy4mJ9aAk/s1600/brianharvey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="132" width="110" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv0kt8BqIHI64uLeeP8nd2hsMnaqho1yfNgGbdNXi-OQdunClFUtoNH7B-SsyI-cbrnatfe_ZbYmMyVp2Cm9wsKwx5T9fy5irb0jn7Ikea0IsQ9lKtqBN1_i1K9ySiy4mJ9aAk/s200/brianharvey.jpg" /></a></div>I have to admit to never having been a huge fan of East 17 in general, and of Brian Harvey in particular, but it's true to say that I've warmed to the man in recent years. Particularly since he gave up singing and started running himself over. But add to that his performance in 'House of Pies' on last year's 'I'm a Celebrity', and his girlfriend's complete lack of concern for him on 'The Farm', and I'm willing to admit I've become quite fond of the little gnome. So I was naturally excited to see last night's documentary <strong>'Being Brian Harvey'</strong>, screened as part of the BBC's 'ONE Life' series. The thought of 'being Brian Harvey' might be the kind of scenario more suited to scaring small children at Halloween, but with less than two weeks to go til Christmas, it certainly got me in the festive mood.<br /><br />The programme began with Brian recovering in hospital from his near-fatal car crash, sustained earlier this year when he left his home in Walthamstow and promptly reversed over himself with his own car. Girlfriend Emma B (the B stands for breasts), who, upon hearing the tragic news of one of Brian's suicide attempts during her stint on reality shit-shovelling show 'The Farm', chose to stay where she was and battle it out with Keith Harris & Orville for the title of 'Top Farmer', was there keeping a vigil by Brian's bedside. So clearly her agent couldn't find her any work that day.<br /><br />In a mood of sombre gravity, surgeon Martin Bircher showed us what he called the <em>"oh shit x-ray"</em> (it's a medical term), before announcing that Brian had sustained a crushed pelvis and severely damaged internal organs, and might even die. Yes, I know it's what millions have hoped for all these years, but this is no laughing matter - his vocal chords were completely undamaged.<br /><br />Fortunately however, having undergone a bit of surgery and had half a Meccano set installed in his nether regions, Brian was allowed out of hospital under a blanket and headed to Emma B's <em>"small basement flat in Hastings"</em> for a bit of rest and recuperation. Once there, he was able to set the record straight about what <strong>really</strong> happened that dark night in June when he put the car in reverse and dived under the back wheels. Some have said it was suicide attempt, but Brian was adamant it was no more than a freak accident. Well, an accident involving a freak. As he said himself, <em>"I'd eaten a load of jacket potatoes just before"</em>, he found himself <em>"gagging"</em> (so 'Stay Another Day' was probably on the car stereo), leading to the inevitable consquence of <em>"I'm fucked"</em>. It couldn't be clearer.<br /><br />Brian, however, wasn't a happy bunny. Having been declared bankrupt in 2001, he'd been eking out a living from celebrity TV appearances and guest spots at Butlins (which is no life for an animal), and was worried about where the next job might come from. Not that there was any need to be - in Brian's words, <em>"I'm a realist. I say what I see"</em>, so he clearly has a future as a Catchphrase contestant.<br /><br />As for his time in East 17, Brian spoke fondly of his experiences with the band, describing them as <em>"four geezers from the east end of London, we smoke fags, we've all got birds and they're rough around the edges"</em>. Which is no way to talk about Emma B. Well ok, strictly speaking it is. But this is a woman who's apparently <em>"put her modelling and TV career on hold to be there for him"</em>. Not much of a sacrifice, it's true, but we did see Brian calling plaintively from the bathroom for a towel, prompting Emma's immediate and caring response of <em>"I'm downstairs"</em>.<br /><br />Hang on... Downstairs in a basement flat??? Blimey, could those two sink any lower? It's like 'Journey to the Centre of the Earth' in that place.<br /><br />But anyhoo, when he's not talking about potatoes and picking at his scabs, Brian's watching TV and commenting that <em>"Jerry Springer's gone downhill, hasn't he"</em>. The words pot, kettle and black spring to mind. Though in Brian's case of course, pot means something entirely different. He did give us his thoughts on his two previous suicide attempts however, saying <em>"It weren't no cry for help. I meant it"</em>. A view which contrasted slightly with Emma B's opinion that <em>"I don't think he wanted to die. It was a cry for help"</em>.<br /><br />Of more concern however was the surgeon's warning that Brian's pelvic fracture may have left him permanently impotent. The thought of no little Brian Harveys wandering the earth in years to come was clearly a prospect to fill one with dread. Or joy, depending on your point of view. But as luck would have it, Brian was there to set our minds at rest by confirming that his penis <em>"works like a dream"</em>. A wet dream for him. A nightmare for the rest of us.<br /><br />So with Brian's erections fully discussed, it was on to the next stage of surgery. Dr Bircher was a little concerned because apparently people who break a pelvis can sometimes <em>"go from being active, healthy, family people with a job"</em> to being divorced, unemployed and on drugs. So in Brian's case there'll be no discernable change.<br /><br />The operation, however, was a complete success, and Brian's recovery was going well. In the words of Emma B, <em>"Now he can walk again, he's been talking about getting his career back on track"</em>. Damn that surgeon. But fortunately for music fans everywhere, Brian was finding it hard to leave the flat, meaning the chances of him making it to a recording studio were slim. And besides, he was worried about being mobbed by the fans. As he said himself, <em>"I walk down the street and old ladies know who I am"</em>. Or possibly they just think you look like a mugger.<br /><br />Ultimately though, it was hard going. Fobbed off by record companies, abandoned by Tony Mortimer, and estranged from his beloved Walthamstow, Brian Harvey felt like giving up. Step forward his manager, a man clearly being paid to be positive, who attempted to gee up the crestfallen Brian with this undeniable statement of fact: <em>"You would be robbing the world of a great vocal if you never sang again"</em>.<br /><br />Yes, but he'd also be making millions of people happy. It's a tough call.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1134035157433712532005-12-08T09:40:00.000+00:002012-08-16T07:57:01.123+01:00Boldly Going Nowhere<span style="font-size:85%;"><u>Note</u>: Most of this post was cobbled together in the early hours (ie. before 10am) of Thursday morning, on four hours sleep and three mugs of caffeine. Due to the pressures of daily life (ie. Christmas shopping) however, it was not finished until the following Monday morning, a good two days after the original programme had been heartlessly recorded over with Strictly Come Dancing by persons who shall remain nameless. So if this piece makes very little sense (ie. even less than usual), that's why. But if anyone would like to pay me good money to write this kind of thing on a professional basis, thus enabling me to sub-contract out my Christmas shopping to a family of Filipinos, and dedicate more time to the world of reality TV, then you can e-mail me </span><a href="http://www.philgardner.net/Contact.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-size:85%;">here</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">. Thanks.<br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEide8h4P4xLEjGSAqZMrCy-t5RZjxWi7JweUYl2KeAotDNPhiM1wNgld9ufA4bVur7S7UGo6ukgjkHSg6IaXnzRd5ZvkaBIXW0TdfQr5nZ33SIGnATXNCVmj2WoQy5CV2CHRulu/s1600/spacecadets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="117" width="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEide8h4P4xLEjGSAqZMrCy-t5RZjxWi7JweUYl2KeAotDNPhiM1wNgld9ufA4bVur7S7UGo6ukgjkHSg6IaXnzRd5ZvkaBIXW0TdfQr5nZ33SIGnATXNCVmj2WoQy5CV2CHRulu/s200/spacecadets.jpg" /></a></div>One of my favourite television moments of 2003 was the episode of 'The Pilot Show' in which Channel 4 convinced a few desperate TV wannabes with learning difficulties that they'd passed the audition to go into space on a new reality show, and had no trouble persuading each of them to pose behind a cardboard cut-out of a rocket, and utter the immortal line <em>"I'm going to the moon with Paul Ince and Stelios from EasyJet!"</em>. A believable proposition, clearly. Well, Endemol, the people behind both Big Brother and Noel Edmonds' TV comeback (I'm not sure which is the bigger crime), clearly saw the potential in that scenario, and have duly cranked it up to the nth degree in the fom of <strong>'Space Cadets'</strong>, possibly the first of a new breed of reality show - the reality hoax. It may not have Stelios from EasyJet, but it does have a load of people who share his love of self-publicity.<br /><br />Back in June, Endemol advertised for people to take part in a new TV show, about which they would reveal only the vaguest details. Clearly only a fool would apply for a show they knew nothing about, which is handy as that's just what the producers were looking for. Judging by the audition tapes, the show attracted the usual mix of the stupid, the arrogant, the prejudiced, and the annoyingly camp, all of whom shared a desperate desire to be famous for doing nothing in particular. It's what scientists call the Jade Goody Syndrome.<br /><br />The producers meanwhile, were busy turning a decommissioned military base in Suffolk into a mock-up of a Russian space training facility. A huge task, you might think, but speaking as someone who lives in the area, I'm no stranger to bottles of vodka and queueing for bread, so frankly if you want to recreate Russia, going for a field just outside Ipswich makes perfect sense.<br /><br />Back at the auditions, the producers had enlisted the help of Professor Robert Edelmann to identify the most <em>"highly suggestible"</em> (ie. very, very gullible) applicants, which he did by means of a series of psychological tests. The first was the 'dot pattern test', in which the subject was asked to identify a face in colourful patterns of dots which actually contained no facial features whatsoever. Not that the wannabes let that put them off. The answers given ranged from <em>"Boy George"</em> to <em>"the bottom half of a dolphin"</em>, and <em>"an Italian priest with the Joker out of Batman's make-up on"</em>. Under normal circumstances of course, people such as these would immediately be referred for psychiatric care, but we're talking reality TV here, so instead of being locked up, it was on to the next round of auditions.<br /><br />Having counted eyeballs in a jar, been strapped into sleeping bags, and then shut in a lift for twenty minutes (all everyday occurences in Suffolk), the remaining wannabes were asked to don blindfolds and dance around a room in silence, before being shipped off to an outward bounds course in Cumbria. Amongst them were three actors - Ranie, Steve and Charlie - charged with infiltrating the group like undercover moles on a secret mission, and helping to convince them that everything was above board.<br /><br />And what actors they were. Charlie, whose cover story involved him being a poet, came up with this cast iron defence when challenged:<br /><br /><em>"I saw a pebble on the beach,<br />And it reminded me of you,<br />Or was it the dog behind,<br />Scratching its shit into the cold sand?"</em><br /><br />Speaking as someone who once had a poem rejected by the Brighton Argus, I'd be quite proud of that.<br /><br />Steve meanwhile was struggling with the physical aspects of the job, which involved abseiling, canoeing, and jumping off a bridge into a river. Like any half-decent thespian, he immediately threatened to call his agent, and complained he was sick, cold and underpaid, before asking for a Bafta, tossing his head about, and mincing off up a hill.<br /><br />At the end of it all though, nine of the applicants were chosen, and together with the three actors, were taken off to Biggin Hill for a meeting with Johnny Vaughan, and a first opportunity to witness his (frankly startling) furry-hooded coat up close. Johnny informed the group that they would be flying into space (via Volgagrad), and with the annoying whoops of typical reality show contestants, they boarded the plane for Ipswich and began to discuss the business of pooing in zero gravity.<br /><br />Of course, American billionaires have each paid about thirty million dollars for the privelege of going into space, so it seemed perfectly feasible to one and all that Channel 4 would be putting up the cash for a few members of the general public to do the same. After all, with the range of deeply irritating people involved, all Endemol need to do is let viewers vote on who should be shoved out of the airlock first, and they can make that hundred million back in a week.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1133883618202784502005-12-05T23:40:00.000+00:002012-08-16T07:58:52.512+01:00C Thatch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0SdWlAU_bIISK06PS4JkDCqtPPJxAhgOsCL-x3rV7yflesfrSpBDlvADcJXCSf8X6Beei2I8fleT95DILShZVK-M7JquU3WNnwyV7u7EqVGGyQcsOv4TS88gnJVc7iEW7ISGi/s1600/cthatch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="99" width="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0SdWlAU_bIISK06PS4JkDCqtPPJxAhgOsCL-x3rV7yflesfrSpBDlvADcJXCSf8X6Beei2I8fleT95DILShZVK-M7JquU3WNnwyV7u7EqVGGyQcsOv4TS88gnJVc7iEW7ISGi/s200/cthatch.jpg" /></a></div>Well, after two weeks of tummy ticks, snake-stroking and alfresco urination, lead vocalist of the world's newest celebrity supergroup, Carol Thatcher, was tonight crowned Queen of the Jungle and the winner of 'I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here' 2005. And frankly she deserved it. With fish eyes, witchetty grubs and a kangaroo's testicle, the only thing she hasn't eaten in the past fortnight is humble pie.<br /><br />Admittedly I was firmly in the camp of little Jimmy Osmond, if only for his similarity to Ned Flanders, and shameless ownership of a bear called Hummy, but if Jimmy couldn't win, then rather C Thatch than a woman called Smurph or man with a smile too big for his mouth. Not that I didn't like Sid and Sheree, but the former only worked as David Dickinson's straight man (the words <em>"I need to go up, Sid"</em> will hereafter be held with great affection in my heart), and the latter's main appeal lay in her ability to embarrass her husband.<br /><br />Still it's nice to know that Harry Kewell has stretch marks, horrible feet, a hairless body, peachy bum and no toenails, and that Sheree has never had a ball in her mouth. Well not since Friday when Bobby left.<br /><br />Ultimately though, there was only one winner, and it had to be Thatch. The woman sucked on marsupials' privates, did a mean version of 'See you Later Alligator', and looked surprisingly good in a wetsuit. If only the same could be said of her mother.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1133540325302068512005-12-01T21:40:00.000+00:002012-08-16T08:00:00.941+01:00Playbus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_b12jRvhomxG7cmT8an4OMixn8BLJ91rE-6oral5EUAC-G2q5yuljcRGL1qgm5VRHZmiYCEjV7-Xqwtgn-fF3zxnYdTZDyPNTGKbljS-595AgbOSiAPJGu2g-X_aEnxuOrSDj/s1600/bigredbus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="89" width="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_b12jRvhomxG7cmT8an4OMixn8BLJ91rE-6oral5EUAC-G2q5yuljcRGL1qgm5VRHZmiYCEjV7-Xqwtgn-fF3zxnYdTZDyPNTGKbljS-595AgbOSiAPJGu2g-X_aEnxuOrSDj/s200/bigredbus.jpg" /></a></div>I do like a good docu-soap. I've never actually <strong>seen</strong> one, obviously, but I always live in hope, and while I'm waiting, there's always '<strong>Big Red Bus</strong>', the latest offering from BBC1, which sounds like it should be on CBeebies, but probably isn't intellectually stimulating enough.