Jack watched the rain run slowly down the window, as he looked at all the people in the street below. All the happy people, with friends, lovers, purpose and hope. He turned and scanned his dimly lit bedsit, and coughed as he tightened the belt around his arm. As he did so, he couldn’t help but notice how dirty his fingernails were, and how much nicotine was staining his trembling fingers. Sweat dampened his lank black hair, and as he pushed the needle into his raised vein, he looked up and stared at himself in the mirror.
How had it come to this? Where was the Jack he had lost sight of? Very soon his drug of choice would take affect, and for a short while he would be free from this hell, but not really free, just a temporary freedom.
This goes to explain somewhat, how I feel when I am watching the ‘X Factor’!
‘Experts’ in the field of addiction management etc etc, would tell us that it is usually necessary for an addict to hit ‘rock bottom’ of whichever pit of addiction he or she has stumbled into, before we can start clawing our way back up the sides, and clambering on to the road to recovery. They would also tell us, that it is necessary for an addict to admit to his or her problem, before they can make the journey of recovery.
So, Here I am. I am going to take the plunge and admit to the world, and more importantly to myself, that I watch far too much reality TV!
There I have done it. I know the shock and repulsion may be a little too much for some of you to bear, especially any relations reading this, but don’t desert me now, I need your support.
Every recovering addict will probably be able to tell you, when and what made them realize that they had reached the bottom of their ‘pit’.
My own pit realization moment came on Saturday night, brace yourselves, this is going to be ugly, I found myself watching ‘American Idol’. Just before you pass out completely, let me get it all out in the open. Not only was I watching ‘American Idol’ but I was watching ‘American Idol’ that I had recorded on Sky Plus!
(Wipes the tears away from his puffed and bloodshot eyes, and looks to the heavens for forgiveness)
I couldn’t even claim to have stumbled upon the program by accident, and then not be able to turn it over due to a faulty remote. No, the horrifying truth of it was, I had purposefully recorded the program, and left early from my Grandmothers funeral to sate my compulsion! (I made the funeral bit up, it was only a memorial service!)
Reality TV is just like any other drug. Alcohol, Heroin, cigarettes whatever, it’s always the same. You start of with a little, and it escalates into full blown addiction. It was like this for me. I started off with just a little recreational reality TV, you know how it is, maybe the odd bit of ‘Dancing on’ ice, or a casual glance at ‘Celeb air’, but unfortunately I didn’t get off of the road to addiction while I had the chance, I saw the signs, why did I choose to ignore them?
Before I knew it, I was watching the lot, you start off with the lighter stuff, and before long you are scouring the channels for harder and harder material. Then the day finally comes when you watch ‘American Idol’ and immediately turn over to ITV2+1 and watch the whole damn thing again! It is then time to get help…….sigh.
Watching the X Factor is bad enough, but watching the American version is just shameful. My God they are irritating with their whiney American voices, and there bleached teeth, high fiving, and whooping and hollering, and that’s just the judges (Boom boom). Of course we have Lord Cowell on the far left of the panel. Keeping the stiff British end up, refusing to high five anyone, and generally being the last bastion of decorum in the whole bloody circus.
Listening to Brits balling their eyes out, and telling their mothers over the phone that the judges are all know nothing cretins (Dani Minogue – fair enough) is one thing, but listening to whiney, spoilt, brattish, daddy’s little darling, stage school, shiatsu preening, ego maniac little American girls is just the absolute pits.
Now, there is undoubtedly some talent on this show, some of the singing is very good, but then they have to go and spoil it all by talking!
"I’m just so happy to be here today, it’s a great experience to meet all you guys. I’d like to thank God for giving me this talent, and I just love you all…….giggle."
The American judges of course suck all this up with glee, it is of course left to Lord Cowell to tell the little brat to shut up and get on with it.
If ‘American Idol’ is my Heroin, then ‘Master Chef’ must be my cocaine. Again, for some reason compulsive viewing, and immensely annoying at the same time.
For non addicts, the basic premise of the show is thus. Members of the public have to cook meals, which two blokes then judge. These ‘judges’ are an Australian chef, and some baldy, pseudo cockney green grocer bloke. How did he get that gig? Was there a producers meeting one day, and they said "What we need is a couple of top flight chefs," and some bright spark at the back piped up, "No, lets have one chef, and a green grocer." And everyone for some reason thought that this was a good idea!
So anyway, the contestants slave over a hot stove with these two blokes wandering around asking them if "They really want it" and then when all the cooking is done, we watch chef bloke, and grocer geezer stuff their chubby cheeks, and tell them that they haven’t seasoned it properly. While we are on the subject, if anyone out there can enlighten me as to what putting salt and pepper into something actually does, more than just making it more salty and peppery, please tell me. I genuinely don’t get it.
The best bit of the show, is when the contestants are sent to a real ‘Top flight’ restaurant in the heart of London, to cook lunch for some unsuspecting diners. I don’t know about you, but if I was some city boy (Spit) and I was going to some swanky restaurant for an overpriced plate of salad leaves and a ‘pan fried’ something, I would hope that the person cooking it was bloody qualified.
