Charlie Brooker's Screen Burn

by Charlie Brooker

  In case you don’t know, ‘bukkake’ is … um … well … it’s a term of Japanese origin that refers to the mass deposit of male reproductive fluids into and onto a solitary female recipient courtesy of a mammoth assembly of solemn-looking gentlemen. It’s the sort of thing that’s rarely discussed in Razzle, let alone the Guardian, so it’s fair to say that by setting it to music and then televising it, C4 have a notable first. You might call it a ‘Singing in the Rain’ for the twenty-first century. If you’re a prick.

  Ultimately, Pornography: The Musical’s main flaw lies in its own novelty value. The songs aren’t as interesting as the straight interview segments they’re intended to embellish.

  One talking-head sequence in particular, in which a male porn artiste gleefully recounts a cautionary tale about the perils of overzealous rectal douching prior to intercourse, is worth the price of admission alone – even though a) C4 don’t charge an admission fee and b) there’s a very real chance it’ll make you vomit.

  Ready, Steady … Boo! [25 October]

  Be afraid. Be very afraid. Tonight Channel 4 showcases the 100 Greatest Scary Moments, which promises to be a decent evening’s entertainment provided Paul Ross doesn’t turn up and spoil it all with his big booming gob.

  No word yet on which particular example of blood-curdling Channel 4 viewers have crowned the King of Brown Trousers but for a bit of fun, and because I’m an egomaniac with his own bloody column, I’ve decided to compile my own list of spooky moments, which favours TV instead of movies, and has the added advantage of being 14.26 times shorter than its Channel 4 equivalent.

  Ready, steady … boo!

  7 Diana eats a guinea pig (V, 1983)

  Not the late Princess of Hearts – although that would be scary. I’m

  talking about Diana the alien dominatrix from the mini-series V,

  whose subhuman nature is first disclosed when Marc Singer hides

  in an air vent and spots her swallowing a giant rodent in true reptile fashion (i.e. by dislocating her lower jaw to fit it all in). I saw

  this scene again recently, and like most on this list, it now looks

  downright ridiculous, but at the time I was so scared I practically

  pooed a new substance consisting of raw, solid fear.

  6 James Harries on Wogan (1988)

  You know: the eerie antiques-expert kid who looked like a cross

  between Christopher Atkins from The Blue Lagoon and a squinting

  rat foetus. The creepiest boy since Damien from The Omen, with

  the added spook-value of being entirely non-fictional.

  5 Doctor Who is virtually dismembered (1980)

  Everyone has a favourite Who freak-out moment: mine came at the

  end of episode one of ‘The Leisure Hive’, when Tom Baker appears

  in some kind of primitive VR machine, gets his arms and legs torn

  off, and screams – the camera zoomed in on his bellowing mouth,

  the scream blended with the already-terrifying closing title music,

  and my spine scuttled out my backside and ran for the nearest exit.

  Couldn’t walk for six months. Cheers, Doctor.

  4 Charley the cat almost drowns (1970s–1980s)

  Yes, Charley the cat from the Public Information films (as sampled

  by the Prodigy in the days when they made harmless rave tunes

  instead of violent commercials for spousal abuse and Rohypnol).

  In a short cartoon intended to alert kids to the dangers of playing

  near canals, he plunges beneath the waves to flail about in a terrifying

  subterranean hell, mewling bubbles as he does so. Result: I

  spend the rest of my childhood convinced that canals are portals to

  hell. Cheers, Charley.

  3 Anything with a mushroom cloud in it (1980s)

  That covers Threads, The Day After, When the Wind Blows and in

  particular A Guide to Armageddon, a 1982 episode of pop-science

  show QED which soberly explained the effects of a single nuclear

  bomb blast by intercutting close-ups of burning pork with pictures

  of human faces. Child psychiatrists experienced a five-year boom

  immediately afterwards. Cheers, BBC.

  2 Crimewatch UK (any year)

  What’s so scary about that, you ask? Well, I reply, have you ever

  watched Crimewatch UK while spending an evening alone, in an

  isolated cottage, in the middle of winter, surrounded by dark skies,

  silence and the occasional ambiguous shadow on the horizon? No?

  Then shut up. Trust me, by the time the end credits roll, you are

  Tony Martin.

