I'm addicted to the X factor, I know I shouldn't be but I just can't help myself. I mean, it really is everything that is wrong with, not just television, but society at large and I should, technically, rip out my eyeballs and eat them rather than watch it, but I just can't bring myself to do that because a.)I'm trying out atkins four years after everyone else and don't want to introduce carbs into my diet, and b.) It would mean I would miss the X factor. Its like T.V heroin and I just cant help myself.
This series is brilliant, and by brilliant I mean shit, but irresistible shit. Dermot O'leary introduces us to the show and I am the only one who has noticed how unbelievably bad he is at presenting: his dull monotone delivery, dead eyed stare at the camera and fat patronising head leave me wishing for Kate Thornton, which can never be a good thing. Dermot has simply become background irritation to Simon's preening and the whole thing might as well be presented by a fridge, quite frankly. This week was one of those pointless big band weeks where everyone pretends to like swing music even though they really don't. No one like swing music; it's shit, and besides, no one on these shows has ever been able to sing it properly. Swing music should be sung by an old misogynist, dripping of whiskey, who will go home after his performance and slap his wife around, not one of Jamie Oliver's sperm that, somehow, has taken on a life of it's own. The Judges take their seats and this week Simon will be playing the part of particularly sleazy David Hasselhoff. The show is kicked off by Laura White who despite looking and sounding like a burly transvestite is told her performance was brilliant and unique. Dannii has said she has a unique style, but thats not true just go to Bangkok there are thousands like her. The whole show is going along swimmingly until Alexandra performs candyman dressed in a sailors outfit. This is hands down the gayest performance in the history of reality T.V and Louie, unsurprisingly, is almost giddy. All of the acts seem to meld in to one as they boringly sing boring songs to judges who look, quite frankly, bored. Thats unfair to Diana, however, who is quite cool and unique and should really win the show at a canter, but will probably be voted off next week in a head to head with fetus boy. The show is unfathomably long these days, and the mixture of boring cabaret acts and stilted banter bring up uncomfortable meories of Children In Need. In part two the 12 finalists(minus Ruth and Daniel) sing hero, why doesn't Simon just call it American Idol and be done with it. On the subject of Ruth, how annoying is Simon's insistence she sing everything in Spanish? It's obvious he only does it because it gives him an erection; I know he's getting on a bit, and it's probably quite a rare occurance, but the poor girl doesn't need that. Anyway, after about three weeks Dermot announces that former Pontins blue coat Scott is on his way, and, despite the fact he was shit, everyone is shocked, Louie even cries, and so does Dannii, but it's hard to tell. It's okay Simon says the standard was high this year, plus he can always go back to Pontins (That might not be true, however, as I've been to Pontins this year and the standard is high there too.)So there we are, the X factor is over for another week, Diana really should win and Simon really need to buy a shirt with a top button. Despite my grievances I will be tuning in next week, just to see how much more like American Idol it can become before Simon Fuller tries to sue them again. O'leary out.
Sunday, 26 October 2008
Thursday, 23 October 2008
I can see you dancing with Irish eyes.
I don't need to tell you that this:
is fantastic.
This got me thinking, however: Is there anything on earth that can't be improved by an Irish cover version? and the answer is no. Think about it - everything is better when you add fiddles and penny whistles. Take the Corrs (not like that): They managed to transcend bland pop/rock music, naff videos, and an ugly brother, which is some doing, as he really wasn't a looker. They rode the crest of a harmonic Irish wave into pop superstardom (sort of). If you need any further proof that Irish music improves everything look at this:
See Shane McGowen agrees that Irish music improves everything, he used it, and actually managed to improve Christmas. So suck on that Catholics.
is fantastic.
This got me thinking, however: Is there anything on earth that can't be improved by an Irish cover version? and the answer is no. Think about it - everything is better when you add fiddles and penny whistles. Take the Corrs (not like that): They managed to transcend bland pop/rock music, naff videos, and an ugly brother, which is some doing, as he really wasn't a looker. They rode the crest of a harmonic Irish wave into pop superstardom (sort of). If you need any further proof that Irish music improves everything look at this:
See Shane McGowen agrees that Irish music improves everything, he used it, and actually managed to improve Christmas. So suck on that Catholics.
Tuesday, 7 October 2008
T.V. dinner for the soul.