<br /><br />The show covers all aspects of bus-driving (including getting blown up - but that's not until next week), with tonight's edition focusing on the trials and tribulations of the trainee bus driver. Apparently <em>"it's like the wild west on London's streets for trainee bus drivers"</em>, presumably because they're always being shot at by people in stupid hats, but with 8,000 buses, 22,000 drivers and 6 million passengers, the voice-over informed us that it can be <em>"a bit of a hurly-burly whirligig that can leave you feeling a little double-deckered"</em>. Which is the point I'd have sacked the writer. Interestingly, one look at the closing credits told me that the writer, the narrator, and the executive producer were all one and the same man (Nick O'Dwyer - brains behind 'The Most Pampered Pets in Britain'). Which shows what happens when you try to save money.<br /><br />Anyway, as if to illustrate the negative effects that a lifetime of bus-driving can have on the mental health of those involved, the programme introduced us to 65-year-old Dennis, who calls himself Wolf (possibly after one of the Gladiators), and spends his weekends in Dorking dressed as an Apache Indian. There's nothing Wolf likes better than strolling down the main street of Deadwood (such an appropriate name) and indulging in some below-par amateur dramatics with a couple of blokes from Surrey. I'm not entirely sure what relevance this had to the programme, but it did prove that you're never too old to black-up for a TV show. In the words of Dennis, <em>"Being an indian is what I do"</em>. Although these days we call them Native Americans of course.<br /><br />Leaving Wolf behind, the programme moved on to 37-year-old single mum Mya, who stated <em>"I love driving anything that has an engine"</em>, which is why you can't get her off the lawnmower, and also why she's decided that public transport is the career for her. Unfortunately for Mya, she has a problem with what her instructor Mike calls <em>"wandering"</em>. Which basically means swerving all over the road and hitting the kerb every five minutes. But hey, Mya <strong>is</strong> new to the job, which is why we were also introduced to Sebastien, another trainee, but one with over fifty hours of bus-driving under his belt. Which would be good, were it not for the fact that most trainees pass their test after only forty.<br /><br />Sebastien, a 44-year-old father of one, and former self-employed plasterer, was clearly impatient to pass his bus-driving exam. Which is probably why he broke the speed limit at every available opportunity. He may need more training than most, but in the words of his instructor, <em>"He's got a good attitude"</em>. Yes, he can't actually drive, but he's always quite cheerful.<br /><br />Mya, meanwhile, was still all over the road, and in danger of mowing down everything in her path, but having been asked by Mike what she thought of her progress, she confidently replied <em>"I think it's good"</em>, so Seb's not the only one with the good attitude. Mike, however, spoke for the six million bus passengers of London, by admitting to being <em>"very concerned"</em>.<br /><br />But hey, why faff about with training, when you could be taking your test. Sebastien, he of the fifty hours training, duly stepped forward for his big day, which began with a simple manoeuvre - reversing the bus between two cones. Sadly for Seb, he proptly crushed one of the cones under the back wheels, thereby failing the test before he'd left the depot. But on the bright side, at least he saved them some money on petrol. And in the comforting words of his instructor, <em>"99% of the time you'll be going forward"</em>. Yeah, who cares about the 1% of the working week when you're busy reversing over pedestrians - <em><strong>most</strong></em> of the time you'll be fine.<br /><br />Much like the lovely Mya, who was undergoing an assessment in the form of a mock driving test. She performed well. Which is to say she clipped a cyclist, veered onto the wrong side of the road, and drove through a red light, but believe me, for Mya that represented progress.<br /><br />According to the programme, only 10% of those who apply to be trainee bus drivers are actually accepted onto the course. Which does make you wonder what the other 90% are like.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1133136896102749842005-11-27T16:07:00.000+00:002012-08-16T08:12:08.799+01:00Preparation H<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUuyBG9VlXP_EXRvTaPZSOa2StFXIxyoZUwLcCF-bP7HhyphenhyphenZ0A3t-ELT8YdHxm04vRecrYZntQJC31pPteQ3Ca-5mEJDHtdQ8ZxqxH0xrcFvLsT7Lt_vNOJ5BONRTNRkZs4C1xs/s1600/hsidestory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="130" width="93" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUuyBG9VlXP_EXRvTaPZSOa2StFXIxyoZUwLcCF-bP7HhyphenhyphenZ0A3t-ELT8YdHxm04vRecrYZntQJC31pPteQ3Ca-5mEJDHtdQ8ZxqxH0xrcFvLsT7Lt_vNOJ5BONRTNRkZs4C1xs/s200/hsidestory.jpg" /></a></div>Ever since seeing Lee Latchford Evans wimping out of a bit of torture on 'Commando VIP', I haven't been able to stop wondering what's become of his blonde sidekick, H. And not just because I wished it was him being tortured instead of Lee. Well fortunately for me, Channel 4 have ridden to my rescue by screening <strong>'H Side Story'</strong> on Sunday afternoons, a reality show following the man's progress as he spends a year at the Royal Academy of Music in London. It may not feature torture, but it <strong>is</strong> quite painful to watch.<br /><br />H's real name, it turns out, is Ian Watkins, which is only one step up from Reg Dwight if you ask me, but having spent a few years named after a letter of the alphabet, Ian is apparently keen to move on and be recognised as a serious performer in his own right, on his own terms, and with his own name. Though he clearly hadn't told the programme's producers that. They preferred to call the show 'H Side Story', throw in a lot of Steps references, and only refer to him as Ian once. But never mind, eh.<br /><br />Today's episode documented H's preparation for an 'Agents Showcase': a musical performance in front of an army of top west end agents looking for talent. None of whom were put off by seeing H's name on the cast list, which is a little surprising. Fortunately for H, he had on his side two heavyweights of musical theatre: Mary Hammond and Karen Rabinowitz, course leaders at the academy, who took it upon themselves to choose his song for the showcase. Mary eventually came up with Billy Joel's 'Goodnight Saigon', while Karen's contribution was to insist upon <em>"keeping him down to a fairly still performance"</em>. Suggesting that she'd already seen him dance.<br /><br />H was pleased with the song selection, stating that <em>"people generally see me doing comedy songs"</em> (well, I do find myself laughing at him quite a lot), and headed off for a singing lesson with 'Repertoire Coach' Dane. Dane duly listened to a run through of the song, and advised him <em>"Don't be afraid to make an ugly sound"</em>. My girlfriend's got the Steps Greatest Hits album, so let me assure you Dane, he's not.<br /><br />Warbling over, H showed us his <em>"visual diary"</em> (that's a scrapbook to you and me) into which he'd stuck pictures of Asians, in an attempt to get into the mood for a song about the futility of Vietnam. Alongside these images he'd jotted down the words <em>"nightmares, alone, fear, therapy, death and numbness"</em> - interestingly all emotions I felt when my girlfriend played that CD.<br /><br />But it's not all fun and laughter at the academy. Fame costs. And right here is where you start paying. In sweat. Or to put it another way, H was having trouble sleeping. As he said himself, <em>"I'm awake at two in the morning singing harmonies. It drives me nuts"</em>. I've always felt that way about his singing too, but fortunately for us both, H decided to seek out medical help. Not from a qualified doctor, obviously, but from <em>"Australian master healer"</em> Mike Squirrel. After all, if you're being driven nuts, it makes sense to go to a squirrel.<br /><br />Mike performed the latest therapy from California, known as 'Access', which basically involved talking to H's feet and waiting for them to respond. Amazingly his ankles mentioned that he was having trouble sleeping, so Mike reached straight for the Tibetan sound bowl, sent a resonance through his thighs, and started the acupuncture, before setting light to a few smoking cones on his arm. It's not often you see a squeaky clean pop star endorse smoking, but H seemed quite impressed.<br /><br />So with his health sorted, it was back to the showcase preparations, and the final dress rehearsal, described by course leader Karen as <em>"a shambles"</em>. H bemoaned the whole process, branding the entire show as <em>"a meat market"</em> (which explains why Linda McCartney never had more of a showbiz career) before retiring to his dressing room an hour early to start straightening his hair and putting on make-up.<br /><br />And then it was show time. H took to the stage with the words "Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be Billy Joel" (well, ok, he didn't), and sang his little heart out for the agents, one of whom declared <em>"I'd be happy to audition him for my next project"</em>. Though possibly only for the fun of saying 'no'. But by the end of this half hour celebration of musical theatre, the results were there for all to see. In the words of H, <em>"another bit of good news: I'm getting some kip"</em>. Him and me both.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1133136447945951342005-11-25T23:53:00.000+00:002012-08-16T08:17:48.562+01:00Changing Vrooms<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkeoDGlvB8oVdKzJk7ZnoxDWRwveePDlpFTfrOvkkZdNrKbFx5G60miEGWF13QfNIZ22aD1bgbn4z2SNA1WH8mMs3PZrlC4TUsJ_Gqmc4_2jh1GvNu9Nu60X6mePd2CDR8zPZ/s1600/pimpmyride1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="124" width="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkeoDGlvB8oVdKzJk7ZnoxDWRwveePDlpFTfrOvkkZdNrKbFx5G60miEGWF13QfNIZ22aD1bgbn4z2SNA1WH8mMs3PZrlC4TUsJ_Gqmc4_2jh1GvNu9Nu60X6mePd2CDR8zPZ/s200/pimpmyride1.jpg" /></a></div>I got quite excited when I saw a reality show with the word 'pimp' in the title. I'd pay good money to see the likes of Biggins, Sonia, and The Krankies wearing white fur coats and snakeskin shoes, standing on street corners and trying to bitch-slap a few 'ho's. But sadly <strong>'Pimp My Ride UK'</strong> is no such thing. Though it does feature Tim Westwood, who is to the world of hip-hop and gangsta rap, what Ali G is to black people.<br /><br />'Pimp My Ride' first started on MTV in America, and like so many other shows which would clearly never translate well to a British version, has now been translated to a British version. Hence the addition of the word 'UK' - presumably a condition imposed by the American producers to make it clear that it has nothing to do with them.<br /><br />The idea of the programme is simple: it's a makeover show for cars. Find a frumpy old runaround who's seen better days, tart her up a bit, and send her back out onto the streets looking a million dollars. The only problem with 'Pimp My Ride UK' is that in order to get the vehicles <strong>looking</strong> a million dollars, the team seem to end up <strong>spending</strong> a million dollars. And unlike users of L'Oreal, the cars just aren't worth it.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmB4azWcDVgbe82ilfzDyk39Pn5g7xEgSAM9z0YXDGFRCQ6kPCsggNzZdHl-4M_WyKHGK_tPOs2fsNvNZSv7BlC_39xMT-urfkg1bRxO16O-1DXFuKKBKMLDoxJJGBSn14BaCB/s1600/pimpbefore1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="82" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmB4azWcDVgbe82ilfzDyk39Pn5g7xEgSAM9z0YXDGFRCQ6kPCsggNzZdHl-4M_WyKHGK_tPOs2fsNvNZSv7BlC_39xMT-urfkg1bRxO16O-1DXFuKKBKMLDoxJJGBSn14BaCB/s200/pimpbefore1.jpg" /></a></div>But anyhoo, in tonight's edition we met Asif, a young man from North London, who appears to have been named after Alicia Silverstone's catchphrase in 'Clueless'. Which is kind of appropriate, as he lacks much idea about anything except football. Asif drives a 1989 VW Golf Mk II in the kind of condition which would embarrass a scrapyard. The seats are broken, the headlights are missing, the bumpers are hanging, the wings are rusting, and the stereo's wedged in with coins. Which is the only thing keeping the car's value above zero.<br /><br />Enter DJ Tim Westwood, who spent a few minutes gesticulating at the camera in a 16-year-old's clothes, before asking Asif <em>"Do you worry about the car getting stolen?"</em>. Asif looked concerned, and replied <em>"Every night. It's such a vulnerable target"</em>. Which either indicates a dry sense of humour, or a level of stupidity rarely seen outside of the Big Brother house. Westwood then stated the obvious: <em>"We've got one choice: to dump it or to pimp it"</em>. So will they dump it? Asif. Sorry, I mean <strong><em>as if</em></strong>. After all, why buy a new car when you can spend fifty grand doing up your old one?<br /><br />Timmy duly promised to make Asif's car <em>"mad hot"</em> (which I think is good) and took the rustbucket to his team of car makeover experts, led by mechanic Jamie, audio man Bluey, and designer Pinky. Presumeably Perky couldn't make it. Never ones to do things by halves, the gang decided to go one small step beyond a new headlamp and some furry dice, by stripping the car down to little more than the chassis, and installing a DVD player, PS2 console, top-of-the-range sound system, video camera, monitors, two fridges, and some red leather seats which cost £1200 each. Which clearly wasn't enough. So they added a vibrating massage and heat function too. And a 15" LCD screen in the boot.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8HGEgYB27VYJSFewYfYaAiChKskhItpCVQ-bH6Jpd211vqRpjXzwu1x7x77wUdLR-DGqvBIn18Qhd67GM-LidRDvPBFQhr19qXEr9tfmWR8Ud4Lbxdoy_bE6kHrzjPWcqJ_o/s1600/pimpafter1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="107" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8HGEgYB27VYJSFewYfYaAiChKskhItpCVQ-bH6Jpd211vqRpjXzwu1x7x77wUdLR-DGqvBIn18Qhd67GM-LidRDvPBFQhr19qXEr9tfmWR8Ud4Lbxdoy_bE6kHrzjPWcqJ_o/s200/pimpafter1.jpg" /></a></div>That done, they fitted Lamborghini-style doors, smoke-tinted windows and a custom-made football boot cleaner under the rear bumper. Which is what the new Nissan Micra lacks in my opinion. They then painted Asif's name on the roof and handed it back to him. In the words of Tim Westwood, <em>"The boys have blessed it with the mad flava"</em>. Which I didn't think made a lot of sense, until he added <em>"Understand what's going down. He's given you crazy heat"</em>. Which frankly meant even less.<br /><br />The car's now apparently worth more than £50,000. Though ironically you'd have to pay me at least twice that to drive it in public.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1132589890839011382005-11-21T18:28:00.000+00:002012-08-16T08:14:42.473+01:00The Faint & The Curious<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijDrRnfEKfydaaLYVtr1NnPYvLlt1rdzeEqA44ut9JRYVWZyyhkO_sJAigItagURtPRJEmJE5_c9NDMjwlE11d41B1pvt7JDe8isYYw4UOQz8ZPrgrMwO1Q7KcsYg1M1aAfpI4/s1600/Imacelebrity1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="112" width="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijDrRnfEKfydaaLYVtr1NnPYvLlt1rdzeEqA44ut9JRYVWZyyhkO_sJAigItagURtPRJEmJE5_c9NDMjwlE11d41B1pvt7JDe8isYYw4UOQz8ZPrgrMwO1Q7KcsYg1M1aAfpI4/s200/Imacelebrity1.jpg" /></a></div>If there's one thing which marks out a reality show for greatness, it's the sight of a prime minister's daughter pissing next to her bed. If there's two things, then add a soap star collapsing from the stress of eating unseasoned rice. Oh yes, the modern classic of reality TV is back for a fifth series, and it promises much. None of that old "this is a groundbreaking social experiment" rubbish, last night's <strong>'I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here'</strong>, offered only one thing: <em>"Two weeks of absolute jungle madness"</em>. And Natalie Appleton isn't even in it this time.