My suffering is inconsequential however, when compared to the guilt ridden anxiety that every single British citizen has had to endure for the last 7 days because of Simon Cowell and Britain’s Got Talent.

I’m certain that anyone who is reading this will probably have had Susan Bolye forced down their throats all week. To summarise, the standard sideshow of desperate nobodies wanting their shot at stardom has shown that we are all shallow bastards, and should all feel very very bad about ourselves. The reason for this is that Miss Boyle (Scottish, 47, frumpy, never been kissed) has astonishingly demonstrated that the talent-fairies do not just shoot their magical arrows into stunners. Latest reports are that Youtube has had 25,000,000 hits to watch this woman’s performance of “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Miserables (so they don’t need me to put a link here, do they?)

There are good reasons to watch this clip- anyone who can wipe the smug snears off Cowell and Piers (I’m so smarmy I leave a snail-trail) Morgan’s collective faces, as well as put any expression on Amanda Holden’s surgically-sculpted visage, deserves to make an absolute fortune. I also like the fact that whichever gobshite gave a slow, mocking wolf-whistle when she came on stage must feel like a leper right about now.

The downside is the media’s response since this. I have heard at least 3 seperate radio phone-ins about just how evil and wrong we all are for even noticing the fact she had a face like a melted waxwork. God only knows how many newspapers have run similar, inciteful stories saying that we, the viewing public were the ugly ones, not Miss Boyle. How good of the media to criticise us for looking for the standards they have drilled into our heads.

Even more irritating is that there’s evidence that the American’s have now evolved to the point of understanding irony. Demi Moore (who works in the shallowest industry on the planet) has spoken of how the footage “brought her to tears.” Now THAT would have been a truly entertaining sight… tears emerging presumably from poor emotional Demi’s ears, given the number of facelifts she’s had to keep her career from circling the drain!

What worries me is that when the inevitable album, and subsequent media circus comes around, this poor woman is going to be pressured into becoming something that she’s not. To make myself clear, I have nothing against talant being rewarded with success. In a truly democratic world, it should only be the gifted who succeed. However, the cold hard truth is that there is going to be a constant pressure on Boyle to either be marketed as some kind of freak (come and see the gifted plain woman!) or to transform into something more “acceptable.”

Is it right that we mocked and expected humiliation when the tape began? No. I myself was being shown the Youtube clip by Techno Scouse, so was expecting a magpie/ninja/exploding midget related incident. I was disappointed.

There’s still no getting away from the fact that she’s now going to secure success on the basis of her looks. The marketing machine has already begun to warm up, and soon the subtle suggestion will be made that we should support this unattractive artist out of partial guilt. Is that worse than bands such as Girls Aloud succeeding because they are good looking (we’ll ignore Nicola for the sake of this argument… little alabaster-skinned troll that she is)? No…

… but it’s no better either.

“Oi, you… yes, the bloke trying to dress like the Joker and in dire need of a shave. Yes, you… put those pissing pop-tarts down and listen. The Hills is on tonight. Seriously, if you like self-inflicted pain, you have to watch it. Sober.”

The scales fell from my eyes, and I felt envigorated by the revelation before me. Partly it was the confirmation that improbable-God speaks with a subtle Mancunian accent, combined with the fact that during this time, the afore-mentioned pop-tart had cooled down and I had been saved from third-degree tongue burns. Then the realisation dawned on me what lay before me.

And so, I am prepared. I have coffee, and have put the remote on the other side of the room so I can’t succumb to temptation and change the channel.

It begins:

Oh come on… there’s an hour of this??? A double bill? My God, why have you forsaken me?

Right, a nice little summary of the story so far… not that it is a story. These are real people you know. They just don’t have real personalities, jobs, or breasts.

So, excellent production values and it looks like someone’s used an Imax camera to film their mates sitting around talking about their weekends. This stuff is tedious on a bleeding camcorder, so why does a clear picture make a difference?

Heidi has been tasked to do something… organise a party I think. Now we cut to 2 girls discussing one of their friends moving into her own place. And then a bit of music, footage of skylines and landscapes.

[What the fuck is going on??? How is this entertainment?]

