tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88543576708817797462024-02-19T09:09:25.772-08:00Telly's Gone WrongUK Television reviews, featuring the best, and usually the worst of British television programmes.Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-74069150653327253512020-01-15T07:38:00.001-08:002020-01-15T08:25:32.120-08:00Louis Sells Sex<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6KFzzwKj3Ptf2_Qq60eC_BNrzJIdEyRdyMQgX5QdhMg3l4AwlKalAUMKG5thBeeM25lxWNYFaqcV4Yea7PiI9uc10FVCJKwB4FPEnCgxSAhPXkdjiXzlBy7Xg7XgMpH3HnX-nZ_95Hu2l/s1600/louis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6KFzzwKj3Ptf2_Qq60eC_BNrzJIdEyRdyMQgX5QdhMg3l4AwlKalAUMKG5thBeeM25lxWNYFaqcV4Yea7PiI9uc10FVCJKwB4FPEnCgxSAhPXkdjiXzlBy7Xg7XgMpH3HnX-nZ_95Hu2l/s320/louis.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Louis Theroux knows what sells. He
is never too far away from a religious cult, a condemned prisoner or a sex
worker. One might have thought that the novelty had worn off by now but, credit
where it’s due, Louis manages to revisit every topic with the same wide-eyed
gaze of wonder he has always done. He’s like someone watching the sun rise
every day, smiling at everyone and pointing at it saying, ‘Wo-ow, here it is
again, look.’ Then watching it set and forlornly declaring, ‘D’you think we’ll
ever see it again?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Hi talent is that he chooses his
subjects carefully. The fellow sunrise watchers all jump up and down whooping
and clapping going ’Look everybody, it came back!’ Similarly, the sunset crowd
all weep and quiver saying, ‘Where is it going? Come baaaack!’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
It usually helps if those involved
are American.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
This week, Louis was in pursuit of
sex. Not him, personally, obviously. He lives a wholesome, monogamous and conventional
life with his wife Louise and their children, Lou and Lulu. (I have no idea if
this is correct and concede that it probably isn’’t)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
No, Louis was on the trail of the
sex workers and, here’s the twist, they were all UK based. This represents a
break from tradition because, usually, his subjects are American, African or
African American. A Louis program on sex workers would normally be set in
Beverly Hills and feature copious silicone and tooth veneer. This sex work was
happening right outside our front door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
As usual, Louis managed to be both shameless
and puritanical in the same moment. Interviewing the sassy Victoria in her see-through
one piece and silently withdrawing just moments before her client arrived for
his weekly seeing to. He looked away bashfully as Caroline changed into her
working gear but quizzed her relentlessly throughout the ensuing striptease
that was her promotional photo shoot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Louis, you can tell, makes friends
easily. Sharing the bedtime routine with Victoria’s children – that’s the conventional
‘bath & story’ bedtime – talking to her 14 year old daughter about Mummy’s
work and sharing intimate details with Caroline’s husband who takes the role of
silent partner as his wife ply’s her trade in the marital home. He is at his
best when anlaysing the moral dilemmas faced by the sex workers, their clientele
and society at large.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
His conclusion was that civilisation
has probably become poorer for the continued devaluation of intimacy. Young
adults were seen to endorse the use of sex as a commodity and the older
subjects ventured that their youth would have been better had they lived in a
less sexually suppressed era.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
All in all, the program showed a
consensual and liberated version of the industry. Everybody involved appeared
to accept their role, there were few complaints. Nobody appeared to be forced
or coerced into doing anything they didn’t want to and, generally, the female
(it was always a female) seemed to become empowered by the situation. We may
have benefited from a glimpse of the more tragic side of the story. However,
as with all of Louis’ programs, you have an inherent sense of trust that, if he
doesn’t dwell on something it’s because he doesn’t think it will add anything.
He’s been doing this long enough now to know when to stop. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-8998598530080586452020-01-13T07:11:00.000-08:002020-01-13T07:11:16.986-08:00The Masked Singer - an in depth study of its implications for mankind<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbVWB2KIwoPM-ySicucEzprm5vUC6bedub9oneoRhYAc-w_SXtgHRmG6daFqU3lVLSMvpN6zXQPhA7XTJpLw_aattjo1yvSaLMDTavj2rSEPYg7lxRsWwxLnqQDMaQ9t8Dw8iR-0dhfKtC/s1600/The-Masked-Singer-UK-2020-cast-Who-is-tipped-to-be-appearing-1223544.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="590" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbVWB2KIwoPM-ySicucEzprm5vUC6bedub9oneoRhYAc-w_SXtgHRmG6daFqU3lVLSMvpN6zXQPhA7XTJpLw_aattjo1yvSaLMDTavj2rSEPYg7lxRsWwxLnqQDMaQ9t8Dw8iR-0dhfKtC/s320/The-Masked-Singer-UK-2020-cast-Who-is-tipped-to-be-appearing-1223544.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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FOR......FUCK'S......SAKETellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-12791695147920469162020-01-10T07:06:00.001-08:002020-01-11T00:13:12.729-08:00It's Murder in Glasgow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfuEsIjpNtrx9_knxouIAWT35abbebcJTey7CqecVDRHtu_GeCLidmjCOBvj7pSeqZyzczzjd-fHfw2QwYVTKJvoHiDIrWyCPhOlfMsqh2ubgsA9I8z8eR8Omu_q5pfZTKpexrqEgQTmtb/s1600/murder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfuEsIjpNtrx9_knxouIAWT35abbebcJTey7CqecVDRHtu_GeCLidmjCOBvj7pSeqZyzczzjd-fHfw2QwYVTKJvoHiDIrWyCPhOlfMsqh2ubgsA9I8z8eR8Omu_q5pfZTKpexrqEgQTmtb/s320/murder.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Powerful courtroom dramas are meat and drink to peak time TV viewers. We are all so familiar with court procedure that we often assume that the judicial system can be viewed 24/7 on The Justice Channel or some other service way down the Freeview list. Surely there's a program on in the afternoon called Live From Her Magistrates or What's My Old Bailey? There's probably an outtakes reel on You Tube showing various QC's stumbling over their sentences - remember when Lord Justice Dillnutt handed out 300 years instead of 30? Everyone fell about!<br />
<br />
Anyway, the fact is, The Disappearance of Margaret Fleming (BBC2 9pm 8th & 9th Jan 2020) represented the first time cameras had been allowed to film a real-life murder trial. It was rather jarring to realise that every other serious crime trial I had ever witnessed was some kind of dramatisation or reconstruction. This was the real thing. I braced myself for some reality.<br />
<br />
The prosecution and defence lawyers were an uneven balance of 2 against 1. This was due to each defendant having their own barrister. Edward Cairney and Avril Jones stood jointly accused of murder (pronounced the Scottish way of course - Muld-del) and sat apart in the dock, rarely looking at each other. Their advocates, on the other hand, often glanced at each other. Whether to exchange knowing looks regarding the mounting evidence against them or simply to check the straightness of their ill fitting wigs, there was more eye contact between lawyers than accused.<br />
<br />
Cairney cut a particularly tragic figure. Wheelchair-bound now, unkempt and dishevelled he contrasted dramatically from his former self. Shown as confident, stocky and gregarious, photographs of him portrayed, if not a flamboyant figure, then certainly a popular one, holding get-together's in his riverside house with his partner, Avril Jones and their charge at the time, the young Margaret Fleming. The intimacy of the relationship between Eddie and Avril was unclear to all, however, their role as carer to Margaret was as obvious as it was necessary. Here was a child with learning difficulties and limited mental ability who, although loving, trusting and kind, was vulnerable due to her capacity. Eddie and Avril had been entrusted with her care by her late father who passed away in the 1990's due to cancer.<br />
<br />
The prosecution, the deliciously named Iain McSporran QC, cross examined Cairney in the climax to the trial at the end of episode 2. The court looked on helplessly as the exchange proceeded along the same lines as a father questioning a lying 6-year old about his involvement with a broken window and a football. Eddie had nothing to offer except insults. At one stage it looked as if his defence was going to be that the Judge had murdered Margaret Fleming. His suggestion that McSporran should go and 'boil his head' was not acted upon.<br />
<br />
Avril Jones, as had been her modus operandi for the previous 17 years, said nothing. You were left wondering who was the most evil. The lying, conniving Cairney with all his bluster and assertions that he was being fitted-up by the law; or the silent Jones, obviously aware of the truth but in denial about all except the benefit cheques that kept coming her way throughout the 17 years Margaret was missing.<br />
<br />
Maybe the real guilt lay at the door of the welfare services who lost all contact with this sad and vulnerable child when she needed them most of all.<br />
<br />
<br />Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-39469456391627098072018-12-04T03:33:00.000-08:002018-12-04T03:33:13.597-08:00The Smile of Reeves & Mortimer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiv2BkBUC8YMeeZEyxri3tOL5NYRqsUttiv36KL8kjKcda2scTW6jU56tFqIWpq8hD7QQvJ3swRhiV40v6eXxYjT7bGKE5qDnwg5OWtnSIn1sIl0UpoixodsTI4A3P6UOvYboi6QMi_UMi/s1600/vic_and_bob_big_night_out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiv2BkBUC8YMeeZEyxri3tOL5NYRqsUttiv36KL8kjKcda2scTW6jU56tFqIWpq8hD7QQvJ3swRhiV40v6eXxYjT7bGKE5qDnwg5OWtnSIn1sIl0UpoixodsTI4A3P6UOvYboi6QMi_UMi/s1600/vic_and_bob_big_night_out.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Somebody once told me, ‘Never be a pioneer.’ That somebody went on to
have exactly zero number one records, fail to write a best-selling novel and
certainly never watched a single episode of Vic and Bob’s Big Night Out (BBC 4,
10pm Wednesday)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It was December 1991 when I found myself in a crowded pub in Teddington
with Jonathan Ross, Paul Whitehouse, Charlie Higson and Simon Day, waiting to
be shepherded into a Chanel 4 studio to watch the recording of the Christmas
edition of Vic Reeves’ Big Night Out. They were totally unaware of my existence
and remain so to this day but, briefly, I was in the presence of comedy royalty
(except Ross, who looked as awestruck as I was).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As I and Vic Reeve’s Big Night Out (as it was then called) audience self-consciously
giggled our way through the recording, successive characters, such as Les,
Graham Lister, the Man with the Stick, Judge Nutmeg and several visitors to
Novelty Island, including Higson and Day (above) entered and exited the stage.
Vic variously gurned and slurred his way through a number of facial and vocal contortions
whilst acting as ring-master to his surreal flea circus and paraded and pouted
like a comedic version of Mick Jagger crossed with Reginald Bosanquet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Two things were certain. 1) We had never seen anything like it before
and, 2) it would sink without trace into the Chanel 4 archives until one of
those talking head documentaries called something like ‘We Remember the 90’s’
was broadcast with Jonathan Ross going, ‘I’m the only human being alive that
still remembers this programme!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The reason it couldn’t succeed was that the format would inevitably be replicated
and made more mainstream by a group of more disciplined, more easily dominated
artists who would be directed to iron out the rough edges, sanitise the
end-of-the-pier production values and dub some canned laughter over the bits
where the audience sat in silent anticipation waiting for a punch-line to
emerge from the chaos. The reason it did succeed was that that didn’t happen. Reeves
& Mortimer remained nimble enough to diversify and their style and content
was simply impossible to replicate. They made just two series of Big Night Out
for Chanel 4 before ‘mainstreaming’ themselves onto the BBC as Reeves &
Mortimer so not only had we not seen anything like it before, we would not see
anything like it again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Until now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It’s taken Bob 30 years to get his name alongside Vic’s on the Big Night
Out but now, as a cult hero in his own right, he not only deserves equal
billing but an equal share of the credit. The beauty of Big Night Out 2018 is
how they have managed to simply pick up right where they left off, creating the
feeling that a nerve somewhere inside was being stimulated again for the first
time in almost 30 years. Big Night Out remains an acquired taste so, if you
want to know what Tom Cruise was doing on the show or what happens when Vic
eats fruit, it’s probably best you watch the show yourself. If Vic and Bob are
as appealing to you as a jellied-eels in Marmite, turn over to UK Gold and
watch the Two Ronnies or something. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As Graham Lister’s performing owl urinated on command into a milk bottle
on Novelty Island, I felt I was back in that Teddington pub with me old mates
Wossy and Whitehouse who, I would like to bet, sat nodding in approval that the
boys had recaptured some of their lost youth as well as mine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-67444228927398347902018-09-14T06:32:00.000-07:002018-09-14T06:32:26.521-07:00The Silk Road Adventure<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">In
order that nobody in Britain ever asks the question, ‘Why don’t we have more
celebrity travelogues on the telly?’ ITV have made ‘Joanna Lumley’s Silk Road
Adventure’ (Wednesday, 9.00pm).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Putting
the celebrity’s name above the title is one way of implying that the audience
would have no interest in the subject matter unless it was presented by someone
they would happily watch leafing through samples of anaglypta wallpaper for an
hour, and coaxing someone, surely destined to become the UK’s next ‘National
Treasure’, out of Belgravia and off on an all expenses paid trip around Asia is
something of a masterstroke in ratings awareness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">In
episode one, Joanna whispers her way around Venice in a variety of stylish
outfits, all utterly suitable for whatever activity she happens to be filming.