<br /><br />But hey, who needs a tree-phobic in a hat, when you've got Elaine Lordan, a woman who began by describing herself as <em>"feisty"</em>, and then proved it by being carried out on a stretcher after five minutes. Though she <strong>had</strong> just been introduced to David Dickinson, so perhaps it's not surprising. In addition to Elaine and The Duke, the other eight celebs hoping to resurrect their careers this time around include native Aussie Kimberley Davies, who stated <em>"I hope to leave a lasting impression on the British public"</em>. Personally I'm still haunted by the memories of her trying to act in 'Neighbours', so I think she's already achieved that ambition.<br /><br />Continuing the international theme was little Jimmy Osmond, who admitted <em>"I'm kind of frozen in time"</em> (I think he's referring to his plastic surgery there, but I could be wrong), before welcoming Harry Kewell's long-haired lover from Liverpool, Sheree Murphy, who frankly I've never heard of, and Jenny Frost, who declared <em>"I don't like rude people, I don't like arrogant people, I don't like people who think the world owes them something"</em>. Which is why she's agreed to do a celebrity reality show. No chance of meeting any egos there.<br /><br />Adding to the lack of arrogance was Carol Thatcher, who I'm sure will do her best to avoid mentioning her mother for the entire fortnight, much in the same way that Paul Burrell completely avoided the subject of Princess Diana last year. And then there was Antony Costa of Blue (which is how I feel when I hear their music) who quickly announced <em>"I'm not a muppet"</em>. I agree. He looks more like a Teletubby.<br /><br />Joining the obligatory line-up of former soap stars was Sid Owen, who managed to go a full five seconds before saying <em>"Ricky!"</em>, and adding a touch of class was wine expert Jilly Goolden, who attempted to play down her posh-girl image by using the word <em>"bollocks"</em> the moment she arrived.<br /><br />As for feisty Elaine, she announced <em>"I've got more important things in my life than worrying what the public think of me"</em>. So give it a week and she'll be begging for our votes. While Carol endeared herself to the nation by deciding to call David Dickinson 'Chips'. It's a novelty which should have worn off entirely by the end of the first day. If not before. Frankly I could slap her already.<br /><br />The same cannot be said, however, for Jenny Frost's sneeze. Described by The Duke as sounding <em>"like Muffin the Mule"</em>, it has to be heard to be believed, and if ITV have any sense it'll be available on the 'I'm a Celebrity' website as an MP3 download before the week's out. I've put my name down for the polyphonic ring tone already.<br /><br />But anyway, the celebs soon made their way into the jungle, five by means of a trek through the undergrowth and a shimmy across a ravine, the other 50% re-enacting the Enid Blyton classic that never was - 'Five Jump Out of a Plane'. Which gives me the chance to mention that my girlfriend's cousin's daughter's boyfriend was strapped to David Dickinson. Which is the kind of concrete claim to fame that's made Colleen McLoughlin a star.<br /><br />Having arrived at the clearing they'll be calling home for the next two weeks, the group set about locating the toilet, with Jenny Frost spotting a green thing hanging on a tree, asking <em>"is it that thing there?"</em>, and being told <em>"no, that's the water bottle"</em>. Clearly they needed a leader with the ability to distinguish a toilet from a bottle of water, and David Dickinson was duly appointed head of the camp. It was an appropriate appointment because, as Antony pointed out, <em>"he just looks like a chief"</em>. Well, he's the colour of a red indian.<br /><br />As leader, David undertook the week's first Bushtucker Trial along with his willing deputy, Sid. It basically involved going up and down a tree and opening padlocks whilst sitting on a swing, but it was clearly a lot harder than it looked. Having collected only four of a possible ten stars, an exhausted Duke turned to his Boy Wonder and said <em>"pretty physically tough, wasn't it"</em>. Sid agreed - <em>"those combination locks... they were stiff"</em>. Yes, it was a truly horrific ordeal.<br /><br />Back in camp, the group set about preparing their evening rations, at which point Jimmy revealed that he'd brought half of Salt Lake City's seasoning supply stuffed up the rear end of his teddy bear. Which didn't actually help much, as none of them knew how to cook. Though you'd imagine Antony Costa can make a cup of coffee.<br /><br />To help get them in the mood for food, Antony and Sheree promptly volunteered for 'dunny duty'. As Sheree said, <em>"It's not every day you get to pull out a big bucket full of pee and poo"</em>. Unless you've done time in prison of course. Step forward our old friend Chips.<br /><br />But Chips and porridge aside, the group's first day ended on a high with the sterling comedy work of Elaine Lordan. Having keeled over for no apparent reason, Elaine was rescued by the ITV medics and given oxygen, before stating <em>"I feel much better now"</em>. At which point she went for the full Norman Wisdom cabaret act, and hit the deck again. Her fellow celebs described Elaine's ability to faint at will as <em>"very, very scary"</em>, with Sheree adding <em>"honestly, it was so frightening"</em>. Yes, she'd jumped out of an aeroplane and handled a vat of celebrity poo, but there's nothing so scary as an Eastenders star out cold on the floor in front of you. Apart from one fully conscious, that is.<br /><br />Having carried Elaine out on a stretcher, the baton of camp comic passed into the capable hands of Carol, who chose to mark her territory by having a piss next to the bed. I know there was some confusion about what the toilet looked like, but even Jenny Frost wouldn't just wee by the bedside. Into the water supply, maybe, but next to the bed, no. Ironically Carol was immediately voted in for the next Bushtucker Trial. I just hope she washes her hands.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1132160106734541922005-11-16T17:26:00.000+00:002012-08-16T08:15:45.428+01:00Slough of Despond<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcSNBgKxFlQH2gQmXUkuUoWDsvYAZPEmTnwCZircxtROkIpFehNcNdz5MSFbCTeJ5a3RPzC4ENhoHnne1N_SQ_wQi9TyW7VwiSyoybhSGHl6_2gOi0zdUd6p8vfM5xhdkZS8kC/s1600/makingsloughhappy1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="94" width="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcSNBgKxFlQH2gQmXUkuUoWDsvYAZPEmTnwCZircxtROkIpFehNcNdz5MSFbCTeJ5a3RPzC4ENhoHnne1N_SQ_wQi9TyW7VwiSyoybhSGHl6_2gOi0zdUd6p8vfM5xhdkZS8kC/s200/makingsloughhappy1.jpg" /></a></div>As mentioned here previously, one of my favourite types of reality TV show is the sort that dresses itself up as social experiment. Never have we learnt so little than by watching a show which claims it's trying to educate, and not simply to entertain. So I was particularly pleased to see the start of BBC2's <strong>'Making Slough Happy'</strong> last night, which billed itself as <em>"a uniquely ambitious experiment"</em>. It's a reality show for people who think 'the Science of Happiness' is a Big Brother housemate.<br /><br />The idea behind the programme is simple (in the 'foolish' sense of the word). Can the scientific study of happiness (which basically involves stating the obvious in a perky voice) be used to cheer up an entire town? Judging by the opening episode, the answer's no, but we've got an entire series to get through before then, so let's not prejudge it.<br /><br />The location chosen for this experiment was the Berkshire town of Slough (the clue was in the title), home of the fictional Wernham Hogg, and a place full of depressed people. Apparently. It looked quite nice to me, but then I did grow up in Basildon. Taking on the cheer-up challenge was a crack troop of so-called experts led by Dr Richard Stevens, a psychologist who likes to perform modern dance in forest clearings, and who acts like a cross between a stage school child and a hippy. Backing him up was Richard Reeves, a writer and economist, who owns his own megaphone and who headed straight out onto the streets of Slough to ask the locals what they thought his chances were of making the town happy. The residents spoke as one man. What I mean is, there was only one man willing to speak to him. And that man said <em>"Nil"</em>.<br /><br />But undeterred, Dr Stevens announced his intention to create <em>"a chain reaction of happiness"</em> by packing fifty averagely happy Slough residents onto <em>"The Happiness Express"</em> for <em>"a Happiness Away-Day"</em>. Yes, that's right, he took them to a conference centre on a coach. Once there, his fellow Richard gave them a lecture on the economy of happy countries, and told them they're more miserable than a former communist state, before the good doctor took them outside for a <em>"Happy Walk"</em>, and some ice-breaking exercises involving public nursery rhyme recitals. By which time I'd have been ready to shoot myself.<br /><br />The culmination of the day was the launch of <em>"The Happiness Manifesto"</em>, a ten-point plan outlining the secrets of a happy life. These include such ground-breaking ideas as counting your blessings and phoning a friend, as well as cutting your television viewing by half and growing a plant. Of course if you grow the right kind of plant you can certainly experience a high of some sort, and I was tempted to switch off the TV already, so I could see where they were coming from.<br /><br />The following day Richard Reeves headed for Slough Trading Estate, where he failed to find any takers for the manifesto, while Dr Stevens took a group of volunteers to the local graveyard. He was undoubtedly the creepiest thing there, but the idea was to remind them all that they're still alive, and make them grateful that they haven't yet died a horrible and painful death in an underfunded nursing home. Slough resident Joanne responded by bursting into tears and talking about the time she tried to kill herself, prompting Dr Stevens to declare <em>"It could mark a new phase in her life"</em>. Yes, a new phase of clinical depression.<br /><br />Clearly reinforcements were needed, and they duly arrived in the form of Dr Brett Kahr, a psychotherapist, and Radio 2's answer to Frazier. Dr Kahr wasn't so much happy, as gay, and he soon set about playing show tunes on the piano, and trying to get everyone singing. Thank god Joanne wasn't there. She'd have topped herself by the end of the first chorus. Clearly Brett had confused happiness with excrutiating embarrassment.<br /><br />But all of this effort was beginning to pay off. In the words of volunteer Heather, <em>"I do try to give myself a treat. I bought some scollops this week"</em>. Oh yes, happiness levels were beginning to soar, and riding the crest of this wave of ecstacy was Richard Reeves, who headed straight for the town centre with a megaphone and offered free pot plants to anyone who was willing to listen to him talk about happiness for five minutes. He found only one taker - a woman whose son had recently died, and who told Richard <em>"You're gonna start me crying in a minute"</em>. Not <strong>quite</strong> the result he was looking for, but hey, Dr Stevens had pushed a woman to the verge of suicide, so Rich was still ahead on points.<br /><br />What we needed was more experts. So enter business consultants Jessica and Philippa, who failed to get a tune out of the boss of Tunes Engineering, and Andrew Mawson, a social entrepreneur (eh?), whose plan was to bring people together by organising a beach party. Slough doesn't actually have a beach of course, but that's why it's such a brilliant idea. Apparently.<br /><br />Dr Stevens meanwhile was packing everyone back onto the bus and heading for Hampshire, his plan to cheer up Slough seeming to consist of getting everyone out of there. And it worked. Having escorted them to the middle of nowhere, volunteer Ruth sat by the edge of the lake talking about the positive difference that fresh air and clean living make. She was smoking a fag at the time of course, but you can't have everything.<br /><br />Back in Slough, Richard Reeves had lowered his standards. He was now offering pot plants to anyone willing to listen to him for <em><strong>one</strong></em> minute. He had no takers whatsoever, but at least he didn't make anyone cry this time.<br /><br />To be honest, he should have been relieved he wasn't in Hampshire, where Dr Stevens had taken his happy campers into the forest and was attempting to get them dancing in the pouring rain with the words <em>"Make love with this tree!"</em>. I haven't seen anything so disturbing in the woods since The Blair Witch Project. Frankly I wish I'd taken the doctor's advice and turned off after half an hour.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1131800900498738042005-11-11T16:20:00.000+00:002012-08-16T08:19:09.862+01:00Wet Dreams<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbH-CT9l3foFrj7ytYalw1VW8zU2xcrchM4RFIMxUJf3ogUOrfzIqopg7dy60URK8zQy7-80FN6jZ4Z286XUe_tiw46bkmmui1J5hY9kq6BuAEHlHY-VyahCLMlnucW3ZaybPk/s1600/dreambusiness1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="99" width="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbH-CT9l3foFrj7ytYalw1VW8zU2xcrchM4RFIMxUJf3ogUOrfzIqopg7dy60URK8zQy7-80FN6jZ4Z286XUe_tiw46bkmmui1J5hY9kq6BuAEHlHY-VyahCLMlnucW3ZaybPk/s200/dreambusiness1.jpg" /></a></div>If there's one thing I like, it's posing rhetorical questions. And then answering them. So I particularly enjoyed <strong>'Dream Business'</strong>, a new reality fest which began last night on Five, and opened with this little poser: <em>"Have you ever fantasised about jacking in your day job, packing your bags, and running away to start a business of your dreams?"</em>. Clearly my response of "No" wasn't what they were looking for, because presenter Geetie Singh (who apparently owns two organic gastropubs - no, really) went on to declare her intention to <em>"find out if those fantasies could become a reality"</em>. I think she missed the word 'show' off the end there.<br /><br />Of course, if a programme like this is going to hold your interest for sixty minutes, what it really needs above anything else is a neurotic incompetent with a drink problem.<br /><br />Step forward Lesley Hay.<br /><br />Lesley and her husband Peter have always dreamed of running a ski chalet in the French Alps. Obviously they don't cook, clean, or speak French, but they do live in Scotland, so they're used to the cold. Peter's a farmer, but claims <em>"there's no future in farming"</em>, which is true - the days of people buying milk, bread, meat and veg are clearly numbered, so the pair have set their hearts on a move to the mountains. 'Dream Business' kindly (and foolishly) gave them the chance to try their hand at running a chalet for five days, after which their performance would be judged by experts, and if found to be up to scratch the couple would be awarded a prize of £10,000 towards their new life. What could be simpler? Well, if you're Lesley, nuclear physics.<br /><br />The pair arrived at Chalet Piton in Meribel with high hopes of success, and were introduced to the chalet's owners, Kate & Andrew Thorley (pictured above), who showed them around the seventeen beds and nine toilets they'd be cleaning for the next week. Peter cheerfully stated that <em>"I've had my hands in a lot worse places than a toilet"</em>, which is no way to talk about Lesley, and met up with chalet boy Dave, who'd obviously been told to plug the company website address at every opportunity. He eventually resorted to wearing it on a t-shirt.