Welcome to the month in telly, where I sort the chaff from the champs of all the televisual entertainment the universe has to offer.
Iron Chef UK launched on Channel 4 in the typically mind-composting 5 o’clock time slot. The premise is excellent. Four amateur chefs attempt to out-cook a chosen champion of the cooking world on dishes based on the ingredient of the day, presented to them in bulk at the beginning. The drama is derived from the almost gladiatorial nature it is presented in: They do battle in the “Kitchen Arena“, the theme is always “Battle Beef“, “Battle Potato” or “Battle Lobster” and the war is overseen by a Japanese fella who appears to jizz himself every time a dish is served. I hope this gets another series as it breaks up the monotony of Coach Trip and Come Dine with Me re-runs in my hectic TV schedule.
Sadly the current series run is over, and in their infinite wisdom they have replaced it with a show, aptly dubbed The 5 O’Clock Show. If you think the name is inventive, wait till you hear the concept: Imagine The Paul O’Grady Show, but with presenters who AREN’T Paul O’Grady.
As if Channel 4 hadn’t fucked this one up enough, you will never guess who they chose to helm the inaugural two weeks of this shit storm…Only Peter “more pectoral implants than brain cells” Andre! Needless to say, do not watch this, unless you are about to receive a frontal lobotomy and are feeling apprehensive about the surgery, in which case this will save you a great deal of hassle.
My Rating: If I could, I would kill Peter Andre.
Lord (nee Sir) Sugar has adopted the attitude of tobacco companies worldwide, realising that it is best to “get ‘em when their young” with his new show: Junior Apprentice. Same concept, just moody ruthless teenagers instead of ruthless moody adults. Lord Sugar is just as bastardly to the young ‘uns too, describing one child before summarily giving him the finger (of firing) as “A disgrace, you’re useless and you have no concept of business management.” What a nasty, nasty man talking to a 16 year old like that, I usually use a few words that they can understand and keep it monosyllabic when I’m telling them to fuck off on their micro scooters from my front garden…
My rating: I’d give the Junior Apprentices a good hiding before they grow up to be real capitalists, especially that blonde girl, she is fucking ruthless…
From one evil Lord to another, The Lord Beelzebub was back with his other show, Britain’s Got Talent, and as I write this I am watching Mr. Cowell casting his eye over a gang of dancing twelve year olds, apparently trying to decide whether they would be worth more as performers or as meat for his chihuahua.
I could spend my time tearing into the uglies who are only on the show as a sort of 21st century revival of the freak show, or I could take the piss out of the fella who swallows all the shit then regurgitates it, but Piers Morgan gets a hard time as it is!
You have to look at the good side of it as well. I mean, they’ve got this day centre for people with issues near me and they always look busy, so it’s good that there are little diversions for them lot, you know what I mean?
Worse than the show itself, as with many of these reality shows, is the satellite show afterwards which is always staffed by recovering cokehead children’s TV presenters. Britain’s Got More Talent ironically just features further failures from the audition stages who were either too ugly or too mental for prime channel viewing.
It is irrelevant who wins on this contest, because the real winner will always be Satan – I mean Simon Cowell – and the forces of evil. At least this year’s winners (SpellBound) actually have the gymnastic skill and elasticity to take the regular Cowell-Rape in enough positions to make it slightly joyous for the receiving partner…
My Rating: I give this years Britain’s Got Talent three X’s, and I don’t mean like the good ones on the front cover of Backdoor Entry 8…
Big Brother launched with Davina McCall proclaiming “Welcome to the greatest show on earth” in her typical ‘I’ve just received a caffeine colonic’ peppy style. When you consider that Galileo studied the celestial bodies till he went blind, and people fell to their deaths trying to admire the wonderment of Niagara Falls, it is great to know that now we are fulfilled by watching 14 or so strangers picking fights with a disembodied voice in the most desperate popularity contest since, well, the general election.
The wonderful thing about Big Brother is that it has a universal appeal. Like a tank full of piranhas just about to turn on each other with cannibalism, you have to keep staring at it in case you miss that precious moment when that couple fucks, or those two posses finally clash in a racist water fight.
Throw in a double amputee with the tattoos and false eye of a bond villain’s henchman and the rumour that this year there will finally be the forever speculated ‘mole’ to really fuck with the house mate’s heads, not to mention the fact that this is allegedly the last run of the show, this could be one of the least-worst series yet!
My rating: 81 people waited to go in on wednesday, 14 entered. So I make that uhh 81 – 14= 67 souls saved from a life of “OI, OI, you’re that twat off Big Brother 2010 aren’t ya?!”
Thanks for reading.
Peace and Love,
Dan Gerrous
Patrick McGuiness has jumped off his chunkier, and quite frankly funnier friend Peter Kay’s coat tails to host his own show: Take Me Out. The main format of the show, for those of you privileged enough to not have seen it, is that 30 women, of varying attractiveness and types, stand behind podiums with a button and a light. A gentleman then descends from the “Love-Lift” and must then do all he can to impress these desperate harpies, which can include anything from fire-breathing to videos of cringe-worthy interviews with the poor chap’s mum. If the ladies are unimpressed then in the words of Paddy, “No Likey, No Lighty”; the women switch off their light, and those that keep their light on can go on a date with him. If every light goes off then he has to take the walk of shame to the tune “All By Myself”, retreating back to his bachelor’s lair for a pot noodle and a cheeky wank over the 2 am repeat of Loose Women.
This month my excessive television watching has been eternally punctuated by the ravings of meerkats who think everything’s “Shimples” (?!), a red telephone on wheels that became defunct as soon as mobile phones stopped needing a carry handle, and a fat man with a moustache and a belting set of pipes who interrupts everything from a morning coffee to the simple life of a residential road with cacophonous, near-valkyric proclamations of how much you can save if you go compare.
The BRIT Awards aired recently, and along with the usual mis-timed jokes, horrifically mis-judged outfits and Misses “I have a pop career because I find clothing uncomfortable,” there was a new addition to the show: a person sitting in a room with a mute button. The awards this year were broadcast live, and because of the reputation rebellious popstars have on these sort of nights, this poor soul had to try (usually in vain) to mute the audio of the live feed pre-emptively whenever someone looked like they were about to say something naughty. I have watched through most of my recording of the show, and the only person who managed to proper slip through the net was that cheeky posh-but-pretending-to-be-a-geezer-bird Lily Allen, who proclaimed, “shit” when receiving her award. Two of the Spice Girls, Ginger and Eddie Murphy’s Baby Mamma, also maintained their hardcore rock ‘n roll status by ingeniously postulating that because it is live TV they could say “The F word”, but sadly they decided against this, which is fortunate really because after all they do both have successful pop careers to protect….. NOT! The only solo songs they have done that have had any level of success have been bastardisations of good original songs: “It’s Raining Men” by the ginger one, and “Word Up” by the scary one.