No one finds it easy. The toughest-looking contender—an imposing, skin-headed booze magnate named Darren, who looks like he could punch a battleship unconscious—breaks down after one night on the streets and resorts to phoning his mum in tears. Multi-millionaire Ravi, meanwhile, mistakes the whole thing for an Apprentice-style task, and sets about trying to make money by flogging things on the street. (This being a BBC show, he has to settle for selling flowers—Channel 4 would have let him sell bootleg fags and crack, thereby giving him a sporting chance).
Anyway, the show ultimately is reminiscent of The Apprentice, but only as a startling contrast. It’s even edited in similar fashion, although instead of sweeping aerial shots of the London skyline, you get footage of dustbins and pigeons being sick.
The whole thing is clearly a life-changing eye-opener for the contestants; whether viewers will feel fresh sympathy for the homeless, or simply enjoy a cheap holiday in other people’s misery before flipping channels is open to question. Two final thoughts: (1) cute tide, but they should’ve called it Moneybags Masochists instead; and (2) the weird over-zealous duo overseeing the whole thing scared me silly- especially former US probation officer Rebecca Pettit, who’s all finger-pointing, wake-up-call attitude and mad googly eyes. I wouldn’t want to bump into her in a dark alley.
Speaking of mad googly eyes, I’m now obsessed with Katie Hopkins from The Apprentice (BBC1)—the bitchiest, most venomous contestant in the show’s history. Apparently played by the old Spitting Image puppet of the Queen, wearing a blond wig and glowing pale-blue contact lenses, Katie enjoys sticking the knife into her fellow contestants so much, she can’t help smiling as she slags them off to camera. I can’t help imagining if one of the others accidentally fell down the stairs, and lay at the bottom in a broken-necked comatose heap, she’d stand at the top grinning like a carnival mask and frantically rubbing her mimsy till the ambulance arrived. There’s something unholy about her, like a possessed Ermintrude. Lord help Sir Alan if he finally decides to fire her. Her head’ll start revolving and spewing green vomit. Here’s hoping Nick Hewer carries a crucifix in his pocket.
Sir Alan, Margaret Mountford, and Gandalf
[26 May 2007]
This series of The Apprentice (BBC1) is cursed. As far as I’m concerned, I mean. In week one, I had trouble getting preview DVDs. Since then, the PR company couldn’t be more helpful. Today they bent over backwards to secure me a last-minute, hot-off-the-press, edit-suite-fresh copy of the next episode. They said it would be ready this evening, and sure enough, it was—just in time for my deadline. Excited, I arranged for a courier to pick it up. Being a twat, he decided to post it through the letterbox of the interior design showroom next door, then ride away without telling me. I discovered the error around 10.30 PM, and subsequently spent fifteen minutes on my knees in the street, trying to retrieve the Jiffy bag from their welcome mat by reaching through their letterbox with a pair of kitchen tongs, like some kind of Crystal Maze cunt. A jogger glared at me. Then two smartarse teenagers asked if I was a burglar. And then I gave up. It’d make a better anecdote if a neighbour’s dog had unexpectedly turned up and screwed my arse inside out with its hot red doggy little dick, but nothing that exciting happened, which in itself makes the whole thing more annoying. Here’s hoping that courier prick hits a speed bump at the wrong angle and accidentally drives his entire bike up his own arse some time soon.
So, rather than deliver an appetite-whetting critique of this week’s episode, I’ll simply have to pour needless abuse on the heads of each remaining contestant instead, in the guise of a tipster’s form sheet. It’s what I was going to do anyway.
If The Apprentice were a personality contest, as opposed to a wacky ‘business simulation’ in which a trio of white-haired 800-year-olds (played by Sir Alan, Margaret Mountford and Gandalf) tut and fuss and disapprove of the young, the obvious winner would be Ire—even though his ‘personality’ apparently consists of fury and cockiness, with not much in between. As ambitious as a harpoon gun, Ire clearly has no intention of becoming Sir Alan’s apprentice, and every intention of becoming his conqueror. Unlikely to be chosen on that basis, he’ll probably be PM by 2009 and World Emperor by 2013. Odds: 10/1.
