Television Can Blow Me Page 2

  When the time came, of course, she spent her whole time hiking her knickers out of her arse and scratching her tits. This must have been a huge disappointment for the broadsheet columnists who were apparently expecting a cross between Indira Gandhi and Bill Gates.

  Let’s get this straight about Jordan. She paid thousands to get a load of shit stuck in her tits and become a grotesque parody of femininity that men would want to wank over. She then fucked a load of celebrity turds, one of whom pumped his defective sperm deep into her belly and gave her spawn. She then fucked the brains out of stammering Pop Idol loser G-Gareth G-G-Gates while six months pregnant - a fact he understandably denied for some time.

  None of the above makes her a Harvard MBA, or Joan of Arc or even Linda Lusardi. Her success means her agent knew the right asking price for photographs of her ridiculous motionless tits. That is all.

  And now she’s cashing in on her relationship with Peter Andre by making Jordan and Peter: Marriage And Mayhem a warts-and-all fly-on-the-wall. Nothing wrong with that just, please, no more of that “shrewd businesswoman” shite.

  Intriguingly voice-overed by Janine from EastEnders the show apparently gets an access all areas pass into the lives of Peter and Katie. It seems to act chiefly as the vehicle for Jordan’s patented checkout girl candour. She helpfully tells Andre “I’ve told them - you didn’t always shoot in me all the time” while explaining her pregnancy to the camera.

  Katie’s make-up artist tells how she enters his room as Katie and he magically transforms her into Jordan. Throughout the show people talk about the Jordan character as if it was some magnificent Peter Sellers creation. How could two such different people co-exist in the same body? No matter that the engaging vacuous tramp Katie is indistinguishable from the engaging vacuous tramp Jordan.

  There’s loving footage of Harvey the fat, blind, diabetic son of misunderstood serial shagger Dwight “so good they named him Dwight” Yorke. Peter plays well with Harvey which is more than Dwight ever did so good for him.

  We are treated to a unique insight into Jordan’s obstetrics. Things go well until shortly before the delivery when it appears there’s a membrane above the cervix that isn’t shifting like it ought to. You wonder briefly if this will slip into Bodies territory but an emergency c-section does the job.

  Jordan gives the 411 on post-natal care. “They wash my fanny, put a catheter in it. I won’t tell Pete, and I’ll say to him “Pete, do you fancy some?” And I’ll pull the covers off and he’ll see the bag there!” Cue: much cackling laughter.

  It’s not all laffs though as Jordan’s sciatica has forced a lull in their love life during her pregnancy. “He just got a suck and a feel of the bollocks” she explains. Well, marriage is all about compromise.

  In any event, Katie is on top of it. Her legendary business acumen will no doubt see her ousting Sir Alan Sugar as The Apprentice guv’nor for the third series. Don’t think her agent hasn’t already made the move.

  The verdict on Jordan and Peter: Marriage And Mayhem: You had Burton and Taylor and we get this?

  Marks out of 10: 5

  Love skunk Vernon Kay sprays his rat jism in the general direction of Skank Central. Misses.

  Many, many men want to live the glamorous poonhound lifestyle of Aerial Telly yet how many have the intestinal fortitude? How many can take on board that it actually requires more temperance, more discipline, more diligence than a regular “life” style? They want to “be” the “man” but can they make the sacrifices necessary for this act of social magick to occur? The feck they can. For that reason Vernon Kay will spend tonight alone in the spare room, his gigantic bare feet sticking incongruously over the edge of his single bed, eating cold macaroni cheese straight from the tin with one hand, comfort masturbating with the other, crying like a girl guide, periodically scrubbing himself with bleach, howling “why???? why????”

  Oh, it seemed like such a good idea to have text-sex with five different women. After all, who would ever find out? After all, glamour models are notoriously reluctant to share details of their private lives with the press, particularly if it involves someone in the public eye. You just got unlucky, Vern. THIS COULD NOT HAVE BEEN PREDICTED.

