Ha ha Thisaway, Ha ha Thataway – my oh my!! *

27 05 2008

I was looking for some excitement to jump start the torpor of my surroundings and this week I have every night, Britain’s Got Talent. I’m still undecided about what I think of this programme, particularly when it comes to children being involved. Jackson and I were talking about it the other night and there seems to be two lines of thought on it –  1) let them get on with it; they’re resilient and they’ll bounce back, 2) don’t let them on because their dreams might be crushed and they’ll never get over it and suffer agoraphobia from large crowds for ever more. Part of me thinks that children have years ahead of them to have their lucky break, compared to the dozens of other entertainers who are just waiting for their day to come around. I’m also a bit biased because I can’t bear those lispy, dribbly performances. I do wonder if the scars of failure run deep though and if confidence problems will spring up to haunt them just as they’re about to sit their A levels or say their wedding vows  – nausea will rise up and up and the sound of three HONKS will be an ever lasting tinnitus-like presence. 

 

The other problem I see in BGT is the long standing question of ‘does Prince Charles really want to see this?’. I know that sounds elitist though, and that the Royal Variety show is for everyone, but I’d happily replace my name with that of royalty – do I really want to see this?? Piers goes on about how the show is exactly about the risible, embarrassing and hapless case who turns up with an unpolished act. Well yes, Britain does have that sort of talent, and in one sense that runs as an undercurrent to a lot of our cultural output, but we have it in spade loads up and down the country. The Royal Family does not want to watch someone resembling a Christmas cracker singing in drag, they can get that down the Working Mens’ Club on a Saturday night. Seeing someone squeezed into a body length pair of pantyhose and a triangular wig resembling Wizbit is not representative of anything unique about Britain. There’s raw talent and there’s polished talent and then there’s pure tat. Even the large dance acts, although I can see why they’re popular (music! lights! movement! recognisable song we can all sing along to), are so samey. Doing the Hustle is not just old in terms of being 30 years old, but to revisit it, ‘ironically’ or not, is a bit old hat. 

 

Wizbit – also an Old Hat

Now my favourite acts did get through on tonight’s semi final: we were so rooting for wee Gin tonight. That is an act which has not been seen here before and shows how, from just a small corner of the country something new, entertaining, charming, touching and fun can arise. The singer who lost out, I think he has a great voice, but he’ll be snapped up by the West End in no time at all, and really, he should have jumped off the stage again, because as I said once before, the audience love a bit of movement. Every year there’ll be a breakthrough singing talent that lights up pound signs in Cowell’s eyes, so yes, I think the wee dog should win because it’s something we haven’t seen before. Signature also represent great talent that’s been practised over and over, and is polished and slick. And, it is modern and it is progressive; it’s taken two elements of well known and popular culture but brought them forward with a new vision to 2008, giving us something which Britain should be proud of to showcase and which we’d enjoy watching (something off track here, but some of the comments about the duo on Youtube, questioning their “Britishness”, are immature, unnecessary and idiotic).  

 

I’m no actor/singer/dancer myself but I’ve done my penance in some musical theatre. I was told I was always ‘smiling’, like an idiot I’m sure, even if I didn’t have the best voice on stage. But the nerves from going on stage, the sickening feeling of the curtain about to rise, pales into comparison to the nausea I feel every time I see an Iceland frozen BBQ advert. There is something criminally wrong with a 25 piece FROZEN BBQ set that only costs 5 pounds. BOIK!

 

* that’s the Wizbit theme tune for anyone born after 1986

 

 





Young, uniformed minds

24 05 2008

I’ve overcome my Herr Flick-like gait enough to go to Pilates today. There were a few side-long glances in the room though, and not at me and my amazing contortionist abilities – there was a boy in the class. I know most of the class were trying to be subtle with their covert gazes but I could pick up on it pretty quickly. I heard the interloper being suave-ish with the older ladies beforehand, swapping best hamstring stretch tips, and talking about which jasmine green tea is best pre-10k race. Then he flashed his shiny white teeth at us all. It reminded me of being at school, yup an all girls’ school, and the boys from the school down the road would run onto the lawn during lunch time and try to out-wit the staff who chased them earnestly across the lawn. Suddenly a veritable gaggle of untouched gals would hang out of the windows, appear from behind the bike sheds, down CDT tools and floppy discs (we were modern and progressive) and try their best to catch a glimpse of disappearing hide. It kind of reminds me of The Divine Comedy’s ‘Songs of Love’, there’s some truth in those lyrics.