<br /><br />Introductions over, Peter and Lesley went shopping at the local supermarket, where they took four hours and went £100 over budget. Not the best start, it's true, but at least it got them out of the chalet, which for Kate & Andrew was probably good news.<br /><br />The first full day in Meribel was guest changeover day. Peter & Lesley got off to an enthusiastic start by attempting to show a new guest up to her room while the previous occupant was still in bed, before getting down to some cleaning, which gave Lesley an opportunity to prove just how badly she takes criticism. It was an opportunity she grabbed with both hands. Frankly if I'd been Andrew, I'd have hit her.<br /><br />But amid the scowls and pouts, they began preparations for the evening meal. Which for Lesley involved getting pissed and turning on the grill instead of the oven, meaning that whilst she was in the dining room giving a drunken speech to the guests, the Mozzarella & Aubergine starters were setting the kitchen on fire. As Lesley herself admitted, <em>"I'm a disaster with a glass of wine in me"</em>. Although to be fair, she's pretty close without.<br /><br />Not to be put off, Lesley set about serving frozen veg which had barely been defrosted, and responding to a guest who doesn't eat fish with the words <em>"Give him a fucking ham sandwich"</em>. She then poured herself another drink and attempted to make an omelette, reclassifying it as scrambled egg half way through, and presenting it to a guest with the words <em>"That's minging"</em>.<br /><br />There's only one way to react to a first night like that. Peter & Lesley took the day off and went ski-ing.<br /><br />By the end of the week, Lesley had hit upon a new plan for the catering side of the business, which could basically be summed up in two words: ready meals. So as the final 'Test Day' dawned, and with the arrival of the two Chalet Inspectors imminent, Lesley was planning to wow the judges with instant creme brulee out of a packet. Fortunately Geetie managed to talk her out of that one, and as Martin & Marguerite from Bigfoot Travel began their detailed inspection of the chalet, she asked owners Kate & Andrew <em>"If you were the inspectors, what would <strong>you</strong> fail them on?"</em>.<br /><br />Kate looked uncomfortable, and tried to find a polite way of saying "Everything", while Andrew merely passed judgement on Lesley's cooking with the words <em>"I don't think she's a natural in the kitchen"</em>. He'd noticed then.<br /><br />Back in the chalet, Lesley was attacking her creme brulee with a blowtorch, before losing control and nearly gassing the judges, while Peter was confidently stating <em>"Whatever they think, we've done as well as we can"</em>. Which just goes to show how low their standards really were. Sure enough, the inspectors found unacceptable levels of cleanliness, and a poor standard of mushroom risotto, leaving Lesley and Peter with only one course of action: a lunchtime barbecue on the slopes.<br /><br />Peter attempted to round up seventeen guests, managed only six, and thereby proved that eleven had learnt something from the previous five days, while Lesley attempted to lug a gas barbecue up the side of a mountain on foot. At the top, judge Martin inspected Peter's cooking with the words <em>"Is it <strong>meant</strong> to look like that?"</em>, before forcing it down and gathering the couple together for the final verdict.<br /><br />Clearly the decision could only go one way, and sure enough, with a look of ashen-faced concern... Martin & Margueritte handed over the ten grand. After all, this is reality TV - you can't have results that make any sense.<br /><br />Peter & Lesley took the money, before announcing that the week had taught them a valuable lesson, and they were abandoning their dream forthwith. Peter went back to the farm, and Lesley started training as a beauty therapist. She may be incompetent, but she's not stupid.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1131699925424214142005-11-10T23:07:00.000+00:002012-08-16T08:20:34.052+01:00Avocado Baby<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdr-vDiiQX0Fid0d7U18cI7kyRyPrAhflkx-ArnH-GK1lIjkdx8t0Nh3D7P4Oe1MW1WGdD3OSKDYNMNyHU_n2m3f0UWt3AxjHIcKJicTPW22-2Lo3kazPfY4qmbayBXU119j5q/s1600/hownottodecorate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="135" width="110" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdr-vDiiQX0Fid0d7U18cI7kyRyPrAhflkx-ArnH-GK1lIjkdx8t0Nh3D7P4Oe1MW1WGdD3OSKDYNMNyHU_n2m3f0UWt3AxjHIcKJicTPW22-2Lo3kazPfY4qmbayBXU119j5q/s200/hownottodecorate.jpg" /></a></div>The good thing about a show like <strong>'How Not To Decorate'</strong>, which began its third series on Five tonight, is that it does exactly what it says on the tin. Each week, Colin & Justin (think Trinny & Susannah, but <strong><em>openly</em></strong> gay) go into a home that needs a bit of a revamp, and armed with nothing but good intentions and a lot of enthusiasm, they completely balls it up in nine days. It could be renamed 'When Interior Designers Attack'. And probably will be for the fourth series.<br /><br />In tonight's edition, the prancing pair demonstrated how not to decorate the London flat of Neil & Christine Hamilton. The resulting fallout has been plugged to high heaven by Colin & Justin this week - in the past few days they've appeared on Richard & Judy, Des & Mel, The Wright Stuff, and numerous other shows I should be ashamed to admit watching, stating at length that they don't want to talk about it; but having seen tonight's show, I have to say I thought it was all a storm in a tea cup. Or in Christine's case, a wine glass.<br /><br />The make-over started well anyway, with Colin & Justin giving their first impressions of the Hamiltons' apartment. Colin called it a <em>"hovel"</em> and added <em>"It all looks like it smells of wee"</em>, while Justin went with the slightly more camp <em>"Oh come on you monkeys!"</em>. No, me neither. Having wondered aloud if the soft furnishings were created from the same fabric Christine uses for her outfits, they made their way into the bathroom, where Justin started fiddling with a wooden chicken, prompting the retort from Colin <em>"Don't pull on the cock"</em>. I wonder how many times he's said <strong>that</strong> before.<br /><br />To be honest, plywood poultry was the least of their worries. The Hamiltons had fitted carpet in the bathroom and wallpapered over the tiles with a mind-numbing choice of paper which made it look like someone had pelted them with tomatoes (probably not for the first time). As Justin said, <em>"You're lucky you're not crazy, you two"</em>. He'd clearly never met them before.<br /><br />For her part, Christine began optimistically, looking Colin & Justin in the eye and boldly declaring <em>"I think you're manna from heaven"</em>. Which I believe was the first - and last - positive thing she ever said. Probably because she hadn't seen their designs at that point. Designs, it has to be said, which consisted of black carpets, magenta furniture, and a timber-clad avocado bath. I'm not saying Colin & Justin didn't have the Hamiltons' best interests at heart, but having settled on the final layout, Colin's exact words were <em>"I think Christine is going to hate it"</em>.<br /><br />He wasn't wrong. She quickly stated <em>"I'm not having an avocado bath"</em>, although a jungle shower is obviously no problem, judging by the first series of 'I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here'. Frankly avocado in the bathroom was nothing - Justin declared a desire to put <em>"a bit of spunk"</em> in the kitchen, which is surely far more unhygienic.<br /><br />Nevertheless, work began, with Christine becoming philosophical about her new black velvet curtains <em>("I can use them to scrub the black floor")</em>, and Justin calling her <em>"an old bitch"</em> to her face. A quick snog later (did they learn nothing from Louis Theroux?), Christine outlined her plans for the flat, prompting the outraged response from Justin, <em>"If you want that, go and get some bloody daytime makeover shit to do your house"</em>. Yes, how dare she! This isn't daytime TV, this is Channel Five, dammit!<br /><br />But the trio soon made up with a trip to the bath shop, where Christine talked about her hatred of avocado, and Colin & Justin bought a bath. Which wouldn't fit in the bathroom. A basic error, yes, but remember: this is called 'How <strong>NOT</strong> To Decorate' - they're contractually obliged to be crap.<br /><br />Back at the flat, they took delivery of a twenty foot carpet described as <em>"horrible"</em> by the builders, and attempted to get it up a flight of stairs with a maximum width of seven feet, before Christine informed Colin & Justin that <em>"you have screwed my flat into the most godawful mess I have ever seen"</em>. Which prompted a masterstroke by the builders - they took out the electrics so it was too dark to see.<br /><br />Cue the arrival of the new kitchen, courtesy of design assistant Katie. I'm not saying it wasn't everything they'd hoped for, but Colin's response was to tell Christine <em>"It's all your fault"</em>, Justin added <em>"I hold you personally responsible"</em>, and Christine declared <em>"It's not Katie's fault, and it certainly isn't <strong>my</strong> fault"</em>. Personally I blame it on the boogie.<br /><br />But all's well that ends well. A mere nine days after work began, and having blatantly ignored every instruction they'd been given, Colin & Justin successfully delivered the Hamiltons the most hideous living room I've ever seen. Or, as Christine put it, <em>"a Morticia Addams pastiche of a funeral parlour"</em>. Not so much manna from heaven then, more a bat out of hell.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1130870113774945562005-11-01T21:18:00.000+00:002012-08-16T08:22:20.112+01:00I Put a Spell On You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIK4SZ2hEoEFS6Z5hqJ9R70NvKNLR_dffixjwQfVsoULp-qYThAPL87aaQlgOO6P7GaVaIZznzhkEI0IKnXYFAzSVEojsBoLMKNftp-ZQENT7yVKgCLcW_9yAmwuPOZguk6htM/s1600/realwitch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="102" width="110" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIK4SZ2hEoEFS6Z5hqJ9R70NvKNLR_dffixjwQfVsoULp-qYThAPL87aaQlgOO6P7GaVaIZznzhkEI0IKnXYFAzSVEojsBoLMKNftp-ZQENT7yVKgCLcW_9yAmwuPOZguk6htM/s200/realwitch.jpg" /></a></div>Anyone who's seen the documentary film 'Spellbound', ITV's 'Great British Spelling Test', or the BBC's 'Hard Spell' and 'Star Spell', will know that these days, spelling has replaced cooking as the new rock 'n' roll. Channel Five have so far failed to jump on that particular bandwagon, but just weeks after trying to harness the pulling power of Jordan by hiring the lead singer of New Kids on the Block, Five last night attempted to capitalise on the national spelling craze with a show called <strong>'The Real Witch Project'</strong>. It might feature the wrong kind of spells, but it gives whole new meaning to the word 'miscast'.<br /><br />This one-off reality show took five women (with a sixth turning up a week late - they're women, it was bound to happen), and persuaded them to try witchcraft for a month. After all, if you can't mess with the dark side on a cheap reality show, when can you? The would-be wiccans included the likes of 28-year-old Mecca (whose parents were obviously bingo fans), unemployed mum of two, Sam, and good Christian girl Maria, who didn't seem to see any conflict between her religious beliefs and becoming an amateur anti-christ for a month.<br /><br />The girls were introduced to the unlikely named Gaillies Codd, who sounds like an old-fashioned fishmonger, but is in fact a High Priestess who practices witchcraft in a shed in Walthamstow, and under Gaillies' watchful eye, the five formed a coven and decided what they wanted to achieve using the power of spells. Samantha wanted to give up smoking, Maria to stop arguing with her mother, and Hanna to find a parking space outside her flat. World peace obviously hadn't occurred to them. Mecca's most burning desire, meanwhile, was to get her mobile phone back from her ex-boyfriend.<br /><br />By a stroke of good fortune, Gaillies Codd happened to know a traditional centuries-old spell for the return of missing cell phones, so the women soon set about chanting and wailing at the kind of volume which, ironically, makes a phone unneccesary. That issue sorted, they moved on to Maria's family problems. Gaillies handed her a bunch of leaves, and instructed her on how to use them to cast a powerful spell. Though whether you can really improve your relationship with your mother by waving a salad in the air, I'm not sure. Mine would probably just tell me to stop playing with my food.<br /><br />This first coven meeting over, the fledgling witches made their way home, where Sam swept through her house with a magical broom (shouldn't she have been riding it?) to rid the place of bad spirits and bring her health, wealth and fertility. Looking at her children, I'm not sure fertility was such a good idea, but her house did look like it could do with a clean.<br /><br />Mecca, meanwhile, had managed to get her phone back from the ex, stating <em>"it was definitely witchcraft that brought him to me"</em>, thus ignoring the bus he'd taken to her flat, while Samantha was introducing us to her partner, Rob. Rob liked to refer to witches as <em>"strong birds"</em>, and was about to undergo surgery for a neck injury he'd sustained whilst headbutting a man in a pub. I swear I'm not making this up. Fellow witch Hanna also had a lame duck husband, Steve, whose heart condition was probably less self-inflicted, so the two women joined together to cast a healing spell for their hubbies.<br /><br />When asked how he felt about being the subject of an amateur spell, Steve responded with this powerful metaphor: <em>"If you paint a front door with gloss paint and you don't put an undercoat on, it'll just peel off. So a little knowledge <strong>is</strong> dangerous."</em><br /><br />I never did understand DIY enthusiasts.<br /><br />Fortunately the men survived, so the spell must have worked, and at the next coven meeting the girls were joined by Sarah, a bongo player who claims to have had <em>"a blinding moment of clarity"</em>. Which is a bit like Stevie Wonder singing 'I Can See Clearly Now'. Maria, who was still finding her Mum irritating, proved how dangerous witchcraft can be by burning herself on a candle, while Mecca announced <em>"I want to get laid a lot"</em>, and immediately jumped naked into a bath of rose petals.<br /><br />Samantha meanwhile had had an argument with Rob, so used the traditional pagan method of overcoming a row, and buried his toothbrush in the local park. Which is sure to placate any man.<br /><br />Another day, another chance to see Mecca stripping off and oiling up, this time in the living room with some penis-shaped candles. Apparently it was an 'attraction spell', and let's face it, if there's one thing likely to attract men, it's a girl who likes to get naked and announce a penchant for sex.<br /><br />Back in the coven, the others were being taught the art of tarot reading, tea-leaf analysis, and crystal-ball gazing, before deciding to hold a seance with a ouija board. As luck would have it, they were soon chatting to Sam's dead grandfather, who was swiftly followed by American hip-hop superstar, Tupac Shakur, who wanted a word with Maria. She just happened to be a fan, though quite what a black gangsta rapper is doing hanging out in heaven with Sam's grandad, I've no idea.<br /><br />By the end of the month the results of the experiment were clear. Mecca got a shag, Sam bought a cooker, Samantha became a Native American stripper, and Hanna forced Steve to do a parachute jump two weeks after his heart surgery. Which shows the benefit of a good life insurance policy. Maria meanwhile had learnt a great deal, saying <em>"I feel I'm a Christian, but I would also do witchcraft now"</em>. I'm sure the Pope won't have a problem with that.