  1 Any newsflash since 11 September

  Newsflashes always used to put the wind up me – I assumed they

  heralded imminent nuclear apocalypse – but since 9/11 they’ve

  taken on an even more nerve-jangling significance. At least you

  knew where you were with nukes – flash, bang, frazzle and it’s

  over.

  These days, you see a newsflash and your mind starts racing – what’ll it be? Dirty bomb? Smallpox? Plague of locusts? Al-Qaeda death-ray? Don’t know about you, but when the Queen Mum died I breathed such a huge sigh of relief I knocked out the back wall of my living room.

  I Don’t Even Know What Rice Is [1 November]

  Take a good look around and ask yourself how much of the world you truly comprehend – and I’m talking about a true scientific understanding here. At a rough guess, I’d say you probably understand about 0.0002 per cent of everything. Thicko.

  Even so, you’re twice as clever as me. Earlier today I used a microwave oven to heat a saddo’s instant meal-for-one, and shortly afterwards, as I spooned said molten slop into my downturned mouth betwixt guttural sobs of despair, it occurred to me that I have no idea how a microwave oven works. As far as I know, it warms the food by beaming it to Jupiter, where a herd of magic space goats breathes fire into the molecules, before knocking them back to Earth with a quantum tennis racquet.

  Then I looked down at my plate and noticed the meal contained rice. And I realised I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT RICE IS. Not precisely. What is it? A type of vegetable? A tiny egg? What?

  Well, I looked it up, and guess what? Technically, rice is a bloody fruit. Well, sort of. Apparently all grains are. So it says here. Look, I’m no expert. Besides, that’s not important right now. The point is that to a bumwit like me, life is one big mystery, which is why The Theory of Everything (C4) has a seductive ring to it.

  It’s a pop-science series tracking the quest to arrive at a ‘grand unification theory’ – a hypothesis governing absolutely everything in the universe. Such a theory wouldn’t just explain how microwaves work and what rice is, but also why they came to exist in the first place. It could explain the relationship between gravity and time and quantum physics and you and me and the bloke next door with the wonky eye. It could explain what would happen if you switched a time machine on at the precise moment British Summer Time ends and the clocks go back. It could explain the plot of Mulholland Drive, even if it had nipped out for a wee during the ‘Club Silencio’ scene. It could do anything.

  Trouble is, you could go nuts trying to grasp the basics, which thus far run roughly as follows: everything in existence, including the space-time fabric itself, is assembled from an infinite number of minuscule, oscillating ‘strings’ which swirl around in ten dimensions. Yep, ten dimensions, six of which are apparently themselves curled into loops. Suddenly my ‘space goats on Jupiter’ theory of microwaved food doesn’t sound quite so stupid.

  Anyway, until string theory arrives in earnest, we’ll have to rely on documentaries like this to explain things to us. Fortunately, despite a few mildly irritating ‘zany’ graphical touches, it manages to entertain as it does so, feeling for the most part like a cross between the animated sections of Hitchhiker’s Guide and a
n old James Burke think-u-mentary.

  Of course, if a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, it stands to reason that a grand unification theory could destroy us all. Ten minutes after its discovery, you can bet your sweet bippy the US military will write it down, glue it to the front of a missile, test-fire it in the desert and inadvertently turn the whole world into a massive tangerine or something.

  Blame Einstein. He thought of it first. In his latter years, while the rest of the scientific world was playing with the newly discovered principles of quantum physics, Einstein was obsessed with rustling up his very own ‘grand theory of everything’. Other scientists pitied him, partly because he seemed behind the times, and partly because he had silly hair. Only now can we see just how far ahead of his time Einstein was. Not only has ‘string theory’ become cutting-edge enough to form the basis for a Channel 4 pop-doc, but far more significantly, Albert’s crazy out-of-bed haircut now makes him look like an eccentric uncle to one of the Strokes.

  Sod string theory. That’s way cool.

  The Sneering Classes [8 November]

  OK, I admit it: I’m a fully paid-up member of the sneering class – that curious section of modern society that spends its time smugly guffawing at the foibles of all the other classes. The sneering class laughs at the plebs taking part in Pop Idol one minute, then snorts at the preposterous brayings of public-school gentry the next – pausing to pour scorn over Daily Mail-reading Middle-Englanders on the way. You see, no one’s quite good enough for us – we hate everyone with equal vigour.