  Perhaps the most humiliating thing of all here is the tragically feeble nature of the infidelity. Kay claims not to have banged any of these broads and I, for one, believe him. It's just that weak. If you're going to be plastered over every tabloid, have your every movement pored over you surely want to have had some compensatory ass, that oh-so-sweet mistake you mentally conjure up during those macaroni jerk off sessions. Instead he has to make do with “omg my twot iz about 2 explode” and “cya babes, hubby back”

  “Vernon Kay brands himself 'STUPID'” the headline ran today and you wondered if the chump had actually gone ahead with a branding iron and permanently marked himself with the unpalatable truth everything he says and does already screams. Not so, it transpired and it's probably just as well. You imagine him getting the iron the wrong way round and ending up with DIPUTS permanently embedded in his forehead. And although those death rumours were wide of the mark, if he gets caught out like this again, he may be wishing he was dead.

  It is a stark cautionary tale. People should know by now not to play with those club skanks and not attempt to emulate Aerial Telly. You only get a cauliflower arse, a face full of cum, post-traumatic stress disorder and the kind of shakes that make Judy Finnigan look like Mount Rushmore.

  Mary Archer - My Life with Jeffrey

  “Who you gonna believe - me or your own eyes?” - Chico Marx

  Like all gangsters’ molls, Mary Archer has one eye on her man, another on her social standing. Whenever presented with the numerous misdemeanours of her husband she reacts with snotty condescension - unable or unwilling to acknowledge any wrongdoing on his part or her complicity in his crimes.

  Channel 4’s documentary was a trade-off - we got previously unseen home movies (yay!), she got a chance to publicise her campaign Justice for Jeffrey (or something) - a cause inexplicably not taken up by any national newspaper. “If you can’t protect imprisoned peers who can you protect?” seemed to be the gist of it.

  Familiar territory was cursorily covered - her dazzling academic career, Lord Archer’s serial shagging and inane business dealings. She likes to characterise him as Jeffrey, the risk-taker, the entrepreneur, the go-getter while pervert, swindler and shitbag more quickly spring to mind.

  Court cases were like “being stripped naked and held up for examination” ignoring the fact that many people in Soho pay good money for that kind of treatment - her husband quite possibly among them.

  Despite the contradictions of their marriage there’s little doubt that they made an effective team. They were the consummate social climbers - expert schmoozers with their now legendary shepherd’s pie and champagne parties where the great and the good would marvel at Mary’s incredible pie and Jeffrey’s significantly less credible tall stories.

  Professor Lisa Jardine, former school pal at Cheltenham College, offered a rare moment of insight “I think, deep down, it crucifies her that Jeffrey has not been the huge success she had hoped for.”

  She seems doomed to live the existence of a moll - patient, exasperated, star-struck - standing by her man like some pikey nightclub crooner.

  Nice pie, though.

  The verdict on Mary Archer - My Life with Jeffrey: Jailbird groupie skunk.

  Marks out of 10: 7

  Preston’s Walk Out on Never Mind The Buzzcocks

  Simon Amstell began to read from Chantelle Houghton’s book Living The Dream: “I’ve always loved M&S, but it had always been too expensive for me. The photoshoot made me feel very posh and upmarket.” As the audience tittered, it was the final straw for Samuel Preston, gennulman and knight of the round table. He leapt from his chair with as much dignity as he could muster (in this case, none) and walked off the set in the manner of Dick Emery’s “you are awful but I like you” woman. The Never Mi
nd The Buzzcocks audience members gasped as his rear-view revealed he had no arse at all to speak of.

  Preston’s problem is he has a chip on his shoulder about his colossally stupid wife. He believes (correctly) that we all know she’s colossally stupid and consequently believes that every comment about her is obliquely referring to her colossal stupidity. He is a middle-class boy so desperate to adopt working-class culture that he left his lovely sophisticated French girlfriend to marry the kind of girl he thinks we all marry - a soppy salt-of-the-earth with a heart of gold and a brain of marshmallow.

  Looking like Bryn, the village mong from The District Nurse, he tried to ice grill Amstell several times but he looked 12 years old and just served to emphasize the fact that his nipples outweigh the rest of his body by several ounces. With his glittery cardigan and tiny, tiny frame he looked like a contestant on Mini Pops, Channel Four’s doomed paedogeddon lip synch farce.