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1130584302528855842005-10-29T12:32:00.000+01:002012-08-16T08:23:53.931+01:00Saving Private Ryan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXk9p1tNeZioxzhSJufrdYTdiF6CZg3npR-qoXCqKVo5hyphenhyphenNCxwuruE2FUI8Xppg8ek70vzCS_WZ-AiJxrG2LPGKl-EIzzKSQXOaHN_uxrOw41wjmxOD6VyYbVouBhRl95B5FDy/s1600/Commando_VIP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="57" width="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXk9p1tNeZioxzhSJufrdYTdiF6CZg3npR-qoXCqKVo5hyphenhyphenNCxwuruE2FUI8Xppg8ek70vzCS_WZ-AiJxrG2LPGKl-EIzzKSQXOaHN_uxrOw41wjmxOD6VyYbVouBhRl95B5FDy/s320/Commando_VIP.jpg" /></a></div>I actually missed the start of Five's new celebrity reality show <strong>'Commando VIP'</strong> the Wednesday before last, due to having an urgent appointment with Trinny & Susannah. But fortunately for me, Five have refused to let the matter drop by following last night's final edition of 'Hot Tub Ranking' with the all-new 'Commando VIP Uncut', a not-to-be-missed chance to catch the first two episodes with none of the swearing bleeped out. Of course, if a penis is uncut, it means you can't see the dickhead, but with 'Commando VIP' that doesn't apply. Jason Cowan is in almost every scene.<br /><br />The programme takes six minor celebrities to <em>"a secret military training establishment"</em> (or 'a bog in Scotland' if you want to be more precise), and attempts to turn them into Royal Marine Commandos in the space of a couple of weeks. It sounds slightly implausible already, but when you realise the line-up includes a former member of Steps, you begin to see just how barking it is. Not that Lee Latchford Evans doesn't appear tough, but he <strong>has</strong> spent his career standing next to H, so it's not exactly difficult.<br /><br />Joining Lee in the commando boot camp is Nigel Benn, who remembers his time in the army as a 17-year-old fondly. He tapped the side of his head and said <em>"It's a long time ago, but you still don't lose it up here"</em>. Which sounds so unlikely coming from a boxer. Benn's fellow pugilist, Steve Collins, was also in the line-up, as was actress Heather Peace (and I'd certainly be willing to give <strong>her</strong> a chance), who's apparently supremely qualified for an assignment like this, due to her role in SAS drama 'Ultimate Force'. Although let's not forget she was previously in Emmerdale for a year - something the programme failed to mention.<br /><br />Bringing up the rear (of the year) was Jason Cowan, or 'the best buttocks in South Lanarkshire', as I'm sure he still likes to be known. Jason started by announcing <em>"I'm probably the fittest person here"</em>, before going on to state that <em>"this might not be tough enough for me, to be honest"</em>. This from the man who couldn't get out of dressing gown for ten weeks on Big Brother.<br /><br />And last but not much more than least, was Ryan Dunn from American TV show 'Jackass'. Private Ryan turned up looking like Grizzly Adams, or, if you prefer the words of SAS veteran and Commando VIP instructor Dave, <em>"like a bag of shite"</em>.<br /><br />But undeterred, Ryan and the other five set about basic training with Royal Marine instructor Morgan Johnson, who dropped them in at the deep end by giving them canoes and making them paddle out onto water a good three feet deep. Nigel, who's faced some of the most fearsome men in the world inside a boxing ring, appeared to have an unconquerable fear of cold water, and started making a strangulated mewing sound which led Ryan to comment <em>"I thought someone had killed a cat behind me"</em>. It wasn't so much a cat as a pussy.<br /><br />Next up was a 10k march with loaded backpacks, a task which had Ryan developing an urge to speak to his agent, before the recruits embarked on their first mission - to rescue a downed pilot from behind enemy lines. Which basically involved paddling down a river, picking up a bloke from the bushes, and running through some Hollywood-style explosions whilst being shot at by extras with paintball guns. The result was Steve being named <em>"top recruit"</em> by the instructors, and <em>"an arrogant piece of shit"</em> by Ryan. Just a slight difference of opinion there.<br /><br />Day two saw Private Ryan saving himself by refusing to climb every mountain. Making him slightly softer than Julie Andrews. It did mean, however, that he was forced to face a firing squad of his celebrity colleagues. All successfully hit him in the stomach with a paintball gun, except Lee, who managed to miss and hit his nipple. The assault over, Ryan was allowed to go back to bed while the others climbed a mountain with 30kg backpacks. Suddenly Ryan didn't look so stupid after all.<br /><br />On the third day, the recruits faced their toughest challenge yet - two hours of educational videos in a scout hut. I thought they were going to break at one point, but they made it through, only to be captured for a chance to experience life as a POW. Which to Jason is probably a sound effect from a Batman film, but to everyone else is a prisoner of war. All six were subjected to sleep deprivation and all-night interrogation, four of them choosing to remain silent, Steve deciding to argue back, and Ryan essentially talking bollocks for three hours.<br /><br />Heather was the first to break, quickly followed by Lee, who blamed his withdrawal on an old sporting injury, saying <em>"It's annoying, because I'm prepared to go through a bit more"</em>. You have to feel for the man. He <strong>wanted</strong> to carry on with the torture, but he was getting a bit of a twinge. The guy had no alternative.<br /><br />Next to go was Ryan, who decided to confess all and blame everything on Lee, and after another four hours, the interrogators stepped up the pressure and inflicted on the three remaining recruits a level of torture not seen in any civilised western society. Yes, that's right, they started playing 'Tragedy' by Steps on a continuous loop. Jason coped remarkably well. But then he did endure Nadia's laugh for two months in the Big Brother house. Let's face it, the man's coped with far worse.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1130410900885327672005-10-25T11:50:00.000+01:002012-08-16T08:25:59.121+01:00Bea in Your Bonnet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdamDFOkmxFPESevLoYyA4CTrCkNn6WkpamtvaBVmnfWXggeTT2bZPsSediC1lcgTvgCjFkDdUlb5zmvbgA1ajTd4frZU2HYConbjCg4W8zDUkN_U8-IQHyZ6AkOMeHq4ZGCQ2/s1600/wifeswap1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="84" width="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdamDFOkmxFPESevLoYyA4CTrCkNn6WkpamtvaBVmnfWXggeTT2bZPsSediC1lcgTvgCjFkDdUlb5zmvbgA1ajTd4frZU2HYConbjCg4W8zDUkN_U8-IQHyZ6AkOMeHq4ZGCQ2/s200/wifeswap1.jpg" /></a></div>It's a sign of the times that being a single mother doesn't preclude you from taking part in a show called <strong>'Wife Swap'</strong>. And hey, why should it? A lot of shows with the word 'celebrity' in the title feature people I've never heard of, so why not an episode of Wife Swap with only one wife? And so it was with last night's sixth series finale, featuring an unemployed mum of four who stated <em>"I like my house buzzing"</em>. Which makes sense when your name's Bea.<br /><br />Bea Livesey, it turns out, has been single for seven years and still likes an occasional night out with the girls, despite being 38. Which is clearly outrageous. Bea is mother to four children, including the beautifully named Chelsey - a variant on the more usual 'Chelsea', which makes it so much more classy.<br /><br />Actually, I should stop right there, because I think you'll find they're <strong>not</strong> children. Oh no. As Bea herself said, <em>"I don't like calling them children neither. I call them little tomorrows"</em>. Which is lovely. And completely ignores the fact that most of them are on ASBOs. Or probably will be by tomorrow.<br /><br />Bea's family live on microwave meals, keep rabbits in the bedroom, and leave the ironing to 7-year-old Charlotte. All of which is in slight contrast to the Lloyds of Birmingham. Wife Sue believes firmly in John Major's 'Back to Basics' campaign (so she's used to backing lost causes), and when it comes to washing and ironing, <em>"wouldn't dream of Simon ever doing anything like that"</em>. Simon, her husband, owns his own health club, and spent most of the programme shamelessly chasing free publicity by wandering around in a t-shirt advertising their address.<br /><br />Sue's pet hate is <em>"badly ironed clothes"</em> (her views on child poverty and third world starvation aren't known), but she does like her kids to play golf, and states <em>"If I were to bump into the Queen tomorrow, I would be more than comfortable"</em>. Unfortunately she was heading for Manchester at the time, so it didn't seem likely.<br /><br />Having arrived at their respective homes, Bea got off to a good start by knocking a bowl out of Sue's fridge and smashing it on the floor, while Sue merely stood in the doorway of her new home and declared <em>"there's poo everywhere"</em>. Fortunately Bea had left her a manual full of worldly wisdom like <em>"I don't want a man, I've got a vibrator"</em>, and <em>"It's bullshit to dictate to your children. If you put a load of restrictions on them, they'll tell you to fuck off. And they'd be right"</em>. I only hope that when I have kids (sorry, 'little tomorrows'), I'll be able to back them up like that when they tell people to fuck off.<br /><br />In situations like this, first impressions count for everything, and Sue's 11-year-old daughter Rebecca was straight in with a critique of Bea, saying <em>"I think Dad's a bit disappointed that she drinks tea"</em>. Which suggests he has high standards, when in reality he's just an alcoholic looking for a drinking partner. Bea, for her part, was busy making a salad, which Simon described as <em>"dry", "bland"</em>, and <em>"not very good"</em>. But hey, at least there was one less bowl to wash up afterwards.<br /><br />The next morning, Simon received his usual breakfast in bed, and gave Bea instructions on how to use the vacuum cleaner, before complaining that the sound of the hoover was drowning out the TV. I don't think he'd quite thought that one through. Sue, meanwhile, was still coming to terms with her surroundings, stating <em>"I've never seen such a repulsive sight, ever... I can't believe that in this day and age, I'm standing here looking at such a shit-hole"</em>. Which is the kind of thing you normally only hear on 'Changing Rooms'.<br /><br />A quick water fight in the garden, and week two began with Sue finding dog shit in the bed, and Bea stocking up on ready meals. A dining room table was soon installed in the Livesey house, and after a quick fight over a rabbit, Sue took the kids to a golf club. Back in Birmingham, Simon was busy repeating the words <em>"nobody tells me what to do"</em>, and getting uppity every time Bea asked him to stop drinking, before stating that his philosophy in life is that <em>"you can have a point of view; we discuss it; and then you agree with me"</em>. He must be one of those new men I've been hearing about.<br /><br />The week ended with Bea organising a sleepover for the kids, during which she helped them paint handprints onto the dining room wall, presumably as some kind of tribute to The Blair Witch Project, while Simon, ever one for the carefully considered statement, described the evening as <em>"armageddon"</em>. Not that he's over-reacting at all.<br /><br />The final night was a time for reflection. Sue asked Bea's little tomorrows what their favourite change had been. The answer was unanimous: <em>"the new table"</em>. Though probably only because they knew they could flog it down Cash Converters the moment she left. Sue's children, meanwhile, were making enthusiastic noises about the handprinting sleepover, which had been a total success. The lessons of the exercise were clear.<br /><br />Swapping done, the two women made their way home, stopping only to describe each other's lives as <em>"crap"</em>, at which point Bea immediately got rid of the table and Sue called in the decorators to remove the handprints. Marvellous. That's what I call learning from your experience.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1129629803834304832005-10-18T14:01:00.000+01:002012-08-16T08:29:49.655+01:00Multicoloured Swap Shop<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIeOk8Rs83CQf0ZS2GEOAoU4XRsT-PL2yLB2hM1VRpjuMs0TInkZUfe7w7gb0W2GzKZmzNsT68KZ3FHzJb-FdthyphenhyphenJjmvwdm2ISsA2X38cNWmp1fU11Hx7kVplPyZn6T1cH5PF4/s1600/SamFoxBefore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="144" width="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIeOk8Rs83CQf0ZS2GEOAoU4XRsT-PL2yLB2hM1VRpjuMs0TInkZUfe7w7gb0W2GzKZmzNsT68KZ3FHzJb-FdthyphenhyphenJjmvwdm2ISsA2X38cNWmp1fU11Hx7kVplPyZn6T1cH5PF4/s200/SamFoxBefore.jpg" /></a></div>If there's one thing which guarantees reality show success (apart, that is, from desperate b-list celebrities hoping to boost their flagging (or in some cases non-existent) careers), it's the word 'swap' in the title. In the past three years we've had 'Wife Swap', 'Holiday Swap', 'Gender Swap', 'Age Swap', and of course 'Flip Flop Cop Swap'. Well ok, I might have made up that last one. But I'm sure it's only a matter of time. Anyhoo, proving this to be true, last night Channel Five gave us <strong>'Race Swap'</strong>, which sounds like an opportunity to see Michael Schumacher winning the Tour de France, but was in fact a light-hearted make-over session featuring the kind of racial integration not seen since The Black & White Minstrel Show.<br /><br />The programme saw the welcome return of Sam Fox to our screens, a woman who, according to the opening voice over, <em>"is famous as a former page 3 girl and a pop star"</em>. One out of two - close, but no cigar. Sam of course has already done a real life 'sexuality swap' in recent years, but on this occasion was paired with ageing Olympian, Linford Christie, and the two challenged to switch racial identity in an effort to fool their nearest and dearest. It was a lot to ask, because as Sam herself pointed out, <em>"when you think of me, you think 'Britain'"</em>. Well, Britain <strong>and</strong> knockers, surely?<br /><br />Fortunately the pair had a triumvirate of experts to assist them in their task: prosthetic make-up artist Neil, image consultant Vanessa, and vocal coach Louise, who had her work cut out with Linford, who seemed to think his best chance of playing a convincing white man lay in his ability to talk like he had the kind of breathing problems not seen since the death of Darth Vader.<br /><br />But undeterred, the team set about transforming Linford into a classic English gent, and Sam into a reject from the Kumars at Number 42. Having been measured up by Neil and Vanessa, Linford wasn't best pleased to hear that he'd be <em>"majorly covered in rubber"</em>, but Frank Bough must have been straight onto the phone to his agent, demanding to be booked for the next series. Neil soon set about making casts of their heads, while Louise got to work on their acting ability. Or lack of it.<br /><br />Her aim with Linford, we were told, was to <em>"disguise the athletic poise"</em> and <em>"make him look overweight"</em>, something Steve Ovett has managed all on his own, and sure enough, after a day of intensive training, the results were there for all to see: Linford announced <em>"I feel like a right dick"</em>, and threatened to walk out.<br /><br />Over in the bimbo camp, things were going a little better, with Sam doing a fine attempt at the Indian accent. If they ever bring back 'Mind Your Language', she's got a job for life. Although she did seem limited to shouting <em>"Sanjay!"</em> in a loud voice. It was enough, however, to prepare Sam for her first test - phoning a wedding planner who only deals with Asian customers, and convincing him that she was an Indian mother-in-law with £100,000 to spend. He seemed quite willing to believe her, but then if you're being offered a hundred grand to throw a party, you're not going to tell the customer they sound like Alec Guiness in 'A Passage to India'. And besides, he commented afterwards that <em>"her English was particularly poor"</em>, so you can't tell me he didn't twig who it was.