Thursday 24 December 2009

Oh, I can't be bothered changing the channel...

“On the first day of Christmas TV gave to me,
Hours of depressing soap operas!”


It’s the season to be merry, have fun, relax (kind of…well not really, but it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?), overeat, over drink and sit down to watch some bad television. Y’know, the stuff that the channels have been hooting and hollering about since the end of October.

Every year, for those of us who watch any television, we switch on the goggle box whenever we manage to roll out of bed and after we’ve unwrapped our presents and we hope beyond reasonable hope that this year it will be different. This year our expectations will be, if not met, at least given something to chew on.

We will look out on the Arctic nightmare the outside world has become, this year we’re looking at heavy snowfalls and sub zero temperatures, and feel cosy as we curl up in front of the television.

(The bookies must be shitting themselves this year. Hoping that we’ve had all the snow we’re going to get in 2009. Y’see, snow lying on the ground doesn’t make it an official White Christmas, snow falling does.)

We want to be enthralled, entertained, made happy that its Christmas and that we don’t need to interact with our relatives, alternatively grinning at us like they want eat some vital part of our anatomy or scowling at us like they want to eat some vital part of our anatomy. Yes, you’ve given us some lovely gifts and I’m most grateful, honestly, but right now could you stop staring at me like you’re one of the cast from ‘The Hills Have Eyes’ and let me inure myself to the season with something mindlessly amusing flickered into my brainstem.

Yes, we get the odd gem of good telly. Things like ‘Wallace and Gromit: A Matter of Loaf and Death’ and a good film from four years ago will be highlights, but they tend to be few and far between, stuck amongst things like the Queen’s Christmas Speech and any number of rank smelling dramas and television shows that wouldn’t be allowed on air at any other time.

I mean Noel Edmonds is a master of bringing us foetid television, the worst being (and I’m not the only person to note this and I may even have been pointed in the direction by Charlie Brooker, so what? This is the internet, I don’t no stinking original ideas!) ‘Noel’s HQ’ and ‘Noel’s Christmas Presents’. Horrific examples of celebrity guilt schmaltz that would make Frank Capra break out into hives.

Then you have the catering to the soap opera junkies. These poor, zombified souls have been steadily hooked more and more by these insidious dramas, going from being shown two or three nights a week to encroaching on every night. Now the vicarious living that’s offered by these programmes is ingrained in quite a portion of the UK population.

It probably wouldn’t be so bad if the portrayals of life in these fictional places was, y’know something akin to real life with ups and downs, but the wisdom of dramatic imperative for programmes like ‘Coronation Street’, ‘Emerdale’, ‘River City’ (which is only in Scotland, the rest of the UK can heave a sigh of relief about that) and the grand master of them all ‘Eastenders’ is that life for working class people is a never-ending slog from one kind of deep misery to another. The characters listlessly go through their joyless existences until they are swept off the mortal coil in some way so tragic that it stops you from wanting to get up in the morning. Unless a character comes into the show when they are older, they are unlikely to reach anything approaching old age – most of them are lucky if they make it out of their teens. And don’t even get me started on the miraculous metamorphoses that take place.

The grand high wizard of this crushing misery is ‘Eastenders’, a programme so morose that you’d be lucky to see an actor smile in a month, let alone an episode. These people live such uncertain, tragic and short lives that you wonder why anyone would want to live in Albert Square. Murder, rape, insanity, disease and disaster are staples of soap opera life, but only ‘Eastenders’ is innovative enough to pile it all onto the one character. Yes. Yes! They are visionaries in their desperation to keep the viewers coming to the show.

And the Christmas episodes are the jewel in the miserable crown of the ‘Eastenders’ year. A day when they have to double the depression. We are treated to an hour long episode filled with less Christmas cheer than in the city centre of Tehran.

Which brings the thought of what the writers would do if they could get away with it. I mean, they seem to be so keen to portray life with such grey joylessness, and bleak desolation, why not step it up, take it to the next level? I’ve been thinking about this and it wouldn’t be that hard. It would actually be cheaper than their normal offerings, whether they used special effects…or not.

It start like this: you open with the ‘Eastenders’ theme tune as normal, then you would have the characters all sitting in the Queen Vic. All of the tables and chairs have been removed so that everyone has to sit down. As you have come to expect, no one is smiling, but this time there is quite a concrete reason for this – they are all holding shotguns in their mouths.