I watch a lot of T.V. And I mean a lot, if you think you watch a lot of T.V. you are wrong, I watch T.V. in a similar manner to how Muslim fundamentalists watch the sky, or how John McCain watches his heart rate, in a perpetual state of waiting- waiting for something to happen. It never does of course, but the thrill is in the chase. The reason I'm telling you this is because I'm not happy, and I think T.V. could be the reason why. I feel bad for bad-mouthing T.V. as its been the source of much of my education, pleasure and personality for much of my life - I feel like a foal rejecting it's mothers teet, as I no longer want milk but feel like tasting champagne instead.
But nothing on T.V. makes me happy I am just constantly dejected and sad, which is why I've decided there is no such thing as feel good T.V. Any show that claims to be feel good is ultimately quite dark, as if all of T.V has been made by Frank Capra. Think about Neighbours- you're supposed to think wow, look at those people: all loving and getting on together. What a wonderful neighbourhood; but what you're really thinking is look at all those beautiful fuckers, and all their sunshine I just wish Harold's extra chin would turn around and devour the lot of them. The Pride of Britain awards, you're meant to revel at the remarkable resilience and courage shown by children in the face of extreme misfortune, but really you're left feeling sick to the stomach as celebrity after celebrity manages to turn their triumph into advertising space for their own self publicity, all the while realising just how little in comparison you've achieved in your own life. The fact that in the current climate of Britain the poor children are likely to be the victim of knife crime on top of what they've all ready suffered is a sobering and depressing thought. The very fact that people like Chantelle and Chanelle are on T.V., and that I know their names (as you do too, don't lie to yourself) and am able to differentiate between them, is enough to make you despair at what Britain currently deems as worthy as a reward. T.V. used to be my friend, but now it's just an annoying presence in the corner of my living room, constantly reminding me of how dreary and depressing real life is, while showing me stories of how nonentities that have appeared on Big Brother are enjoying the endless highs of being a Z- list celebrity. It's probably not true, but it still feels like a kick in the bollocks. The fact is that trash T.V. exists for a purpose- it allows us to hold public figures up to whatever barometer we deem appropriate, we can either laugh and smile in a superior way at Jordan when she whores the last vestiges of her private life for money, or when Kerry Katona announces that she will give birth on T.V, or we can feel anguish and jealousy because we weren't afforded the same privilege and worship them as modern day chav monarchs and sit in wonderment at their burberry blooded privilege. T.V can either be our window looking in at the world of celebrity, where we shiver in the cold waiting to be fed the left over scraps from their table, or it can be our window looking out; Where we laugh haughtily at those who sacrifice any shred of dignity and respect just so they can appear outside our window, as we hold them up to be figures of ridicule and dinner party anecdotes we use to amuse ourselves, the choice is ours. T.V is a democracy, and in the current climate of Britain thats actually quite a comforting thing.
But nothing on T.V. makes me happy I am just constantly dejected and sad, which is why I've decided there is no such thing as feel good T.V. Any show that claims to be feel good is ultimately quite dark, as if all of T.V has been made by Frank Capra. Think about Neighbours- you're supposed to think wow, look at those people: all loving and getting on together. What a wonderful neighbourhood; but what you're really thinking is look at all those beautiful fuckers, and all their sunshine I just wish Harold's extra chin would turn around and devour the lot of them. The Pride of Britain awards, you're meant to revel at the remarkable resilience and courage shown by children in the face of extreme misfortune, but really you're left feeling sick to the stomach as celebrity after celebrity manages to turn their triumph into advertising space for their own self publicity, all the while realising just how little in comparison you've achieved in your own life. The fact that in the current climate of Britain the poor children are likely to be the victim of knife crime on top of what they've all ready suffered is a sobering and depressing thought. The very fact that people like Chantelle and Chanelle are on T.V., and that I know their names (as you do too, don't lie to yourself) and am able to differentiate between them, is enough to make you despair at what Britain currently deems as worthy as a reward. T.V. used to be my friend, but now it's just an annoying presence in the corner of my living room, constantly reminding me of how dreary and depressing real life is, while showing me stories of how nonentities that have appeared on Big Brother are enjoying the endless highs of being a Z- list celebrity. It's probably not true, but it still feels like a kick in the bollocks. The fact is that trash T.V. exists for a purpose- it allows us to hold public figures up to whatever barometer we deem appropriate, we can either laugh and smile in a superior way at Jordan when she whores the last vestiges of her private life for money, or when Kerry Katona announces that she will give birth on T.V, or we can feel anguish and jealousy because we weren't afforded the same privilege and worship them as modern day chav monarchs and sit in wonderment at their burberry blooded privilege. T.V can either be our window looking in at the world of celebrity, where we shiver in the cold waiting to be fed the left over scraps from their table, or it can be our window looking out; Where we laugh haughtily at those who sacrifice any shred of dignity and respect just so they can appear outside our window, as we hold them up to be figures of ridicule and dinner party anecdotes we use to amuse ourselves, the choice is ours. T.V is a democracy, and in the current climate of Britain thats actually quite a comforting thing.