<br /><br />Linford's test meanwhile, was to call <em>"a close friend"</em>, Dr Bernie Henry, a researcher at the Department of Materials at Oxford University. No, I don't know how they became friends either. But despite talking like he had a life-threatening sinus infection, and sounding marginally less convincing than a Les Dennis impression, Linford somehow managed to fool the good doctor. Which just goes to show that not everyone at Oxford is a genius.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJU2S88XyDFQnz3y6N_zYwyTo05b89ybevQu-hgGESmGxa40Q4G28a6dPFKmHF8P0spm4jSZ61N6Tj6FQU6Sv83Dzc1cKOVRP_5lx0OZ4BlV3Sywbw8KOBuhN8WqH-zZlrm_22/s1600/samfoxafter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="156" width="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJU2S88XyDFQnz3y6N_zYwyTo05b89ybevQu-hgGESmGxa40Q4G28a6dPFKmHF8P0spm4jSZ61N6Tj6FQU6Sv83Dzc1cKOVRP_5lx0OZ4BlV3Sywbw8KOBuhN8WqH-zZlrm_22/s200/samfoxafter.jpg" /></a></div>A couple of weeks later and the prosthetics were ready. Sam Fox's make-up <em>(right)</em> was actually quite impressive. Linford Christie's looked more like something out of The Evil Dead. Which had been left next to a radiator. But hey, you can't have everything.<br /><br />The pair were then taken out clothes shopping, with Linford being told <em>"You've got to think like Donald Trump"</em> (appropriate considering the shocking wig he'd just been given), and Sam meeting a group of Hindu ladies, who told her <em>"If you're not educated, you will have a strong Indian accent"</em>. Which explained a lot.<br /><br />The ensembles completed, and with Linford looking increasingly like a Spitting Image puppet, it was time for them to take their first proper challenges. Linford was given the task of posing as a journalist and fooling his lifelong coach, Rocket Ron Roddan, while Sam was expected to play the part of an Indian restaurant manager, and serve a group of her closest friends.<br /><br />Having perfected his voice beforehand, Linford took the last minute decision to chuck it all out the window and do an impression of Marlon Brando with laryngitis, while Sam seemed more intent on hamming it up as an Indian version of Manuel from Fawlty Towers. The two mounds of rice in the shape of breasts were a master stroke on Sam's part. Although, as she's only too keen to point out, she's known for so much more than just her tits.<br /><br />Anyhoo, challenge number one successfully completed, Linford moved on to his children's school, where his partner Mandy spotted him within three seconds, and before he'd had a chance to open his mouth. There was still time for him to mentally traumatise his kids though, with 4 year old Tate looking genuinely disturbed, and mumbling <em>"You're not my daddy"</em> in a shaky voice. But hey, I'm sure it's nothing that can't be sorted out with a few years of therapy.<br /><br />Sam meanwhile paid a visit to the radio studio of her old mate (adopt the voice of Smashy & Nicey when you read that), Pat Sharp, where she disrupted his show by sitting on a stool and singing 'Touch Me' in an Indian accent. Sam was convinced that he <em>"didn't have a clue it was me"</em>, and announced that she deserved an Oscar.<br /><br />And the verdict from Pat? <em>"I just thought you were a fucking lunatic"</em>. So he obviously knew who she was all along.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1129375642077097742005-10-15T11:10:00.000+01:002012-08-16T08:30:55.946+01:00A Bunch of Rankers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvBiA2l1mDrIqTRroKsc4mz5ArQjj2FSLjvr74MKvZGPMAL-oGazh9tbhv_dIf4OogsKEU-94Grhv5fM0cq1qnZMmT7rZCTddkooxDaqQzd8Y3taQvQkJXaU6pcPnCi-BcPTyT/s1600/hottubranking1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="102" width="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvBiA2l1mDrIqTRroKsc4mz5ArQjj2FSLjvr74MKvZGPMAL-oGazh9tbhv_dIf4OogsKEU-94Grhv5fM0cq1qnZMmT7rZCTddkooxDaqQzd8Y3taQvQkJXaU6pcPnCi-BcPTyT/s200/hottubranking1.jpg" /></a></div>Channel Five have never really had a reputation for cultured, high-brow television programmes, but as Catherine Tate would say, are they bothered? Apparently not, as for the past couple of weeks they've spent Friday nights broadcasting 'My Secret Body', a show where naked people spread their legs for the camera and talk about body hair, and following it up with the consistently wonderful <strong>'Hot Tub Ranking'</strong>, described by Ben Frow, controller of features and entertainment at Five, as <em>"a fresh and sexy entertainment show based on the premise that beauty is in the eye of the beholder"</em>. Or alternatively, a low-budget attempt to say the word "wank" a hundred times in half an hour.<br /><br />The premise of 'Hot Tub Ranking' is simple. Take a Japanese hostess who pronounces her 'w's as 'r's, give her a script peppered with the word 'ranking', and get her to introduce pretty girls in their knickers. The five ladies (seen above in their formal evening-wear) then have to rank each other (that pun will lose its novelty value by the end of this paragraph) on various body parts, whilst being watched by <em>"three sexy boys"</em> who, according to hostess Mia, <em>"will also be ranking"</em> (told you) behind a soundproof one-way mirror. If a guy's ranking matches a girl's ranking, that girl receives £500. Which makes it very close to prostitution.<br /><br />Amongst the slappers on parade were Darah, 25, who stated <em>"I have a body to die for"</em>. Well she certainly made <strong>me</strong> lose the will to live. And Loli, a 20-year-old blonde with <em>"very dirty eyes"</em>. She should invest in some Optrex. Among the more deluded contestants was Charlene, 22, who declared <em>"I'm the sexier, hotter version of Jennifer Ellison"</em>. Frankly she looked more like Jennifer Saunders to me. Oh yes, I was ranking along at home.<br /><br />In Round 1, Mia informed the girls, <em>"you will be ranking on each other's faces"</em> (are you getting bored of this yet?), which gave the men a chance to sit around giving considered opinions like <em>"nice tits"</em> and <em>"nice arse"</em>, while the women turned on each other. Giving her verdict on Ashley's face, Charlene cheerfully pointed out <em>"It's very 'Plain Jane'. I wouldn't put you up too high"</em>, before deciding that she herself ought to be number one. An opinion shared by all the other girls - they <strong>also</strong> each thought they should be number one.<br /><br />When the results came through, only three of them had guessed correctly. Helen had confidently placed herself in second position, conflicting slightly with the boys' opinion that she was the outright dog of the group.<br /><br />Round 2 was the bum, giving the girls the chance to strut about on national TV in next-to-nothing, with Mia declaring <em>"Ashley's bottom is a sure-fire cure for the blues"</em>. Although I'm not sure it's undergone any clinical trials. One of the three rankers behind the glass commented <em>"just imagine passing those cheeks"</em> (I'm still not quite sure what he meant by that), while another stated <em>"I like a slim ass"</em>. Personally I prefer a fat donkey, but each to their own.<br /><br />The girls were no better this time around, with only two correct placements, and Darah in position number two. She was naturally thrilled to learn that the boys had ranked her in last place with the verdict that she had <em>"too much junk in the trunk"</em>. Yes, her bum <strong>did</strong> look big in that.<br /><br />A short commercial break later and <em>"it's time for round three - the breasts"</em>, and who had, as Mia put it, <em>"the perfect handful"</em>. The boys were getting into it by now, listing the pros and cons of each girl's assets. In the words of one, <em>"Ashley's are good, but they might hang down"</em> (that's gravity for you), while another stated that <em>"natural ones never feel as good"</em>. So he's obviously more used to inflatable women.<br /><br />Continuing their pitiful record, the girls got none right whatsoever. But Mia was still able to look flat-chested Loli in the eye and say <em>"small ones are more juicy"</em> without a hint of embarrassment, which was a delight to see.<br /><br />Round 4 was entitled 'The Full Rank'. Charlene had apparently <em>"gone cowgirl"</em> (I'm saying nothing), while Loli was attempting to highlight the difference between 'street' and 'street corner' by dressing as a prostitute. The girls spent five minutes slagging each other off, before Mia stepped in to ask <em>"Have you been listening to those rankers behind the window?"</em>. Clearly not - they were all in the wrong place again.<br /><br />The ranking having reached its climax, there was just time for the boys to strip down to their underwear, slag off each other's backsides, and give the girls a chance to rate their penises. Now <strong>that's</strong> what I call equality.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1129027734423451702005-10-11T10:40:00.000+01:002012-08-16T09:33:32.527+01:00Burning IssueI love daytime TV. Trisha has just introduced a guest with the words <em>"This is Angela. She says it was an <strong>accident</strong> that she set her 12 year old daughter's hair on fire".</em><br /><br />Apparently it had nothing to do with her being drunk and dancing around the living room with a lighter.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1128283146339718492005-10-01T10:37:00.000+01:002012-08-16T09:34:32.999+01:00Bach With Bite<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFHdrAChMj3_T_o5yvWtzZfYh4Hq_h7ixFKrM6pEHpC_F7a0iM6eo_oNfxS0UaxDiUtWW20ySXV7ylp0Ag5BikXPrbOzMSmJzOLDZgkXgiHnAlb-p6-boEEQLVecUA6Fc0_F43/s1600/rockschool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="63" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFHdrAChMj3_T_o5yvWtzZfYh4Hq_h7ixFKrM6pEHpC_F7a0iM6eo_oNfxS0UaxDiUtWW20ySXV7ylp0Ag5BikXPrbOzMSmJzOLDZgkXgiHnAlb-p6-boEEQLVecUA6Fc0_F43/s320/rockschool.jpg" /></a></div>They say the truth is stranger than fiction (so presumably 'they' haven't read Harry Potter), but why bother making a film based on a true story when you can take a bit of fiction and use it as the basis for truth? Some producers at Channel 4 clearly enjoyed last year's movie 'School of Rock' in which Jack Black attempted to form a rock band from a bunch of straight-laced schoolkids, so with a bit of word-rearrangement to avoid copyright problems, we now have <strong>'Rock School'</strong>, a reality show which is a bit like watching a remake of the movie.<br /><br />Taking the Jack Black role in last night's opening episode was Gene Simmons of Kiss, who arrived in a limousine with a couple of page 3 girls, stating that <em>"my job is to create little rock gods"</em>. Personally I can't hear the words "Little Rock gods" without thinking of Bill & Hillary Clinton, but Gene seemed to mean something else by that. Which is why he headed not for Arkansas, but for that hotbed of rock... um... West Sussex. Or, more precisely, Christ's Hospital. Which is a bit like Hell's Kitchen, only cleaner.<br /><br />As Peter Southern, headmaster of the Christ's Hospital School, said, <em>"We have been described as the best kept secret of English education"</em>. So what better way to keep a secret than to volunteer for a national TV show. Despite being proud of their conservative dress, well-mannered students, and habit of marching to lunch in yellow socks, our Pete was only too happy to help out the kids' education by hiring an American who claims to have bedded over 4000 women. Which, as one 13 year old girl helpfully pointed out, <em>"is one a night for sixteen years"</em>. They're clearly teaching them maths at that school.<br /><br />Gene's aim was to take ten of the school's most musically gifted pupils and turn them into a support act for Motorhead. Which sounds fair enough. Let's face it, it may not be part of the National Curriculum now, but it'll probably be on the syllabus for GCSE Media Studies within the year. The kids in question included the likes of Fiona, who was clearly impressed to meet Mr Simmons, stating <em>"I've no idea who he is at all"</em> (so it's not just Jasmine Lennard who has that problem), and Dudley, a French Horn virtuoso who also admits to playing with his organ quite a lot. But didn't we all at that age.<br /><br /><a><img style="float:right; margin:6px 0 2px 10px;" src="http://www.tellycritic.com/files/emperor.jpg" border="0" alt="Emperor" /></a>And then there was Josh, who according to classmate Jesse <em>"isn't the most popular person in our school"</em>. Which is surprising seeing as he's ginger and speaks Elvish. Josh likes love songs and classical music, and claims that <em>"most of rock n roll is gibberish"</em>. Which he subsequently proved by murdering the Kiss classic 'God Gave Rock n Roll to You'. Frankly even <strong>I</strong> thought that was gibberish.<br /><br />Anyhoo, having screamed at the kids for half an hour in dark glasses, Gene took them off to the music room and set them to work playing The Kinks. And frankly he found a few to iron out. Unfortunately knowledge of the violin doesn't translate quite as well to the electric guitar as Gene had hoped, so he quickly abandoned the hands-on approach, and reverted to Plan B: choosing their rock names. Apparently Sting and The Edge weren't born with those titles (who'd have thought it), so a quick brainstorming session later, and the children had been transformed. Josh became 'Emperor', Kwame 'Mr Cool', and Jesse changed her name to Bagpuss. Not sure she'd quite grasped the rock n roll concept there, but she did look a bit like a saggy old cloth cat, so you can't complain.<br /><br />Having been named (and in Jesse's case, shamed) the class were auditioned for the role of lead singer, a task they took to with gusto - Camilla singing an ancient hymn, Rodney performing 'Amazing Grace', and Josh doing 'Jerusalem' in the style of a man telling off a dog.<br /><br />Remarkably however, Gene managed to spot some rock n roll potential amongst the Christian hymn-singing, and duly named Josh - sorry, I mean Emperor - as the band's new vocalist. He couldn't actually sing in tune, or in time, or remember the lyrics, and he did seem to strut around the stage like he was having some kind of stroke, but frankly it didn't matter. In the words of the old Kit-Kat advert, he can't sing, he can't dance, and he looks dreadful. He should go a long way.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1127914149482959012005-09-28T14:09:00.000+01:002012-08-16T09:35:18.224+01:00Great Balls of Fire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGteGHLcnxg2ZBZRX5ruJR-P_4BUdazU05U82ffQoC40Fy_k8Ib7erUsT0NSXZzlEaLe7TT8M52LctDL1laQNyAsmscQSG91-qn-Aid3mT4LBNb_Ar3dTj77nM0CoFWUenRUy2/s1600/vasectomy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="100" width="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGteGHLcnxg2ZBZRX5ruJR-P_4BUdazU05U82ffQoC40Fy_k8Ib7erUsT0NSXZzlEaLe7TT8M52LctDL1laQNyAsmscQSG91-qn-Aid3mT4LBNb_Ar3dTj77nM0CoFWUenRUy2/s320/vasectomy.jpg" /></a></div>If there's one thing the TV schedules have been lacking in recent years, it's live coverage of men having their private parts attacked with a soldering iron. It's something I've written to 'Points of View' about many times. But no more. ITV's flagship daytime show, <strong>'This Morning'</strong>, which has clearly learnt nothing from its live Viagra trials, today brought us up close and personal with the world of the live vasectomy. It's a bit of a dream come true.