  Joining the sneering class is simple: you’re given a membership card the minute you start working in the media, log on to ‘Pop-bitch’, or find yourself enjoying sneering-class telly formats such as Celebrity Wife Swap (C4), which manages to be hilarious and brilliant yet essentially reprehensible, all at the same time.

  In the red corner we have Big Brother’s Jade Goody and her boyfriend Jeff Brazier, two unapologetically scrubby diamonds from Essex; in the blue corner it’s the ex-Major Charles Ingram and his wife Diana – the lying, cheating scum who had the audacity to pull a harmless con on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, whose makers, Celador, were so upset they cancelled his cheque and proceeded to wring their quaking, appalled hands at the effect a high-profile court case might have on the programme’s dwindling ratings.

  Chris Tarrant called it ‘a very cynical plan, motivated by sheer greed’, which sounds like a description of Millionaire’s premium-rate phone-line method of gathering contestants, but isn’t. Mr Ingram was found guilty and forced to resign from the army; Celador limped from the courtroom with nothing more than a prime-time special and blanket press coverage to support them.

  So, the Ingrams, then: a pair of cheating bastards who deserve everything we can throw at them. Which in this case is Jeff and Jade. Jade is a remarkable creature and almost impossible to describe, although throughout Big Brother 3 some of Fleet Street’s finest did their best, light-heartedly describing her as an ‘oinker’ (the Sun), a ‘vile fishwife’ (Daily Mirror) and a ‘foulmouthed ex-shoplifter’ (Daily Mail), until the public joined in the japes by standing outside the house waving ‘Kill the Pig’ placards, thereby turning the whole delightful episode into a clever pastiche of Lord of the Flies.

  They were wrong incidentally. Jade isn’t a pig. From some angles she looks a bit like Martin Clunes, aged five, peering through a porthole. But not a pig.

  Anyway, the gods of Wife Swap decree that Jade must move in with Charles for a week in the Ingrams’ Wiltshire home (floral prints, Le Creuset cookware, faint air of jovial fascism), while Diana takes up residence alongside Jeff in an Essex flat (widescreen telly, laundry draped over radiators, meals eaten from the lap).

  Of course, what happens next is genuinely very funny indeed, and while it may lack the demented bellowing matches of recent Wife Swaps, there’s plenty of painful moments to wallow in.

  Wince! As Jade walks into the Ingrams’ home yelping, ‘It’s the cheat’s house!’ Gasp! As Jeff repeatedly refers to Diana’s age (‘Firty nine – that’s me mum’s age’) and takes her for a night out in Romford. Vomit! As Charles Ingram says he’ll miss having sex with his wife and confesses to having enjoyed ‘a top-up’ the night before the swap. Wonder! Why anyone involved agreed to take part in the first place. Feel! Vaguely! Superior! To absolutely everyone on screen!

  Or alternatively, give your sneering muscles a rest, with something classily classless: Walking with Sea Monsters (BBC1), in which wildlife expert Nigel Marven travels to the Jurassic era to swim alongside great big wobbly seabeasts. The whole thing’s so spectacular and convincing, any children watching will come away permanently confused as to what’s real and what isn’t – which added to my enjoyment no end.

  Great fun – although I did feel a brief shudder during a sequence starring an ugly blank-eyed sea monster whose jaws are locked in a permanent sneer. Just for a moment I thought I was watching a mirror.

  You Are Her Majesty the Queen! [29 November]

  You are all scum. Common, cap-doffing, bottom-of-the-food-chain scum. Don’t argue. Compared to our glorious royal family, you’re just another dark streak on humanity’s toilet pan.

  But don’t despair. The Mirror’s recent undercover scoopery uncovered invaluable details regarding their personal habits, making it a doddle to simulate the royal lifestyle in the comfort of your own hovel. Simply use these easy-to-follow instructions, and hey-presto – you’ll believe you are Her Majesty the Queen!

  Here’s what you’ll need: a partner willing to dress up as a footman, a television set, a remote control, a tray, and some dinner. For the sake of accuracy, the dinner should consist of something suitably hoity-toity, like chargrilled swan’s brains in a fox-blood jus, and the footman should stand in the corner, repeatedly tugging his forelock so hard that he keeps bashing his forehead against the ground. Oh, and you should probably pull a face like the Queen as well: try to capture her effortless charisma by locking your features into a permanent half-hearted grimace, as though you’re trying to excrete a tinfoil pine cone without anyone noticing.

