Television Can Blow Me Read online

  TV pie of the year: Katrina Bowden, 30 Rock

  Always the category Aerial Telly agonises over hardest, TV pie of the year was once again fiercely competitive. Pielinda Stewart-Wilson set an almost impossible pace as the thinking man’s Catherine Zeta-Jones in The Pieter Serafinowicz Show, smouldering quietly through one duff sketch after another and the return to our screens of diminutive but curvy Scottish pie Laura Fraser in Talk To Me was hugely appreciated and the sight of the lovely Mary Louise Pierker from Weeds getting fucked doggy style over a desk like the bad little milfpie she is resonated with sane viewers everywhere. But it was Katrina Bowden as Cerie, 30 Rock’s effervescently vacant intern slutting it up round the NBC offices that got the nod for 2007. This award instantly raises her modelling rate by $10,000 a day. No problem Katrina - you can “thank” me later.

  TV Event Of The Year: Lost Season Three Finale (SPOILERS, bitches)

  It will always have its critics but man does this show know how to pull the big episodes out of its ass? In season three’s stunning denouement they killed Charlie, reintroduced Walt and got off the fricking island. For all its dips in form and annoyances, Lost continues to be a triumph of the imagination and walking proof that populist television needn’t be brainless or condescending.

  “What the fuck was that?” award - John From Cincinnati, HBO

  We make allowances for geniuses and that’s presumably how John From Cincinnati got past the drawing board stages. The wilfully impenetrable religious allegory had Deadwood fans scratching their heads and casual viewers scratching their nuts. The decision not to order a second series was one of the less surprising commissioning decisions of the past 12 months. Candidly, I don’t think even Milch knew what this was about.

  Empty gesture of the year: Preston’s Walk Out on Never Mind The Buzzcocks

  In this show of adolescent rage as futile as his laughable condescending project to save his “wife” Chantelle Houghton from her chav dreams, the media whore’s attention seeking defence of his “wife” was shown up for what it was a couple of months later when she ditched him, dyed her hair blonde again and had a load of toxic shit stuck in her tits to make her look like the exact same identikit China Whites Nuts magazine cocksucker that he was so desperate to stop her becoming in the first place. Well done fucknut.

  And goodnight.

  Reality isn’t real: reality TV and the scum sucking rat bastards who participate

  For some time it was possible to defend reality TV. It was a bold, entertaining experiment and could engage the audience in a way a lot of other cheap-to-make TV simply couldn't. As time went on, though, it became clear that the conventions of reality TV that sprouted up had calcified and that rather than liberating us they were imprisoning us.

  Beyond that, we just grew sick of all the human Pukémon avatards we had to experience, people who existed to be professionally annoying, wacky or outrageous - people whose need to be acknowledged was as all-consuming as it was pitiful. As viewers, our reactions to reality TV became so predictable they may as well have been scripted just as all the shows turned out to be.

  It became clear that no saviours from on high would deliver and that the only ethical thing was to devote all our energies to destroying the phoney reality menace for good.

  Britain’s Got Talent 2010

  It began as it always should, with two shite sisters: fat, middle-aged and fucked. As fucked as Steve Brookstein’s career, as fucked as Celine Dion’s teeth, as fucked as Andrew Stone at a Michael Barrymore pool party. They were of course called Doubletake, like you’d be walking down a road, see them, do a doubletake and go “wow, what a pair of foxes” rather than, say, “the milk’s gone bad!” Rick James in Studio 54 style. Anyway, the fat girls played Salvation Army tambourines (“timbrels” they insisted) and performed a vibrant routine that showcased their uncanny ability to hit a percussion instrument with their hands and had their bingo wings flapping joyfully in the breeze.

  During the judging, Amanda Holden criticised them for showing no emotion which is a bit rich coming from somebody whose ability to express emotion died with her last botox shot. They were quickly shitcanned, the first ritual sacrifice to sate the public’s lust for humiliation was completed. Britain’s Got Talent was back.

