The Devil's Lantern

Ignorance Is Bliss

2006-10-18T12:25:00.000Z

Anyway – a question I kept getting asked, by twats, was ‘Have you seen ‘Love Island’(ITV)? I can honestly say no. Out of principle, I managed to avoid watching it because I find it so offensive. My marker for just how cow-shit-thick this programme is, is when a friend of mine, whose favourite films are, I kid you not , ‘Top Gun, ‘Cocktail’ and ‘Roadhouse’, claimed that the programme was ‘shit’. Now, as I haven’t watched, feel free to jump in at any point, but I am certain that I know what happened. Ready? OK. A group of ‘celebs’ who are generally hated because of the unjust luxury that they live in and the obscene amounts of money available to them, are paid obscene amounts of money, by a TV company to spend time on a luxurious holiday resort, where all they have to get off with each other. Not bad, eh?

Whenever I read about the love expoits of Calum Best, Fran Cosgrave etc, my arse sucks up part of my trousers with rage and, in all honesty, jealousy. Usually, a ripping sound can be heard as I get up from the chair, as my sphincter clamps on cloth at the sheer banality of it all – like it’s looking for something solid to hold onto, to confirm that such a pigshit ignorant world exists. It does – and we’re living in it. But we’re at the crappy end, barely surviving whilst Paul Nadan gets another £100,000 magazine deal – enabling him to cash in on his ‘Loveable Rapist’ schtick.

Attention all ITV producers - Would you like to know how to make a successful Reality TV programme? I know ‘Love Island’ producers would. Here is a fact that might make any would be tripe-touters very rich. We want to see celebrities ruined, not celebrated. Love Island just made us hate all that appear on it. It’s like watching a very exclusive lifestyle that you will never, ever have. You get the distinct aroma that everyone on that programme thought that the real idiots were those who were watching them. Watching them being bathed in some R&B soaked holiday fantasy. And anyone who says ‘I wouldn’t want to be like that’ is lying. Caribbean holiday? No cost to you? Unlimited drinks? Attractive singletons all around you? Big pay cheque on your doorstep when you get home? You don’t want that? Really? Why? What else have you got on? Crying? Awkwardly trying to flirt via email with some dreadful co-worker whilst gradually saving for a week in Magaluf? Idiot. We would all like to experience such trappings, but we feel that those who do on Love Island deserve it as much as Jonathan King does.

‘I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here’ works, because the celebrities suffer. And that’s all we want. We want confirmation that celebrities are normal people, really, but we also squeal with glee when their sheer desperation for ‘credibility’ will ensure that they will eat live insects. However, a surefire way to get 100% rating success? Have them eat each other – not sexually – although I’d pay to see Ant & Dec do that - but as a means to nourish and keep costs down. “No air fare for Lionel Blair, but Katherine Tate is putting on weight!” Ant & Dec could chortle from their Autocue. Just before I switch off. Or rather, watch in it’s entirety. My mate likes it. And at least I’m watching this one.

Radiophone

2006-10-18T11:24:00.000Z

Hello there. Sorry I haven’t written for a while. Actually, what am I doing apologising? You’re not paying me for this are you? No. Then do one.

There was a period not so long ago when middle-aged ‘jokers’, usually mums, would repeat some Radio 2-esque social commentary that went along the lines of this – Blimey! The adverts on television are better than the programmes at the moment! This was usually followed by a sex dollesque wide eyed, open mouthed scan of the room to see if anyone noticed just how hilarious they were being. Incidentally, have you listened to Radio 2 recently? If you are in your late 20s to 30s, it all sounds like Radio 1 did 10 years ago. But most depressing are the callers. They just sound like people who are waiting for some big dustpan and brush to come from the sky and sweep them up.

DJ Mark Radcliffe – On the line now is Susan from Cambridge

Susan – (heavy sigh) Hi Mark…

DJ Mark Radcliffe – Hi Susan. What are you up to today?

Susan – (almost in tears) Nothing.

DJ Mark Radcliffe - D'you like Robbie Williams?

Susan - (sobbing) God, yes...

A baby starts crying.

DJ Mark Radcliffe – Who’s that in the background?

Susan – (screaming) Please be quiet, Nathan!

DJ Mark Radcliffe – Is there a request you want to make?

Susan – The last 10 years of my life back, please.

Sting – Beeee Beeeee Seeeeee……Radio Twoooooooooooooooooooo!

Anyway – back to the adverts. If you hate, or are indeed avoiding paying your licence fee, then you officially can’t hate adverts. Because they are paying the licence fee for you. Except on the BBC, anyway. So buy something, for god’s sake!

Research has shown that it is less than 5% effective in terms of people who see the adverts actually going out and buying something they weren’t going to anyway. So if adverts leave a nasty taste in your mouth, console yourself that some marketing director somewhere is going to pay for your indifference with their job. They’re picking up the cost in stress and bitterness as they spoon out their souls for cash. But, looking on the bright side, they’re paying for you to watch the telly for free. The reverberating marketing belch that is X Factor seems almost bearable now, doesn’t it?