So what’s my point? I’m an expert in detecting the hidden gaze of girls upon the lone guy in pilates or yoga?Well I wasn’t looking because 1) I saw his poo shoes at the side of the room, 2) I was over that around about 1999, 3) I prefer to scowl during pilates. I can’t pretend I’m particularly talented at pilates, nor particularly limber, but I do have my own style, and I like to be left in peace to do it. I don’t want any giggling girls nearby, the ones who come in holding hands with their BFF, and then make a big show and dance because they can’t put their mats together, or they don’t want to be right at the front, worried someone will see their ridiculous and frankly unpractical thong sticking out of their trackies. I don’t want no poo-shoed man near by either, I enjoy scowling in class. It’s because I never really understand what’s going on, and last time I attempted yoga all I heard was ‘sssshchcwas – fgghehe scshhh’ from the instructor so I just try and do my own thing, scowling as I go. 

 

I waved a sad goodbye to Donald last night, bidding farewell to the first season of Dirty, Sexy, Money. What will I do now that both Donald and Keifer are off my screen? Bring out an old copy of Young Guns? I think I’ll have to go back to Season 1 of 24 because Jackson hasn’t seen it at all and I need some adrenalin injected to the torpor of my surroundings. I’ve got the impression that Tripp Darling is like a magnetic planet, his children small orbs trapped in his gravitational field. He can’t let them go, and they can’t shake him either. I watched him try so hard throughout to get the most that is possible from all his children, but who’s had to struggle uphill the hardest? I’d have to say it’s Brian. I think I’ve been his fan since the beginning and his life’s certainly turned around the most, and he’s had more of an epiphany than the rest of the brood. The show’s supposed to be about Nick finding out who killed his Dad, but with characters like Brian and Karen, that line is just background noise to me. What did disappoint me though, but which was not in the slightest bit surprising for a woman like her, was that insipid wife of Nick deciding to have a baby. It just proves that she’s not unlike any other wispy, boring woman – when things go wrong (she was fired) the answer to it OF COURSE is to have another child. Just what you need to take your mind off things, the baby will solve it all. Maybe also Nick will be so tired from nappy changing all night that he’ll momentarily forget how boring and tiresome she is. I guess they needed the fired storyline to inject a bit of vim into her character. Bit of a twist with Karen though, eh? I knew she was kind of spunky deep down but not sly enough to do what she did with Simon Elder!!! Wily, slyboots Karen! 

 

I have a heap of things to write about Britain’s Having a Petit Mal in the Talent Department, but I might save some of them for later. I did however, whilst trawling through Youtube find that a whole host of videos exist for ‘Scala’ the electronic string act. It seems that one of the violinists, or maybe two, is going out with a member of McFly (they met on tour) and some fans have made Powerpoint style photo shows dedicated to the girls and their beaus, played in SlowMo to songs like ‘Girls just wanna have fun’ and writing symbols like <3. What does ❤ even stand for? “Get outta ma way, ho! You’re not standing in the way of me and my Fly boyzz!” Or maybe it’s actually a pair of boobs squeezed into a tight corset. Anyway, why was I looking this group up? I had a feeling I’d seen them before or read about them before. And I was right! There is a connection, but not one I’d shout about from the rooftops, because that would be lame to jump on someone else’s bandwagon, and well, about 50,000 other people have the same connection. But there was this one time (long time ago)…a party….and next door….and Eurovision….orange juice….raw egg…sore head…fag butt in a stale Chinese. Nope, that’s enough. Hang on, Eurovision is on tonight, and I saw Scala tonight, and that’s, that’s like weird! Tuscon weird! 





Airlocked

19 05 2008

There’s a skincare advert circulating on TV at the moment, which starts with the line “too busy to breathe?“, and then proceeds to sell thousands of women a miracle sludge for their kebab/tartrazine induced pallor. Now, if I ever needed a reason to not buy into the marketing gimmick this would be it; if I ever doubted that advertising creates, rather than satisfies need, then this would be it. Today, though, I am too busy to breathe. I am surrounded by a wall of large packing boxes and I can’t seem to pick one thing up without ten other things falling down around my ears. I am living in a veritable house of cards. 

 

I composed this letter on Friday:

 

Dear Dentist

Thank you for charging me £46 to poke around in my mouth and stab my gums with a sharp pointy instrument. The whole seven minutes it took was worth it. I enjoyed sitting in your pristine waiting room, but please stop playing James Blunt, he’s nasally – might be a job for you in there, maybe his teeth are bucked. 

Have a nice weekend, dining out on my cold cash.

