Television Can Blow Me Read online

  Chaos reigned in this World Cup and the horror is that that is so much duller than it sounds. FIFA, those inept drunk sluts, contrived to fuck up an event that is practically impossible to do badly. From the suicidal introduction of the Jabulani to the arrogant dismissal of video replays they once again confirmed their reputation as hospitality guzzling, ticket touting apparatchiks led by a professional administrator who has never kicked a ball in anger in his life. Ousting him and his kind from the sport’s governing body should be the guiding principle of every football related action in the four years before we head in 2014 to Brazil: land of the brave, home of the freekick. Replay technology, samba football and stadiums filled with swimwear models. We wait with the breath of the bated ones.

  The verdict on World Cup final 2010: Dicey start, traumatic middle, great ending.

  Marks out of 10: 7

  The Contender

  “Two men enter - one man leaves. Then the other guy does a bit later.”

  It’s no secret that Muhammad Ali can barely do his Rice Krispies each morning without flooding the kitchen. What does it say about a sport that its greatest exponent has been so tragically monged up as a direct consequence of his participation in it?

  I guess it says that these guys aren’t pissing about. Boxing is a sport of extremes - corrupt, brutal and morally inane. With qualifications like this it’s a wonder The Contender didn’t happen before. Reality TV was made for this kind of thing.

  The brainchild of Mark Burnett (“The Apprentice,” “Survivor”), the show houses 16 top ranked middleweights together, two of whom fight each week - a five round professional bout that goes on their official record. The winner progresses to the final stages, the loser takes the lonely walk out of The Contender house. The final two will fight at Caesars Palace for a $1 million purse - the stakes are that high.

  They’re guided through the process by boxing legend Sugar Ray Leonard and boxing bell-end Sylvester Stallone. Some priceless unintentional comedy is provided by Stallone going around giving these seasoned professionals advice on boxing. Even though he doesn’t know shit about boxing. He played a boxer who didn’t know shit about boxing - a boxer whose ability to shout “Adriaaaaaaaan!!” at Francis Ford Coppola’s sister made him a cinematic turd of Olympian proportions.

  Enough about the “why?” of Sly. You get to see the fighters at their best and their worse. A couple of exceptions aside, it’s difficult to dislike these guys. They all seem to be loyal, blue-collar salts, fighting for their families, hot girlfriends and angelic kids and that gets you rooting for them.

  George Foreman pops in to offer the benefit of his vast experience and promote his Lean Mean Grilling Machine as a possible cure for cancer. The words ‘affable’ and ‘avuncular’ could have been invented for Big George but his legendary inability to call anything right about a boxing match is all too apparent. Not that it matters - the fighters are too star-struck to care. It may be hard to believe that Foreman has even stepped inside a ring, never mind been a cast-iron Hall of Famer but as Michael Moorer and Joe Frazier will attest, when you can bang like George you don’t need to know what you’re talking about.

  It’s getting some historically bad viewing figures but that shouldn’t put you off - this is a very fine show. Boxing may not fit as snugly into the mainstream as it used to but there’s still no sport like it. Those eternal themes of noble combat, superhuman courage and senseless violence will see it endure.

  The verdict on The Contender: Comfortable points victory.

  Marks out of 10: 8

  Euro 2008 TV coverage

  An excellent, thrilling and marvellous Euro 2008 ended last night with the Spaniels the deserved winners, edging out the tenacious Hun in a tense final. Despite England’s absence the networks threw themselves into the TV coverage with all the stupidity and enthusiasm we’ve come to expect. The BBC had to win back the trust of the nation after having the brass balls to appoint that incandescent shitcake baker and multimillionaire-off-the-backs-of-the-people failure Steve McLaren to summarise on the radio. This showed all the judgement and good taste of Graeme Souness selling his story to The Sun three years after Hillsborough. It is an unholy miracle if that mope ever works in this country again.

  But the BBC have sensibly retained manager of the famous Aston Villa, Martin O’Neill who continues to be good value - always opinionated, witty and not afraid to go against the party line. Alan Shearer can make some good points but he’s a fundamentally depressing audiovisual presence. I don’t see him being missed when he eventually takes over and relegates Newcastle.