Next, Naomi—lopsided, booby Naomi. If Katie resembles The Magic Roundabout’s Ermintrude, Naomi is Brian the snail. With twin stomach bumpers. Seems to have spent most of the past fortnight nodding at anything Kristina says. Can’t see her winning. Odds: 9/1.
Then there’s Lohit, the eerie space butler. Lohit is one of those people whose age is tricky to gauge (I figured he was in his mid-thirties; actually he’s twenty-five). The winner of The Apprentice always seems to come from nowhere; on that basis Lohit, who spent the first six weeks hanging around like a barely perceptible gas, is almost certainly bound for the final, but he’s possibly too much of an android to actually win. Odds: 3/1.
What about Simon? The nice-but-dim estate-agenty one who looks a bit like a Disney boy turned adult. Too bland to win, like Naomi he’s presumably still in the show simply to provide a bit of non-threatening human filler. Not a winner. Odds: 11/1.
Next, freak candidate Katie—like a female Blue Meanie, but pink; boiled-baby pink; an evil, peeled dormouse that can’t wait to watch you die. I’d previously noted her tendency to smile while sticking the knife in. More worryingly, she also smiles whenever Sir Alan slags her off in the boardroom, which is just plain sick. Tellingly, Katie is the only contestant you could picture constructing a gallows and hanging a baby koala in front of a schoolyard full of horrified children. Not human. Odds: 100/1.
Finally, my tip: Kristina. Trustworthy, glamorous and a little bit leathery, like a seasoned air hostess keeping her head during a hijack; Kristina is the most promising all-rounder by far. For some reason, I keep picturing her playing lan McShane’s love interest in a contemporary ‘re-imagining’ of Lovejay. If she doesn’t win, perhaps the BBC drama department would like to take that idea and run with it. Odds: 1/1, Favourite.
Twelve sure-fire ways to save 24
[2 June 2007]
So it’s the finale of 24 (Sky One) tomorrow night, and—wait! Come back! I know, I know, it bores you senseless now. I agree. This season has been so dreadful, I’m not going to watch the climax. I don’t have to. I’ve saved myself the time by reading the episode synopsis on Wikipedia. That’s how bad this once-unmissable show has become: I’m willingly seeking out spoilers just to get it over with. And I’m not alone. 24’5 ratings have plunged in the US. The producers are promising to make changes in time for season seven—possibly a complete reboot. With this in mind, and in an attempt to revive a show I used to love, I humbly present twelve sure-fire ways to save 24. Free of charge. I’m good like that.
Introduce plausible enemies. At present, 24’s bad guys are such humourless, hard-arsed drones, they might as well be replaced by shop window dummies with ‘BAD GUY’ scribbled on the forehead. If they must be one-dimensional cartoon villains, go the whole hog. Make them Terminators. This would be far more exciting, and probably only about 3 per cent less realistic than the show is anyway.
Think small. You don’t need mushroom clouds to hold our attention. Give Jack a compact-yet-urgent threat to handle—a lone serial killer perhaps—and we’ll be just as entertained.
Enough of CTU’s teenage office politics. Things reached a new nadir this season, where the moronic Chloe/Morris, Milo/Nadia storylines resembled a soap opera aimed at people recovering from head injuries. Either make them bang each other over the desks, or don’t let their love lives intrude at all.
Make the next season a blatant Fantastic Voyage rip-off, in which Jack is miniaturised and injected into Ldndsay Lohan’s body. He has 24 hours to save her liver from permanent damage by fighting off invading ‘alcohol cells’ with his bare hands. Not only is this a superb cautionary tale for younger viewers, it means the finale will culminate in an eye-popping sequence in which Jack, midway through transforming back to his original dimens
ions, squeezes out of Lohan’s bottom and flops triumphantly into an aluminium medical tray, where he thrashes around, covered in mucus, the same size as a rat. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t remember that for the rest of your life.
Rest Home 24: recast the show with eighty-five-year-olds who take an entire episode to stagger from one side of a room to the other, and half a season to make a cup of tea with their brittle, quaking fingers. It’d have true morbid appeal. Will Jack make it to the front door before the postman stops ringing the bell? Can Chloe climb into the bath unassisted before the water goes cold? The clock is ticking! (Literally—you’d replace the iconic digital timer with an Edwardian grandfather clock.)