  Some have characterised his actions as gallantry and they’re nothing of the sort. He knows he married a shallow, vapid twat and is understandably embarrassed about it. Given that all she does all day is polish his forehead and sell various parts of their private life to tabloid and gossip magazines she’s got to expect some negative publicity once in a while and her minute mong boy husband has got to suck it up also.

  Presturd plainly thinks we should treat his wife like a handicapped child, unable to fend for herself and Chanturd has certainly spent her life cultivating this image. She’s always been the ditzy girl all in a tizz, twirling her hair, waiting for the big strong clever man to come along and get her out of a pickle. She’s famous for no reason at all and his band are so depressingly pointless they can barely be said to exist. You simply can’t trust a man with no lips and no arse.

  And as for Presturd’s claim that he was about to punch Simon Amstell - does anybody seriously think he’d try that if Mark Lamarr were still host? Amstell, as ever, handled the situation excellently. You’d never really call him a professional looking presenter but, despite being obviously rattled by the incident, he pulled it through, aided by a Preston lookalike Bill Bailey dragged from the audience to complete the show.

  Presturd insists he is not embarrassed by the clearly embarrassing broadcasting of his strop. “I think it’s brilliant - at least I’ve got principles. No one’s got principles any more,” said the publicity whore celebrity wedding photo selling cunt. Presturd can fuck himself in the ear all day every day and so can his parasite wife.

  The verdict on Preston’s Walk Out on Never Mind The Buzzcocks: Worthless celebrity collapsing under its own weight.

  Marks out of 10: 8

  Sport on TV: pundits, commentaturds and their filthy lies

  It's easy to forget that most docile product sponges will go through their lives seeing very little live sport so the medium of television is the delivery system for the majority of sport we consume and when that system is hijacked by corrupt dishonest coverage or deluded commentary we are left with a distorted picture of what sport is and TV needs to be held to account for that.

  When done rightwise, though, it's a joy. HBO's boxing team have been nailing the shit out of their broadcasts for decades and that's why I pay tribute to the beast Larry Merchant. If there were more like him there would be less reason for chapters like this.

  The World Cup has been kidnapped and molested by blowhard shitsacks who don’t care about football, tradition or noise pollution

  When South Africa featured a gigantic dung beetle rolling a football across the pitch in its World Cup opening ceremony like some arcane faecal worship ritual, it was at once an act of social magic, a piece of grotesque symbolism and a chilling mission statement. It said “we are going to take the greatest team sport on the planet, the greatest sporting event in the universe and turd it up beyond all recognition. You fuckers won’t even recognize it by the time we’re through”. And, man alive, have they ever lived up to that?

  It is no small undertaking to ruin Association Football’s World Cup and many have tried. Even giving it to The United States of America - a country who neither like nor understand the game - could fully screw up its magnificence. And yet South Africa has achieved it and the main weapon in its armoury is a shitty 3 foot long plastic trumpet known simply as the Vuvuzela.

  The etymology of Vuvuzela is unclear. Many believe it comes from the onomatopoeic Zulu “vuvu” meaning “to make noise”. But as Aerial Telly has pointed out several times the etymology of a word is not its meaning. What Vuvuzela means is an instrument of show-off blowhard hogs with no interest in football, no consideration for others and no off button. The monophonic hornets’ nest honk is the least welcome sound since the ping of the last dress button holding Beth Ditto’s unholy gunt from spilling out.

  Of course that despicable time serving commissar Sepp Blatter has defended the atrocity, claiming we should not seek to “Europeanise” the World Cup. Knowing full well that our aim is merely to denausify the tournament, Twatter has gone this line asking how we would feel if our traditions were banned in football grounds? What, you mean the spectacularly annoying ones nobody of consequence gives two fucks about? Delighted I’m sure. Next question?

  In any case the idea of the Vuvuzela-as-beloved-traditional-horn is far from a universally acknowledged truth in South Africa. Mondli Makhanya, former editor-in-chief of the Johannesburg Sunday Times, has it right when he laments what Satan’s trumpet has done to the great South African tradition of public singing.

  “During apartheid, we sung in the worst of times. When people were protesting, we sang. When people were being shot, we sang. We sing vociferously in funerals; we sing vociferously at weddings. What this instrument has done is to take something away from the football culture. And I think that, rather than celebrating it, we should actually be mourning the death of song.”