Batman.
Sorry for the lack of updates; that will be rectified soon. In the mean time, we've all seen The Dark Knight and Christian Bale was excellent, but could he deal with this cliffhanger?
I think not.
I think not.
Thursday, 7 August 2008
Eyeliner is better than Buddhism. Fact.
I have spent much of the past week locked in a mausoleum of my own inadequacy. This is becuase I have spent most of my new found free time watching shows such as ten years younger and extreme makeover. I now realise that any unfullfilled aspirations or ambitions I have remain unfulfilled and not fully realised, tangable elements of my life because of how I look. And only Trinny and Susannah can help me.
The problem with these kind of lifestyle makeover shows is precisely that, they are not lifestyle shows, but makeover shows and are as shallow and superficial as that entails. They are dressed up as psychologically healing, when all they really do is give members of the public a nice shirt and a new hat. It's a symptom of our heat magazine obsessed, celebrity culture that we now believe that any problems you hve can be solved simply by the edradication of cellulite, well they cant. But these shows will make a damn good effort to make you believe that.
The most grating aspect about this is not the fact they are makeover shows, as no one can deny that by improving a persons percieved physical inadequacy you can help improve their quality of life- it's the voyeuristic way in which they go about it. They take an almost sadisdic pleasure in pointing out the contestants flaws, while people at home look on smugly, commenting how awful they all look- you thought you had bingo wings grandma well take a look at this fatty. The contestants, while getting a complete physical makeover, will probably remain the simmering ball of resentment and self loathing they were before, while theres no telling what the trauma of having their greatest physical imperfections pointed out on a beach of chuckling holiday makers on national T.V will have done to their all ready fragile psyche. The likes of Gillian Mckeeth and Trinny and Susannah have turned British day time T.V into a hellish carnival of perpetual resentment and are applauded for it. Really, they should be made pariahs and treated with the same moral outrage we reserve for rapists, peadophiles an the elderly, but instead they are treated like samaritans. We should string their carcasses up and spit on them like Mussolini, but even if their popularity did take an alarming nose dive to the level of a fascist dictator all they would have to do is appear on ITV's next celebrity sing a along and all would be forgiven. And they would make the cover of heat magazine.
The problem with these kind of lifestyle makeover shows is precisely that, they are not lifestyle shows, but makeover shows and are as shallow and superficial as that entails. They are dressed up as psychologically healing, when all they really do is give members of the public a nice shirt and a new hat. It's a symptom of our heat magazine obsessed, celebrity culture that we now believe that any problems you hve can be solved simply by the edradication of cellulite, well they cant. But these shows will make a damn good effort to make you believe that.
The most grating aspect about this is not the fact they are makeover shows, as no one can deny that by improving a persons percieved physical inadequacy you can help improve their quality of life- it's the voyeuristic way in which they go about it. They take an almost sadisdic pleasure in pointing out the contestants flaws, while people at home look on smugly, commenting how awful they all look- you thought you had bingo wings grandma well take a look at this fatty. The contestants, while getting a complete physical makeover, will probably remain the simmering ball of resentment and self loathing they were before, while theres no telling what the trauma of having their greatest physical imperfections pointed out on a beach of chuckling holiday makers on national T.V will have done to their all ready fragile psyche. The likes of Gillian Mckeeth and Trinny and Susannah have turned British day time T.V into a hellish carnival of perpetual resentment and are applauded for it. Really, they should be made pariahs and treated with the same moral outrage we reserve for rapists, peadophiles an the elderly, but instead they are treated like samaritans. We should string their carcasses up and spit on them like Mussolini, but even if their popularity did take an alarming nose dive to the level of a fascist dictator all they would have to do is appear on ITV's next celebrity sing a along and all would be forgiven. And they would make the cover of heat magazine.
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Why are footballers so bad at life?