  Alan Hansen and Mark Lawrenson do a good job. Lawrenson seems to be less popular than scabies but he calls things right more often than not. There is then a certain amount of controversy this year about how the BBC choose their pundits. Ian Wright accused the BBC of treating him like a court jester but he was just fucking shite with no articulacy, insight or appreciation of tactics. And a court jester is funny.

  Although, the BBC still don’t seem to have worked out that Marcel Desailly does not speak English, even as a second language. I really don’t need to hear from him 15 times a day that France have been disappointing. I know they are disappointing. They’re French - they were born disappointing.

  Magnificently, David Pleat repeatedly referred to the Czech Republic as the Republic of Czechoslovakia. But he is not a geography teacher, he’s a football summariser and, though widely derided, he’s excellent on tactics and gives a good read of a manager’s intentions. I think people mainly give him a hard time just because they think he’s a kerb crawling twat. While no doubt true that’s hardly a reason, people.

  Over on ITV, Steve Rider continues to be a waste of space. I can’t believe this boy has ever actually paid to get into a football match. Andy Townsend is likeable but dull, much like his colleague Robbie Earle. Everyone but me wants to kill Peter Drury - I’ve always found him alright. ITV is particularly fertile breeding ground for Colemanballs. Andy Townsend’s “The full-back is literally, literally right up the backside of Koller there.” being a personal favourite of mine. Gary “Chromosome” Neville turns up from time to time and is exactly as charismatic as you expect. ITV accepted BBC’s superiority by allowing the Beeb to broadcast the final uncontested.

  In other news, Garth Crooks is still around. I have no idea why.

  The verdict on Euro 2008 TV coverage: A lame of two halves.

  Marks out of 10:7

  Listen up, douchebags: Larry Merchant KO1 murdering rapist hype merchant scum that constitute boxing’s deal-making fight-avoiding turd elite

  Regular Aerial Telly readers will be familiar with his unparalleled standing in the world of boxing. An improbably gifted amateur fighter, he chose to develop his literary genius rather than crush everything in his wake in the professional ranks. But of course boxing remains close to his heart and the news that HBO will not be renewing the contract of Larry Merchant is a matter of grave concern to him. He may be 140 years old. He may stink of vodka. He may have pissed off every boxer, trainer and promoter in the business. But Larry Merchant is a true original, a broadcasting giant and a fearless sayer of the unsaid in boxing.

  Merchant has always understood that boxing is a gigantic hype machine that spirals out of control if it is not checked and challenged. Fighters painting themselves as fearless warriors while avoiding every difficult opponent out there; alphabet soup title belts not worth the leather they’re made with; meaningless turd jousts presented as must-see pay-per-view extravaganzas. Nobody clears a path through the horseshit in boxing like Larry Merchant. As Vernon Forrest thanked God and his trainer after his gift decision over Ike Quartey, Merchant innocently asked him “Would you also like to thank the judges?”

  Determined never to be a cheerleader for boxing, Larry sees the fight game from a fan’s perspective and it’s often caused him trouble. After Don King and HBO fighter Mike Tyson shamelessly tried to overturn Buster Douglas’s legitimate knockout victory over Tyson,
Merchant asked difficult questions and King and Tyson tried to get him the sack. To their eternal credit, HBO stood by their man and told the rapist and the murderer to go fuck themselves which they duly did. Merchant’s assessment of Tyson as “an emotionally-disturbed washed-up sociopath” is typically astute.

  With his unique pausing speech and bizarre analogies, his broadcasting style has authentic character - in sharp contrast to so many of the boilerplate presenter droids you see around today. Ever willing to criticise an HBO house fighter if necessary, his knowledge and love of the sport have nonetheless always shone through.

  The only time HBO should be taking his microphone is when they prise it out of his cold, dead hands.

  Larry Merchant - boxing legend and broadcasting pioneer. Respect is due.