An outfit for travelling on a Gondola, another for learning how silk is woven,
another for walking past a chip shop and yet another for pointing at some
stones and saying, ’gosh’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">During
the ad-break, Ms. Lumley had changed outfits and had been transported some 600
miles from the start of the Roman road in Albania to Istanbul. Here she
travelled by ferry down the mighty Bosphorus in a completely different outfit,
one which was suitable for meeting an insanely rich woman and shown around her
£100 million waterfront abode. Joanna apologised for not changing out of her
‘ferry’ outfit and proceeded to gasp at the riches contained in the house,
built by the fortune accumulated from generations of private banking with a
little oil, cement and textile production thrown in. She expressed amazement at
the fact that house had an underground swimming pool and said ‘gosh’ again when
she found out that the dinner service was made of gold. Frankly, I wouldn’t
have been shocked if the woman revealed that her hobby was smashing Ming vases
and had Krug champagne flushing her toilet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It
was around now that I started to wonder what I was supposed to be learning from
all this exposure to unattainable riches. Apparently, being served drinks on a
silver tray by an absurdly rich woman’s butler teaches one all about the
benefits of trade between nations.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We
were then treated to a tour around Joanna’s hotel room set in the caves of the
region of Cappadocia. The stunning vistas were breathlessly described as
‘fairy-tale’ and we wondered what the rooms used to be before they were ensuite
bathrooms and dressing rooms. Caves, I think, Joanna.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">There
was no time to visit the hotel bar as Jo had to put on her ‘visiting a
monastery’ outfit and go and visit a monastery. And so, we rumbled on,
breathlessly whispering along the Silk Road on Joanna Lumley’s adventure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
thing is, she’s not really forging a solitary path through unfamiliar terrain,
chancing upon diverse characters along the way and bartering for souvenirs, is
she? She’s being accompanied by a huge production crew plotting her every move
and a wardrobe unit requiring the support of a long line of military supply
vehicles. You can almost hear the director barking instructions at the locals;
‘Can you clear this area please, Joanna needs to walk along here looking
lost.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She’s
always wanted to do this, she informed us. I’ll bet you have. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-33812147802993824542018-09-12T03:55:00.002-07:002018-09-12T03:55:53.909-07:00Redcar At Night<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">For
anyone who gets snobby about watching reality soap operas, think of ‘The Mighty
Redcar’ (BBC2 Thursday, 9pm) as a study in social mobility and it works fine,
apart from the slightly uncomfortable feeling that you are admiring human
achievement in the face of social adversity whilst, at the same time, peeking
through the curtains into your dysfunctional neighbour’s garden.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Redcar
is one of those bleak northern towns, made more anonymous by not even having a
professional football team permanently anchored to the bottom of the football
league. Described by one of its 35,000 residents as; a typical seaside town except
with a massive disused steelworks on the beach, it maybe drab, but it’s far
from featureless. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
same can be said of the residents, at least those featured in the first episode.
We chiefly met, Caitlin, James and Dylan, each of whom had a bucket-load of
ambition and a teaspoon full of opportunity. Caitlin was determined to go to
RADA at nine grand-a-year while her Mum was putting away a tenner a week
working at a food bank, Dylan was trying to secure a record deal armed with a
home recording studio and second-hand guitar and, James just wanted to graft 5-days-a-week
rather than end up in prison like his Dad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It
was, Dylan who proved the most resilient. Adopted by his foster-mother after a
harrowing childhood, Dylan was in all respects larger-than-life. Sporting an
afro the size of a reasonably mature oak tree and a body that continued to
ripple long after he had become motionless, he strode conspicuously around the
town like the King of Tonga, serving in the local Weatherspoons by day and, at
night, performing his home-grown rap music to an appreciative audience. We
witnessed him visiting his autistic brother, still in care somewhere in Stoke,
and assuring him that, should his music allow, he would set them both up in a
flat together. Watching this enormous black teenager hugging his slightly-built,
white, half-brother at the end of their afternoon together would have been
enough to make you weep were it not for the sheer volume of positive energy
that radiated from them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">James,
on the other hand, projected a slightly less optimistic account of life in the
town since the steelworks closed and deprived most young men of the chance of
an apprenticeship. He seemed willing and able to hammer fence posts into the
ground and was fairly proficient at shovelling stones into a wheelbarrow and
moving them elsewhere but, for reasons that weren’t explained, he failed to be
retained as a £20-a-day labourer for more than one week. This, after being
denied an apprenticeship as one of 1300 applicants for 220 local jobs, seemed
to conspire to push him toward a more familiar role as one of the local youths in
whom the police were increasingly interested.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
Mighty Redcar managed to provoke a genuine interest in the town and its
residents, be it Dylan’s infectious optimism or James’ inevitable decline, and
you get the feeling that for every hard luck story there will be a more
uplifting tale to follow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It
seemed as if the void left by the security of a career making steel had been
filled with an insatiable ability to aspire to heights that their parents had
never imagined. As Caitlin posed, self-consciously, in the 600 quid prom-frock
bought by her Mum out of earnings from her three jobs, you couldn’t help
feeling that, although mankind’s base instinct is ‘survival’, ‘aspiration’ runs
it a close second.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Now on-line at </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">http://tellybinge.co.uk/reviews/mighty-redcar-review/</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<br />Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-77825512344698944052018-08-29T03:14:00.000-07:002018-08-29T03:14:42.239-07:00A Hard DAY5 Night<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">How
long it would take you to discover that the entire contact list of your phone
had died in their sleep during the night? I’d probably fear the worst for one
particular friend if they had not posted anything on Facebook during the last
10 minutes, but it would probably be around Christmas before I first realised
that I hadn’t seen close relatives all year.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">In
Day 5 (Pick TV, 9pm Tuesday), it takes Jake (Jesse C. Boyd), about 24 hours for
it to dawn on him that he is one of the few living humans in town and just a
little longer to discover that whatever is killing the population consumes you
just moments after going to sleep. Basically, if you weren’t already snoring
when the ‘sleep bomb’ dropped at around 3am, you will survive until you
eventually nod off through the sheer fatigue, not to mention boredom, of trying
to find a chemist that hasn’t been looted of its stock of caffeine-rich drugs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Personally,
after witnessing the decaying remains of my immediate family in their beds and
several rotting corpses in the deserted local park, I’d be inclined to snuggle
up with a cup of Horlicks, a copy of Hello and let nature take its course. Jake,
on the other hand, has a more robust survival instinct and manages to find some
other survivors to join him in his task of enforced wakefulness. They achieve
this, not by commandeering an empty branch of Starbucks on behalf of the
Republic of Insomnia and consuming endless free Espresso, but by periodically shooting
a cocktail of weapons-grade adrenalin directly into their hearts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
plot is full of gloriously expansive holes and the genre wobbles uncomfortably
between apocalyptic drama and comedy but by the end of episode one a small
posse of relatively sympathetic characters has been assembled to go out in
search of the origin of the epidemic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As
somebody who gets ‘grouchy’ without a full 8 hours kip every night, I can’t
imagine the consequences of working in close proximity to a half-a-dozen
complete strangers who haven’t slept for three days. The mounting tension over
the remaining 5 episodes should primarily be created by the ever-shortening
fuses of the cast as they try not to become obsessed with each other’s
irritating shortcomings. By episode 4 the entire team will be avoiding any sort
of verbal communication whatsoever as the mere sound of each other’s breathing stirs
up latent psychopathic tendencies. Jake’s precocious 13-year-old companion,
Sam, would be high on the list for a good slap if he started effing and jeffing
at me after a sleepless night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">With
‘Day 5’ running for at least another season, and given that they can’t stay
awake forever, subsequent episodes will either have to extend to represent
‘real time’, or be crafted in such a way that each 45 minutes of television
will represent one minute of real life until, finally, a whole episode will feature
Jake taking a single blink with the cliff-hanger ending being, will he actually
open his eyes next week.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I’m
not sure I will.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-18001711505077742712018-05-29T08:00:00.001-07:002018-05-29T08:03:34.083-07:00Scandalous<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2gFKO0s3mNhsYNaukkN7ZTz73DGhbNivD13rKLDExLwIVE8fzCiKQZ6GsOjVzfT0-ffEA5qcRh4GhdFfTWCyg4efkbRRTDW9rFUlWQIZWF-wjuL9dHidNFl1KZU9uCKzBr2bmdaJoVsKo/s1600/15471546-low_res-a-very-english-scandal-4217988.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="620" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2gFKO0s3mNhsYNaukkN7ZTz73DGhbNivD13rKLDExLwIVE8fzCiKQZ6GsOjVzfT0-ffEA5qcRh4GhdFfTWCyg4efkbRRTDW9rFUlWQIZWF-wjuL9dHidNFl1KZU9uCKzBr2bmdaJoVsKo/s320/15471546-low_res-a-very-english-scandal-4217988.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I was just a boy when the Jeremy Thorpe scandal broke. Growing up as a teenager in the seventies was strangely naive experience. Because the sixties had been such a liberating period, full of birth control pills, hallucinogenic drugs, free love and The Beatles openly advocating the holding of hands, the children of the seventies were largely assumed to already know everything that their parents traditionally used to have to sit down and explain to them regarding how they emerged into the world and what the various body parts were for. Indeed, for a time, I assumed that the sex education lessons delivered by my school were, basically, providing information that I was expected to pass on to my parents when I felt that they were good and ready to receive it.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Consequently, the revelations surrounding one of our senior politicians were laughed off as the fantasy of an unhinged sexual deviant making spurious allegations about a twice-married member of parliament and father of one. Norman Scott was everything that a 15 year old boy was desperate not to be. A promiscuous, bi-sexual, weakling who would sell his dignity for money and notoriety. I didn't know it at the time but I was being conditioned to accept that blabber-mouthed poofs like Scott would be the downfall of this country if we didn't have dignified public servants like Jeremy Thorpe to protect us by maintaining a dignified silence on the matter.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Years later, it seems unbelievable that Scott was forced to 'confess' his sin of homosexuality in order to allege attempted murder. Episode 3 of A Very English Scandal (BBC1 Sunday 9pm) will, no doubt, show how the subsequent trial of Mr Thorpe on charges of conspiracy to murder was, in fact, simply turned into a hatchet job on Norman Scott by an establishments Judge who was unwilling to even consider that a member of the Privy Council could be capable of involvement in such a sordid set of circumstances. Peter Cooke's notorious take on the Judge's summing up at the charity comedy review, 'The Secret Policeman's Ball' in 1979, was made all the more satirical by how much of the skit was simply lifted from the actual words used by Sir Joseph Cantley at the time of the trial.<br />
<br />
Although this weeks episode descended into a kind of farce, with Blake Harrison from 'The Inbetweeners', cast as bumbling comedy hit-man Andrew Newton, generally the standard of performance has been high. Hugh Grant is immaculate as Thorpe and Ben Wishaw totally believable as the beleaguered Scott. In fact, I suspect that the scenes of Newton using the wrong alias, shooting Scott's dog in anger and generally tripping over his own cock at every opportunity was intentionally clumsy in order to weaken the prosecution testimony when Scott is put in the witness box next week. I recall at the time the 'raised-eyebrow' newspaper reporting which accompanied photographs of Mr Scott during his time as a 'Male Model', a term which, though accurate in both respects, was used euphemistically to indicate a taste for make up and sexual promiscuity.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidA5JJFHZnKP5o2qtG-UijU3EBEVGwqbb-TKRpubcMJ-FP0C7GZ5cFgRj3bCLoOOu1Dn0r6si33UJes6yoLvZ6sICpwe5R8MJj3_fXabxN3-SwUWXav6rmL96pGx9ADI2jpVMnpgdIT5nl/s1600/14358862-high_res-a-very-english-scandal-f1018cd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="720" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidA5JJFHZnKP5o2qtG-UijU3EBEVGwqbb-TKRpubcMJ-FP0C7GZ5cFgRj3bCLoOOu1Dn0r6si33UJes6yoLvZ6sICpwe5R8MJj3_fXabxN3-SwUWXav6rmL96pGx9ADI2jpVMnpgdIT5nl/s320/14358862-high_res-a-very-english-scandal-f1018cd.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Ultimately, of course, Thorpe could not withstand the weight of public speculation surrounding his sexuality and, though this was very nearly the 1980's, he was forced into the political wilderness. It seems strange that post-Sex Pistols, post-Emmanuel, post-Watergate, the sexual preferences of an establishment figure like the Leader of the Liberal party was, potentially, serious enough to bring the British political system to its collective knees although, the very title of the drama does perhaps give an indication of why. The word 'English' in A Very English Scandal should be accented heavily. For it was perhaps 'Englishness' that suffered a fatal blow during this period. Englishness stood, drowning vertically, as the great ship of British dignity disappeared below the surface.<br />
<br />
Though, perhaps, we all grew up a little and learned to realise that the truth, delivered with an authoritative Oxbridge accent from within Saville Row tailoring, may not be as unquestionably accurate as we once imagined.<br />
<br /></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-83122861442072587252017-11-16T05:58:00.000-08:002017-11-16T05:58:26.291-08:00Elizabeth Arrghh!<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Well, she
survived another week and, as predicted, Elizabeth gets closer and closer to
the ‘final 5’ who endure the interview from hell in the penultimate episode.