  Yet Blatter still defends it. That gravy train piloting piece of shit’s only other contribution to the tournament is the introduction of the Adidas Jabulani ball, a ball whose unique selling point is its production of a “true flight”. Seasoned viewers will knows that the only thing Jabulani guarantees is a “true shite” football watching experience where the greatest selection of footballing talent on the planet cannot get a shot on target with it anywhere beyond 12 yards out. Big yourself up, Twatter - you’re a real piece of work.

  For those that ain’t know I’ma break it down like this. Sepp Blatter is a spineless schmuck. South Africa is not a footballing country. Their fans desert the stadium the instant they start losing. Their only real interest in football teams is as a cover to murder 14 year old boys. Bafana Bafana sounds like one of Christopher Biggins’s catchphrases from On Safari. Apartheid is no longer South Africa’s biggest shame.

  Consequently, every South African football “fan” past, present and future with a horn in his mouth can figgedy fuck right off into eternity.

  World Cup Final 2010

  “Bafana Bafana.....! Jabulani...!” screamed Peter Drury as Siphiwe Tshabalala (bless you!) slotted home the first goal of the 2010 World Cup as if every man jack of us were right behind plucky host nation Wherever the Fuck They’re Holding It This Year. In referencing a transcontinental solidarity that does not exist, Drury was complicit in a media-wide act of Olympic standard patronage, the kind of well-intentioned but ultimately condescending approach usually reserved for The Paralympics, that pointless shitbird of an event that the terminally nice pretend to be excited by.

  Ever since that first game when the developed world began its month-long hate affair with the buzz killing vuvuzela and that dismal cuntmonkey of a football, the Adidas Jabulani (a perfectly spherical hate sponge that Craig Johnston correctly said encourages “prehistoric football”) it’s been a pale sea creature of a World Cup, undoubtedly one of the worst in the tournament’s history. As it reached a breathless climax last night, people wondered how would you ever end such a tournament? “With the triumph of good over evil” turned out to be the elusive obvious answer.


  Because the Dutch side that kicked their way to the 2010 final were the antithesis of everything the country’s football has ever stood for. Paranoid, defensive, cynical, violent - they espoused a win-at-all-costs philosophy, and then lost. Redeemed, in some people’s minds, by tenacity, resilience and Arjen Robben they were unlikely comic villains causing much cognitive dissonance in the freewheeling Italia 90 generation who chiefly remember the Netherlands as the team they support when England get knocked out. Cruyff, Gullitt and van Basten replaced by the jocks who bullied them at school. Confusion abounded.

  In mitigation, they did get rid of that pig-titted skunk Dunga and his horrific Brazilian side but they spent most of the tournament riding their luck hard and riding their opponents harder. Van Bommel in particular lived a charmed life as he stamped, kicked, niggled and deliberately tried to injure his fellow professionals. Still, they had the team spirit so that was OK. This Dutch side, at least, wouldn’t be subject to the centrifugal forces that tore apart so many of their predecessors. No superstars, second-guessers, narcissists or mutineers in this crew. This was a meritocracy of the mean.

  In the opposite corner, meanwhile, wearing the white hat, were the European champions Spain, Vicente Del Bosque’s beautifully balanced side, master exponents of tiki-taka, that collectivism-in-action stylistic tour de force that turns passing triangles into Koch’s snowflake. Spain took control from the off, threatening to overrun the Orange hordes but Dutch thuggery soon took over. Mark van Bommel was booked for trying to cripple Iniesta, and Nigel de Jong was fortunate not to be charged with attempted murder after impaling Xabi Alonso through the chest on his boot. He escaped with a yellow.

  It went on like this throughout the 90 minutes and extra time, Spain pressing like loons, being kicked up in the air then putting the freekick into Row Z.; the Dutch venturing forward occasionally with penetrating counters. When Andres Iniesta kept it gangsta with just four minutes left of extra time and ice-drilled a right footed shot past Maarten Stekelenburg, right-thinking people everywhere howled with joy as art’s victory over aggression was secured. Iniesta removed his shirt to reveal a T-shirt saying “Dani Jarque siempre con nostros” a tribute to the Espanyol player who died of a heart attack in August. After two hours of bruising frustration, the catharsis was sweet.