<br /><br />Sandwiched between a woman with extreme maggot phobia, and a competition to win free food for a year, we were introduced to John Klapwijq, not only a brave and stupid man, but also one hell of a score in Scrabble. John and his wife Lisa have one child together, and have decided against having more on the grounds that <em>"they believe it is too expensive to bring up a child in London"</em> and their daughter's school fees alone cost £6,000 a year. The idea of moving house or, heaven forbid, trying the local comprehensive clearly didn't appeal, so there was no other alternative - John would have to have the snip.<br /><br />Fortunately he'd hired one of the best in the business - Dr Tim Black, the Chief Executive of Marie Stopes, who refers to anaesthetic as <em>"jungle juice"</em> and favours the use of <em>"vocal local"</em>, a cutting edge technique which basically involves chatting to the patient about last night's football, and hoping it'll distract him from the fact that you're carving up his scrotum.<br /><br />Having interviewed both men via satellite link, Phillip Schofield promptly leapt onto the back of a motorbike and sped off to the clinic, leaving Dr Chris Steel to talk Fern Britten through a picture of a penis, before moving on to an interview with Frazier's dad, John Mahoney. The man's had a long and distinguished acting career, but I'd guess it's the first time he's ever appeared as the warm up act for a vasectomy.<br /><br />The showbiz slot done, Fern crossed live to the clinic with the words <em>"let's put John out of his agony"</em>, an ironic statement, considering that the pain was only just about to begin. Fortunately for John though, he'd been provided with a set of headphones which, we were told, played him constant soothing music. Although somehow he still managed to hear every word Phil and the doc said to him. I'd suggest turning up the volume next time.<br /><br />A quick jab in the testicles, and they were off (not the testicles). Having emphasised how painless the procedure is, Dr Tim started hacking about in John's nether regions, inducing a good seven or eight agonising cries of pain from his patient. He ended up giving him three times the normal amount of anaesthetic and blaming it on the lack of vocal local, before accusing John of making it all up. The above photo of the operation, as supplied by the 'This Morning' website, suggests it was a very professional job, attended by numerous medical professionals and employing the very latest surgical equipment. Unfortunately the picture in question is of an entirely different operation, and bears very little resemblence to the real thing, which basically involved Tim in an open necked shirt and no face-mask, prodding away at a man's testicles with some welding tools.<br /><br />But it was all over in a matter of minutes, after which John cheerfully lied through his teeth and claimed <em>"it wasn't painful"</em>. Maybe not for <strong>him</strong>. Personally I watched the whole thing framed by my fingers, which were permanently attached to my face in abject horror. I've never felt so ill.<br /><br />At the start of the show, Fern declared that <em>"8 out of 10 men wouldn't even consider having a vasectomy"</em>. This should've taken care of the two who would.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1127991560283131512005-09-27T23:32:00.000+01:002012-08-16T09:36:29.641+01:00Ted Wragg to a Bull<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2f70eTZBbJgAOpl2OirN3nY3Us1XZ7iIiyhAboF33AaR8qQ3pes00Q00m8_lES1Obgi425N2TAqzC9ZZEJpv67r0zqUZhg6Va1VGTw3VbqEb56hyHATNeKehyzTCTExOOmxjS/s1600/unteachables.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="69" width="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2f70eTZBbJgAOpl2OirN3nY3Us1XZ7iIiyhAboF33AaR8qQ3pes00Q00m8_lES1Obgi425N2TAqzC9ZZEJpv67r0zqUZhg6Va1VGTw3VbqEb56hyHATNeKehyzTCTExOOmxjS/s320/unteachables.JPG" /></a></div>It's always good to mess with the minds of children in the name of reality TV, so I was particularly pleased to see the launch of <strong>'The Unteachables'</strong> tonight on Channel 4, which began with the following mission statement from 'educational guru' Ted Wragg: <em>"Here's the challenge: can you take people who appear on the surface to be unteachable, and turn them into good citizens?"</em> Well, Ted probably couldn't, but fortunately he knows a man who can.<br /><br />The show selected sixteen teenagers (fifteen of whom probably have ASBOs, and a couple of them children, but I'm guessing there) from three normal secondary schools, and sent them off to Suffolk, which for many people would seem like punishment enough. These kids however, were forced to endure even tougher hardships by being made to live in a barn, and make friends with Phil Beadle, the 2004 'Teacher of the Year' (which sounds like a Channel Five reality show, and probably will be within the year).<br /><br />The teenagers included such well-mannered delights as 13-year-old Grace, who chatted to the camera in her 'Me. Me. Me.' t-shirt, before addressing her teacher with the words <em>"Miss, I can't be bothered. Fuck off"</em>. In her defence, she did state that <em>"I don't want to be bad... but I can't just sit in a lesson and just do loads of maths"</em>. Well not if it's a geography lesson, no. She does however admit that the thought of anger management classes makes her angry.<br /><br />Then there was Dale, whose reputation preceded him, and who had clearly been subject to some unfair victimisation. He told us <em>"Every time a window gets smashed, a stone or snowball gets thrown, or anything like that, they bring me into the office <strong>straightaway</strong> and just assume it's me"</em>. He was then asked <em>"And has it usually been you?"</em>, a question to which he gave careful consideration, before replying <em>"Yeah"</em>.<br /><br /><a><img style="float:right; margin:3px 0 2px 10px;" src="http://www.tellycritic.com/files/kirsty.jpg" border="0" alt="Kirsty" /></a>Amongst the others were little darlings such as Zaak, a bright boy who's clearly benefitted from his parents' flair for spelling, and Kirsty, whose acne has to be seen to be believed. I'm not saying Kirsty's a well-built girl, but she wouldn't look out of place squaring up to a matador.<br /><br />Upon arrival at the remote East Anglian farmstead, the group gave their considered opinion on their new home, one declaring <em>"this is quite good"</em>, another going with a simple <em>"oh fuck"</em>. But they were soon making themselves at home breaking windows, spraying the barn with lighter fuel, and staying up most of the night.<br /><br />The next morning, superteacher Phil set them on an intensive course of <em>"dickhead pointing"</em>, vertebrae stretching, and orange squeezing, before taking them on a run through a field miming punctuation as they went.<br /><br />Oddly enough, it seemed to work. Kirsty, who'd previously been content to wander off like the Blue Peter elephant, declared the experience to be <em>"well good"</em>, before adding that Phil's teaching methods were also... um... <em>"well good"</em>. Well ok, so it hasn't improved her vocabulary, but at least it got her out of McDonalds for a couple of days.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1127083043290926682005-09-19T20:28:00.000+01:002012-08-16T09:43:10.116+01:00Mint Tits<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfQmtHfrvpmn6MZ2ep0czoBL457yKwOeoIqLsQhsd7ZJzxouSHIubTyJpRlsdmRt_X78JSXGw3ixZjSluVvT-ZWfw_X3ZcbadcaoQ2CsKscZegyNW89EDySVYeb0DEkn3NUSEr/s1600/celeb_reps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="138" width="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfQmtHfrvpmn6MZ2ep0czoBL457yKwOeoIqLsQhsd7ZJzxouSHIubTyJpRlsdmRt_X78JSXGw3ixZjSluVvT-ZWfw_X3ZcbadcaoQ2CsKscZegyNW89EDySVYeb0DEkn3NUSEr/s320/celeb_reps.jpg" /></a></div>'Club Reps', which began on ITV in January 2002, was of course a reality show about holiday reps. It may have been successful enough to spawn a second and third series, and boost bookings of Club 18-30 holidays by almost 100% (ironically), but it was lacking in one all-too-crucial department: B-list celebrities. Fortunately though, this glaring omission has now been addressed by Five, who last night launched <strong>'Trust Me - I'm a Holiday Rep'</strong>. Which is surely a bit of an oxymoron.<br /><br />The show takes six celebrities (well, five celebrities and Jasmine Lennard) to Ayia Napa and sets them to work for ten days as reps for Olympic Holidays. According to recent press reports, the celebs in question were to include Big Brother winner Nadia Almada, but strangely she (or, if you're old fashioned, <strong>he</strong>) wasn't amongst the six z-listers who turned up at Stansted for the economy flight to Cyprus. We did, however, have the pleasure of meeting Scott Wright, a former Rear of the Year and Coronation Street reject; Nina Myskow, who used to be the lowest of the low - a TV critic; Syd Little (yes, he's still alive), and Jodie Marsh. I can just picture the producer saying "Yes, we've got Jodie! Now pick up the phone and get me Jordan!" He must have been over the moon when he heard they'd succeeded. It's just a shame the girl in the office misunderstood, and booked the lead singer of New Kids on the Block. But you can't have everything. And the fact is that Jordan Knight's got a new album out. Though I'm sure that's just coincidence.<br /><br />Bringing up the rear was Jasmine Lennard, who apparently <em>"shot to fame"</em> on Five's 'Make Me a Supermodel'. Nina Myskow spoke for the nation when she commented <em>"I hadn't a clue who she was"</em>. It would become something of a recurring theme as the show went on.<br /><br />Having arrived in Cyprus and settled into their luxury villa, the group were awoken early next morning and set to work... um... repping. As presenter Toby Anstis said, or rather shouted over the din of the local nightlife (whoever came up with the idea of filming the links outside a club at 10pm should be shot), <em>"It's a far cry from their glamorous lives back home"</em>. Glamorous? Syd Little??<br /><br />Nonetheless, they were given their uniforms and accessories, which prompted an immediate outcry from three members of the team - Jodie and Jasmine refusing to wear the clothes, and Scott announcing <em>"I'm not being seen with that phone"</em>. I <strong>hope</strong> he was being ironic, but frankly I wouldn't put money on it.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR8zIkKMM9rSVNcuxS4sXe7BiXKuf-1Nds9L44FG6Z5AmQft66rMcC0G5rnAcopfQIek36VNZIAp76nWe6nEzJzOCGWVvfoHCwZ1sk8huAYVZBdEwR0hktmKUIKs5WpBZ69JRn/s1600/nina_myskow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="133" width="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR8zIkKMM9rSVNcuxS4sXe7BiXKuf-1Nds9L44FG6Z5AmQft66rMcC0G5rnAcopfQIek36VNZIAp76nWe6nEzJzOCGWVvfoHCwZ1sk8huAYVZBdEwR0hktmKUIKs5WpBZ69JRn/s320/nina_myskow.jpg" /></a></div>Fortunately the wardrobe problem was soon solved with a pair of scissors, and having hacked their uniforms to pieces, Jodie and Jasmine (I can sense a double-act coming on here) arrived downstairs looking like a couple of prostitutes. Mission accomplished. Nina tactfully pointed out to them that <em>"it's not all just young guys and men. There are women, there are kids"</em>, prompting the response from Jodie <em>"I love kids"</em>. I'm not sure she quite understood the point there.<br /><br />But before long the group were being introduced to Head Rep, Julie Moss, who greeted them with the words <em>"Welcome to the Olympic team"</em> - coincidentally, the very words spoken to Eddie the Eagle in 1988, and said with about as much sincerity. Julie outlined the rules on smoking, drinking and tattoos, before retrieving the girls' shoes from the patch of waste ground where they'd dumped them, and telling Jodie to cross her legs and sit in a more respectable manner. Jasmine offered the considered opinion that Ms Moss <em>"needs to get laid"</em>, while Jodie protested that <em>"I wasn't showing anyone my knickers"</em>. Which proves there's a first time for everything.<br /><br />Having been told to cover up her tattoos with bandages, Jodie set off for work looking like she'd been in a car crash, and the trainee reps arrived for a meet-and-greet with the holidaymakers. It went well. One by one, each rep stood up and introduced themselves - Nina mentioning her career in broadcasting, Jordan talking about music, and Scott announcing <em>"I'm going to get you all absolutely pissed out of your heads"</em>. Which went down well with the young children in the audience.<br /><br />A short reprimand later, and the six were introduced to their repping partners. Each was paired with an experienced Olympic rep, the star of the show for me being Ashley, who earned huge amounts of respect from yours truly for not only representing the holidaymakers, but also the British public as a whole, by starting her working relationship with Jasmine with the words <em>"I don't mean to be rude, but who are you?"</em><br /><br />Meanwhile Scott, who still seemed to think he was on an 18-30 holiday, earned slightly <strong>less</strong> respect by introducing himself to one of the customers with the greeting <em>"with tits like that, I'm definitely going to be on your pub crawl"</em>. Not straight out of the manual, that one.<br /><br />Introductions over, it was down to work, which basically involved handing out orange juice, and wandering aimlessly amongst the sun loungers. Jordan was treated to an hour long lecture on rep protocol in a monotone voice, which was sweet revenge for all that NKOTB music, while Jasmine was continuing to bond with Ashley, who cheerfully told her <em>"You can't be that much of a good model, coz I've never heard of you"</em>. Honestly, I could marry that girl. Jasmine responded with a self-effacing and eternally modest <em>"You truly, Ashley, are ignorant if you don't know who I am"</em>, before adding <em>"If nobody's heard of me, explain to me why I've been in six different magazines in the last two weeks and have a fifteen thousand pound car sitting outside my house"</em>.<br /><br />A fifteen thousand pound car? I bet Kate Moss can only <strong>dream</strong> of riches like that.<br /><br />But all's well that ends well, and at the close of the working day, the group returned to their villa to compare notes. Jodie described it as dire, Jordan was confused, and Nina exhausted, while Scott merely declared <em>"I've seen some mint tits"</em>.<br /><br />Although of course he wouldn't know if they were mint unless he'd sucked them. Which is <strong>probably</strong> against Olympic rules.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1126803178930082922005-09-15T19:34:00.000+01:002012-08-16T09:47:39.728+01:00Angela's Hashes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9zy_1XwHHmRL8mDhmDhAydwCcO7Oa7LeiLM0wrXWYt3L0VlGZSRSOU98YmZ3Cig9z1vBx-rOakjDsl4yc_d__cC8Y85ArBhbxXd3y-nSSXPK1u15k0Q8xwmwqdBek7tHDVEH/s1600/dd1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="95" width="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9zy_1XwHHmRL8mDhmDhAydwCcO7Oa7LeiLM0wrXWYt3L0VlGZSRSOU98YmZ3Cig9z1vBx-rOakjDsl4yc_d__cC8Y85ArBhbxXd3y-nSSXPK1u15k0Q8xwmwqdBek7tHDVEH/s320/dd1.jpg" /></a></div>Very occasionally a show will go completely under my radar, and despite scouring the pages of TV Choice on a daily basis, I'll somehow fail to spot a complete gem of a programme. So it is with <strong>'A Week of Dressing Dangerously'</strong>, which apparently has been running on BBC2 on Wednesday evenings for the past four weeks without once catching my eye. I finally caught up with it last night however, and may I say I was not disappointed. Although if Chris Morris isn't behind this one, I'll eat my hat. Which, on this programme, would be a gay stetson.<br /><br />The show features fashion journalist Angela Buttolph (a made-up name if ever I heard one), who believes that <em>"by changing the way you dress, people will see you differently"</em>. Which is true. Unfortunately Angela seems to want people to see you as gay, which I'm not sure is the difference most of us would aspire to. Angela's victim on last night's show was Jason Staines (another comedy name), a software administrator from Surrey who is apparently introverted and lacking in self-confidence. So much so, that he applied to go on a national TV show.