She will, of course, breeze through this in the same manner that she has passed
every other task, getting it mostly wrong when the camera is pointing at her,
but executing Nobel prize-winning business skills at all other times. This we
know because how else would she have ever passed the audition, let alone survived
until week eight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Ever since week
two, when she was charged with the task of measuring the wall of a hotel room
and confidently declared it to be 3 centimetres high, she has blundered her way
through each task in the manner of Tommy Cooper sawing a woman in half, somehow
getting to the end of the performance with hardly a drop of blood spilt and
reputation and integrity just about intact.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
In Wednesday’s
episode, Elizabeth hi-jacked the task completely, casting herself in the role
of comic-lead in a motor car advert completely dreamed up by herself. It’s hard
to tell if her colleagues are now completely spellbound by her or if they are
simply standing back in the sure and certain hope that she will self-destruct
before them. I’m sure that, if she does, it will be on Claude Littner’s watch
and will culminate in a hostage situation with Elizabeth holed-up in the board
room, gun at Claude’s temple and demanding a helicopter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Either way,
James, this week’s losing project manager, stood blinking up at her and nodding
in agreement as she outlined her plot for the ad. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
“I’m a stressed-out
mother trying to get my kids to school, I leave my handbag on top of the car
and when I drive off it falls into the road.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
“It’s funny’” she
added, reassuringly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
James tried to speak, but no words came out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Needless to say,
the rest of the programme simply followed the team’s implosion. Their
opposition may as well have just produced a campaign that involved them
standing around pointing at their allocated vehicle and shouting ‘Car, Car,
Car, Car’ for two minutes, they’d have still won. They tried their best to even
it up by responding in the affirmative to criticism levelled at them by the
industry experts to whom they were pitching.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
“You’re right,,”
said Creative Director, Anisa, “some of the feedback said they thought we were
selling a bicycle.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
This is a mixed
message of some extreme magnitude when you are trying to convey the benefits of
a new car. Charles would never have stood for it, “We intentionally portrayed
the car as a bike in order to give the customer and enhanced experience when
they took it for a test drive.’ He would have said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
It didn’t matter,
they may as well have advertised blancmange, the judges would have still
preferred their output over Elizabeth’s clowning effort. Which, actually, may
have worked had the car been named a ‘Pillock’ and backed by a digital campaign
that offered something like, “The car for the big lumbering sod in your life.”
But no, they billed it as the ideal ‘family car’ and called it an Xpando, with
the accent on the ‘X’. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Back in the boardroom,
Lord Sugar started to make up his own rules. James, still confused twixt arse
and elbow, decided that Sarjan and Joanna were the two candidates who deserved
a further grilling by His Lordship.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
“What about her?”
said the Lord, pointing furiously at Elizabeth who was putting her hat and coat
on and trying to exit the boardroom via the broom cupboard. With an air of ‘it’s
my ball and we’ll put the goal posts wherever I say’, Elizabeth was told to
wait outside with the others while Sugar was hosed down with cold water and had
his dials re-set from ‘apoplectic’ to ‘mildly irritated’.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Having taken it
upon himself to drag Elizabeth back in, he then proceeded to sack the only
member of the team who’d simply stuck to his task and tried to apply a
reasonable amount of polish to the Elizabeth-sized turd that had been presented
to him. Sarjan left amid some confusion and one could only assume that, if he
was gone, all four were going to be boarding a taxi for home. But dear Lizzie
had weaved her magic spell again and Lord Sug relented. He must have looked at
her baleful expression and realised that even he couldn’t bring himself to get
rid of her. She’s priceless, and unless she kills herself clattering down the
stairs one morning to answer the phone, he’s going to have to work with her. If
she doesn’t win this series, she’ll probably just keep turning up uninvited
next year until he gives her 250 grand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Back at the
house, as the ground beneath them started to shake, carefree expressions turned
to grim resignation as the remaining candidates realised, long before she
appeared at the door, that Elizabeth had been reprieved. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-22252190537264999372017-11-16T02:36:00.001-08:002017-11-16T02:36:57.056-08:00Why is Lord Sugar so bitter?<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Lord’s, it turns
out, are not the eccentric, aloof and aristocratic breed that they used to be.
Privileged, maybe. Wealthy, yes. But disconnected from reality? No. Certainly
not the one’s featured last week on Meet the Lords, BBC 7pm. It turns out that
around a third of the Lords are, in fact, Ladies and that, far from being born
into the role because one of their ancestors stormed some castle in
Northumberland, most of them have reached the position through some level of
merit. Indeed, the 92 hereditary peers in the ‘Unelected Second House’ must
actually now be elected and can only put themselves forward when one of their
predecessors dies (which is rare) or retires, which is even rarer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
The House of
Lords, however, is starting to burst at the seams as those who have attained a
life peerage ‘on merit’, which can mean many things, from performing important
work on behalf of the community, to donating a vast sum of money to a Prime
Ministerial cause at just the right moment, grow ever in number. Fortunately,
one of the few times when nearly all the ermine-clad luminaries show up on the
same day is when her Maj. The Q comes down for the day and delivers a speech
about austerity whilst wearing a hat made of priceless jewels. Among the
audience on this day was, of course, TV’s favourite Lords, Alan, The Lord of
Sugar and Karen, Baroness Brady of Edmonton. You can only surmise that the
reason Claude Littner has not yet been granted a peerage is because Lord Claude
of The Apprentice Board would just be too obvious.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
It would have
been nice to see Prince Philip point at them and ask them what the bleedin’
‘ell they had contributed to the smooth running of the country over the last 12
months, but he just sat there wondering who had won the 2.30 at Sandown and said
very little.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
After the
ceremony, Lord S and Baroness B quickly threw off their robes and hurtled
across London to the Apprentice board room where a dozen young business people
sat waiting to be grilled on their part in the latest fiasco that passes as a
basis for a job interview. This week’s task was all about picking the pockets
of unsuspecting tourists while several of your accomplices distracted them.
This was no easy task, given that there was a camera crew following their every
move and part of the game was that their victims could ask for their money back
afterwards. However, the teams set about their mission with all the enthusiasm
of a Dalmatian chasing a stick.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
You can
generally tell who’s going to be kicked out at the end of the show by the way the
edit focuses on one or two central characters early in the show. This week,
Sarah Jayne stepped forward to take on the Project Manager’s role declaring
that she “needed to prove herself”. Several colleagues stepped gratefully aside
and began construct a makeshift gallows. Charles was assigned the job of
preparing her for execution and dutifully obliged. Charged with escorting a
party of tourists around the sights of Bruges, the team proceeded to march them
in a vast circle around the canal looking for a 12<sup>th </sup>century
hospital that may or may not have existed. When they returned to the very spot
at which they had commenced, Charles announced that this was exactly what he
had intended to do. Charles is a management consultant and so this course of
action made perfect sense to him. Take the client on a journey that leads
nowhere and then assure them that they had been in the right place all the
time. That’ll be 300 quid and hour, thanks. Sarah Jayne gingerly felt her neck,
from which she knew she would soon be suspended. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
The other group
were making great strides. By which I mean that Elizabeth was marching them
apace toward a chocolate shop. Her frustration was that the tour could not
proceed more quickly and, in the absence of a Saturn 5 rocket or the large hadron
collider to propel them around the city, she put them all on Segway’s and urged
them forward. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Elizabeth will
win this. She may have all the sexual allure of Olive from On the Buses but she
gets things done and getting things done is exactly what Lord Sugar needs.
Anybody working for a partnership of Lord S and Elizabeth will be left in no
doubt as to their role in the business and that role will be to listen, absorb
and act upon the information they are given. She has been portrayed as the fool
from episode one, as the Bessie Bunter in a Barbie-doll parade, but she will
make it to the finish line and stand there going ‘Gosh! How wonderfully
unexpected’ and win our hearts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
It was left to
Lord Sugar to carry out the final coup de grace. Emerging into the board room
from behind that opaque door, looking for all the world like he’s just endured
a particularly difficult bowel evacuation, he listens wearily to the unfolding
tales of woe from the previous couple of days. Karen and Claude sit either side
of him and recount the misery of having to shadow these bozo’s over the last 48
hours and the trio allow themselves only a brief smile when his Lordship utters
his obligatory put-down at the expense of one of the candidates along the lines
of ‘Bel<i>gium</i>? More like bell <i>end</i> if you ask me.’ Remarkably, Charles
survives the board room, he sits looking like the first attempt at Thomas The
Tank Engine’s CGI and promises to do better next time. Sarah Jayne leaves and
we hear a single pistol shot. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
The moral of the
story is that Lords are superior people who hardly ever make mistakes and all
you can do is sit there and await their verdict upon you. Next week is all
about ‘negotiation’ and the apprentices try to negotiate a revolving door. <o:p></o:p></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-36028473120913152662017-11-13T08:19:00.002-08:002017-11-13T08:19:24.082-08:00Trust Me – It Couldn’t Happen<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Well, that was
fun wasn’t it?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
In the end Cath
decided that, whilst being a Doctor was far harder than she imagined, it paid
the bills and enabled her to live in one of those homes that, in the 60’s, used
to house about 17 different families but are now occupied by the kind of yoga
practising couple who drink coffee by the thimble-full and make their own
pasta.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
It had a few
other drawbacks too, like having to change your identity from a disgraced Nurse
Hardacre into a rather revered Doctor Sutton, but that’s not a problem these
days. It used to be far harder before the internet of course. In those days, in
order to prove your qualifications, you used to have to go all the trouble of
pointing to a framed diploma on the wall of your surgery, these days you simply
replace every online image of the person you are pretending to be with a
picture of yourself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Just a few years
ago, for example, I played left back for a Scottish first division football
team by convincing the players and management that I was Nigel Winterburn, the
ex-Arsenal and England defender turned part-time TV pundit. “Seems to check out
ok” said the physio as I passed my medical and handing me back my expertly
forged Nectar card. I drew a reasonable weekly wage – not Premiership money, obvs
– until I ruptured my spleen taking a throw on, at which point I withdrew from
football altogether, carefully remembering to restore Google back to where it
was before I started.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Cath often reflected upon the predicament that
got her into the pickle in which she now found herself as she stared into the
gaping wound of another trauma victim that had been presented to her by the
expectant ambulance crew. Had she not bemoaned the falling standards of NHS
doctors who, she felt, cared less about patients welfare and more about the
model of Nespresso machine that they were now able to afford, she would still
be nursing away in Sheffield with the sort of bossy-boots attitude for which
those nurses who wear the darker blue uniform are rightly known. She had been
good at the “Hattie Jacques” frown and could change a dressing with her left
hand whilst inserting a particularly stubborn catheter with the right.
Unfortunately, she had been abrupt with the wrong junior Doctor and had been made
to hand in her badge and gun by a senior administrator who looked as if she was
trying to swallow a wasp-infested lemon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
It took
circumstances and a fair degree of ‘bottle’ to place herself in Edinburgh with
a stolen CV, a forged passport and an application for the vacant Doctor’s post in
the busy A & E department of the West Lothian Trust. In the overworked Dr Brigitte
Raynes (Sharon Small) she had found a willing employer who was so impressed
with her CV that she completely forgot to check out her LinkedIn profile. “You’re
too good for us” she stated, handing her a contract and wheeling in a casualty,
“when was the last time you replaced a kidney?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
So Cath, now
Ali, bumbled through the first three episodes, applying bandages, re-starting
hearts and amputating the odd limb, while her colleagues, apart from raising
the occasional eyebrow when they caught her referring to ‘Resuscitation For
Dummies’, complemented her on her skill, bedside manner and willingness to empty
bedpans. Not one, however, asked to connect with her on Facebook.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The tangled web
of deception was bound to unravel. When estranged father of her daughter, Karl
(Blake Harrison, sounding nothing like Neil from the Inbetweeners), turned up
unexpectedly there was the distinct sound of a bag being vacated by a cat. Of
all the missed opportunities in the world, the one that I find the most
frustrating is why, when Karl realised that Cath (Jodie Whittaker) was
masquerading under a false identity, did they not give him the line “Doctor
WHO?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Perhaps the
writers felt that this would take a little of the realism away from the piece.
Too late I’m afraid, for, while Trust Me made for a fine, edge of the seat
drama, filled as it was with plenty of moral dilemmas and moments of genuine
tension, it did not pay much heed to realism. After Karl is struck down by a
car following a fist fight with her new boyfriend, he is briefly left alone and
comatose with the very Doctor that his ex-missus was now shacked up with.