  606 with Danny Baker

  Like Aerial Telly, Danny Baker is a flawed genius. Aerial Telly has spoken about his own so-called alleged “flaws” and would like to talk about Danny Baker’s. He’s an arrogant and won’t heed counsel. His television work is horrible. Listening to his Radio 1 show was like watching a beautiful woman pull a razor blade across her face1 and left us at the mercy of the Sendero Luminoso talent free 1FM house music junta for the next 10 years. Nevertheless, Aerial Telly does not come here to rag on Danny Baker, but to give him a pound and a bear hug. Because when this motherfucker is in the zone there’s no one who can touch him. 606 with Danny Baker has returned. The only 606. The original, accept no imitations, back-caught-you-looking-for-the-same-thing, distilled in Lynchburg, Tennessee 606 with Danny Baker. Motherfucker, what?

  The strange thing about Baker is that he knows nothing about football. It’s probably the only thing he knows nothing about. Ferociously intelligent, with an insatiable appetite for culture high, low or subterranean, he takes the theological stance that “football is chaos” and, rather like the Catholic Church telling cosmologists not to study the origin of the universe because it is the work of God and to study it is to blashpheme, he seems to think that an understanding of the mechanics of football - tactics, training, formation - will rob it of its magic.

  What he does know about is being a football fan. A Millwall fan no less. The parade of burlesque caricatures that pass through a club like Millwall - managers, players, fans - provide rich inspiration for talk-show topics. But to notice these things is an act of creation. The Chicken Judas, Keggy Keegle, Camp Lawrenson - these things already existed as Platonic Ideals but it took a particular mind to draw them in from the immaterial world and make them flesh. Danny Baker is that mind.

  He hits the ground running on his return. He wonders if Rory Delap achieves his throw-in prowess by means of a reptilian tale. This leads to a request for footballers with lizard like qualities. It’s 10 a.m. Saturday morning and we’re already on to herpetology. He talks to a British woman about being lost in an American baseball stadium and how security won’t accept her British driving licence as ID. He sympathises. “The old pink driving licence looks like a receipt for a teddy bear”. Truedat.

  It’s all good. The weekend football action was only tangentially relevant. He demands a lot of his listeners and they like the challenge. There are deep seams of darkness, joy and weirdness in the collective experience of the British football fan. Long may they be mined.

  The verdict on 606 with Danny Baker: Some nifty scheduling.

  Marks out of 10: 8

  1 Courtesy of Hugh McIlvanney or some such grizzled old school hump.

  Gong intermission

  Aerial Telly Awards 2006

  Asking Aerial Telly to choose between his favourite TV shows is like asking him to choose between his children. But, as those of you with children know perfectly well, there’s always one you secretly like better. And there’s generally one runty little cunt who you never really loved who you have been secretly dying to get rid of. You “people” make me sick.

  Nonetheless, it’s around that time of year when I commence with the back slapping and the bitch slapping in the only industry awards that mean a damn thing: it’s the Aerial Telly Awards 2006. Look! It’s Kelly Brook and Billy Zane - they can Fuck Right Off if they think they’re getting in.

  Best show: Prison Break (FOX)

  It took our suspension of disbelief to levels that made us think 24 was cinéma vérité. We sweated, we shook, we howled - but it was all worth it. Because Lunk NEVER DONE IT and damn the conspiracy that keeps him on death row with his cereal box head and fat fingers. Fox River may be the only prison in America where nobody farts, swears or says nigga but you wouldn’t want to be spending much time there as being shanked, raped or mutilated is pretty much guaranteed. Prison Break’s season finale did not disappoint and we wait breathlessly for September’s sophomore effort.

  Worst show: Nigella (ITV)

  A shadowy flight into the dangerous world of a woman who does not exist. Nigella Lawson - you may have heard of her. We miss the old Nigella Lawson (although with the size of her arse you couldn’t miss her from the moon) - flirty, indulgent and homely. She was replaced by the Stepford wife of Charles Saatchi in a woozy, anaemic mixture of cookery and chat that made you feel like you were stuck in a menopausal housewife’s dream state

  Best performance by a male: Idris Elba as Stringer Bell in HBO’s The Wire

  Continuing Hugh Laurie’s fine work in counter cultural imperialism, Hackney-born Idris Elba delivered pitch perfect performances as the ice veined Barksdale crew drugs baron Stringer Bell. Aided by some classy writing Elba portayed Bell as the embodiment of the rational, cold hearted machinations of the drug trade. Stringer’s big question was “what happens when you have an inferior product in an aggressive market?” The market was inelastic, Donette’s tits were plastic and the show was fantastic.