Big kiss

– My shiny teeth 

 

I’ve nothing to write on Dirty, Sexy, Money because I’m such a doofus I can’t read the Radio Times website and I thought it was on at 10pm not 9, so I’ll have to wait for Donald until the repeat tomorrow, but you know, he’s worth it (Loreal, don’t sue me, they’re just words, and I know you don’t really exist, you’re just a 2D figment on my television screen, created by the Big Wheel o’ Marketing Power). As for Britain’s Got Talent – pah! Same old, same old. All the audience wants to see is a modern day George Formby. Some catchy, jingle jangle nonsense that appeals to screaming women in the audience. Did you see the way they went wild just because a man slapped his booty on stage? A sudden movement and they’re reeled in, wide awake, and the valium has suddenly worn off. I’m quite sure I saw a woman this week who flashed her midriff at the stage; I’m not kidding, she lifted up her top and flashed her stomach. How cheap! Anyway, I think Amanda Holden’s the one with the real talent. Is she acting every week? How can she force out those tears every time a child comes on stage, trailing their snotty hankies, with onion juice still in their eyes, dripped from ever hopeful parents? She must be feigning interest, she must be!  





Celebrating Mediocrity

10 05 2008

So much to write, all those little thoughts spinning round my brain. This, I think, is the reason why people always, always bump into me in supermarkets: they are attracted by the sound of the cogs whirring inside – and simple sounds, like flashes of movement, is all that it takes to grasp the attention of most people these days. 

 

Take the word wan-ker, a simple, two syllable word that was blasted out continuously last night by Johnny Vegas. The great public love it, a simple, easy to repeat word like wan-ker or mon-key reels them in every time. A snappy catchphrase that they can repeat up and down the coast of Magaluf. I’m sure most of the BBC’s production budget was spent on acquiring Sir Alan (clever, ambitious, hard-working, resourceful, INTERESTING) last night so they had to fill the other two slots with some non-entities that could hold the audience’s attention by either short, snappy two syllable words or the bright flashes of Jade Jagger’s jewellery. Seriously, why was she even there? Did you catch anything of what she was saying? It was amusing enough just to watch Ross digging as deep as he could to eke out a response from her.

 

“So, ya, ya, I was, like a painter…”

“Oh really, and what did you paint?” (come on, this at least must yield some response)

“Umm, like, umm…..decorative stuff…???” Decorative? Decorative? A child launching free-expression as they scrawl on the walls with a crayon is decorative. 

Then she shook her arms and her bangles about and said “Can you hear them rattle?”. See, in that respect she’s clever (sic), she knows that sound, especially rattles, will rouse the viewers from their stupor. 

 

I’m looking forward to Britain’s Got Talent later, and hypothesising on the petit mal that might be induced this time. Will anyone jump off the stage again, instantly grabbing the attention of the audience as they are lured in by movement? Does the Queen really want to see a small child lisping into their recorder, or even better, playing it with their nose? Bring back the transvestite with the small-woman-puppet on strings in the box! It was the stuff of Grimms’ fairytale nightmares but a ton better than Ave Maria squawked out by a woman resembling a parakeet (yes, that’s you Nadia Sawalah, whenever you present !SPAIN!, you resemble a parakeet in all your colourful glory).

 

Just one final observation. I’ve got to the end of Series 6 of 24, and I was quite emotional by it. I’m glad that Chloe’s got a MoChlo on the go, and Nadia knows that Milo really loved her – told to her by his mysteriously disappearing brother. Maybe he was the ghost of Milo himself?  The producers must have thought this was the last one, right? They’ve never wrapped up a series like they did this time, there were always cliff hangers or just sudden endings with little explanation. This time there were congratualtory hand shakes, Jack looking contemplative, reunions, pregnancy and Audrey still looking skeletal. And the silent clock. ahhhh. Who gets the silent clock, anyone know? Edgar got it but Curtis didn’t, nor did Milo, so what do you need to deserve one? I’m looking forward to Series 7 and the film but it might be a while till it hits our screen.

I know there’s a trailer out there, I nearly watched it on the blog Bamboo Nation but I resisted! a-ha! You should check out Bamboo Nation though, I was lamenting for some time that there’s nothing fun on the internet anymore but this site is good, and you get to watch Pork Chop being weighed!

 

A bit of heisseswetterpanik is hitting the backwater towns this week. All the hams are out, heaving their pink, hammy arms up and down the highstreet. They love the hots and they just love walking ignorantly in the path of the Aerobee, with their brood of children, as Jackson and I try to flick a few spins out. I told you, they’re just drawn to simple flashes of movement. Even the wheel is still a novelty for most people round here. 

 

p.s. Donald S – you were dressed like Humpty Dumpty in Dirty, Sexy, Money last night, in your bright orange britches, pulled right up tight, but we forgive and still love you!