The Chinese have created 240 identical clones of Dick Cheney! One has an essential microchip hidden in its balls, and the only way for Jack to retrieve it is to suck it out through the end of its winky. That’s 240 clones—in order to save the world, Jack must perform ten blowjobs an hour, for twenty-four hours. On Dick Cheney. Brilliant.
Jack travels back to 1963 and must race against time to stop Lee Harvey Oswald shooting John F Kennedy.
Jack travels back to 1990 and must race against time to stop himself making Young Guns II.
Jack wants to buy a hen, but all the hen shops are closed (hey, it could work).
Make each episode cover a year instead of an hour; instead of playing a government agent fighting terrorists, Kiefer plays a glacier fighting the effects of climate change. You’ll need to play loads of dramatic up-tempo music to keep the pace jaunty.
Do a Memento season, in which each episode takes place an hour before the previous one (Note: instead of’Previously on 24…’ the pre-credits summary would have to say ‘Consequently on 24…’)
Don’t do any of the above. Apart from the first three.
A collector’s edition of Barely Legal
[9 June 2007]
People on TV aren’t people; they’re distorted electronic drawings of people, and only an idiot would judge someone based on how they come across on a reality show. Reader, I am that idiot. Big Brother 8 (C4) began with a gimmick presumably designed to quell sour memories of the race war. The house was pumped full of girls. Since a woman can’t walk from one side of the room to the other without provoking a catty feud with at least three other females, even if you offered to pay them £100 per minute of camaraderie, these are ideal breeding conditions for a summer of life-enhancing squabbling.
At the time of writing, the house contains the following: Sam and Amanda—chirping, identical borderline foetuses resembling the cover of a collector’s edition of Barely Legal, their entrance was terrifying; toting lollipops and squealing about the colour pink, they seemed to have stepped out of a sinister, perverted remake of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Lately, they’ve calmed down a bit; just as well, since thanks to all those mirrors, there often appear to be eight of them.
We’ll skip Nicky and Chanelle for now, since both seem far too nice to succeed, and instead ponder Charley, an instant villain (played by Neneh Cherry) who made the classic error of assuming international celebrity status in her own mind the moment she entered the house. Not so much a person as a damning indictment of everything, I assume she’ll have been evicted and booed to the moon and back by the time these words reach you. Almost a pity.
Next, Shabnam. An over-excited Meg and Mog blabbermouth cursed with demented eyes (the self-adhesive, googly ones you’d stick on a sock puppet), Shabnam has tucked her personality behind a wall of breathless prattle and is therefore hard to read. As is Tracey. Worzel Gummidge. Jimmy Savile. The Face of Boe. That witch from Chorlton and the Wheelies. Cackling rave Womble Tracey provides an inexhaustible supply of cruel lookalikes to choose from. For this reason alone, she’s one of the more entertaining inhabitants, better than, say, Emily, because Emily doesn’t really look like anyone or anything, in the way that the cast of Hollyoaks don’t look like anyone or anything either. A classic example of anonymous prettiness; the second your brain registers that she’s attractive, it simultaneously deletes her face from memory.
Then there’s Carole, Laura and Lesley. The most likable housemates since Pete or Aisleyne, Carole and Laura haven’t put a foot wrong; Lesley however, is becoming increasingly peculiar, and appears to have wandered into the house by mistake during a distracted ‘turn’, like a menopausal shoplifter.
At the time of writing, there’s only one man about the house—and he’s a girl too. The human equivalent of Leslie Phillips saying ‘well, helllll-oh’, oily, lipless Ziggy seems to have based his entire persona on Anthony Head’s portrayal of a smug yuppie twat attempting to bag Sharon Maughan in the old Gold Blend commercials. For some reason I have a recurring fantasy in which Ziggy eats something that disagrees with him, and spends an afternoon staggering around with liquid dribbling down his thighs, in full view of the girls and cameras. Anything to knock that self-satisfied look off his fizzog.
And that’s it so far. Chances are by the time you read this, they’ll have put some more men in. And, with any luck, Clyde the orangutan and a wisecracking robot. We can dream.
Finally, The Apprentice (BBC1) roars to a close, following last week’s chilling boardroom finale, in which Katie Hopkins cemented her position as the most terrifying, unpredictable screen villain since Sadako from the movie Ring. What—WHAT—was going on in her head? We shall never know, just as we’ll never know what motivated the Zodiac killer. The final is now a showdown between the sole credible contestant (Kristina) and a shivering puppy (Simon). Surely a foregone conclusion. Surely. No it wasn’t. Simon won.