Whilst everyone was looking the other way, poor old Karl croaked. “I don’t know
what happened” says Dr Brenner, still standing on the oxygen line, ‘he’s just
gone all blue and dead’.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
‘Oh, well,’ says
Cath, ‘much as I’ll never trust you again, I’ll change my name back to Doctor
Sutton and carry on working here. Put him in the incinerator for me would you?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Promotional
interviews and general ‘blurb’ before the start of this series suggested that
this sort of thing goes on more than we would like to imagine and I don’t doubt
that some dodgy diplomas and suspicious certificates have enabled some
unscrupulous gits to practice medicine when they shouldn’t even be allowed near
Elastoplast but, come on. It’s hard enough to get paid by the NHS for supplying
something they actually asked for, let alone carving out a career as a medic in
A & E on production of someone else’s CV and a stethoscope. <o:p></o:p></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-66696514129509268602017-07-13T06:04:00.003-07:002017-07-13T06:04:17.463-07:00Murder In The Dark<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
It appears to be
fashionable at the moment for crime dramas to show the police at their most
inept’. Fallibility is inherent in all of us and the British police are far
from immune, however, there really has been a glut of dopey sods masquerading
as highly trained officers of the law on telly lately. One look at something
like ’24 Hours in Police Custody’ should reveal how careful they have to be before
issuing so much as a parking ticket these days, let alone charging someone with
murder simply because the suspect, like all killers, has been seen wearing
shoes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
‘Broken’ (BBC 1)
finished a couple of weeks ago and, apart from a stunning performance by Sean
Bean – which I can never resist pronouncing, Seen Bawn – featured a scene where
armed police shot dead a blinded, manic depressive, teenager in front of his
mother and then got all cover-y up about it. We live in dangerous times but, I’m
sure we’re not yet a the stage where a SWAT team is dispatched to a residential
home simply because some teenager has got all uppity at his mum for not getting
his local priest to come and see him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
‘Fearless’ (ITV
1) is currently following vodka-swilling, chain-smoking, pacifist lawyer Emma
Banville (Helen McCrory) running rings around both the CIA and the CID,
revealing that they have framed the world’s unluckiest school caretaker for
murder who, after enduring 15 years of false imprisonment, is then released
from prison and into the path of an oncoming lorry, no doubt waved through by
some hapless traffic cop. The series concludes this week with Banville
delivering a presentation to senior officers from both sides of the Atlantic
whilst indicating Power Point slides and repeating the words ‘Arse’ and ‘Elbow’.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
‘In The Dark’
(BBC 1) continues the theme as Detective Helen Weeks, played by the curiously
named MyAnna Buring, stumbles upon an old friend whose partner is prime suspect
in a double murder investigation. Despite the flimsiest of evidence and with
complete disregard for the sensitive nature of the crimes (involving the
abduction of teenage girls), the Police seem content to release enough information
about the suspect to allow the world’s media to crawl over his home and family
in a way usually reserved for Texan serial killers. You would feel that some due
diligence, when writing and researching this type of investigation, would
surely have revealed that things aren’t done this way. Presumably someone,
somewhere, simply decreed that realism doesn’t make good telly. Well get knotted
I say, we’ve got soap operas to feed our blandness, there must be room in a four
hour drama to paint some light and shade into a character battling the shame of
her lover facing child abduction charges without having to simply show her door-stepped
by media hacks shouting questions at her and blinding her with camera
flashbulbs from the 1940’s. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Helen has
returned to her northern roots for some R & R following a trauma at work.
Luckily, her work is also her hobby and her work colleague is also her hubby so
Mr & Mrs Weeks proceed to conduct their own investigation into a murder
that is already being investigated. It’s a bit like Hart to Hart but with
cheaper jewellery and one fewer Butler. Anyway, they find that the
all-too-hasty arrest and charging of the suspected murderer is down to cocky,
up from the smoke, Detective Tim Cornish who turns out to be an ex-colleague of
Helen’s partner, Paul. This little coincidence, combined with Helen’s intimate
friendship with the suspect’s other half, Emma, gives the pair of maverick
coppers unprecedented access to both sides of the story and the fact that DC
Weeks accompanies Emma as she is interviewed by fellow officers doesn’t strike
anyone as compromising at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Having blagged
her way through the crime scene tape by flashing her Oyster card at yet another
numbskull uniformed copper, Helen then casually discusses the scene of crime
photos with the man from forensics. You know he’s from forensics because he
wears white overalls and rubber gloves and he can eat sandwiches while he’s
weighing someone’s liver. Finding it strange that a body can remain undetected
in an area popular with dog walkers until it has decomposed to the extent it
has (‘maggoty’ says the bloke from forensics, tucking into his humus), Helen
deduces that the victim must have been moved there post-mortem. Tim Cornish doesn’t
agree. He thinks the corpse rotted away by the side of the road because the
local population are dead thick and he’s not interested in her theories because
he’s just bought a new ‘whistle’ for the trial. She has other theories
involving DNA samples and doesn’t like being called emotional by fellow
officers when she’s telling them how to do their jobs so she’s making a bit of nuisance
of herself to be honest. Fortunately, the pair have another ally in the shape
of Super Hans from Peep Show (Matt King). He is also a forensic guy and is in
London, eating jellied-eels whilst removing a spleen, but tells them he’ll be
on the next train to Yorkshire.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
She is then
struck by an awful truth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
If she’s the
central character in a current crime drama, should she be having ‘flashbacks’? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Seen Bawn in ‘Broken’
had them, the Vodka woman in ‘Fearless’ has them and, if they do actually
re-make Hart to Hart (and why the bleeding hell not?) Max, the Butler, would
probably have them and they’d be about that day he didn’t ‘pick up’ after
Freeway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
So Helen duly
has the flashbacks. They will continue through the 4-part series, like a
recurring nightmare with the terrifying climax drawing slightly closer each
night, until the back story is revealed which will, somehow, resolve her
present turmoil. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Probably. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Who knows? <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The only thing
that’s certain is that some flat-footed plod will cock something right up
before the end of the next episode. <o:p></o:p></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-11796933225294741752017-05-11T07:26:00.003-07:002017-05-11T07:30:54.631-07:00The Island. Is Bear a God?<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Last week,
Stephen Fry got into a deal of bother by stating in an interview that he though
God, if he existed, was ‘an utter maniac’. Gay Byrne, the doyen of Irish
television interviewers, sat back and braced himself for the inevitable
thunderbolt, which didn’t come immediately but followed shortly afterwards in
the form of a threatened charge of blasphemy. Blasphemy, as an offence, is
right up there with Witchcraft when it comes to the likelihood of charges being
pressed so perhaps Mr Fry ‘s lawyers are not wasting too much time preparing
their defence at the moment. However, the outburst did at least rekindle the
flames of a philosophical argument that goes back to around 270BC and known as
Epicurus’ Riddle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
If God is all
powerful and all loving, why does he allow evil to exist in the world? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Now, I try not
to look for answers to ancient philosophical conundrums because, a) searching
for answers simply leads to ever more complex questions and, b) I can’t really
deal effectively with the options offered by household recycling centres
without getting a migraine. However, recently, Monday nights have seen me
channelling my inner philosopher as I stare at the chaos that is Channel 4’s ‘The
Island’ and ask, ‘If Bear Grylls is so intent on finding out if a group of
ordinary human beings can survive on a deserted beach for 6 weeks, why did he
give them Jane and Phil to deal with?’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Bear seems like a
nice guy. He appears intermittently throughout the programme hovering,
God-like, above the carnage ensuing below, and warns us of the perils his
subjects are about to endure. ‘When you’re at your lowest’ he says, ‘that’s when
to use your inner strength to visualise better times ahead.’ Meanwhile, on the
island, rain falls, stair-rod straight, onto and into the meagre shelter built
by the hapless castaways who stand around their dwindling fire and bemoan that
they have eaten the last of their miserable rations. Phil Coates, the
fifty-something cameraman from Yorkshire, has the idea that, if he monopolises
the camp fire, the warmth will last longer because there are fewer bodies to
heat. To this end, he selflessly warms his own toes whilst denying ex-police
officer Jane to do the same to her frozen fingers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
As day breaks
and the rain relents for a few hours, there is perhaps time to take stock of
the ransacked camp, rebuild shelter and rations and allocate a few tasks to the
fittest and most agile of the islanders. Not a chance. For Jane, the new day
offers her the chance for revenge and the opportunity to turn the rest of group
against Phil whose stock has been pretty low anyway since, in the name of
freedom and equality, he decided to parade his naked torso up and down the
beach in full view of the younger ladies. His assertion that the likes of Kaggy
and Jordan had spent most of the previous two episodes revealing pert breasts
and firm bottoms only served to reinforce the groups argument that Phil was
simply acting like a dirty old flasher and would he please ‘put it away’. Jane,
therefore, instigated a kangaroo court based upon Phil’s unwillingness, and
inability, to become a valuable member of a cohesive team and called for a vote
to decide his future participation. Most of the team were in agreement that
Phil was a pain the arse but, not all were convinced that a ‘big brother’ style
vote-off was exactly in the spirit of Bear’s Island. Thus, in a sort-of ‘referendum’,
the likes of which has rarely been seen or experienced in recent times anywhere
I can think of, the island population was asked to cast a vote of ‘Leave’ or ‘Remain’
to decide Phil’s phate. Would there be any lasting repercussions if, for
instance, the ‘Leave’ vote won but there had been no actual plan of how life on
the island would continue afterwards? Would this be the end of Phil’s phame and
phortune? Who would actually operate the camera in the event of a Phexit? And would
that word eventually catch on? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
I shouldn’t have
worried, Phil was duly kicked out and life was, if anything, better without him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Until, of
course, the next tropical storm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Bear, still in
the role of supreme being, cautioned against frivolous afternoons in the sun
when there was work to be done. ‘The weather can change in an instant.’ He said,
and then puffed out his cheeks and blew upon the ocean. Waves reached tidal
proportions and clouds darkened as if Phil himself had coloured their mood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
This one was a
biggie. As they stood shin-high in dirty rain water the islanders basically
caved and called for the rescue team. Why did Bear make this happen? Why kill
what he had created? Was it part of a grand plan? Bear, answer me!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
But Bear didn’t
answer. Because Bear had no answer. He hadn’t made it rain any more than he
could stop it raining. If he had built the islanders a shelter it would never
have leaked, but he left it to them to build a shelter that leaked in the hope
that they will build a better one next time. Bear could catch them a crocodile,
kill it and cook it if he wanted, but this wouldn’t teach them to feed
themselves. Bear couldn’t be their saviour, they needed to find their own. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
By the time the
rescue boat arrived, some 48 hours later, a hero had emerged in the unlikely
shape of Aron. This mild-mannered paramedic from Surrey, looking for all the
world like a terrapin without his shell, single-handedly talked the group into
going through with the rest of the task and not abandoning their temporary
world in the middle of the Pacific. He did it, not for money, not for fame and
not for attention, he did it because he could not live with himself if he gave
up when he knew he could carry on. Jane, of course, moaned her Geordie ex-police
force moan, and briefly organised another uprising, but she only had fellow
fifty-something Karen on her side and, as she is about as much use as a stocking
full of wet sand, the coup didn’t last very long and they were soon back
begging for fish, which Aron duly supplied without requiring a show of hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Bear, meanwhile,
sat back on Mount Olympus with a satisfied grin on his face. He had made Aron
in his own image and the grand plan could continue.<o:p></o:p></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-49514585765412199392017-04-12T09:52:00.000-07:002017-04-12T09:52:21.935-07:00Share the Love<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
No coincidence,
I feel, that “<i>Peter Kay’s Car Share”</i>
and <i>“Our Friend Victoria” </i>shared the
peak viewing 9 till 10 slot on Tuesdays. Arguably, Kay has already
attained the ‘National Treasure’ and ‘Comedy Legend’ epithets already applied
to Ms Wood and, though he would, presumably, wish to delay the addition of ‘fondly
remembered’ for a few years yet he is, I’m sure, aware of the similarities
people draw between these two comedy writers. Although, it’s true, a direct
line can be drawn connecting both artists to the Godfather of gentle northern
humour, Alan Bennett, this should not detract from their talent to extract
absurdity from everyday phrases or situations. Yes, they use the mould cast by
Bennett to construct outwardly unremarkable characters who create humour by
virtue of being unaware that they are doing or saying anything remotely funny, but
they take the art-form to new levels. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Not for Kay is the
distant sound of a brass band playing the ‘Hovis’ advert, it’s the ‘Forever FM
Drivetime Show’ and his ‘Now That’s What I Call Music’ CD with a mixture of
school disco hits and adverts for a local Dry Cleaners. It is in the very ‘ordinariness’ of the characters
that Kay extracts the most humour. His character, John Redmond, lives alone,
dines alone and sleeps alone. His work, as a middle manager in a supermarket
chain, forces him to briefly emerge from his shell and interact with his
colleagues but he is soon back in the cocoon of his Fiat 500L and heading home
to enjoy his own space. Forced by company policy to volunteer for a ‘car share’
scheme, he meets Kayleigh Kitson (Sian Gibson), a more junior staff member but,
we find, very much a kindred spirit who manages to stir something in the
recesses of John’s veiled ego and bring out the personality in him with a series
of music quiz questions, half-forgotten pop songs from the 80’s and stories
about eccentric family members. Conversations, reminiscences and office gossip
fill the journeys to and from work. Deadpan, bitter-sweet accounts of failed
relationships and family dramas are interspersed with musical fantasies
recounting simpler times when John and Kayleigh had youth, love and S-Club7.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
If romances can
sometimes be described as ‘whirlwind’, Car Share is a love story moving at the
pace of a glacier. Each layer inevitably peeled away from the veneer of their
personalities reveal a new challenge for the couple. When Kayleigh says ‘petrol’,
John can’t help correcting it to ‘diesel’, when Kayleigh talks about her “lady
time” John winces at the intimacy and the passage of their relationship to another
level is delayed by a further 50,000 years. When John reveals that he likes
crinkle-cut chips and hanging baskets, you can sense Kayleigh making a mental
note to put any romantic intentions back in their box. When, however, ‘One Step
Further’ is played on the car radio, you sense that love is bound to blossom
one day as they are instantaneously taken back to 1982. The genius of Kay’s
writing enables you to instinctively know that this song has not been chosen
because it’s just a catchy tune, a quick Google search reveals this was the UK Eurovision
entry when the contest was held in Harrogate, of all places, and an image of a 16
year-old John and Kayleigh moving in different orbits whilst staring at the
same moon is created without so much as a line written.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
That ‘Car Share’
precedes the tribute to Vicky Wood is wholly correct. Peter Kay as warm-up man
for one of comedy’s most respected and lamented
icons seems fitting and appropriate. Two people who walk you across the
tightrope between real life and fantasy, love and friendship and laughter and
tears, ready to push you one way or the other but to never let you fall. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
‘Car Share’ is
on BBC1 Tuesday at 9pm <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
This review also
appears on <a href="https://tellysgonewrong.blogspot.co.uk/">https://tellysgonewrong.blogspot.co.uk/</a><o:p></o:p></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-585563148737811102017-04-06T07:41:00.002-07:002017-04-06T07:59:38.079-07:00Facebook Goes crazy<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I follow a Facebook site called
Seventies Time Machine. They often post nostalgic photographs of a more
innocent age where buses had conductors, trains had guards and TV personalities
had just about anyone they wanted<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The other day they posted an image of
the 70’s TV show ‘Mind Your Language’ and posed the question, ‘Was this
innocent comedy or politically incorrect rubbish?’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I was 17 when this was first broadcast
and I thought then, as I do now, that it was poorly written, even more poorly
acted and used lazy racial stereotyping for limited comedy effect. When I was
17, nearly everyone I knew agreed with me but, when I clicked through to the
comments section of the FB posting I was shocked to find out who I now represented.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/marilyn.dawson.754?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; text-decoration-line: none;">Marilyn
Dawson</span></a></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> It was very innocent . A time when we all 'took the mick' out of
every nationality and we didn't take offence at all , the pc brigade need to
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><img alt="https://www.facebook.com/images/emoji.php/v8/f51/1/16/1f603.png" border="0" height="16" src="file:///C:/Users/terry.000/AppData/Local/Temp/msohtmlclip1/01/clip_image001.png" v:shapes="Picture_x0020_1" width="16" /><!--[endif]--></span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 1.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">:-D</span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">So, I now appear to be part of the “PC
brigade”. I have, apparently now lost my sense of humour and need to have it
restored by a sinister sounding ‘pill’. Did we really ‘take the mick’ out of
every nationality? And, if we did, could we say that nobody took offence? My
recollection is that those on the receiving end of the mickey taking never
really had a voice. However, John, here might give it some perspective,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/john.edwards.7528?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; text-decoration-line: none;">John
Edwards</span></a></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> Good natured fun. We made jokes about our differences but nowadays
the marxists go ballistic over what they think are racial stereotypes.</span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Ohh, the bloody Marxists, is it? Hang
on, the entire show is based upon racial stereotypes, that’s the one joke. it’s
not something that anyone is inventing for the purpose of going ballistic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/betty.eisner.9?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; text-decoration-line: none;">Betty Eisner</span></a> It was not racist at all. It was innocent
comedy 'normal' people saw it just as that. All of these politically correct
people are not 'normal' and they cause all of the problems and create racism
which is not there.</span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">So we have Betty’s interpretation of ‘Normal’.
