Keep it under your hat, but there's a rumour going round that a member of the royal family is about to get married. I know - talk about a turn up for the books!
Back in November, when one of the least surprising stories of all time broke (balding man weds first fit-as-frig woman what takes an interest in his legacy), I made the point that some news outlets may go into meltdown as the final preparations take place and I begin work on a hole into which to climb during the whole charade. Alas, I was only half right. Yes, there has been wall-to-wall coverage, but it begun with more than a month to go.
"""""Highlights""""" include:
- Plotting Kate's every movement, using the clothes she is wearing to second-guess the dress she'll wear on the big day.
- Notable fashionistas designing their own versions of said dress, clearly arsed about not being given the gig.
- Novelty playing cards depicting the big day, which deteriorate into stock royal footage before you've got the to end of the spades.
- A serious documentary charting the everyday lives of people who are related to Kate Middleton. To think people not from royal stock have actual jobs. Amazing scenes.
- A correspondent outside Buck Palace 10 DAYS before the ceremony, watching the horses practicing and passing judgement on the street cleaning (bear in mind several thousands people charged up there on Sunday during the marathon. That's a lot of poo).
- Daily updates on Kate's weight.
- Invitations to street parties and people getting upset because their application to host one has been turned down.
- All manner of channels fighting for your viewing figure when it all finally kicks off.
My stance hasn't altered, you'll be surprised to learn. Good for them, I say, as they tie the knot. The thing is, it's got knob all to do with 99.9 percent of the population, so why we have to have every second of the day (and a lot of those leading up to it) broadcast on a continuous loop is beyond me. I get that some people like to see a nice frock and people being happy, but surely a comprehensive highlights package in the evening with Steve Claridge and Jennie Bond would be more than enough to get the point across?
If I was Kate, I would pull rank to see what would happen. Tell hubbie-to-be that under no circumstances is it to be broadcast live, and watch as 'Wills' charges about trying to get his gran to ring Rupert Murdoch to pull the plug, and for Nicholas Witchell to be topped before he's had a chance to put his wedding suit on.
Personally, I'm hoping for a good day weather-wise. Not for them, but for me, so I can sit in the garden, drinking beer in a right royal sulk. And if that isn't in the spirit of a Public Holiday, then excuse me for being too real.
Wednesday, 20 April 2011
Tuesday, 19 April 2011
The thing what makes juggling look worthwhile
I've done it. I've found something more pointless than being a skilled juggler or participating in Secret Santa.
Regional news teams being on FaceBook. What's the fucking point in that?
Let's not dress it up - Look North is bollocks. A series of poorly-dressed, comically-alternative buffoons traipse across the length and breadth of Yorkshire finding interesting stories, before discarding them and telling us about how many jobs have been lost this week or that a giraffe saved the life of a penguin at a zoo. All presented with the journalistic finesse of a pub fight.
Their latest brainwave is to put themselves on that FaceBook, and in some cases, the Twitter. Apparently there must be people interested in getting behind the scenes on this great denizen of broadcasting to learn about what these simple folk like to eat for tea, or their opinions on lifesaving giraffes. How else can you explain this bunch of nerds promoting their pages at every touch and turn during broadcasts?
Now, it's been said I have something of a cynical streak, but surely I can't be the only one expecting these pages to become the sounding board for a series of violent and/or sexual threats against these fine folk? There are a couple of (borrowing from modern parlance) stick-on honies on the staff who will surely be subjected to the combined sexual force of a myriad middle-aged men with tattoos called Sean who deem such flirtatious behaviour appropriate.
Then there's those correspondents whose job it is to tell us about the latest inbred half-wit who's been sent down for smuggling drugs or sedating their own child in a bizarre kidnap plot. Surely relatives of those cell-friendly morons will pass on their well-considered thoughts about how it's not fair or unjust or bang out of fucking order, and how if you ever come round our end again will stab you to death or kick you to death or get you in a headlock to death. Clearly, putting your details online is only asking for trouble.
My own personal ire is that it's all a bit wanky. These are not celebrities (in any sense), nor are they particularly interesting (in any sense). Or famous. They are merely the purveyors of other people's misfortune who have decided to jump on the latest e-bandwagon on some vain quest for popularity. And the sooner these goons realise we're not even remotely interested in them aside from the occasional upskirt shot or sideboob action, the better, says I.
Regional news teams being on FaceBook. What's the fucking point in that?
Let's not dress it up - Look North is bollocks. A series of poorly-dressed, comically-alternative buffoons traipse across the length and breadth of Yorkshire finding interesting stories, before discarding them and telling us about how many jobs have been lost this week or that a giraffe saved the life of a penguin at a zoo. All presented with the journalistic finesse of a pub fight.
Their latest brainwave is to put themselves on that FaceBook, and in some cases, the Twitter. Apparently there must be people interested in getting behind the scenes on this great denizen of broadcasting to learn about what these simple folk like to eat for tea, or their opinions on lifesaving giraffes. How else can you explain this bunch of nerds promoting their pages at every touch and turn during broadcasts?
Now, it's been said I have something of a cynical streak, but surely I can't be the only one expecting these pages to become the sounding board for a series of violent and/or sexual threats against these fine folk? There are a couple of (borrowing from modern parlance) stick-on honies on the staff who will surely be subjected to the combined sexual force of a myriad middle-aged men with tattoos called Sean who deem such flirtatious behaviour appropriate.
Then there's those correspondents whose job it is to tell us about the latest inbred half-wit who's been sent down for smuggling drugs or sedating their own child in a bizarre kidnap plot. Surely relatives of those cell-friendly morons will pass on their well-considered thoughts about how it's not fair or unjust or bang out of fucking order, and how if you ever come round our end again will stab you to death or kick you to death or get you in a headlock to death. Clearly, putting your details online is only asking for trouble.