I don’t know why chefs bother going to catering school for God knows how many years, and toil away in steaming kitchens, working their way up the ladder, because apparently you can just walk in off of the street, and with ten minutes tuition, do just as good a job!
Then it’s back to ‘Master Chef HQ’ for the final verdict. Chef bloke and grocer geezer go in to some back room and confer. They mull it all over, and try to come to a decision about who is going through to the next round, and who is "going home." It’s at this point that the chef bloke always starts to throw his weight about a bit, and starts using the "I’m the chef, and your just the bloody green grocer" card. Because however much they disagree, chef bloke always gets his way. Their deliberations are always fairly amicable on camera, but I bet once the cameras are turned off; i bet it goes something like this…….
Please read the following section with Australian and cockney accents where appropriate. Thanks.
Chef bloke – So, What do ya reckon to this bunch of no hopers then mate.
Green grocer – Gawd bleedin’ blimey, I have never tasted such a load of old fucking crap in all me bleedin’ life.
Chef bloke – No what ya meeeeaan mate, not a fuckin’ shrimp in site, and what was that bloody thing that the fat bloke cooked up?
Green grocer – Don’t ask me treacle, tasted worse than my wife’s beef curtains after a heavy session in the gym.
Chef bloke – Anyway, got to put one of them through I suppose. I say we put the tart through.
Green grocer – Did somebody make a tart?
Chef bloke – No you fuckin’ cockney wanker, the tart with the big tits, I think the tits are enough to get her through.
Green grocer – What did she cook guvnor?
Chef bloke – Aaaaaaw Christ, I don’t fuckin’ know. Some bloody pasta thing, tasted like bloody shoe laces, but who cares, don’t ya wanna cop an eyeful of those baps again cobber?
Green grocer – Course I fuckin’ do, but hey this is a cooking competition after all. I say we put the lifter through. He may be savaloy jockey, but his beef Wellington was an awesome plate of food.
Chef bloke – Don’t forget who the bloody chef is here baldy. Your just a bloody green grocer.
Green grocer – Oh don’t start with that shit again, it’s not bleedin’ fair, you pull this chef shit on me every week, I’ve ‘ad it up to ‘ear.
Chef bloke – It’s big tits or your out on your ear. There’s plenty of fuckin’ grocers about mate, are we riding the same wave? surfing on the same board? Eh?
And so big tits goes through!
I was watching the penultimate episode of bloody Master Chef last night, and it had to be the worst yet. The podge brothers were barking at them, that "This is going to be the hardest day of their life." and "It doesn't get tougher than this." ....... Dear God, i think that the bloke half way up Everest, or the African mother dying of AIDS, or the husband and father who has just been made redundant would all have something to say about that crass remark podgy!
The bloody contestants were crying just because some ultra poncy chef had said that he quite liked what they had cooked. All of you, take a step back, look at yourselves, and get a fucking grip! I have not watched the final tonight out of protest.......I wonder if there is a BBC1+2?.......no stop it.......
I prefer the good old days of master chef. If you are going to poncify food, then do it properly with the prince of poncification, Lloyd Grossman. Now there was a man that new how to poncify. I always thought he would make an excellent third ‘Crane’ brother.
Talking of poncifying food, you do hear some nonsense spoken in the world of TV chefdom, but the absolute epitome of ponciness, has to be that spiky haired bastard Gary Rhodes. Oh dear God I just want to skewer him, and slowly spit roast him with an apple in his gob. We are all familiar with the usual non sensical crap that these chefs come out with, pan fried, sun dried, drizzled, frothed etc etc, but Gary Rhodes committed what in my opinion is the most heinous cheffy bullshit remark to date. He actually said that he was going to "Introduce the gravy to the potatoes." Introduce…….What a bastard!
So, I suppose I will have to get some kind of treatment then. I wonder what it will consist of? If I was a celeb I would obviously end up in the Priory, but I suppose I will have to make do with whatever the National Health has got to offer. Perhaps they will just stop me watching completely, and I will have to go through cold turkey. The shakes, sweats, sobbing as I pathetically press the buttons on a battery-less Sky remote. "Make it work Doctor, make it work" I would plead, as I ungraciously tugged at his white coat.
Perhaps they will try to wean me off it. I’ll be allowed to watch the X Factor, but not the X-tra Factor. I don’t know, maybe they will attach electrodes to my testicles, and shock me until I no longer feel the desire to just have half an hour of ‘Strictly’. Who knows.
On a finishing note, what a tragedy for Jade Goody (Her married name escapes me) and her family. Probably the most iconic result of realty TV ever known, cut off in her prime time prime. I won’t be a hypocrite and start saying how wonderful I think she is, because I don’t. I am not a fan at all of this celebrity culture, famous for being famous and so on, but I can’t deny that it is incredibly sad. Reality star or not, a mother is a mother, a daughter is a daughter, and a wife is a wife.
See you all when I have got some more rubbish to get off of my chest!
- ▼ February (4)
- ► 2008 (15)