Normal people saw it as innocent comedy and not racist at all. The trouble is,
Betty thinks that racial stereotyping is something that should be tolerated by
people and if you don’t think like Betty you’re not ‘normal’. I think it’s
called a self-perpetuating argument.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/Xenomorph70?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%; text-decoration-line: none;">Shaun Hopkinson</span></a></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> What the PC brigade fail to
understand, is that this was actually taking the mick out of English as much as
it was the rest of the nationalities. In fact I'd say it was showing stupid we
Brits actually are. I loved it as a kid.</span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Ah, thanks Shaun. Being part of the PC
Brigade, I failed to spot that it was self-parody and that it was, in fact, ‘we
Brits’ that were being portrayed as stupid. I missed the joke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">What I need is some clarity…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100004252035488&fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; text-decoration-line: none;">Sue
Taylor</span></a></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> Those were the days when we all had a sense of humour and didn't
take ourselves too seriously. It actually taught tolerance by highlighting our
differences yet all really being the same inside. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(246, 247, 249); line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Sue
has poured some much needed common sense onto the choppy waters of this
argument and reminded us that there was a moral message behind the humour. But,
wait, she goes on..<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Unfortunately the government has too much power.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The government? What have they got to
do with it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Richard, who presumably won’t be
offended if I point out that he writes like some of the MYL characters speak,
adds…something.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/richard.l.nutting?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; text-decoration-line: none;">Richard
Leslie Nutting</span></a></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> Brilliant, people of today are just to sensitive people you'll get
over it. thats the problem in todays society alway worried about hurting
someones feelings the things just laugh it off you will get over it.</span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Richard has thrown his hat in the ring
here with some force. I think the underlying message is that we will get over
it. The problem, according to him, in today’s society, is that we are always
worried about hurting someone’s feelings. That, essentially, if we stopped
worrying about hurting anyone’s feelings and became less sensitive, we would,
perhaps produce another Mind Your Language which we would all, ultimately, get
over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Mandy has something to say,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/mandy.stack.3?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="background: rgb(246, 247, 249); color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%; text-decoration-line: none;">Mandy Stack</span></a></b><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="background: #F6F7F9; color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></b></span><span class="uficommentbody"><b><span style="background: #F6F7F9; color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">It was funny
and it was ours!</span></b></span><b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The possessive pronoun in perfect
context. It was ‘ours!’ It belonged to ‘Us!’ Any idea who ‘We!’ were? Anybody,
presumably, who knows Mandy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/PDCisback?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="background: rgb(246, 247, 249); color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%; text-decoration-line: none;">Paul Davis-Cooke</span></a></b><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="background: #F6F7F9; color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></b></span><span class="uficommentbody"><b><span style="background: #F6F7F9; color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Most people
were racist at the time, in a general way. It was simply commonplace. My Father
always complained about there being too many of 'them' but was polite and
friendly to any non white person he met. He would have been surprised and upset
to</span></b></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="background: #F6F7F9; color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></b></span><span class="uficommentbody"><b><span style="background: #F6F7F9; color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">be thought
racist. I'm not condoning it but it's just the way things were.</span></b></span><b><span style="background: #F6F7F9; color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Here comes Paul with the argument racism
was commonplace at the time, in a ‘general’ sense. That’s ‘generally’ not
‘specifically’ racist. Most people, that’s MOST people at the time, were
racist. Take his father, for instance, who <i>always</i>
complained about there being too many non-white people in the world but who,
himself, would have been upset if he had been labelled a racist. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/stephen.cockram?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; text-decoration-line: none;">Stephen
Richard Cockram</span></a></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> It was a great comedy,it was not made with prolifically
correctness in mind ,but who cared,so wind your neck you idiots ,like comedy
because it makes you laugh nothing more !!!!</span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Sorry, Stephen, I overlooked the fact
that it was not meant to be prolifically correct and will wind in my neck. I
should, in future, ‘like comedy’ because it makes me laugh. But what if it
doesn’t? What if it is badly constructed shite? Should I still like it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/keith.price.965928?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; text-decoration-line: none;">Keith
Price</span></a></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> Life is being destroyed by the PC brigade & cultural marxists
...</span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">This was, in fact, the last thing
Keith ever typed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Sonia’s reasoning behind ‘Mind Your
Language’ being unfunny to the PC Brigade and Marxists is that, nowadays, “parents
don’t let their kids do anything” and schools “only teach them how to pass
exams”. This is also the reason they “commit suicide” when they get “out there
on their own”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/sonia.luff?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; text-decoration-line: none;">Sonia
Jayne Luff</span></a></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> Todays world is very different but who's fault is it when parents
don't let their kids do anything and wrap them up in cotton wool. Schools only
teach them how to pass exams and nothing about the outside world and real life.
The PC brigade don't want you to upset anyone .No wonder they commit suicide
when they get out there on their own.</span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Meanwhile, Ian observes,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/ian.spence.330?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="background: rgb(246, 247, 249); color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 200%; text-decoration-line: none;">Ian Spence</span></a></b><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="background: #F6F7F9; color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></b></span><span class="uficommentbody"><b><span style="background: #F6F7F9; color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Nothing wrong
with the language</span></b></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="background: #F6F7F9; color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></b></span><b><span style="background: #F6F7F9; color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><br />
<span class="uficommentbody">It's the clowns of today's generation snowflake that
can't handle it</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<span class="uficommentbody">Them who can't see past a screen and see and be
exposed to the outside world and have no back bone and go and cry when
something is said<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I
must admit that I do in fact, due to a lack of backbone, have a tendency to cry
when something is said. If only I could see beyond that screen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/paul.jackman.1297?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; text-decoration-line: none;">Paul
Jackman</span></a></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> we can not judge as different eras,but MOST of the 'comedy'
nowadays is banal such as 'jokes' about cancer etc which the 70's /80's never
would have countenanced Also do not remember one swear word from the older
sitcoms. .</span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Paul begins by admitting that we
CANNOT judge different era’s before going on to judge the present era which, he
says, is mostly comedy about cancer (eh?). His observation that he doesn’t
remember one swear word from the older sitcoms is an indication that, perhaps
there were members of the PC Brigade infiltrating television at the time and
rejecting any bad language.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leighton.derrick?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; text-decoration-line: none;">Leighton
Derrick</span></a></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> Great programme! Should be more like it on tv today. Stuff the pc
brigade!</span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Leighton!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/gary.izard.1?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; text-decoration-line: none;">Gary
Izard</span></a></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> The PC brigade killed our comedy on TV.</span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Gary!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100007810740080&fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; text-decoration-line: none;">Paul
Carter</span></a></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> Made me laugh at the time! And it made the actors money to! To
many people telling us why to say and watch!!</span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br />
Look, we in the PC Brigade will never tell you why to say, nor will we dictate
why to watch, nor shall we tell you why to think.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I don’t believe this next person’s
name is Andrew Optional…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/Trespasser1966?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; text-decoration-line: none;">Andrew
Optional</span></a></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> It was a funny comedy in its time but sadly todays society is just
too eager to claim discrimination and compensation</span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Excuse me, I just have to deal with
Vivien, who looks as if she is about to burst into tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/vivien.phillips.12?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; text-decoration-line: none;">Vivien
Phillips</span></a></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> It was fun. Now we can't have fun anymore we have to be offended
instead!</span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">We can, Vivien, we can have fun. Look
how much fun I am having. I’m not offended, even though I appear to fit your image
of a member of the PC Brigade, I appear to be having more fun than the rest of
you put together. You’re all obsessed by the fact that there is an organisation
somewhere trying to prevent enjoyment. Mind Your Language wasn’t banned or
outlawed, it just stopped being funny, if it ever was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<a href="https://draft.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8854357670881779746" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Oh, and <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #F6F7F9;">
<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/sonia.luff?fref=ufi&rc=p"><span style="color: #365899; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%; text-decoration-line: none;">Sonia Jayne Luff</span></a></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "inherit","serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> When we had a sense of humour.
Shame the young of today and the PC brigade don't know what that is.</span></b><b><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I think you will find that there are
still some young people who share your sense of humour and are more than
capable of mocking those who have a language, culture or religion different
from your own.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-14701565537964473502017-03-28T01:04:00.002-07:002017-03-28T01:04:59.471-07:00The Look of Morons<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Every now and
then, a television programme comes along that questions your morals and challenges your accepted approach to life and
society. A programme that confronts the values and conventions that you have long
recognised as normative principles and beliefs, holds up a mirror to your
convictions and forces you to ask yourself if your personal ethos can ever be
fundamentally ‘right’. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
That programme
is Harry Hill’s Alien Fun Capsule.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Meanwhile, on
Channel 4, there’s a pile of poo called Three Wives One Husband, and it’s all
about loonies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Probably the
funniest show in the West End at the moment, ‘The Book of Mormon’ satirises,
not only the Mormon faith but, by and large, any religion that blindly follows rulebook
that compels it’s followers to adopt a belief system that places them in denial
of any progressive human development, causing them to be set apart from society
due to a dogmatic set of principles that give them a baseless and, largely,
illusory perception of how best to live in this world whilst preparing for a
journey to another place after death. What ‘Mormon’ does, however, is allow
people of faith to laugh at the concept of a strange and oppressive dogma,
whilst maintaining, from their point of view that, ‘it’s not actually like
that, but it’s funny that some people think it is.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
What ‘Three
Wives One Husband’ does, on the other hand, is get right up close to the creed
and say, ‘this is what it’s actually like, run for your life!’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
In it we meet
Enoch Foster, husband to Catrina and Lilian and father to their 16 children.
They live in a remote fundamentalist Mormon community called Rockland Ranch in
Utah set up about 35 years ago and accept polygamy as legitimate method of
populating the community with as many new members as the available number of
wombs will feasibly allow. Indeed, Enoch, who prides himself on his fertility,
stamina, athleticism and ability to remember names, has recently started
courting a 25-year old Nanny (which is probably the only occupation available
to unattached females in Utah) called Lydia Rose. He sees her as the ideal
addition to the Foster clan based upon her experience with children, her full
set of white teeth and her firm yet supple body which could, in all
probability, squeeze out another seven or eight new Fosters before she’s 45.