Now Audrina is in a bar/restaurant/film set talking to some herbert in a baseball cap. She’s just asked him to move in with her, and then we cut to commercial.

7 minutes. 420 seconds. and now we’re watching adverts. Can someone please explain to me how this is different to sitting in a pub and listening in to other punters’ conversations? At least there you’d hear more than 4 sentences before you are forced to eavesdrop on some other blabbering trollop.There is more character shown by Pablo the drugs mule dog than by any one of these “people”!

AAAANNND we’re back. Audrina’s showing her sister (face of a man, tattoos of 17 men) round her house. She must be a frigging drug dealer or very high-class prostitute to afford this! Oh goodo, more meaningful pauses in conversation before another music/landscape interlude.

Time for a re-structure of my approach for this blog. With such a disjointed programme, there’s nothing to analyse or critique in any meaningful way. I mean I’m watching 2 dolled up bints packing ornaments into boxes… all with full makeup, jewellery, and studio-quality lighting. The level of dialogue is like something out of a badly written porn film, but instead of getting it on they have pauses in conversation and try to remember their own names.

In that whole episode, the only thing that actually happened was Heidi getting fired for being pissed at a party she was professionally organising, and for having her boyfriend there. So how did she react when summarily dismissed from employment… you guessed it, she fell silent walked out and got her bag.

The only option left is to take the people (I can’t describe them as either characters or personalities, without some evidence of either) individually, and try and sum them up to remove the need for you to sit through this turgid goldfish bowl of arse.

Ok so first let’s deal with Audrina. Brunette, seems to be seeing some rugged looking bloke (i.e. he wears a vest and baseball cap in restaurants, and doesn’t shave) for about 5 minutes before asking him to move into her new place with her. No idea about what job she does, so I’m sticking with the dealer/hooker guess from above.

2 girls with dark blonde hair. No idea what their names are. They work in the fashion industry, and seem to be mates with Audrina. Maybe they pimp her out. Probably not. That’s it… can’t work out anything more about them.

Heidi… now unemployed, and not overly emotional about losing her supposed dream job of 3 years. who’d have thought that getting trolleyed and inviting your boyfriend (Spencer… see below) to a party your boss had been paid presumably thousands of dollars to organise could have a negative effect on your job security. Live and learn chuckles!

Last and by every means least, we have Spencer Pratt. That’s right… that really is his name. Seems to be the only regular (by which I mean he’s on screen often, not that he’s normal) man (I think) in the cast. He seems to be under the impression that he has significance or influence. He has the personality of a belch, approximately half the charisma of a Ken doll.

Sorry… that should have been this photo. What a mistake to make.

Words just escape me. I am genuinely struggling to understand how this has lasted so long on TV, particularly without some crazed stalker gutting one of these bimbos and wearing them as a hat, a la Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs. It’s as if some unforseen hand is flicking between high-definition CCTV cameras, cutting between random bystanders having coffee and sampling conversations. The only rule is that the channel must change just before any of these dialogues reaches it’s conclusion, or justifies the carbon dioxide spewed out during it.

Will I be tuning in again? I don’t even believe I have ever tuned IN yet!

… I was impressed by the originality of an idea in the new Celebrity Big Brother series.

It’s like admitting addiction to heroin… having to publicly state something that flies in the face of everything that society expects!

Rather than risk yet another catastrophe involving small minded, e-list celebrity flotsom acting like ignorant pieces of rat-shit, this year the housemates aren’t really celebrities. Some (including me) would say this isn’t much of a change, as most contestants over the last few years have been vacuous non-entities that are unheard of before they drop their arses live on Channel 4. At least this year C4 has pre-empted this criticism by deliberately picking “up and coming” people from the world of sport, politics, music, and… erm… the circus.

The real fun comes through the “hijacking” of the show by actual celebrities (or at least people that I have heard of). This works by the day’s celebrity taking the role of Big Brother, and essentially playing the role of puppet master in this televised dolls’ house. I am genuinely looking forward to Brian Sewell taking the reigns, which he will do according to something I read somewhere (there’s a reliable source for you people!). Sewell, by way of explanation, is an English art critic who has the most ridiculous accent you’ll ever hear. It manages to go beyond that of Loyd Grossman, and I can only describe it as an upper class interpretation of Dick Van Dyke’s cockney codswallop in Mary Poppins- it is that exaggerated!