The Amazing Mister No Lips
[ ue June 2007]
If the past is a foreign country, the future is a foreign country in space. It’s an absolute pig, the future. Intriguing yet ultimately unknowable—a bit like Moira Stuart. There’s a whole industry devoted to working out what’s going to happen in the future: jittery governments paying big bucks to learned men and women who call themselves ‘futurologists’ (or ‘guessers’) and make informed predictions (or ‘guesses’) about the shape of things to come. Of course, the problem with all this crystal-ball-gazing is the wild card, the spanner in the works, the unpredictable random occurrence that irrevocably alters the course of everything that follows. Like if the Ice King from Planet Shiver suddenly beams down and reverses global warming with his magic snowman army. That kind of thing.
Judging by last week’s column on Big Brother (C4), I’d make a useless futurologist, having predicted that (a) Charley would be out in week one, and (b) the ‘women only’ gimmick had distracted attention from the CBB race war. I hadn’t foreseen Emily’s Nathan Barley impression—the dumbest passing utterance by any housemate ever—and its consequences.
Now it seems rash to blithely assume the house itself is even standing. Maybe someone daubed a cartoon of Muhammad on the walls five minutes after I wrote this. Or maybe Ziggy ate a load of honey and blew off and the guff-cloud attracted a swarm of bees which flew up his arse and repeatedly stung him on the brain till he started speaking a new language. Hope so. I hate Ziggy, the Amazing Mr No lips: him and that open-handed ‘hey, I’m a reasonable guy’ shtick he pulls at every opportunity. He’s like a surfer impersonating Tony Blair. Or maybe he’s nice and I’m nasty. The truth will out.
Speaking of which, I think—1 think— it’s safe to assume Charley will be out by the time this gets printed. Surely to God. Sharing a house with her must be like sharing a cramped train carriage with a sleeping bear, afraid the next tiny bump will wake her up and set her off. She’s a hovering attack droid: the moment her sensors detect the faintest whiff of disapproval, she corners her subject and mercilessly machine-guns them with words. I’ve never heard anyone talk so fast. It’s like someone fast-forwarding through an audiobook version of The Oxford Dictionary of Accusatory Dialogue.
Another thing I didn’t see coming was the introduction of two fresh housemates, Gerry and Seany; both gay, both likable, although it took a while to warm to Sea
ny simply because he’s so strange. The moment he entered, Laura mistook him for a clown. He looks like a cross between Gene Wilder and Simon Weston, and dresses like Flavor Flav at a Klaxons gig. At the time of writing, he and Gerry (played by a very young Oliver Hardy, voiced by Borat) appear to be warming to each other and have started holding hands, which should launch a thousand ‘hilarious’ Brokeback Mountain poster mock-ups in the tabloids. If they start snogging in earnest, I hope Big Brother issues them T-shirts with Richard Littlejohn’s face printed on the front, so they can sit in front of the cameras, necking like teenagers, just to confuse him.
Actually, what with Laura, Gerry, Seany, Carole and Nicky, there’s a higher concentration of likable housemates than at any point in the show’s history—although of course, since I, the master futurol-ogist, am saying that, you can bet they’re about to cause a disgraceful international incident from which the nation will never recover.
A few words, now, on Doctor Who (BBC1), which I’ve neglected to mention for weeks. This third series had a big wobble with the ‘human Dalek’ and spaceship-into-the-sun episodes, before hitting a stellar home run with ‘The Family of Blood’ and last week’s brilliant ‘Blink’. Tonight’s episode is also unmissable, albeit for slightly different reasons. Oh, and I need to say this, because it’s true: David Tennant is the best Doctor Who ever.
Monsters Got Talent
[23 June 2007]
Last week, the final of Britain’s Got Talent got almost 13 million viewers, which in this multi-channel age is the equivalent of a Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special watched twice by everyone in the country through a kaleidoscope. Hits don’t come any bigger. Former Sun TV critic and Bluto-lookalike Carry Bushell used to repeatedly bang on about how the viewing public was yearning for old-fashioned variety shows, and on this wonky evidence, he was right.
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