  One problem BGT faces as it enters its fourth serious is that the wacky acts are getting a little too knowing. Kevin Cruise, a one-man act based on a cruise liner entertainer character, angled desperately for that Stavros Flatley “shit-but-we-know-it so vote for us thx plz” slot. He was rank, unfunny and a shattering nause but got through. I could really do without this recurring shitemare.

  Then there are the people who seem to have come to the wrong audition. A woman walked on with a giant parrot on her shoulder and announced that it would eat mashed potato from a fork. It refused and bit her. She wasn’t looking for fame - she was looking for her marbles.

  Yet there is always something to warm the heart and it came in the form of 10-year-old Chloe Hickinbottom who channelled Vera Lynn singing White Cliffs of Dover remarkably accurately. Chillingly so, in fact. It reminded you of a horror film where the dead take over children’s personalities. I’m not quite sure why we need a 10-year-old Vera Lynn impersonator but as that pudding headed fuck Piers Morgan pointed out it would be a perfect act for the Royal Variety Performance.

  The most disturbing portion of the opening show was the return of 13 year-old drummer Kieran Gaffney who just missed out on the semis last year. In a baffling move, Kieran decided to return in a three-piece combo Mixed Emotions featuring him and his parents. Baffling, that is, until you see his parents - a mutton dressed as lamb mum and a renal failure dressed as darts legend Bobby George dad - the tryhard wannabe embarrassments curbstomping their son’s drumming dreams to a bloody pulp with what is certain to go down as the most morally offensive performance in the history of the TV talent show.

  Having stunk the joint out so badly many audience members needed oxygen masks, mum and dad were quickly told to piss off and Kieran came back later on a solo tip, did his Little Drummer Boy thing and got through. Well, good for him but I don’t think this is the way forward. He’s 13 and he can drum - so what? He’s not a tap dancing foetus or breakdancing geriatric - he’s just pretty nifty on the skins. And he’s going to turn into some approximation of his father one day which is reason enough to snuff his career out right now. He’s like the Nazis in the 30s - appeasement will not work.

  Tell you what, though: I bloody loved that ballet dancing dog.

  The verdict on Britain’s Got Talent 2010: If Shandy, the ballet dog does not come on stage at the Royal Variety Performance to “The Bitch Is Back” I consider it an opportunity wasted.

  Marks out of 10: 7.5

  Britain’s Got Talent Final 2009

  Is there a more worthless turd actively operating than Amanda Holden? She grates more than Dannii Minogue who is the Fellini of nause. Piers Morgan is a turd too, Helen Keller can see that, but he did have enough about him to edit a national newspaper at 39 even if he did make a bunch of stuff up, publish phoney photos of soldiers pissing on PoWs, issue begrudging non-apologies, get shitcanned, then spend years repeating the same documentary about how fame is just an end in itself these days and isn’t that awful? Holden looks good in her underwear in a vapid thousand yard porn stare kind of way and looked handsome and demure on the Britain’s Got Talent Final show but it really isn’t good enough. I know there has got to be a voice of the people att-a-boy judge but she knows nothing about anything. Her cluelessness cannot be fathomed. It is as dark and noxious as her insincerity.

  Aye, but it was never about her was it? The public only had eyes for one woman. Susan Boyle wasn’t very good on the night but she won in all but the factual sense of the word. She won by losing and ending up in the Priory which as well as being a powerful symbol of success gone awry is a high-end medical facility for tailspinning celebrity. You’ve arrived, kid, and you’re getting the best care available. Such
are the trappings of fame as Piers Morgan no doubt observed during one of his 19 consecutive identical documentaries on the subject. Boyle can now record an Elaine Page covers album and retire to the countryside away from predatory press, over-zealous well-wishers and 300 tubs of skanky defoliation cream.

  Boyle left the vulgar task of actual “winning” to Diversity - a group of young dancing herberts from Essex and, don’t front, their routine was spectacular. Frenetic, precise and exuberant they thrilled and engaged the audience. The three red buzzers move was a stroke of genius - one of those moments that, like the first flash of Riverdance gusset, reminded us all of the joy of dance.