You can tell he likes her, because he’s already blasted a hole in the rock face
where he will build her own dwelling. I haven’t seen this much romance since
Fred and Wilma got together. The courtship involves plenty of family time with him,
the children and, more especially, the existing Mrs Foster’s with whom she spends
a lot of time smiling, holding hands and being told how wonderful she is. Actually,
it’s mainly Catrina who does Lydia Rose’s ego-massaging being, as she is, the
oldest of the harem and the one who is the most battle-weary from all the
Enoch-action. Wife number 2, Lilian, was more in need of attention as she had
recently given birth to their latest addition, a girl called either Listerine
or Amphetamine (I couldn’t hear above noise in the delivery room caused by nine
of the other children, first wife Catrina and Lydia Rose, who Enoch had invited
along on a date). Lilian smiled bravely as she spoke of the threat she
perceived Lydia Rose presented to her own personal Enoch-time. She had good
reason to feel this way as, just over the garden fence, live the Morrison’s. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Abel Morrison
seems a personable chap. As a postal worker he leaves the community every
morning to work in the real world but returns at night to Rockland where his
training as a mailman enables him to remember at which of his three residences
he last delivered. Although he exceeds Enoch’s wife collection to the tune of
one, he trails him in in terms of fruitfulness by about five. I say ‘about
five’ because it’s difficult to pin down the exact number of sprogs in the
Foster household, research has yielded answers between 13 and 17 but all agree
that Abe’s head count of Junior Morrison’s number a paltry 11. However, third
wife Marina is about to produce number 12 so they may, one day, catch up with
the Fosters. Unless, of course, Enoch knocks-up his nanny.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Marina, however,
is not exactly blooming. Heavy with child, she seems less than ecstatic to
receive Abe’s rotational visit. He’s popped in for a quick cuddle before going
out on date-night with Mrs. Morrison #1, Susie, whom he describes a ‘sassy’.
Marina feels about as sassy as a hippopotamus with haemorrhoids as she stands
with stomach distended, boobs aching and a look in her eyes that suggests that
she didn’t sign up for this when she took the well-worn track down the aisle
into Abe’s arms. She tries to voice her insecurities to Abe but she couldn’t
really have picked a worse time because their table is booked for seven-thirty
and sassy Susie is outside smiling sweetly. Poor Abe, he’s enough on his plate
with the impending Christmas rush that will inevitably put the Utah postal
service under immense pressure, without his third wife getting all hormonal
because she’s 8 months pregnant and baby-sitting his 11 other kids while he
takes his second wife out for a romantic meal for two before spending the night
in her bed. Still, broads, huh? Whadaya gotta do? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
In the end, it’s
hard to know where you actually stand with all this. Although the polygamy sounds
intrinsically wrong, it’s not the only thing that this community is about. They
teach love and equality and respect for religion and each other’s views and
opinions, the trouble being that love appears to be expressed in a spectacularly
irreligious fashion and equality often means equal quantity, rather than equal quality.
The first episode ended with Enoch left in limbo by Lydia Rose who was taking
time out to decide if she could handle the challenges that come with being a
third wife. One look over the garden fence at Marina Morrison may have told her
all she needed to know. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Episode two will
be shown on Thursday.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
This review also
appears on <a href="https://tellysgonewrong.blogspot.co.uk/">https://tellysgonewrong.blogspot.co.uk/</a><o:p></o:p></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-83524196060181846502017-03-21T11:28:00.003-07:002017-03-21T11:28:49.413-07:00Howay our Vera, man.<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Imagine being a
writer facing a production company and pitching a new series to them. It must
be nerve racking as you say, ‘Well…it’s about a detective.’ The simultaneous
eye-rolling must make you feel as if you’re watching some old zombie film.
‘Wait, wait. Not an ORDINARY detective, this one has a bit of a gimmick.’ Now
you’ve got them interested. You then go on to explain that the main character
wears a beret and smokes cannabis; or drives an impossibly old car; or is a
conjoined twin; or exists only in the imagination of a recently beached dolphin,
anything, in fact, to give the tired old format a bit of a twist.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
‘Are they in any
way ‘maverick’?’ you are asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
‘Yes. They have
their own way of doing things.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
‘Great,’ they
say, ‘put six scripts in the post and I’ll get straight on to ITV1 and tell
them to stop worrying about their 8pm Sunday slot.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Vera (ITV Sunday
8pm) has none of the above gimmicks, but she does have a quirky hat and a
raincoat that she wears at all times and the series is lent an element of
novelty by featuring a ‘National Treasure’ actress who operates in a reasonably
picturesque, and largely under exposed part of the country. Stephen Fry tried
it a few years ago in Norfolk with ‘Kingdom’ but found that trying to make a
cross between P G Wodehouse and Rumpole of the Bailey whilst giving all his friends
some work during their summer holidays in Burnham Market didn’t make for great
television. (Didn’t stop ITV lapping it up for a couple of years, but that’s
advertising revenue for you.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The main
advantage of setting a crime drama on the rugged coastline of Northumberland is
that it gives the characters a lot of opportunity to stare out at the sea. And
Vera does a hell of a lot of staring out at the sea. She gazes wistfully, she
contemplates thoughtfully and she watches reflectively as waves crash off the
rocks and batter the shoreline with relentless force. As she stares she is, no
doubt, wondering if her career with the Northumberland & City Police is
necessarily going in the right direction. No matter where she goes, up and down
this picturesque but often brutal county, there is murder and conspiracy at
every turn. You’d think she would be looking to settle down a bit now. There
are no end of bowls clubs, W.I. meetings and art classes being run for elderly
spinsters in the north-east. Surely, Vera doesn’t want to be uncovering one
cadaver after another, week in week out, and then spending the next few days
hearing the tissue of lies that the unfortunate deceased’s family and friends
have woven in order to give themselves a water tight alibi, does she? The sea,
however, simply keeps crashing against the shore and offers no immediate answer
so Vera blinks, shakes her head, and gets on with today’s business in hand,
namely, explaining the suspicious death of Gemma Wyatt, apparently washed up on
the rocks of a remote and inaccessible island just off the coast.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Brenda Blethyn
gives one of those solid ‘I’m going to be a National Treasure if I live much
longer so you may as well sit down and watch’ performances as DCI Vera
Stanhope, a slightly dishevelled lady who rarely finds time to change her
clothing during an episode and approaches every murder investigation
sensitively yet slightly detached, as if she’s officiating at the funeral of
her grandson’s pet rabbit. She heads up a team of detectives with Geordie
accents ranging from the authentic to the barely credible, with one or two
bordering on extras from Citizen Khan. Her modus operandi is to question
witnesses as if she’s making those matter-of-fact, yet slightly intrusive observations
that the check-out lady makes when she spots a new brand of fabric conditioner
in your shopping. Thus she gathers information that the rest of the
Northumberland & City Police force regard as irrelevant but which, you can
be certain, will eventually lead to a trail of clues that will enable her to
eliminate everybody but the murderer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Vera’s latest interrogations
reveal a web of intrigue around the visitors and inhabitants of the small,
wild-life island of Ternstone, the Galapagos of the North-East, as one suspect
after the other presents her with a motive and an opportunity to have done the
deadly deed. Turns out that nearly everyone has done something that they would
rather not tell anybody about so Vera inadvertently solves half a dozen other
mysteries before she lands upon the solution to the main puzzle, which she
inevitably does whilst staring wistfully seawards, eating fish and chips out of
the paper.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
As in all the
best and hammiest cop dramas, she ends up with the perpetrator nicely seated
before her as she reveals exactly why and how the murder was carried out. There
are a few details on which she is slightly sketchy but the killer helpfully
fills in these blanks for her. I’m sure if Vera had said, ‘tell you what, pet,
would you mind slipping these handcuffs on and driving yourself down to the
station?’ the murderer would have done so, pausing only to sign a written
confession.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
There’s another
three of these two-hour mysteries to come which will, no doubt, lead us into
another series of “Midsomer Murders” or “Morse circa 1964” or “Inspector ‘Del
Boy’ Frost”. None of them are much good, but they’re all about two million
times better than Murder in Paradise. <o:p></o:p></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-38775863665994177452017-03-15T08:21:00.002-07:002017-03-15T08:21:18.804-07:00Irreplaceable<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Well, that was…something.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I glanced at my watch at five to ten on Tuesday night,
approximately 55 minutes into the final hour of ‘The Replacement’, and found
myself wondering how the hell they were going to tie up the tangled mess of loose
ends that was lying around all over the place in the remaining five minutes. The
answer was, very quickly indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It seemed for a while that Paula (Vicky McClure) had not only
won the psychological battle she had waged with her erstwhile superior, Ellen
(Morven Christie), but also the physical struggle as she drugged and imprisoned
her after stealing her child. Paula had successfully networked her way into
just about every aspect of Ellen’s life but her story was now beginning to
unravel as she was exposed as being a little unhinged. In fairness, in real
life, most co-workers would have taken one look at those eyes and made a mental
note of where the company baseball bat was kept, so why David, her boss and
Ian, Ellen’s psychiatrist husband, afforded her so much credibility is beyond
me. The fact that they’re both men, allied to the amount of shapely leg on show
at all times, explained their blindness to all things ‘loopy’ on the Paula
front I suppose. They should have taken a harder look at her husband Kieran
(Navin Chowdhry), who permanently wore the expression of a recently neutered
bloodhound, if they wanted an insight into day-to-day living with Ms Reece, he
looked about as content as the cellmate who had just trodden on ‘Mad’ Frankie
Fraser’s airfix model but despite, or maybe because of this, he seemed unwilling
to share Ellen’s suspicions that his wife was capable of murder. Sustained
crockery smashing? Yes. Murder? No. Well, not on a Tuesday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The last half an hour suddenly started to get a little
congested with plot twists. Ian’s Mum, Ellen’s mother-in-law (keep up), who had
been a somewhat peripheral and hostile figure until now, suddenly professed to
be all over Paula’s neurosis and offered to use her psychiatric powers to drive
a stake through her heart as she slept in her coffin. David did a swift
about-turn on his professional opinion of Paula’s credibility after he noticed
that she failed to cast a shadow, and Kieran simply ran away as fast as he
could, throwing his wedding ring over his shoulder and screaming that she could
keep the house and the car. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So, with about eight minutes of the series left, the beleaguered
Ellen still had to wake from a drug induced coma, smash her way out of a locked
car, locate her kidnapped child and convince the authorities that her recent
restraining order was all an administrative cock-up. Blimey, throw in a bomb tied
to the engine of a speeding school bus with no brakes and you might give her
something to worry about. Those RIBA exams must have been a doddle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As expected, all roads led back to the building that Ellen
had originally designed and the Benny Hill chase sequence ended up back in the
most suspicious library outside a Cluedo box. The real pity about this series
was that, as good and as watchable as it was, as well written and well acted as
it was, as gripping and as tense as it was, it ended with a uniformed policeman
slapping handcuffs on the villain at the scene of the crime in as tired and as clichéd
a conclusion as any two-bob cop drama could produce. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It wasn’t quite the end. We still had to have a little
montage of Ellen, fully bonded with her immaculately behaved child, judging the
final of the world ‘humble-pie’ eating contest as one character after another paraded
before her with huge gobfulls of the stuff, offering her jobs and complimenting
her on her maternal genius. Only Ian, her now estranged spouse, got the bum’s
rush as he was politely told to ‘do one’ at the door. Serves him right, too.
After all, if he’s going to take the word of a goggle-eyed, power dressing, vampiress
over that of the devoted, if emotionally charged, mother of his firstborn, he
isn’t much of a husband, and much less of a highly paid shrink. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-59830957336840644772017-03-10T05:40:00.001-08:002017-03-10T05:53:16.309-08:00Office Relations<span style="text-align: justify;">'The Replacement' weirded its way onto our screens a couple of weeks ago, with an ordinary,
everyday tale of jealousy and murder in the world of Glasgow</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; text-align: justify;">’</span><span style="text-align: justify;">s urban architectural landscape. We</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; text-align: justify;">’</span><span style="text-align: justify;">re two episodes in (out of three) and
I think it</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; text-align: justify;">’</span><span style="text-align: justify;">s best you jump on i-player
to get up to speed before next Tuesday or you</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; text-align: justify;">’</span><span style="text-align: justify;">ll hear
about the climax from that bloke at work who talks too loud.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Basically,
high-flying architect, Ellen, has fallen pregnant just after securing her firm
a multi-million pound contract and has to hire a competent interim to take on
the project whilst she is experiencing the delights of motherhood, a role for
which she realises she has less enthusiasm for than she initially hoped. Paula,
played by Vicky McClure, who looks like a CGI version of Emma Thompson circa 1993,
proves an able replacement and is soon fully enmeshed, not only in the job role,
but most of what Ellen had formerly considered her private life. McClure creates a genuinely menacing character and must surely be the scariest interim employee since that week Hannibal Lecter ran the HR Department. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Ellen (Morven
Christie) must then deal with the equivalent of that uncomfortable feeling that
you get when somebody inadvertently spits on your face when they<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span>re talking to you. You keep smiling
and nodding in agreement as if nothing<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span>s
happened, when all the time you just want to shove your head into the nearest
bowl of Dettol. Paula continues to invade her space, both physically and
metaphorically, driving Ellen closer and closer to a state of neurosis as she
battles against her natural hormones as well as a social circle that becomes
increasingly inclusive of the very person who is causing her anxiety.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Following the
apparent suicide of another work colleague, Ellen trails her suspect to various
locations, doggedly determined to show us how remarkably easy it is to park in
Glasgow at any time of day or night. She takes it upon herself to investigate her
replacement<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span>s involvement in the
circumstances surrounding the death and so begins a trail of events that lead
to a tension-filled confrontation between the two central characters. She<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;">’</span>s a brave woman given that Paula
appears to have the potential to emit laser beams from her eyes and I fully
expect the final episode to commence with the charred remains of Ellen, still holding
a wine glass, smoldering away in the chair opposite.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
The Replacement
is well written and well acted in the mould of a surprising number of recent BBC
dramas and, barring any unexpectedly dumb-ass plot twists, should prove
gripping viewing next week. <o:p></o:p></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-86272031361363826042017-02-28T02:48:00.002-08:002017-02-28T02:48:53.679-08:00Jump Off<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
“You must be
gutted.” Said Davina to Bradley – sorry – SIR Bradley Wiggins as he explained
that a non-weight bearing bone in one of his legs had suffered a minor stable
fracture.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
“Well, it’s only
The Jump.” Said Sir Brad, keeping it very much in mind that he was currently
enjoying the sort of complimentary all-inclusive winter break that most of us
would have to sell a kidney to experience.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Davina’s
earpiece exploded with the sound of voices from the control room shouting
various instructions and directions. This coupled with the oompah band and the
yodelling must have made her feel as if she had just put her head inside a spin
drier full of cutlery and, for a split second, she simply stood with one eye
half closed and looked as if she needed a Nurofen. Consummate professional that
she is, Davina just laughed that Davina laugh, you know, the one that’s too
loud and goes on too long and she puts her face right up against the camera and
looks as if blood’s going to start coming out of her eyes. “Ha-ha-haaaa!