However, one advert that I think has been backfiring recently has been the recent BT ads, where Kris Marshall from My Family (BBC), mopes around wishing he didn’t have a family. One advert even has him aimlessly wandering the streets of Dumpstead, hands in pockets, visibly wishing he hadn’t flushed his bachelorhood down the toilet. It seems his rather older girlfriend and her two kids have taken over his ‘pad’ and he’s had to change his ways. Bummer! If you look at him, he already looks 10 years older and speaks like he was around in the 60s. The whole relationship has the bitter taste of divorce, heartache and the Child Support Agency running right through it. He has the look of a man who has been bullied into relationship with this woman. Where’s our bloody refuge and helpline, eh guys? Guys?! Oh….

Exactly what this has to do with BT, I don’t know. Because if he’s planning on letting his ‘chick’ walk all over him, he may as well hurl the phone into a big bloody bonfire, because his social life is ‘over’. The next ad might feature him calling the speaking clock in the middle of the night just to kill time. Oh – the irony! The marketing execs will be ready to snort cocaine like mad horses and receive their bonuses with the subservience of Gollum from Lord Of The Rings. God, isn’t it depressing? Anyway, what’s on Radio 2..?

The Mandatory Big Brother Comment

2006-07-09T16:53:00.000Z

When George Orwell wrote 1984, he gave us a terrifying glimpse of the future with people under the watch of Big Brother. Now, in 2006, Channel 4 gives us a pig shit horrifying glimpse of people today who watch Big Brother. Read that back and you might just get a sense of my own self satisfaction as I wrote that. A sense that echoes down the emptiness that is the internet as no-one reads it. Or cares.

Anyway, before I go (and on I will go) the real problem I have with Big Brother (Channel 4) is not the show itself. I think the format is a great one. Yes, it’s an insight into the behavioural patterns of people in alien environments, but, let’s face it, it’s also hilarious to see emotionally spastic people go to pieces because they can’t complete what are, essentially, children’s party games. Or their hungry. Or scared. If Channel 4 want to make more money, why not add poking with giant knitting needles at 50pence a text? Anytime, night or day. Or, why not stop food altogether and put in a sexy new housemate, covered in barbecue sauce? Someone will either get horny, or get eaten. You decide.

I don’t even mind Davina McCall. Honestly. I remember watching her years ago on MTV and thinking she was great. Funny, sexy and ‘down’. (As opposed to ‘Funny, Sexy and Downs’ – a Channel 5 documentary following Downs Syndrome sufferers as they try to carve a career in stand up comedy –more on that never, as I just made it up.)

Davina is very pretty, with a brilliant smile that could stop the night. But why doesn’t go the whole hog and have a horse collar around her neck when she presenting? The lost art of gurning is alive and well every Friday night this summer on Channel 4. Imagine a pregnant mime artist trying to portray ‘Oooh I’m in so much trouble!’ whilst trying to keep her balance on top of a space hopper? That’s Davina’s presenting ‘style’. She’s become a puppet of herself. A ‘wackiness’ enforcer. An embarrassing, maybe drunken aunt who can ‘keep up with the youngsters.

Anyway, my wife and I think she secretly hates the show now.I pray for the day that she says this live on air, preferably drunk before telling a housemate to ‘fucking grow up’. To top it off, how about crawling about on all fours on the entrance podium whilst throwing her guts up, crying and apologising all the time whilst the end credits roll?. She’d go right up in my estimation. However, it’s likely she’ll present the show from beyond the grave and without once being sick, drunk or apologising. And why should she? It’s a huge rating winner, unlike her ill-fated chat show, which showed that when not dealing with some oxygen thief housemate in a time span of 2 minutes, her interviewing skills are limited. I honestly thought that she was going to ask people what their favourite colour was at times. The lesson learnt – Big Brother is popular despite Davina, rather than because. So, in the future, why not replace her with something else? Like a wooden spoon, with a drawn on smiley face with black wool for hair and a stupid voice. Russell Brand will do.

Anyway, whoever presents it, an army of people who look like they shop exclusively at Iceland, will be packed in metal pens to moo, bellow and laugh in the wrong places behind her, whilst up holding up placards of meaningless brain dump, ‘Yo! - I’m from Dunstable’, ‘Devina is Devine, Yeah?’ Or 'Kerry and Sadie In the House! (surely they’re outside it?).

So this is real problem I have with Big Brother – not the people on it – they just want to be famous , or the presenters – the show is why they’re famous - or even the people who voted (I voted once. For Eugene. Remember him? No? 60 pence that cost.)