  Something Stavros Flatley, the likeable father and son fat bastard combo, could make no claim to. They gracelessly bounced around the stage for a bit before disappearing into the darklands from whence they came. I didn’t really want them in the final in the first place but this is a popularity contest and this is the United Kingdom and their success was down to the uniquely British belief that being plucky, charming and shite mitigates all wrongdoing - a belief that is sometimes amusing but mainly misguided.

  But these shows just keep coming and keep succeeding. The idea that you might find a million-dollar baby in a five-and-dime store still captures the imagination. Susan Boyle was one such baby - the nation’s wayward hairy angel who went viral then went nuts and now rubs shoulders with Tom Chaplin from Keane in the Priory canteen as he tries to score some port from the clinic dealer. While they still turn up 10 carat diamonds like her, the TV talent show will stay in ruddy health.

  The verdict on Britain’s Got Talent Final: The verdict is final.

  Marks out of 10: 7

  The Apprentice Series 2

  You think 80s revivalism has gone too far? Of course you do - it was a cultural and political holocaust venerated only by piss drinking baby rapists, Vic 20 enthusiasts and Manimal star Simon MacCorkindale. It is therefore fitting that this year’s Apprentice contestants are an assortment of recruitment filth who take you right back to the worst decade in recorded time. It’s as if dinosaur cloning scientists merged the DNA of Margaret Thatcher, Gordon Gekko and Alan B’stard and spawned an unholy litter of goal-orientated hair-gelled careerist scum in one go.

  The 14 hopefuls are quickly split into two groups of seven girls and seven boys. Their first task is to choose a team name. The girls take less than three minutes to come up with Velocity. An hour later the boys have yet to come up with a shortlist.

  This despite the efforts of Syed, one of the most offensive men that ever lived, who is convinced that his idea ‘The A-Team’ is the best. The others remain unconvinced and take to brainstorming. Syed, helpfully reads the results back to them “Success, vision, creativity, maverick - all of that rolls into the A-Team”.

  Is this guy on commission? Ben, a plummy IT consultant tells them “I like the idea of combining two words into one new word that doesn’t actually mean anything but sounds good”. I quite agree, Ben. Here’s a couple for you: Shut-the, Fuck-up.

  They finally settle on Invicta (“it’s Latin for indestructible”) and make Ben the project leader for the task. Selling a load of fruit on Hackney market with a budget of £500.

  The girls team is ably led by Karen, a sexy lawyer who hails from Scotland. Tall, dark-haired and willowy, she looks great for 39. Too bad she’s 34. The girls get a load of free fruit from the wholesalers by flirting with the men there and generally pushing their luck. The fruit may be over-ripe and on the turn but so are the women. While the boys are busy practising the ancient art of haggling, the girls are busy practising the ancient art of showing their tits. Good for them.

  The girls clearly make a better profit by several hundred pounds but Sugar is far from sweet on the idea of flirting to get crappy fruit. He lambasts them for using their feminine wiles in this disgraceful manner and gives them five minutes to come up with a reason why the hell he should award them the victory. Sexy Karen comes back and gives him one and he says “Yeah, alright then. I was only hamming it up for the cameras, I think you’ve got great tits, go and enjoy the champagne with the rest of the slaaags” something which Sexy Karen is only too happy to do.

  So we’re left with two-word Ben, fuck faced Syed and Samuel, an anonymous product developer in the final three frame to be sacked. Sir Alan isn’t impressed with any of them - Ben oversaw failure of the task, Syed is an obnoxious turd and Samuel spends his entire time avoiding responsibility.

  The verdict arrives and there’s another two word phrase for Ben: You’re fired. What a chump.

  Sugar is one of those people who is widely disliked but people have grudging respect for. People want to earn his respect, which is a useful quality to have. He’s fond of telling anyone who’ll listen that he doesn’t like bullshitters, schmoozers or arse-lickers.

  Isn’t he in the wrong game?

  The verdict on The Apprentice: I believe in smart-ass reviews. That’s why my fee for this piece is going to Great Ormond Street.