Following the news that Liverpool have signed Robbie Keane to partner Fernando Torres for what no doubt will be an electrifying start to the season; seeing Liverpool hammer Stoke or someone 6 - 0 and proclaiming Torres and Keane the greatest partnership since God met Moses, then inevitably tapering off around Christmas time when everyone gets injured before finishing 4th and bemoaning the lack of funds that meant they couldn't compete with Manchester Utd, Chelsea, and erm, Arsenal, I found some interesting facts about Mr Keane from the Liverpool website, the most interesting being:
According to his page on Bebo.com Robbie loves listening to music and picks out Blink 182, Robbie Williams, Ronan Keating and Eminem as some of his favourite artists.
and
When he's not leading the line on the football pitch Keane likes to relax with a good film and picks out Braveheart, The Shawshank Redemption, Shrek, Saw 2 and Liar Liar as some of his favourites.
Of course I use the term interesting tenuously as, much like Mr Keane himself, these facts are not remotely interesting, but they do bring up one salient point: outside of football, footballers are no good at anything. Given the freedom to choose from all the music artists in the history of music he chose Ronan Keating, having Ronan Keating as your favourite at anything is like having a favourite type of door handle or a fondness for a cardboard box- he is teeth gindingly bad, he is, simply put, the musical equivelant of Alan Titchmarsch. But lets not stop there, Mr Keane's choice of films is equally as mundane, the shawshank redemption aside he has chosen Braveheart - which has and always will be shit, Saw 2 - which isn't even the best film in the Saw franchise, let alone anything else and Liar Liar. Liar Liar! Quite how a bog standard Jim Carey comedy in which even Jim Carey looks bored can be any ones favourite film is, quite frankly, baffling. One can only assume he finds the premise of someone being forced to tell the truth as incredulous as, for a footballer, that would be impossible ("you're right your honour I can only describe our relationship as statutory rape.") It is obvious that outside football footballer's are simply incapable of operating in a normal capacity, from Rio Ferdinand's continued and indelible belief that he is the saviour of hip hop to Joey Barton's indescribable hatred for anything other than himself, it is apparant that footballers cannot operate anywhere other than on a football pitch. Which is why, after they retire, rather than watching them set up hundreds of record labels or become pundits and demonstrate of breathtaking lack of understanding on a game they have just spent the best part of three decades playing or believing themselves to be the second comming of christ and the first comming of Bono, we should just shoot them, you know, they shoot horses don't they and I like horses, it doesn't seem fair. It worked in Logans Run it can work for us, it's the 21st century- the future is now people!
According to his page on Bebo.com Robbie loves listening to music and picks out Blink 182, Robbie Williams, Ronan Keating and Eminem as some of his favourite artists.
and
When he's not leading the line on the football pitch Keane likes to relax with a good film and picks out Braveheart, The Shawshank Redemption, Shrek, Saw 2 and Liar Liar as some of his favourites.
Of course I use the term interesting tenuously as, much like Mr Keane himself, these facts are not remotely interesting, but they do bring up one salient point: outside of football, footballers are no good at anything. Given the freedom to choose from all the music artists in the history of music he chose Ronan Keating, having Ronan Keating as your favourite at anything is like having a favourite type of door handle or a fondness for a cardboard box- he is teeth gindingly bad, he is, simply put, the musical equivelant of Alan Titchmarsch. But lets not stop there, Mr Keane's choice of films is equally as mundane, the shawshank redemption aside he has chosen Braveheart - which has and always will be shit, Saw 2 - which isn't even the best film in the Saw franchise, let alone anything else and Liar Liar. Liar Liar! Quite how a bog standard Jim Carey comedy in which even Jim Carey looks bored can be any ones favourite film is, quite frankly, baffling. One can only assume he finds the premise of someone being forced to tell the truth as incredulous as, for a footballer, that would be impossible ("you're right your honour I can only describe our relationship as statutory rape.") It is obvious that outside football footballer's are simply incapable of operating in a normal capacity, from Rio Ferdinand's continued and indelible belief that he is the saviour of hip hop to Joey Barton's indescribable hatred for anything other than himself, it is apparant that footballers cannot operate anywhere other than on a football pitch. Which is why, after they retire, rather than watching them set up hundreds of record labels or become pundits and demonstrate of breathtaking lack of understanding on a game they have just spent the best part of three decades playing or believing themselves to be the second comming of christ and the first comming of Bono, we should just shoot them, you know, they shoot horses don't they and I like horses, it doesn't seem fair. It worked in Logans Run it can work for us, it's the 21st century- the future is now people!
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