  As the clock strikes eight, sit back as your subservient footman brings you your dinner (trying not to slosh fox blood down your lap as he does so), then pick up the remote control that he should have placed carefully to the left side of your plate and plunge head-first into Her Majesty’s favourite TV programmes. And realise what a flat-out bozo we’ve got on the throne.

  Yes, because first up on the Queen’s viewing schedule it’s East-Enders (BBC1). This is progress in action, folks. The late Queen Mum got to know London’s cockernee rabble by personally touring the East End in the wake of the Blitz, and was rewarded with years of mindless gratitude from tedious Pearly Kings (whose glittery costumes doubtless attracted the attention of low-flying Luftwaffe pilots in the first place). Queen Elizabeth II doesn’t need to be quite so pro-active, since the BBC helpfully brings all the grit of East London kicking and screaming into her living quarters four times a week (with an omnibus on Sundays).

  Since the Queen lives inside an impenetrable bubble of pomp and horseshit, she doubtless thinks EastEnders is a hard-hitting documentary. Think about it: she has more contact with the plebs in Albert Square than the plebs outside her own front gate. Right now, she probably believes the East End is teeming with unconvincing gangsters and resurrected publicans. None of whom ever swear, spit, or sound off on controversial topics. Even Michael Jackson has a firmer grasp on reality than that.

  Worse is to come, because next up, Her Gloriousness likes to watch The Bill (ITV1/UK Gold). Or rather, she doesn’t. According to the bogus footman, she said, ‘I don’t like The Bill, but I can’t help watching it.’

  Funny that. I feel exactly the same – but only because it’s always fucking on. ITV show it 89 times a week, and it’s heavily rotated on satellite. They say you’re only ever three metres from a rat in London – I say you’re only ever three seconds from the opening credits of The Bill. And if EastEnde
rs is supplying Her Superiorness with a warped view of Londoners, The Bill must convince her that her own constabulary spend more time shagging than, say, tracking down would-be royal assassins. Which explains why she looks so nervous whenever she’s in public.

  So much for the soaps. For a dose of cold hard realism in the royal household, it falls to the Queen’s final favourite – Kirsty’s Home Videos (Sky One): impossibly, a down-market version of You’ve Been Framed. Terrifyingly, this supplies the only unguarded, unsanitised look at everyday citizens the Queen will experience in her entire life. And what does she see us doing? Mooning, gurning, and tumbling like idiots, accompanied by comedy sound effects.

  No wonder she looks like she hates us.

  ‘Can you tell what it is yet?’ [6 December]

  The singer Gabrielle once claimed ‘dreams can come true’. She was lying. Dreams don’t come true. If they did, the nation’s offices would be full of people who’d accidentally turned up for work with no clothes on. And I’d have slept with Madonna when I was 13.

  Besides, if they did come true, they wouldn’t be ‘dreams’; they’d be ‘premonitions’. Of course, Gabrielle already knows this – but hey, ‘premonitions’ would’ve been harder to scan.

  Anyway, to recap: Dreams do not come true.

  Nightmares, however, come true on a daily basis – and usually on television.

  I’m currently working on a theory that much modern TV is actually derived from the collective nightmares of our national subconscious. It works like this: machines have become self-aware, Terminator-style, and have decided to punish mankind for years of abuse by slurping our darkest fears from the ether and relaying them back to us via our beloved TV screens in the hope that we’ll all go mad. I call this the Freddy Krueger Manoeuvre, and it explains, among other things, the peculiar chill you feel each time you see Linda Barker miming a scissor motion at the end of those Curry’s adverts. For another prime example of this, look no further than Rolf Harris at the Royal Albert Hall (BBC1). Rolf’s famous for asking, ‘Can you tell what it is yet?’, but despite having wracked my brains for several hours, my answer is, ‘No, I don’t actually know what this is.’ On the one hand, it’s a tribute to Rolf’s fifty years in showbiz. But it’s also a charity concert in aid of the Prince’s Trust. Which aspect is least important? I don’t know.