  Marks out of 10: 7

  Big Brother 2008

  Watching Big Brother is like meeting up with a friend diagnosed with a terminal illness. You’re smiling but you’re basically waiting for him to die. He’s become a drain on you, his family and the country and not just financially. He’s an emotional parasite who sucks the life and joy out of every locale he enters. You want to rinse his chemo-addled skull with your hot piss and choke the little life left in him right out with your bare hands. But no. You stay, you smile and you sympathise. Because that’s how you roll.

  Endemol will have you believing there’s life in the old dog yet, though, and there is certainly no shortage of lemmings willing to throw themselves off the fame cliff if the auditions are anything to go by. These douchebags really will do anything to become famous. Ricky Gervais, when asked what advice he would give to somebody wanting to become famous, said “murder a prostitute” which was a very good answer. Notoriety will do for most of these nitwits. But just who are those brave amphibians swimming around the goldfish bowl over the summer months?

  Lisa, 40, the sales rep and Amazonian breast implant vessel from Warrington says the most significant event in her life was when her borefriend pawned his Rolex to buy her fake tits for her. And they say romance is dead.

  Mario, 42, the Rolex-pawning long-turd borefriend of Lisa. The Sylvester Stallone, Linc from Prison Break and Buzz Lightyear lookalike suffers from fits of rage and has to be chained to a wall at night and fed raw steak. Has spent the early exchanges offering Olympic standard patronage to Wee Blind Mikey in the hope of staving off his inevitable early eviction.

  Luke, 20, entered the Big Brother house to change people’s perception of students. The Frank Sidebottom sounding pro-wrestling announcer doesn’t smoke, drink, do drugs or swear and supports the Conservative party. Seems likely to kickstart a debate a la Gareth from The Office about whether he is an arse faced weasel or a weasel faced arse.

  Stephanie, 19, a sexually attractive blonde girl who got kicked out of Popstars for lying about her age. Aerial Telly likes Stephanie. She was alone in showing some balls standing up to the hateful skankatollah Alex the other night and he likes his girls to have a bit of fire in their belly. She will, of course, be first out of the house and first into Nuts magazine.

  Rachel, 24, a Welsh trainee teacher with an impressive arse. Rachel will be this year’s winner according to Aerial Telly’s close personal friend and reality TV betting genius Ed Murray. An endorsement from Ed is like getting a blessing from the reality TV pope so keep an eye on this Welsh pie.

  Dale, 21, a student PE teacher who says he will “nail any fanny” inside the house and shouted “get your snatch out!” to Rebecca during a game of Truth or Dare. There’s no substitute for class.

  Dennis, 23, dance student. Bears an alarming resemblance to Herr Lipp from The League of Gentlemen. Thinks he is heading up a new Lipgloss Bitches clique but the tedious freak is so far out of his depth with Sylvia and Alexandra it’s not f
unny.

  Michael, 33, a blind, Scottish radio producer whose disability instantly made him the house child - a benign, sexless creature who everyone could project their fantasies of the essential innocence and goodness of humanity onto. He will get few nominations as a result so expect this boy to be in the final four shakeup. Excellent ‘Chosen One’ material should the producers choose to make him.

  Alexandra, 23, accounts “executive” is a nastier version of Charley if such a thing is possible. Unspeakably vile bullying freak who needs murdering every second she’s on the planet.

  Rex, 23, the executive chef is so far notable for being ginger and utterly anonymous.

  Mohammed, 23, is a toy demonstrator who was born in Somalia. He has the perfect combination of affable and dreary that makes him a stayer with zero chance of winning.

  Rebecca, 23, a nursery nurse. A fat, Vicky Pollard clone who reminds you of last year’s Laura. The first, and least welcome, of the girls to expose her breasticles, Rebecca has a distressing condition known as Nadia arse where she wears thongs despite having the buttocks of a man. The condition is non-fatal but means she and everyone viewing the spectacle may as well be dead.

  Darnell, 26, an albino former gangster from St Louis who now lives in London. Darnell’s main ambition is to wrestle the title of Whitest Black Man on the Planet from Aerial Telly.

  Jennifer, 22, a part-time model, is a loving single mum who has apparently abandoned her child for fame. This self-professed Catholic bad girl is anti-fox hunting, anti-abortion, anti-smoking, and anti-fur. Let the party begin...