My own personal ire is that it's all a bit wanky. These are not celebrities (in any sense), nor are they particularly interesting (in any sense). Or famous. They are merely the purveyors of other people's misfortune who have decided to jump on the latest e-bandwagon on some vain quest for popularity. And the sooner these goons realise we're not even remotely interested in them aside from the occasional upskirt shot or sideboob action, the better, says I.
Thursday, 14 April 2011
"MasterBullshitters" more like
For reasons that I'm too embarrassed to go into, I ended up sitting through an entire episode of over-dramatised cook-fest MasterChef last night.
Now, this programme - in various formats - has been around for years, where members of the general public, with a penchant for making quality grub battle it out to be crowned MasterChef. That is, the master of all available chefs.
Now, however, the whole thing seems to be an exercise in who is the most inept and/or who deals with stress in the worst manner. Bear in mind we're at the semi-final stage in this illustrious contest, this is what is saw with my mince pies (topical reference):
- They were asked to make some elaborate German pastry tower, and more than one of them confessed they'd never made pastry before. Don't forget this is MasterChef.
- One of the women had damaged herself with knives to such an extent that she had 2 entirely-plastered thumbs and had to operate a lot of the equipment with her palms. Don't forget this is MasterChef.
- When asked to prepare a series of sandwiches for afternoon tea, not one of them was ready in time. Don't forget this is MasterChef
- One of the contestants had to remake some biscuits after the fan oven (to my mind, one of the fundamental tools in a chef's armoury) literally blew the biscuits to pieces during the baking process. Don't forget...oh you know what point I'm labouring by now.
What am I missing? Why are such basic errors occurring at this stage of the contest? If it was the early rounds of the competition, I could understand the occasional chef succumbing to the pressure and accidentally make a dog turd tartlet, or lashing out at those fat lads looking over their shoulder with one of those extra sharp fish-gutting knives. Which leads me onto my next point...
Those two fat clowns who call themselves experts. Basically, a scientist took the sweat from Doctor "Neil" Fox, dissected its genetic make-up and reconstructed it in two equal measures to form John Torode and Greg Wallace. They then added a sense of self-worth to both which I've seldom seen outside of The Only Way Is Essex. They spend the entire show either talking to the director (utilising the staple tool in cooking programmes - the 'talk to the director off-camera rather that the fucking audience' routine) or make snide comments while these very unmasterly chefs shit their pants making egg and chips. One can only assume that the drama isn't all that dramatic, so these dicks ramp up the pressure by going "come on, only ten minutes to boil that partridge" and "eugh, that smells like wank" while the chefs secretly harbour intentions to cook their fat heads if they don't back off.
Ultimately, this isn't my cup of tea, viewing-wise, but surely I'm not the only one who's noticed that these chefs are not even remotely masterful? Maybe they should change the format, and call it 'Britains's got chefs' or 'Chef Idol', and get Jono Coleman and Linda Lusardi to present it. At least then the baying idiots who call themselves viewers won't be hoodwinked into thinking there's a modicum of skill on display.
Now, this programme - in various formats - has been around for years, where members of the general public, with a penchant for making quality grub battle it out to be crowned MasterChef. That is, the master of all available chefs.
Now, however, the whole thing seems to be an exercise in who is the most inept and/or who deals with stress in the worst manner. Bear in mind we're at the semi-final stage in this illustrious contest, this is what is saw with my mince pies (topical reference):
- They were asked to make some elaborate German pastry tower, and more than one of them confessed they'd never made pastry before. Don't forget this is MasterChef.
- One of the women had damaged herself with knives to such an extent that she had 2 entirely-plastered thumbs and had to operate a lot of the equipment with her palms. Don't forget this is MasterChef.
- When asked to prepare a series of sandwiches for afternoon tea, not one of them was ready in time. Don't forget this is MasterChef
- One of the contestants had to remake some biscuits after the fan oven (to my mind, one of the fundamental tools in a chef's armoury) literally blew the biscuits to pieces during the baking process. Don't forget...oh you know what point I'm labouring by now.
What am I missing? Why are such basic errors occurring at this stage of the contest? If it was the early rounds of the competition, I could understand the occasional chef succumbing to the pressure and accidentally make a dog turd tartlet, or lashing out at those fat lads looking over their shoulder with one of those extra sharp fish-gutting knives. Which leads me onto my next point...
Those two fat clowns who call themselves experts. Basically, a scientist took the sweat from Doctor "Neil" Fox, dissected its genetic make-up and reconstructed it in two equal measures to form John Torode and Greg Wallace. They then added a sense of self-worth to both which I've seldom seen outside of The Only Way Is Essex. They spend the entire show either talking to the director (utilising the staple tool in cooking programmes - the 'talk to the director off-camera rather that the fucking audience' routine) or make snide comments while these very unmasterly chefs shit their pants making egg and chips. One can only assume that the drama isn't all that dramatic, so these dicks ramp up the pressure by going "come on, only ten minutes to boil that partridge" and "eugh, that smells like wank" while the chefs secretly harbour intentions to cook their fat heads if they don't back off.
Ultimately, this isn't my cup of tea, viewing-wise, but surely I'm not the only one who's noticed that these chefs are not even remotely masterful? Maybe they should change the format, and call it 'Britains's got chefs' or 'Chef Idol', and get Jono Coleman and Linda Lusardi to present it. At least then the baying idiots who call themselves viewers won't be hoodwinked into thinking there's a modicum of skill on display.
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