  Best performance by a female: Jaime Pressly as Joy in NBC’s My Name Is Earl

  Comedic find of the year My Name Is Earl needed some grit in the feel-good oyster. Step forward sometime Playboy model Jaime Pressly as Earl’s ex-wife Joy playing demented bad cop to the collective good intention of the rest of the cast. Representing all that’s wrong with humanity, Pressly plays the role with an unholy glee that suggests a secret affinity with the avaricious loon. And remember: If you’re looking for reasonably priced manicures gentle enough for a woman and man enough for a half fruit: call Joy’s Nails.

  TV Pie of the Year: Jaime Murray as Stacey Munroe on Hustle

  It might so easily have gone to panda eyed honey cunted goddess Tina O’Brien from Corrie. Few would have argued with Nadine Velazquez from My Name Is Earl. And fat arsed lupine Bingo from the Banana Splits looking motherfucking cockmonkey Billie Piper could so easily have stolen the day. But the horse faced sophistimacated con artist Jaime Murray won by a short head with a combination of posh frocks and knowing eyebrow raises that suggested that she was indeed pure filth. Steward’s inquiry? Later for that shit.

  TV Event of the Year: The Apprentice finale

  Flagcracking yam-yam sumo atrocity Ruthless Badger faced off against icy abused child Michelle Dewberry Pie in a showdown many were already calling “the last episode in this particular series of The Apprentice”. The weeks of clashing egos, mismanaged tasks and boardroom beatdowns cascaded into champagne and cancans on Tower Bridge. Badger clocked up the most ducats but the old shrewdie Sugar realised that staring at the Badger pie day-in day-out for three years would inevitably lead to suicide and chose the fairer form from the school of hard knocks. Meritocrats cried foul but suckers for a sob story from a pretty blonde girl recognised that he had made the right choice.

  Worst premise: Alive: Back To The Andes (Channel 5)

  Using celebrities to recreate a disaster that involves a plane crash, a mountain range and cannibalism was not something top of my list of Programmes That Need To Be Made (top of that particular list is Going Dyke with Michelle Dewsbury and Sophie Ellis-Bextor trivia fans). None of that stopped Channel 5 from this spectacularly misguided project only saved from total disaster by the real survivors’ h
arrowing testimony. That they actually ate raw meat to recreate the cannibalism was just a further insult to the memory of the dead who were soon sharing airtime with Adam Ricketts’ grievances about the media. Nobody deserves that.

  Most Unjustly Culled Show: Bodies, BBC3

  Life is unfair and TV is never less than an accurate reflection of life. Take Paul McCartney - about to get abandoned and taken for 40 squllion in the inevitable divorce by his lunatic wife. Yes. Paul McCartney - faithful and loyal to Linda for 30 years despite being the pretty one out of The Beatles (and therefore having the proverbial key to the pie shop whenever he damn well pleases).

  Then on the other hand there’s the serial womaniser, wife beating smackhead John Lennon. Whose dick do you think women were women trying to suck? Was it the loyal, prettier faithful Paul? Fuck out of here.

  And Bodies doesn’t get a third series. Try ‘splaining that.

  Documentary tards: deviants, wackjobs and Peaches Geldof

  What should be the flickering screened embodiment of television's duty to inform and entertain - the documentary - is too often a playground for mentally subnormal parasitic attention seekers of all hue. Trying to fathom the depths of vacuity within Peaches Geldof and sending in professional cabbage Fearne Cotton led us into dark territory but it was Fix My Fat Head that really took the soggy biscuit for stupid, slobby, worthless journalism with a hog for a host, subject and narrator.