<br /><br />Every day for five days, Jason has to agree to wear an outfit chosen by Angela. He has to wear it all day, and continue to go about his daily life. Which sounds fair enough. Unfortunately Angela Buttolph is no Trinny & Susannah. Having measured up the unsuspecting Jason, she hit the shops with the words <em>"I'm off to find a week's worth of clothes that will really push Jason's personality in totally new directions"</em>. Or if not his personality, his sexuality. Suffice it to say, she's not shopping in any store I've ever been in.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKmC460vvwZHUguKozBlcqZBtEpkIqqEKhomlb8TT311ZDwMd__tUeZdThCt7GwJlby-TCldUZ3ez7JsBgiaeHoibPRo6OmdXHd7oFOpepEl3ywAy5jeAfrw0Ci-iAWzJe12Z/s1600/dd2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="90" width="82" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKmC460vvwZHUguKozBlcqZBtEpkIqqEKhomlb8TT311ZDwMd__tUeZdThCt7GwJlby-TCldUZ3ez7JsBgiaeHoibPRo6OmdXHd7oFOpepEl3ywAy5jeAfrw0Ci-iAWzJe12Z/s320/dd2.jpg" /></a></div>Day One's outfit was the fetching little number on the right. Lilac checked jacket, matching plus fours, and a purple satin shirt. Jason had to attend his I.T. company's office looking, as one friend pointed out, like <em>"a camp golfer"</em>. I'm sure it did him the power of good. A female colleague commented that <em>"the outfit definitely suits him"</em>, which seemed about as big an insult as you can get, but hey that was only day one - things would get a lot worse than that.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8cLitbgygzE3J0WAQQfzjMW5bMgqg9Q21gv0h_nCWeWc1zuumkmrgevXBqKQr9wIH1MrSj1H62foBQ43zHSo8ke8tMKSXwh08ZLu-n2H7TvjqW6ZjEUB2cpIxvNqCLLJ1X9KF/s1600/dd3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="90" width="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8cLitbgygzE3J0WAQQfzjMW5bMgqg9Q21gv0h_nCWeWc1zuumkmrgevXBqKQr9wIH1MrSj1H62foBQ43zHSo8ke8tMKSXwh08ZLu-n2H7TvjqW6ZjEUB2cpIxvNqCLLJ1X9KF/s320/dd3.jpg" /></a></div>Day Two was what Angela called <em>"Rudolph Valentino, exotic, mysterious and romantic"</em>, and featured a cape, an Arabian headdress and an open shirt. As Angela said, <em>"Who would know that you were from Surrey, and not some distant exotic land?"</em>. Well, anyone who saw the false moustache really. But despite an encouraging comment from best friend Stuart - <em>"You don't normally wear that much make-up"</em> - Jason set off on a blind date with a girl called Rachel, who hadn't been told of his week of dressing dangerously, and frankly did well not to bolt at the first sign of his knee-high boots.<br /><br />But it was quite a romantic moment nonetheless. Jason's first words: <em>"I've been in this all day"</em>. Rachel's response: <em>"How embarrassing"</em>. The conclusion: <em>"I think it's developed my ability to approach people"</em>. Yes, but it hasn't stopped them running away.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDaI8ZUS43KjI0SJdjYkH6jpPclulJ5yf0hJcdt4anexDz9tEvrjBM4yDi82XO2poxzLrHMazuHVnaua-eedLXQK1ovaAh8ZKwqTcFbkr6yjAaImUlgxLjXqCkjjbOknu16v2H/s1600/dd4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="90" width="92" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDaI8ZUS43KjI0SJdjYkH6jpPclulJ5yf0hJcdt4anexDz9tEvrjBM4yDi82XO2poxzLrHMazuHVnaua-eedLXQK1ovaAh8ZKwqTcFbkr6yjAaImUlgxLjXqCkjjbOknu16v2H/s320/dd4.jpg" /></a></div>Onto Day Three, and the cowboy outfit. In Angela's words, <em>"How macho is that?"</em>. Answer: not very. Especially the way Jason minced down the road with his thumbs in his belt loops. By now he'd clearly been brainwashed however, and despite looking like a reject from a Village People tribute act, he declared <em>"I think it's quite a masculine outfit"</em>. A view shared by most of the gay community, I'm sure.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNogv77KeUXQcIsYVvAiLh-azs1mgVlhW7pgJamOXmTCmoC-HoCOWcrvW-FPK7LJbONiz3QrBl0l0sAV6sUjt7rUjrUckcc6w8YZi1_XZVQBBBOYLhxgjCcHE4iGwfEnCV9WU/s1600/dd5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="90" width="93" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNogv77KeUXQcIsYVvAiLh-azs1mgVlhW7pgJamOXmTCmoC-HoCOWcrvW-FPK7LJbONiz3QrBl0l0sAV6sUjt7rUjrUckcc6w8YZi1_XZVQBBBOYLhxgjCcHE4iGwfEnCV9WU/s320/dd5.jpg" /></a></div>The week hit an all-time high on Day Four, when Angela dressed Jason as a 'player', complete with cane, full-length white fur coat and accompanying bling. He looked like a cross between Gary Numan and a polar bear. Having test driven a car, and walked through town looking like a gay pimp, he phoned Rachel (you could hear the panic in her voice when he told her who it was) and verbally bludgeoned the girl until she agreed to meet him again. To be honest I was surprised he was still interested in women. The man could not have been more camp.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9j3wS7thvY6eOo30HrAO33VWDyDIonlmaSJSLsw2VmdOL8Q4yyAQ3EVO41TdBpGjJhVg0FB4qalfe2NbDvuXSUCgLCZ2r1vtPfRcMdqCj2y0rWaCmCHfDUn2h6UaJvtCeoazR/s1600/dd6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="90" width="85" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9j3wS7thvY6eOo30HrAO33VWDyDIonlmaSJSLsw2VmdOL8Q4yyAQ3EVO41TdBpGjJhVg0FB4qalfe2NbDvuXSUCgLCZ2r1vtPfRcMdqCj2y0rWaCmCHfDUn2h6UaJvtCeoazR/s320/dd6.jpg" /></a></div>Well not until Day Five anyway. The week reached its climax with the Marc Bolan look (which is an insult to Marc Bolan). Angela dressed Jason in platform shoes, blonde wig and a white catsuit, adding <em>"You've got to have balls to wear this"</em>. And we could certainly see them as he strode towards the camera. But he strutted through Surrey like a drag queen, only more effeminate, before seranading Rachel from the top of a bridge, and talking about how nice his bum looks. He then stroked his wig and announced that <em>"this week we have explored parts of me that don't often get to see the light of day"</em>, before using words like <em>"liberating"</em>, <em>"sensual"</em> and <em>"dominant"</em>.<br /><br />Something tells me Jason's clothes weren't the only thing to have come out of the closet this week.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1126699830130831782005-09-14T11:55:00.000+01:002012-08-16T09:49:09.282+01:00Fuel Crisis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgePovEk_Fy__QwnWatv40j9yqcz91aXsdbTWUkXVIFtrg19H11QbcVitwQCIw8nTftt9lm5hmz0ce1-s6_tAX7pV00NuulzP3Ha7GLYDKGogF-1nJTJ5-tORBm2NrNLGceCHpy/s1600/CelebrityDriver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="124" width="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgePovEk_Fy__QwnWatv40j9yqcz91aXsdbTWUkXVIFtrg19H11QbcVitwQCIw8nTftt9lm5hmz0ce1-s6_tAX7pV00NuulzP3Ha7GLYDKGogF-1nJTJ5-tORBm2NrNLGceCHpy/s320/CelebrityDriver.jpg" /></a></div><strong>'Britain's Worst Celebrity Driver Live'</strong>, which began on Sunday and continued last night, is, according to Five, <em>"the first reality show to take its contestants out of a controlled environment and onto the roads of Britain"</em>. It's about time. I could name a hundred reality TV stars I'd like to see dumped on a busy road at rush hour. I just wish someone had thought of this before.<br /><br />But putting aside my desire to see Maxwell & Saskia under the wheels of a juggernaut, I watched the first two editions of 'BWCDL' (I do like a nice acronym) with interest. The programme makers have expanded the format from the first series, and in addition to chucking eggs at celebrities while they do a 3-point turn, this time around they're also forcing them to drive from John O'Groats to Lands End. Because after all, what better time to embark on a thousand mile journey than when petrol has just hit a pound a litre.<br /><br />The six celebs (more AA-list than A-list) consist of Radio 1 DJ Joel, former love-rat-lover Suzanne Shaw, Bad Girl Antonia Okonma, TV legend John Noakes, unemployed yank Erik Estrada, and lovable lunatic Brian Blessed. Suzanne's first question on day one was <em>"What's a T-junction?"</em>, while Brian's daughter Rosalind summed up her father with the words <em>"He has a very small ability to live in the real world"</em>. Neither sound like the kind of people who should be out alone in public, but hey, that's reality TV for you.<br /><br />Having arrived in John O'Groats, the six were given a vehicle each, ranging from a Cadillac to a clapped-out mobile home, and they all set off for Inverness. John Noakes, who was accompanied on the drive by Peter Purves (Valerie Singleton clearly had more sense), has apparently never had a lesson in his life (the words "and it shows" spring to mind). He enjoys coasting downhill in neutral with his hands off the wheel, making it a wonder Shep survived as long as he did.<br /><br />Suzanne, who was driving a London taxi, but without any knowledge whatsoever, chose to pick up every hitchhiker she could find, while Brian spent the journey singing 'Flower of Scotland', before arriving at a kilt shop and treating us all to the kind of Scottish accent that makes Mel Gibson look convincing. Frankly it sounded more like Johnny Depp in 'Pirates of the Caribbean'.<br /><br />But hey, at least Brian knew where they were. Quentin Willson, presenting live in the studio, welcomed us back to the Science Centre in Glasgow after the first commercial break with the words <em>"Welcome back to Britain's Worst Celebrity Driver, live from Newcastle"</em>. Bit of a navigation problem there.<br /><br /><a><img style="float:right; margin:5px 0 2px 10px;" src="http://www.tellycritic.com/files/joelcar.jpg" border="0" alt="Joel Parking" /></a>But having covered the first 270 miles of their journey, the celebs were set the everyday task of reverse parallel-parking up a hill behind a tractor in an artificial rainstorm. I can't tell you how many times I've attempted that manouevre. First up was Joel, accompanied by his friend JK (whose surname is probably Rowling) in a white BMW. I'm not saying his attempt was a <strong>complete</strong> disaster, but he did melt the starter motor, barbecue the clutch, and basically write off a thirty grand car. Frankly it's a good job they were being sprayed with water, otherwise he'd have burst into flames.<br /><br />Brian was better, as was John, while Suzanne ruined the replacement Audi, Antonia was put off by the smoke billowing from her engine, and Erik slammed his car into the tractor. I'd suggest valet parking in future.<br /><br />The group were judged in the studio by former rally champion Penny Mallory, and psychiatrist Dr Gareth Smith, who knows a lot about driving. Well, driving people nuts. Penny gave her expert opinion, Brian gave his - <em>"She's talking crap"</em> - before co-host Jenni Falconer attempted to build up the suspense regarding the location of Thursday's show.<br /><br />It was finally announced (after a dramatic pause) by Quentin, with the words <em>"I can now reveal that the next destination will be... <strong>Newcastle</strong>"</em>.<br /><br />I didn't see that one coming.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1126396943315776152005-09-10T22:27:00.000+01:002012-08-16T09:49:36.989+01:00Second OpinionI love TV awards which are voted for by the British public. It gives the nation a chance to prove just how little taste we have. Take tonight's three and a quarter hour marathon, <strong>'ITV's 50 Greatest Shows'</strong>, counting down the fifty finest programmes ever broadcast by the channel over the past half a century.<br /><br />Inevitably 'Coronation Street' emerged victorious, but which classic of broadcasting history came second? Was it 'Brideshead Revisited'? 'Rising Damp'? 'World in Action'?<br /><br />No, 'Ant & Dec's Saturday Night Takeaway'. It's apparently the second greatest television programme ITV have <strong>ever</strong> made.<br /><br />I'm just shocked there was no place for 'The Shane Richie Experience'.Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12125849.post-1126393217589462822005-09-09T09:48:00.000+01:002012-08-16T09:51:06.631+01:00Getting Shirty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQP3FJaTBPy2bs4nKIFXQ32saaLB35LIbqYWYSf0lK_cv3jEZCGtQ4Lmx_rtWi9Ntb0vGMOyKi9fV5GT7ECgmUP5Jbn2KxpWZwp3xvsqHePEVoATGBdN252f91rh9GLIn26GP/s1600/presidenthotel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="95" width="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQP3FJaTBPy2bs4nKIFXQ32saaLB35LIbqYWYSf0lK_cv3jEZCGtQ4Lmx_rtWi9Ntb0vGMOyKi9fV5GT7ECgmUP5Jbn2KxpWZwp3xvsqHePEVoATGBdN252f91rh9GLIn26GP/s320/presidenthotel.jpg" /></a></div>I was planning to write a piece here about <strong>'Hotel On Sea'</strong>, BBC1's new docu-soap about the day-to-day running of the President hotel in Blackpool. Unfortunately, on top of being surprisingly dull, it would appear to have less to do with reality than... well, your average reality show.<br /><br />Last night's opening episode told the story of a day in the life of the hotel staff, and went roughly along these lines:<br /><br />1. Duty Manager Steph, a man who prefers to wear a wig and call himself Stephanie Sparkles, is seen preparing for a visit from Mrs Walsh, the hotel owner, who makes Margaret Thatcher look sane and soft-hearted, and who shares her life with a rat-like dog called Biggles, who should have been shot at birth.<br /><br />2. Mrs Walsh arrives and Steph shows her around, avoiding room 199 (in the 65-room hotel), the ceiling of which has collapsed in the night.<br /><br />3. A staff meeting is called, where Mrs Walsh patronises her employees and generally treats them like five year olds with learning difficulties.<br /><br />4. They all get back to work.<br /><br />5. Mrs Walsh prepares to leave. The narration (by Martin Jarvis, king of the disembodied voice) tells us that <em>"before she leaves, Mrs Walsh has one last criticism to make..."</em><br /><br />6. She calls in Steph, and forces him to remove his dreadful blue checked shirt in exchange for a pristine white one. After which she goes home, safe in the knowledge that she's successfully alienated everyone she's encountered for another day.<br /><br />Marvellous. There's only one problem: in scenes 2 and 4, Steph was indeed wearing the hideous checked shirt which Mrs Walsh considered such an affront to humanity. Unfortunately in scenes 1 and 3 he was wearing the white one.<br /><br />I particularly enjoyed the opening scene where Steph told the camera about his boss's impending visit with the words <em>"Mrs Walsh is coming in to have a meeting with us. I haven't a clue what it's about"</em>, whilst simultaneously wearing the white shirt he would be told to change into three hours later. Something tells me he wasn't being a <strong><em>hundred</em></strong> per cent honest there.<br /><br />I don't expect my reality shows to be real, but do they really have to make it this obvious?<br /><br /><strong><u>UPDATE: 14-9-05</u><br /><br />I e-mailed the BBC, pointing out the wardrobe problems in 'Hotel On Sea', and I've just received this response:<br /><br /><em>Dear Phil<br /><br />Thank you for your e-mail regarding 'Hotel on Sea'.<br /><br />I am pleased to read of your interest in this programme. I understand you want to find out if the programme is a real documentary. It is a new genre called 'comi-doc' which is documentary with elements of comedy in it. The series contains real people and a real hotel: it is a documentary which was filmed over one year. Sometimes the directors accentuate the comedy element of the characters.<br /><br />I hope this clarifies the matter for you and thank you again for contacting the BBC.<br /><br />Regards<br /><br />Clare Mahon<br />BBC Information</em><br /><br />So there you go. Forget reality TV, fly-on-the-wall shows, docu-soaps, social experiments, and of course three-part observational documentary series, we have a totally new genre here: the comi-doc. I'm glad they told me it's supposed to be funny. You'd never guess from watching the actual programme.</strong>Philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08307148664977452940noreply@blogger.com