The problem I have with Big Brother is those people who turn up for evictions, to mew and wail their ill-deduced opinions at whoever has just been ‘voted off’. There’s something decidedly hate-mob about them. These are the same people who form lynch mobs because old Bert who lives next to school has never been married. Between Big Brother and the News Of The World’s printing of paedophilic activity, the arts and craft world must be booming. Cardboard, glitter and glue sales must have tripled. Here’s a tip – use a Velcro placard, and buy enough letters to make up the words ‘scum’ ‘love’ ‘hate’ ‘leave’ ‘I’ ,‘you’, ‘out’ and ‘purvurt’ and you could save yourself a fortune flitting between the Big Brother house and the house of that ‘bachelor with the bag of sweets’ who lives in your street. Don’t forget to take the kids as well. It’s a day out, isn’t it?

Alternatively, stay at home and read a book. How about '1984' by George Orwell. It’s slightly less frightening.

Impersonation Is A Crime

2006-07-09T16:52:00.000Z

Hello there! Don’t answer back. This is a written document. It posesses no lips.

Have you wondered why you are here? Not in a philosophical sense, but in a real sense. Why are you on this website? Why are you reading this blog? Hmm? Shall I save you some brain juice? It probably boils down to the fact that it makes you happy. Which is a good thing. If you’re happy, and you know it, clap your hands. Unless you’re in the middle of some needlework. Put the needle down first.

Now, should you ever get depressed or sad, remember to do something that makes you happy. But if that isn’t enough, and you’re in such a state that you’re thinking of pissing your lifeblood all over the walls because your life is just so shit, take a look at The Jeremy Kyle Show (ITV) any weekday morning. Why? Because no matter how bad it gets, at least your not looking to him for advice.

I saw an episode the other day where a mother (Rick Parfitt from Status Quo) was frightened of her unruly 16 year old daughter (A shrieking Bernard Matthews Turkey Breast in a tracksuit). However, the person I felt sorry for was the dad, a bloke who looked like he lived in a betting shop and might of won a Snooker World Championship in 1984, who had to admit that his wife (remember - Rick Parfitt) had had two affairs and he was standing by her. Why he didn’t go the whole hog and dance for coins being thrown, hard, by a laughing Jeremy Kyle, I don’t know. That bloke who got done touching up dolphins has got more dignity intact.

What was obvious about this particular problem family is that it would take at least 5 years for the problems on show to be addressed. But its OK. Because Jeremy is there to demand, accuse and scrutinise. And after 20 minutes, it all ends in a hug and tears. Ahhh. And it all happens without anyone, at any point saying, “Er…actually I think this family needs professional help’.

Television has moved on from entertainer and informer to curer of all ills. What’s next? Is Jeremy going to move onto heart transplants? Cut, ship and zip in an hour? “Come on Mrs Davies, internal bleeding isn’t helping anyone!” “Rejecting the heart, Mr Smith? Like you rejected your responsibility to your son, Ian?”.

It’s a criminal offence to impersonate a police officer. But you can still make a citizen’s arrest. I imagine it’s the same for psychiatrists, doctors and councellors. You can’t put on a white coat, but you can tell people that they are emotionally retarded. I do it all the time. As with all these kind of programmes, the people who appear on it are there to make you feel better about yourself. If you find yourself looking to them as role models then you’re screwed. Seriously. Get back in the bathroom and start hacking. As for Jeremy Kyle, Trisha and the rest,its all just words. Mind you, so is this. Words and love, mind. Now, hug me and cry. Its good for the ratings.

Moths To A Flame - Introduction

2006-07-09T16:51:00.000Z

Hello,

Thanks for reading this blog. There are loads out there, but the majority are shit, aren’t they? No, really shit. Years of television has told me that diaries are usually full of sexy secrets and laughable poetry. How I wish that was the case. Most diaries that appear here are so tooth-achingly dull that I often find my self wishing the author to a) Lie b) be on the receiving end of a bull goring just so that something interesting would happen rather than endless pages about what could happen. Arseholes.

Speaking of television, that’s what I am going to write about. UK television, that is. Because that’s where I live. If you are searching for something a bit more personal, hopefully that will come out in the writing, because I love television. Seriously. It’s always there, when I’m feeling low, or clicking my heels with joy.Yes, it lets me down more often than not, and sure, when I’ve come back early some nights, I’ve seen it in the clutches of some cheap thrill. But I love it. And that’s what happens when you love something. You always come back for more. Ask any battered wife. After driving her to the nearest police station of course.

Before I go any further, those of who are familiar with the work of Charlie Brooker might notice some influence. I make no bones about it. The guy is a genius and I want to be like him. Who do you want to be like, eh? Steven Seagal? Gay.

You might also have guessed that this isn’t going to be terribly politically correct blog. Again, I make no bones about it. Cry me a river to Islington, nanny-boy.

Comments are gratefully received. Good ones shall be framed and shown to my wife, bad ones shall have all kinds of things sent to their computer. Seriously. Gary Glitter once said I couldn’t sing. Enough said.

Enjoy!

Gordy