We’re still in the early stages, as it only began last night. If it all turns to shite before your very eyes, don’t come crying to me. Yesterday’s Hijacker was Matt Lucas- the round/bald/gay comedian from Shooting Stars and Little Britain fame. In a masterstroke of television, he gave the first housemate to enter the house a challenge. John, the big ginger happy Scottish political activist, had to wear a stereotypical tartan hat to hide an earpiece. Through this earpiece, Lucas gave John instructions on how to act in front of each new housemate as they entered the place in turn.

TS and I only caught this half way through, but it was great to see the faces of men being approached by this big, smiling ginger loon, who would give them an unsolicited back rubs. The confusion that gradually spread as John had to go up to each of them in turn and say the word “cake”, before just nodding and walking away. All of a sudden, it was like having an out of body experience… that is the sort of random behaviour that I have grown used to from TS, but there it was happening to other people in an intentionally bizarre scenario. I actually checked TS’ ears last night to try and see if she’s been controlled by some unseen camp celebrity. Unfortunately I couldn’t find any receivers, so any voices must just be inside her pretty little head. Oh well.

Anyway, what was I on about? Oh yes, John had to satisfy his invisible manipulator in order to win a party for the rest of the house, and a free pass to the grand final for himself. Without wanting to ruin the surprise (not that there is any) for you dear readers, he passed the test thanks to successfully collapsing to the floor as if shot, and holding his leg while complaining of spontaneous cramp. Well done to him!

So there we have it. Hell has frozen over, and I have written positive things about an episode of Big Brother. However, normal service will be restored.

Smoking Monkey will return in: A Review of Celebrity Fitness Videos (working title)

ps… it has been pointed out that apparently we know Liam. By this, I mean that TS knows him from back in the ghetto of Widnes. He’s not a web designer/entrepreneur as he claims… though I got lost in TS’ ramblings and so can’t give any more information. If I remember, I’ll let you all know

I am of course talking about Can Fat Teens Hunt, and the naked boobs I refeered to belonged to the chronically tubby lads taking part in the “weight loss” programme. That’s not to say that there weren’t teen girls on there as well, but given that they were so fat that they actually seemed to have a spare set of breasts hanging down their backs. Very fetching, ladies!

The idea for the show is that teenagers from the UK are too fat because of their crappy diets of pizza, burgers, chips, and congealed fat. Obviously what they need is to be transported to live with a tribe in the Malaysian jungle, to experience the hunter/gatherer lifestyle. They then experience killing their own food before eating it, and actually getting off their monstrously large arses once in a while.

The real enjoyment though comes not from seeing them develop as people and learning new skills (because they don’t manage either). Instead, the highlight is watching these buckets of blubber sweating from the exertion of lifting their flabby arms to pick up rice. In the course of one episode, we saw the highlights of one lad suffering heat exhaustion, while a girl was being treated in hospital for gall stones brought on by dehydration. The dippy orca doesn’t deserve sympathy. One of the reasons she had to be admitted to hospital was she hadn’t had a dump for 9 days!

That’s right, it seems that these teenage tubsters have accepted this offer of a trip around the world to lose weight, but expected proper flushing toilets. When faced with the prospect of having to park their lunch in a hole in the ground, they think it’s worth trying to hold it in for a few weeks. I can understand their reluctance, as I think indoor plumbing is one of the highlights of western civilisation. For that reason, I avoid situations where I may need to have to crap in a ditch. Camping is therefore not my idea of fun, and I would not live with a tribe in the middle of the Asian jungle. Perhaps that just illustrates the real problem with Britain’s youth: they are fucking stupid and will do anything to be on TV without actually thinking it through!

During last night’s show, the lads had the privilege of joining the tribal hunters on a search for frogs. Apparently they are a very good source of protein for relatively low calorific cost (not that these greasers would ever eat anything as unusual). However, despite being told which frogs are nutritious gems, and which ones have highly poisonous skin that will kill you if you touch them, the pasty pastie-lovers always seem to be about to pick up a big handful of death!
Personally I think the show would be better if they went for the full-on Lord of the Flies/Battle Royale experience and just dumped the fat bastards on an island. That way we could really enjoy their suffering, and they would have no choice but to adjust to the harsh necessities of survival… or die! Every now and then, drop a small case of sausage rolls in the middle of a snake-infested jungle, and arm them with weapons ranging from rubber mallets to crossbows. Last sphere standing gets free liposuction or a fatal amount of bacon!

