Monthly Archives: July 2011

No.68: Take offence at a variety (all) daytime TV presenters

To be a good daytime TV presenter, one must genetically possess that heady, provocative cocktail of ‘come, I would never hurt you’ smiliness, deep, deep cold-hearted ruthlessness and high-risk, pre-luncheon drinking fiendage. Not all, but some. *smells the lawsuits*

DTTVPs are dangerous. Unfettered, they roam the TV networks before 15.00 like demonic overlords dressed in smart, rumpled casual (him) and anything by Coast (her). They have nothing to fear. Everyone watching is in a conscious guilt coma of work avoidance, reefer-fug or are laundrydrunk. Their blindingly-lit studio kingdoms of inoffensive cookery slots and interviews with multiple-birth mothers are safe from interference. They can say what they like. Well, they can’t say ‘fuckflaps’ but they are somewhat free to flirt in the borderlands of passive-aggressive rudeness and unbridled patronising behaviours.

One such flirt is DTTV Sofa Czar Richard Madeley. Watching him interview anyone was like watching a scene from Cracker, the hapless suspect (AKA: interviewee harrowed by some life misfortune that was promptly usurped in it’s ‘worst thing ever’ status by Madeley’s relentless bullying) being asked a question. And then Madeley firing another at them from his cocksure, I’m-a-dad-who-wears-a-hoody-and-once-saw-Snow Patrol-live slouch. And then another and another whilst promptly answering for them before the synapses  in their brain have even begun to fire the requisite neuron. Richard, this is not Probing Interview Technique.  It is being a douche.

Judy sits on smiling. Because she knows she has replaced his hairspray with vaginal deodorant.

But everybody seemingly in their right mind adores them.  Mums particularly. But this maybe because they’ve been so bored they started licking the Persil washtablets.

 ‘Ooh, but that Lorraine Kelly’s lovely,’ says your dad who you daren’t argue with because you owe him 2 month’s rent. So you nod non-commitally, whilst cringing as she soaks her guests from a well of condescention deeper than Jabba the Hutt’s  Sarlacc pit.

Another offensive presence is that Kyle person, who thinks that because he spends his life paddling in the footbath of society’s genepool he’s somehow allowed to wield a Paxman/Ceasar  complex, dispensing rudeness from atop his  moral high-ground to the scum and their 36 children, but suceeding only in demonstrating the huge absence of self-awareness of a man who is scraping the bottom of a barrel he actually constructed himself.

Kyle: Set phasers to 'scum'

But he’s at least better than Kilroy.

‘Daybreak’ presents another interesting (read:enraging) facet of DTTV–  why do ALL  DTTV sofa’spouses’ consist of some well-dressed, slim, highly attractive woman and a man that looks like the offspring of a coach driver and a roadie? Would the opposite EVER be sanctioned?  Wouldn’t it be ace to see some telly presented by Eric out of True Blood plus a fifty something from the Liberal Democrat backbench?

Doubtless, Overlord Madeley would insist this had already been done in the case of him and Judy. Harhar. Whilst Judy just smiles and knows that it wasn’t fake tan in that bottle he was slathering all over his stupid face earlier this morning.

‘Loose women’ is ok – but too much viewing could bring about early menopause.  And at least they look like what real women look like (before going out on a hen night admittedly) as opposed to the majority of female presenters who are only marginally older than a foetus and posses similarly undeveloped interview skills. Phillip Schofield gets a pass however because he has aged gracefully and always managed to talk to a puppet whilst maintaining his dignity. Fern Britton gets one as well – despite the tattoos and GastricBandgate – because she looks like my mum.

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No.67: Make Mixtapes

Glorious, glorious hours of time can be poured into the planning, ordering, re-ordering – and, of course hand-writing the playlist on the back in your favourite pen of – a mixtape. Of course, mixtape is a bit of a misnomer as these days it’ll be a mix CD won’t it?  Or a Spotify playlist. Which, at a risk of getting dully sentimental* just isn’t the same as handing over that rattling, chronically-abused Maxell UR-90; a badly-disguised sonic missive  that says ‘I adore you and yet, I fear that you will only ever view me as a ‘sweet friend’. Nevertheless, here are all the things I can’t say to you because I wasted all the time I should have spent honing my courting skills listening to Hole albums on perpetual loop and/or making up abysmal band names from underneath an awful haircut.’