Whaddaya mean, ‘it’s only The Jump’?” Silence fell.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Bradley
clarified, possibly at gunpoint, that whilst he had had the best time of his
life, life, let’s face it, goes on and he would wish the other contenders well
in the rest of the show and he would love the chance to do it again. Someone,
somewhere put the safety catch back on the Walther PPK and the oompah band
started up again. Trouble is, the bloody yodelling recommenced and the cow
bells started ringing and everybody put their false smiles back on and
pretended to be having a right-old apres-skiing good laugh. The only thing that was missing was Stacey Solomon.
Ah, there she is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Honestly, what
is the point of this programme? Unlike the BBC, ITV can cover the cost of
anything by selling advertising during their shows so, largely, they can do
whatever they like and pay whomsoever they wish to go anywhere they fancy. But,
as I tried to explain to my Alsatian the other evening for reasons far too
unpalatable to go into here, just because you CAN do something, it doesn’t mean
you HAVE to. I mean, I’d like to bet that if, for instance, you paid them
enough hard cash, you could get any of the stars of Gogglebox to stand in a
bucket full of scrambled egg while Chris Akabusi sang ‘Wondering Star’ whilst
dressed as Lobster. I could make this happen. And if I couldn’t Richard Osman
probably could and he’d sell it to Endemol Television. But, come on, WHY? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
The Jump is
typical of the sort of show that programme makers THINK we want to see. It’s a
format that, they imagine, simply cannot fail. If it doesn’t remind you of your
recent skiing holiday then it fills you with anticipation about your impending
skiing holiday and if you’re not having a skiing holiday it will comfort you as
you aspire to a skiing holiday and, if you don’t ‘do’ skiing holidays then you
can look at celebrities from Made in Chelsea eating and drinking with Olympians,
and ex rugby internationals throwing snowballs at glamour models, and soap
stars and former footballers having some ‘bantz’, and Davina ‘bantzing’ away
with everyone in earshot, which actually means everyone in the north western
hemisphere, and if this doesn’t appeal there’s always Stacey Sodding Solomon,
what more do you want? Eh?!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
I can’t work out
if The Jump was actually pitched to ITV executives by several graduates as a
new concept in entertainment, in which case they were simply shown the door at
which point one of them blurted out ‘Davina’s agreed to do it’ and contracts
were signed. Or weather Davina’s agent just turned up one day and told the
production company that his client had a 6 week skiing holiday every year and
needed something to do on the Sundays so they’d better adapt some old celebrity
talent show format. Either way it’s clear that the assumption is that, as long
as Ms McCall is involved you can pretty much televise a celebrity knitting
competition and viewers will tune-in in their droves. In fact, give it a fortnight
and there they’ll be; Binky Felsted, Gemma Collins, Alan Shearer and Geoff
Boycott all going clickety-clack with their knitting needles as Stacey Solomon
uncorks vintage Krug and chucks Faberge eggs into the sea. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
It’ll be called
The Jumper. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Probably. <o:p></o:p></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-6027679376936581342017-02-27T04:12:00.003-08:002017-02-27T04:12:26.823-08:00Marigold Gits<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
When the BBC sends out its yearly
e-mail to all households asking ‘What would you prefer to see us blow your
licence fee on this year?’ it’s surprising how many people answer, ‘Put it
toward a free holiday for a minor celebrity.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The BBC, eager to please, say
‘OK’ and immediately book an all expenses trip to India for six has-been celebs
for whom work has all but dried up due to their advancing years. While they’re
at it, they might as well film the whole experience in the hope of recouping
some of the outlay by selling the show to the Indian tourist board as ‘The Real
Marigold Hotel’. The result is a strange voyeuristic experience in which we
find out that getting old is everything we imagined and feared it would be, and
so, to an extent is India. The question is; is the aging process made more bearable
if your surroundings resemble a particularly pleasant summer’s day near the
Norfolk Broads in 1954, with a cost of living to match? The answer, initially
at least, appeared to be ‘yes’ as long as you could put up with 1950’s technology
and the prospect of shitting your entire body weight out of yourself within a
fortnight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The first culture shock the
viewer had to cope with was how old Paul Nicholas had become. It wasn’t until
he flashed his cheeky smile that you realised that this was, in fact, 1970’s Jesus
Christ Superstar who was, somewhat bizarrely, reincarnated as 1980’s Vince from
Just Good Friends. He still had the chirpy cockney-ness of Vince but had lost
some of the superstar-ness of Jesus and, as he shuffled from shop to shop
asking the various vendors if they sold underpants, you couldn’t help but feel
a little sorry for him. Had he soiled himself? Was he being followed around by
that familiar ‘grandad’ smell? None of these in fact, he was simply doing the
thing that all blokes who travel without their wives do, blaming her for ‘not
packing enough underwear’. The text message that followed soon after confirmed
there were some half-dozen pairs in his suitcase but he chose to disregard this
and continue to barter for another 8 pairs of ‘Playboy’ briefs for 8 quid the
lot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Meanwhile, the TV crew were busy trying to
decide which of the OAP’s they were going to make the most annoying. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Sheila Ferguson was prime suspect
as she strode from room to room to see who she would be able to evict in order
to get a veranda. Being American gave her a head start in the viewer irritation
league and, by the time she had found Bill Oddie and convinced him to swap, she
was way ahead in the ‘old woman I’d like to punch’ stakes. Bill himself ambled
about in his sandals, habitually whispering for fear of scaring a nearby mistle
thrush (or whatever) and with his head permanently angled toward the upper
branches of a tree. He didn’t mind giving Sheila his balcony, as long as he
didn’t have to speak to her at any point.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The Indian experience was not
exactly set up in such a way that tested the resolve of the senior celebs. The
series is, ostensibly, to test whether people who lived through 1960’s and 70’s
Britain could feasibly exist in the sub-continent without suddenly going, ‘Eurrrgh’
and running away. Paul Nicholas stopped the taxi and made an heroic excursion
to a public lavatory within minutes of disembarking the flight and emerged
unscathed and mettle fully tested. Other than that, Group Yoga seemed the most
dangerous of pursuits so far as Amada Barrie was overcome with vertigo by the
third day and had to be taken to hospital where a doctor simply put her head
between her knees and told her to swallow. You’d think Miriam Stoppard could
have done this but I suppose she has retired and should no more be expected to
be a doctor than Rusty Lee would be expected to cook dinner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
But, hang on, Rusty Lee then put
an apron on and went into the kitchen to cook dinner. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The actual hotel cook looked a
little non-plussed as he was instructed to chop vegetables for Ms Lee but
dutifully peeled potato’s and sliced ginger. He had held the post of head chef
for the last 40 years and didn’t want to be sacked now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Poor old Lionel Blair was the
least at ease of all as he condemned the place as a shanty town and professed
to be missing his wife before he had even unpacked. He was just acclimatising
to the whole experience when a local football coach and fellow octogenarian,
ambushed by the film crew to provide some comic relief pointed out that Lionel
‘had a fat tummy!’ You know that moment at a dinner party where you say
something disparaging about the McCann’s, only to find out that most of the
rest of the guests have had children abducted by strangers whilst on holiday?
No? Well the 80 year-old Indian football coach does. By the time the evening
meal was being served Lionel was explaining that his stomach is distended
following treatment for prostate cancer, and revealing that it is causing him
much mental and physical distress. “It’s not funny!” he told Dennis Taylor, who
wasn’t laughing, simply trying to change the subject. By the next day, Lionel
had sought the services of a local homeopathic Doctor who assured him that
rubbing Marmite (that’s what it looked like) on his pot belly would lead to a
significant reduction in size over the next few weeks. Lionel exclaimed that
this miracle worker was going to do something that English doctors had said was
impossible – everyone knew that this quack was simply telling him what he
wanted to hear but, that evening, by the time Lionel was performing a tap
routine for the neighbours, you were sort of praying that the marmite was doing
its job. <o:p></o:p></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-61858417853392858572017-02-20T06:06:00.003-08:002017-02-20T08:00:31.638-08:00The Man from UNCLE<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Cult TV is a loaded term that is
often used to excuse sub-standard entertainment or programmes that have limited
appeal. Since it moved to an on-line only channel, BBC3 has pretty much
specialised in cult TV programmes. However, most of its product is watchable,
innovative and intelligent with a few of the programmes crossing over into the
mainstream terrestrial channels provided by the BBC.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
One such programme is ‘Uncle’
which began its life as a BBC 3 series some 3 years ago when its star, Nick
Helm, was just emerging as a major comedy performer. It followed a dysfunctional family’s
brother and sister as they tried to pick their way through the various rubble
left by failed relationships and the sort of questionable lifestyle choices
that we all make when we reach our 30’s and realise that we are simultaneously,
a) free to do whatever we want to and, b) expected to behave as a conventional
role model for our juniors. Andy and Sam, played by Helm and Daisy Haggard,
bounce perfectly off each other by combining that perfect combination of love
and irritation that most siblings have for each other. It was Eric Sykes who
spotted in his 60’s & 70’s sitcom with Hattie Jaques that the chemistry
underlying a brother and sister relationship was a far richer one than that of
a husband and wife. The writers, Oliver Refson and Lilah Vandenburgh, then
added a child, the precocious Errol, to act as Andy’s conscience. Errol, Jiminy
Crickets through Andy’s life providing, often untimely, reminders that, whilst
Andy has no personal responsibilities such as children, a home or a job, he has
a duty to himself to follow his instincts as a musician, but not over the edge
of every cliff.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Early episodes focussed on Andy’s
quest for love and saw him destined to always end up as the central figure in
another tragic love song, but this final series has been more of an examination
of his relationship with his family, featuring his Mum and Dad, his ex and
future brother-in-law and, of course, his now adolescent nephew Errol. This shift of emphasis worked perfectly
because we sort of always knew that Andy would get his fair share of women,
younger, older, crazy, neurotic and erotic, they have all featured somewhere
along the line. His character, perfectly in tune with Helm’s alter ego seen in
many guises on stage and screen over the years, is extreme in the extreme. If we
recognise the expression ‘a butterfly mind’, Helm’s mind is more of a beehive, with
a million individual moving parts that work together to produce a personality
that can exude musical honey or attack with deadly force. He is an enigma, not
so much a split personality as a fragmented one with each piece capable of
utter genius or outstanding stupidity. Women will come and go and sexual relationships
will succeed and fail but it is the relationships that he is stuck with that
are the most fascinating.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The last episode saw Andy finally
successful to a degree as a musician and as a rounded individual. Able to buy a
car and a flat and feeling valued as a brother and an uncle we felt glad that
his life seemed to have taken a more satisfying turn without necessarily seeing
him sailing into the sunset on a luxury yacht. It was a sweet ending rather
than a happy ending and left us feeling uplifted and a little teary. Hopefully,
this really is to be the last we see of Uncle Andy and Errol because, though it
is a sad day for TV comedy, it will release the writers to create something
even more wonderful for the cast they have assembled. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Elliot Speller-Gillott, as Errol,
will feature in our lives for many years to come, he is a talent worthy of
respect, turning his nerdy and somewhat tortured character into one of the
coolest teenage creations since Marty McFly. His well-written lines were
delivered with an effortless assurance and proved that the secret of making a
character believable is to appear to be listening and reacting to other people,
rather than just standing waiting to speak.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Nick Helm is a class act and a
very classy actor. The dialogue in “Uncle” was often a little ‘wordy’ and some
of the characters struggled with this. Helm always maintained the demeanour of
someone diffusing a bomb for the first time, never knowing if this was the sentence
that was going to blow him to kingdom-come. The songs from the series which, I assume,
were self-penned were mini masterpieces in themselves, rich in parody, both lyrically
and musically, and perfectly in context. The remarkable thing about his songs
is that, although Helm’s voice sounds like someone dragging a rusty lawnmower
up a gravel drive, they can at once make you laugh, weep and wonder why you
didn’t write them some years ago when you felt exactly the same about life. <o:p></o:p></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-12837743411768411002017-02-08T06:25:00.002-08:002017-02-27T02:50:04.293-08:00Rotten Apple Tree<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Apple Tree Yard came to a
conclusion on Monday 7<sup>th</sup> Feb with the obligatory climactic court
room scene. Dr. Carmichael sat just a few yards from her co-accused who stared into his lap as details of the murder were described to the court.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
There are several rules in Court
room drama. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Rule one; The jury shall comprise
of a dozen jobbing extras who are reasonably adept at showing emotion without
actually speaking. This is a talent that is scouted for by casting directors by