And so, I thought I would give a little look at what’s in the papers. It will give our non-UK cousins a chance to get a flavour of the Nation that spawned an empire. In light of this grand aspiration, it is only proper that I use the finest daily publication as my source of news. I speak of course of The Sun:

Starting on a cultural high point, the paper has very patriotically commemorated 300 years of the Treaty of Union between England and Scotland by showcasing “our countries’ gorgeous girls.” It makes a proud Briton’s heart swell to know that the treaty that ended centuries of war, and created one of the leading nations is marked in such a way.

Speaking as a Scotsman of sorts (born in Aberdeen, so that’s enough for me), I am slightly let down by the collection of “tartan totty.” I mean is it really the best we can offer to have Sheena Easton, Lulu, and Lorraine Kelly in the top 10?  And I thought Isla Fisher was Australian (though I may be wrong). I haven’t voted in The Sun’s online poll, but I suspect that the Scots may have to take the runner’s up medal in this one. I’m surprised that they didn’t put Wee Jimmy Krankie in for good measure!

OOH!!! My favourite silicon brain-fart is in the news again, and once more it’s courtesy of poor little… ok, poor lardy… Harvey. The good news is that he’s out of hospital. I must have been working or something when the shock admission to hospital was on the news, as I now feel ashamed for not sending him a get well soon card. Apparently, the 4 year old, partially sighted, disabled child suffered majot burns to his leg. How did he get such injuries? he climbed into a bath and turned on a hot tap, scolding himself in the process.

Once again, to avoid any undue suggestion I’m a heartless bastard, i don’t have a go at harvey because of his condition. However, I do wonder about the high standard of care clearly shown by whoever is probably paid to look after the little mite when he’s not being photgraphed for Heat magazine. Indeed, his injuries were made worse by the fact “his rescuer” (no mention of WHO that actually was… interesting) pulled his jeans off and tore the skin off his leg.

Meanwhile, in the Celebrity Big Brother House, the model who’s shagging terry Sheringham had the misfortune of her top falling down to reveal her bra during a task. The funniest thing was a comment on digital spy saying that she must be devastated at the embarassment. I suspect she’ll get over it, probably by doing a topless photo shoot when she rejoins society.

Girls Aloud star Nadine Coyle’s flat was gatecrashed by a gang of cocaine dealers, looking for a safehouse to store their drugs. The only reason I mention this one really is that it gives me a chance to pass on old information I had that one of the girl-group used to shag the dearly departed Manchester gangster Dessie Noonan. It’s probably for my own good that I can’t remember which girl it was (I expect she has rather good libel lawyers to hand), but I have good authority that Noonan (stabbed to death by his crack dealer a couple of years ago) was once a close acquaintance.

The crowning story HAS to be “My Sex Tape Nightmare” by Keeley Hazell. Now, Ms Hazell is a Page 3 girl, and has probably got her baps out more times in the last 12 months than I’ve had pies. Unfortunately for her, an ex-boyfriend has released a 10 minute video of the pair up to something (The Sun is surprisingly sparse on details), together with still images from the tape “to a downmarket newspaper.”

Hold on there… The Sun, scandel-mongering tabloid rag that it is can class another paper as “downmarket”? That’s even more entertaining that Keeley’s quote that “Now I feel I have no dignity left.”

So what lessons can we learn from these stories?

1. Don’t leave toddlers alone where they can scold themselves

2. If you’re a glamour model and have taken a camcorder on holiday to tenerife, think twice about letting the bloke keep the tape the morning after you’ve had a steamy session

3. In tabloid land, everything can be celebrated with a picture of Kelly Brook

God Save The Queen!

By way of contrast, The Times has articles on how screw caps on wine bottles can give the wine a smell of stink bombs, and a short article dedicated to a word that starts with C and rhymes with blunt. High-brow stuff!