However, there is no need to go through the mores of mixtapery because John Cusak pretty much covered everything for Nick Hornby.  However, there are still a couple of things to consider:

Recipient

1.Is traditionally a person with whom you are secretly in love. However, in the absence of one of these poor unsuspecting bastards, a friend with an open mind but with flexible (read: zero) music taste is perfect.  Dragging anyone back from the screaming brink of a Robbie Williams Abyss is actually deemed a public service in some parts of the British Isles.

RW: a real floor-filler at the British Deaf Association film night

1./Subsection (a) Anyone whose music collection contains Joe McElderry’s album is beyond saving. Delete them from your phonebook.

2.If the potential recipient regularly talks about bands of whom you have never heard or that have names like Tankus & The Henge, or likes the sort of Jazz that to you sounds like a one-man-band being kicked around inside a haulage container or can talk at length on the subject of production values, don’t bother making them a mixtape. Perhaps delete them from your phonebook as well, just to be sure.

3. If either of the above persons are you, don’t EVER make anyone a mixtape. You may also delete yourself from your phonebook if you wish.

Content

1. Once the recipient has been decided upon (either them or whoever is left in your phonebook), a mixtape’s playlist should say:  ‘here is a fabulous selection of taste-broadening music that I have put together for your aural delectation and enjoyment, because either I fancy you OR I like you so much, I thought it would be a nice thing to do as I consider all of this here tunage to be life-enhancing and ace.’

However, anyone that regularly makes mixtapes  knows that what they are really saying is:

‘Your music taste is, in all honesty, shit.’  

TODAY’S FOOTNOTES

* This blogger has been regularly accused of being unable to move with the times and of (direct quote)  ‘dancing like it’s 1992’.  A recent conversation:

Person: She just bought one of those things you use for recording stuff off the telly.

theweemo: A VCR?

Person: No you twat, a freeview telly recorder box.

theweemo: I  see.

No.66: Eat

Eating is a man-made emergency exit from a productivity impasse. Food exists to fill the hole where ideas should be. In fact, according to Wikipedia, ideas are KitKat-shaped*. Have a block? Have a KitKat. Two – no – four delicious fingers to plug the yawning chasm of inspirationlessness.**

But enough of this Wordsworthian nonsense. The urge to down the fridge in one is a very common urge for the flancer. Because inside every flancer there is a feeder gene. And inside every flancer cupboard is a family pack of KitKats. And inside every family pack of KitKats is quite often nothing as you ate four of the damn things last night because you were clean out of Jaffa Cakes due to Monday afternoon’s deadline crisis.

‘I really must finish this hideous feature because if not EDITOR-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED will execute a premiership spazz-out down my mobile…

But first I will have a Jaffa Cake.’

‘No, I’ll just –’

– Jaffa Cake.

‘No. Its best if –’

 – Jaffa Cake.

RING RING

‘Shit!’ Etc.

The flancer – whose workspace wastepaper bin permanently resembles Cadbury’s smoking area -finds it impossible to work, knowing that there is even a singular uneaten chocolate item anywhere in the house – nay – postal district. It’s like being in a quiet room with someone and hearing an inexplicable clicking sound that the other person can’t hear but is driving you nuts. You have to know what that clicking is!

Can’t you hear it?! Pause…’there! No?’ …‘There!’

At this point the other person is so bored of this nonsense they suggest you have an ear problem/pretend they can/leave. Whereas you are convinced it’s them surreptitiously unwrapping a KitKat. Bastards!

Remember that late 80s TV show You Bet? It was hosted by gurning, smarm-peddler, Bruce Forsyth (Sir) and showcased kids being lauded for their pointless ability to identify what 258 different car doors sounded like when slammed shut. Nowadays they’d be stuck straight on the Autism register.

Forsyth: Nice to see you...! No, actually, it really isn't.

Anyway, if you’re actually still following the blog at this point which seems to have spiralled of into pointless and rather over-detailed scene-setting, I was actually going somewhere with this. Namely, that if you are a friend of a flancer you could probably identify what 258 different chocolate bars sound like if being chewed on at the other end of a telephone.

Hmm. Momentum has been somewhat lost. …Ooh! KitKat Time! Woop!

 TODAY’S FOOTNOTES

*This is more than definitely a total fabrication.

** Never mind the Greek economy, the burning question everyone should be attempting to solve is: how can we force Rowntree’s of York to make a four-finger KatKat Chunky?