sitting you down and asking you to convey ‘sorrow’ or ‘relief’ or ‘like you
have just opened a birthday present but found it contained some dogshit’. If
you pass this you are told to sit facing the director who will hold up a series
of idiot boards for you to all react appropriately at the same time. After a
morning of doing this you are given your 20 quid and told to sod off. The only
sound that you are allowed to utter is an audible sharp intake of breath when
the ‘revelation’ occurs. If you don’t know how to do this, simply stand on an
upturned plug in the middle of the night when you have a particularly
light-sleeping baby in the room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Rule two: The barrister that has
been given the role as ‘baddie’ shall be a particularly spiky individual that
no-one particularly likes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Rule Three: The hero’s barrister
shall be a sympathetic character who refuses to become agitated, even when
things are going against them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Either of these characters can be
prosecution or defence. When the baddie is prosecuting, the hero is innocent,
when defending, the hero is the victim.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Rule four: The ‘baddie’ shall win but it will be a hollow
victory.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I was hoping that the concluding
episode would provide answers to the many questions that Apple Tree Yard threw
up, and was also hoping that this would make it one of the best dramas ever
screened on British Television because the answers would have had to be sooo
good. That this classy, well-adjusted and attractive authority on the Human
Genome would simply fuck a complete stranger in a cupboard because she found
him exciting pushed plausibility to the very limits. As no other explanation
was ever offered, we had to accept, not only this, but that also, the same
woman would submit to an horrific rape ordeal and refuse to report it because
of the spectre of this sordid affair. The whole thing may have more believable
if the rape had been more of a ‘date rape’ scenario. She may have felt more
responsible for the unsolicited advances and eventual assault by her colleague,
George, if it had been in a ‘shoulder-to-cry-on’ encounter. One look at the
bruises that followed the attack would have swayed the most dubious of
investigators and led to a swift prosecution without any of the sordid
revelations that followed the vengeful murder some months later.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
In the event, the details Yvonne
and Mark’s affair came out anyway, followed by the upturned plug gasp of the
jobbing extras. Now, I have never been accused of murder, nor ever stood trial
for anything, nor had to enlist the assistance of barristers to represent me,
but…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Surely, when the prosecution is
given some undeniable piece of evidence that is quite obviously a fact that is
going to be new to their opposite number on the bench, the two barristers meet
up in some over-priced restaurant in the Temple and have a little chat. The new
evidence is laid before the adversary, who has to suck it up and pay for the
meal before he goes back and tells his client what a mess of things she has
made. I mean, that’s how it should work. Instead of this gentlemanly outcome,
Mrs Baddie the prosecution barrister contrived to guide the witness, our good
Doctor, up a pathway that eventually led to Apple Tree Yard. Yes, Mark had done
the dirty on her and their story fell like a game of Garden Jenga on a
particularly gusty heath. Gasps were heard from everyone in court and the
usually unruffled defending barrister virtually banged his bewigged head on the
desk in front of him. You could almost hear him let out a pained cry and screw
up his 1500 page summing up as Yvonne stood with tears in her eyes admitting
she had made a cock-up by not mentioning the cock up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
You may want to watch Apple tree
Yard. I won’t give away the ending. I can’t really be bothered to go over the
whole banality of it all. See rule four, that should help.<o:p></o:p></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-20992482976712205532017-02-02T03:51:00.002-08:002017-02-02T03:51:24.689-08:00Last of the Fat Cows<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Sugar Free Farm
finished it’s run with the minor celebrities returning to the ‘real’ world of
temptation and free booze and leaving behind the cossetted existence of getting
up at 6 am to either clean pig sty’s or prepare beans on toast from raw natural
ingredients. It’s a close call as to which of these tasks is the easiest or
least preferable. Sugar-free and natural baked beans takes about three-and-a-half
hours and involves the about 700 different ingredients meticulously combined
together to taste nothing like the Heinz variety. Cleaning the pig-pen takes
Stavros and Stavros Jnr about half an hour with a pressure washer. Anne, the
lovely Anne, cut through the sycophantic drooling over the baked beans and
simply declared that she found the ’57 variety’ much nicer. This after big Stav
had just informed us that there are about 5 teaspoons of sugar in every can.
Like the rest of us, Ms Widdecombe fails to see the downside of this statistic.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Anne is the real
reason to watch this nonsense. She stands, with her posture like a dead tree,
squinting into the sunshine and declares most of the helpful advice ‘mumbo-jumbo’
whilst pledging to get straight back on to the chocolate biscuits and refined
sugar the moment she leaves the farm. I’m surprised the producers don’t ask her
to return her fee, which was, I suspect, not inconsiderable but, actually,
without her, the program would have been extremely dull. She sat giggling and
steadfastly refused to participate as an ‘awareness expert’ (how do these
people exist?) sat cross-legged and instructed
the group on how to appreciate a tomato before eating it. Whilst Alison and
Gemma stood before a combined 2-and-a-bit stones of lard, representing their
weight loss over the past fortnight, Anne appeared proudly before a plinth
displaying exactly zero fat. She had neither lost nor gained, she felt neither
better nor worse, she is coming up to 70 years old and doesn’t feel the need to
prolong her life any further than it is likely to run. My guess is that this
will be quite long enough, thank you, when the great redeemer calls her and she
will go on to where ever we go with exactly the same uncompromising attitude
that has carried her through this place and, presumably, there will be sugar
for all of us. In a catch-up style epilogue to the program she revealed that
her first act was to go on a cruise and smacked her jowly lips to indicate that
sugar free was the last thing she had been.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The rest of the
guys, however, had taken a modicum of wisdom from their journey. Yes, it has to
be called a journey otherwise there is no program. You could truly believe that
Alison had found a new way of life as she declared herself as sugar-free as it
is possible to become in our culture. She seemed to be the only one who had the
time to boil her beans for a day and a half or spend forever preparing a healthy
substitute for KFC. The real achievement, for me, was to have lost a stone in
weight in two weeks, profess to have continued the regime three months later
and still appear to cast a shadow over the sun by simply getting out of bed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Stavros snr, had
been given the life-changing news that the size of his trade mark belly was
caused, not by a sort of harmless internal bubble-wrap but by real, human fat
caused by eating too much crap. ‘Don’t tell me that.’ he gasped, tearfully
staring at the MRI scan he had just been gifted by the FFF team, hoping somehow
that the Doctor may have revealed that 3 stone of clogging lard around your
vital organs was exactly the sort of thing you needed to protect your delicate
heart and lungs from disease. Big Stav had gone through his epiphany and was,
also, a changed man. He was seen preparing some healthy snacks for a long car
journey with his co-star son which would, hopefully, keep them out of The
Little Chef for a few miles. It’s a shame that he bases his act on being
overweight, the sight of a reasonably trim-looking 50 year-old doing strange
dance steps is not really worth paying money for when you can simply attend a
couple of wedding a year and stand by the dance floor just before last orders.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Someone else who
makes a living from being obese is Gemma Collins. She would never admit this,
of course, as she is under the impression that her role in whatever reality
show she is appearing on is the one of ‘Young beauty who is having some diet
issues’. No it’s not, Gemma, it’s ‘Weak willed twentysomething, with too much
time and money on her hands’, and she plays it well. The noticeable thing about
the program was its reluctance to reveal exactly how much alcohol was being
consumed by the celebs. Gemma looked suspiciously chubby in the catch-up, yet
she sat dutifully grilling herself a salmon and broccoli dinner whilst
extolling the virtues of a healthy breakfast and plenny of froot. A glance at
her ‘empties’ may have told us more but we were left to believe that the girl
who had revealed to us last week that she would now embrace veganism as a way of
life, but who this week devoured rabbit stew, had changed her eating, and
drinking, habits forever. Only Peter, who stood self-consciously in front of
his fridge, dared hint that sugar-free was a little more difficult than simply
eating plenty of salted porridge. And over there is…mainly water *slams door
shut*<o:p></o:p></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8854357670881779746.post-6766155075523838502017-01-23T05:26:00.002-08:002017-01-23T05:26:23.273-08:00Up the Apple Tree<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Sunday night is
generally ‘Period Drama’ night in my house. It’s the night when I settle down
with a glass of something cold and winey, sit back and enjoy a crossword puzzlel
whilst my wife watches a period drama in the other room. Occasionally, I catch
a glimpse of women in those huge skirts that look like toilet roll covers,
blushing under their bonnets as some chap in tight trousers smiles at them
suggestively and says something like,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
‘Why, Miss
Piddlesham, you have exquisite eyes.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
‘Really, Lord
Barfhampton, whatever makes you say such things?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
And on it goes
until his Lordship deflowers the young wench in a barn and then gets shot in a
duel by Ned the farmhand who goes on to inherit half of Lincolnshire from his
Aunt Nancy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
That was the
usual Sunday night offerings, with which I was quite content as these crosswords
don’t complete themselves you know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
Until Sunday the
22<sup>nd</sup> Jan 2017, that is, when Apple Tree Yard was unleashed upon the
watching millions who had just finished Call the Midwife and was preparing for
an hour of big skirts and bonnets, set in a yard, in which there was a tree,
presumably of the Apple variety. I glanced up from 1 across – Person who digs a
gambling game – and lowered my reading glasses. Emily Watson was purring away
like a luxury car whilst being cross examined at a government select committee.
A genetic scientist of some repute, Yvonne Carmichael was mansplaining to
several old buffers exactly what a genome was and playing the whole thing for
laffs. She swatted the final question like a particularly lazy fly and moved
smoothly out of the committee room into the great hall of parliament where she
checked her e-mails. She was immediately engaged in conversation by Ben
Chaplin, last seen by me in Game On some years ago but subsequently conquering
stage and screen on both sides of the Atlantic. Mark Costley was a confident
and handsome man in his mid 40’s who spoke easily to Ms Carmichael about
Genomes and the history of the houses of parliament. He had access to a
cupboard in which once hid a former suffragette who was trying to beat the
system from within and, after giving Yvonne a brief history lesson, he proceeded
to give her a quick knee-trembler up against the wall. No small talk, no
tipping of his top-hat and not so much as ‘mind if I do?’, just straight up the
skirt and down with the trousers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The real problem
with scenes such as these, and I speak with the aid of imagination only, is
that it’s all too slick. Ms Carmichael was transported on a wave of lust into a
suitably receptive position which, though vertical, enabled Costley to enter
her smoothly with his trousers merely unzipped rather than falling awkwardly
about his ankles thus restricting any movement of his legs. Even those of us
who have not even contemplated copulation, fully clothed in a cupboard, know
for sure that the only outcome is a sudden and undignified crashing through the
door as both parties try to dislocate themselves from the underwear that has
become entangled around their ankles. However, Yvonne and Mark did the deed
expertly and with the minimum of comedy moments, I half expected to see them
lying together in a filing cabinet drawer having a post-coital cigarette or swinging
lazily and contentedly from the light fitting like a couple of safari park
chimps, instead they both sat in the coffee shop, Yvonne assuring him or
herself that she had never done anything like it before and Mark casually
offering her another go on the rollercoaster whenever she wanted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
The story
progressed to show Yvonne’s home life being comfortable yet routine with husband
Gary, played by Mark Bonnar who seems to have the market for long suffering,
middle aged, partners sewn up, portraying a loyal, yet unremarkable, lover as
he snored gently next to his wife while she contemplated whether or not to go
to an STD clinic. Mark’s magnetism was far too much for Yvonne who began to
feel valued as a woman again. Although quite how much value one attaches to a
woman who can be regularly banged against a variety of brick walls I am unsure.
Loads, probably, Mark would say, but then that’s his party piece whereas some
of us have got bad backs. Despite her contention that she resembles a Jelly
baby, Yvonne is finally convinced that Mark fancies the pants off her for
reasons other than she can, apparently, hover vertically in mid-air while he
treats her like a sort of reverse cash-point. Thrilled at his status and his
sense of adventure she slips into an affair that will, no doubt, start a chain
of events over the next three Sundays that will see further incomplete
crossword puzzles. The opening scene showed us Yvonne’s life had led to being
transported, in handcuffs, to a courtroom. The final scene featured Yvonne
being attacked by a drunken male colleague who seemed to know that she had a
taste for the rough stuff – unexpected and intriguing, please don’t let us down
on this, writers. <o:p></o:p></div>
Tellys Gone Wronghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10498437946341709274noreply@blogger.com0