Slowly the camera pans across their faces, the deadness created by their grinding lives shining there, perhaps a hint of pleading in the younger characters’ eyes. No one says a word, they just stare long and deep into the camera.

Then the person at the end of the line fires. And so it goes, they blow their brains, making a tune: ‘Jingle Bells’ in 12-gauge minor.

Once this spectacle ends the camera drifts across the bleeding, twitching corpses, showing us the growing pools and rivers of blood as they form on the wooden floor. In the background a baby cries and over the sound track plays Adagio for Strings. This continues for the rest of the hour-long running time, going into silence once the music stops, the only sound now the crying baby.

And now ‘My Family’.

Now, I know that this is what people want, but sometimes perhaps the channels might want to consider thinking a bit differently and have something fun, even funny for us to watch after gorging on our Christmas meal.

A nice dream.

And on that note I say Merry Christmas and, if I don’t feel another rant coming on beforehand, a very happy New Year!


Will

Thursday 10 December 2009

In which I talk POLITICS...

In light of the pre-budget report being released yesterday I thought I’d have a political rant. A vaguely informed, rambling rant at that. Read on and be entertained at my lack of informed opinion. Hurrah!

Y’know I stopped expecting any sanity from our esteemed government about ten minutes after I played my part in voting that grinning sociopath fuck Tony Blair and his band of Tory Mark II scumfucks (okay, I’m sure they’re not all fuckers in the current incarnation of the Labour Party, but the majority of the cabinet probably couldn’t be trusted to look after a baby without smothering it) into power. Yes, after almost twenty years of continuous Tory rule, most of it under the crushing madness of Margaret Thatcher and the stripping away of public services to private firms I thought, this Blair bloke can’t be that bad.

Oh, the naïveté. I was young and desperate for some kind of hope for my future and my well-being. Cynical hindsight now tells me that I should have smelled something rotten from the moment that the rebranded New (yes, it would be too awful if it was old Labour, fuck having even a shadow of principle there) Labour used that abomination of a song 'Things Can Only Get Better’ and stormed into government in 1997. They crushed the Tories that year.

And crushing things has become the motif of their time in power. First thing to get crushed was the possibility that your average worker would get a fair shake: we got a minimum wage that was multi-tiered. As ever those under twenty-one were entitled to less than those over that age. I can see those under eighteen getting less, because, in general they have less responsibilities than an eighteen year old. As soon as you’re eighteen you are an adult and should be paid as such, instead this wage band is given the insultingly patronising monicker ‘youth rate’. Not that the over twenty-one minimum wage was any great shake. It still isn’t being just under six pounds an hour, a third of which is taken away in tax right away and then you have all your bills and such. Working at this rate you’re lucky if you have anything left.

Yes, I know that people in other countries have it much worse, but I get the feeling that if any UK government could bring our wages down to those rates they’d do it in a heartbeat.

Let’s be honest, the minimum wage was influenced by all those nice, faceless, monolithic businesses that New Labour wanted to stay friends with. Not that it worked. As soon as most of these corporations hear the words ‘human rights’ they up sticks and find a nice third world dictatorship that they can leech from and give those who run them – each already wealthier than all of the working class in Britain combined – those million pound/dollar/euro bonuses that they so require. Really, really, they’ll be in the poor house if they are brought down to their last million.

Before I go too far into the world of the conspiracy theorist there, let’s mention the mess New Labour have made of the NHS. Or rather let’s talk about how they’ve gone about continuing what the Tories had done all through their reign to undermine and damage something that was once the envy of the world. Those efficiencies that New Labour are so fond of has left large areas without local hospitals and those that are left so disease-ridden (thanks to the fantastic idea of having private cleaning firms take over, always a good idea that) that people are afraid to go in because they perceive that there’s every chance they’ll never come out again.

I mean, there’s a lot more, but those are the most prominent things that I can think of right now.

And we come twelve years later, New Labour is limping along after being caught in many lies and a switch to a Prime Minister with all the charisma of a landed monk fish. We also come to the end of a cycle that was also started by the Tories and allowed to continue unabated by our rosy red saviours: The Markets. I hope it’s the end of a cycle.

The banks and The Markets. One should have been monitoring the other, y’know, instead one cloned the other. As we all know this didn’t turn out for the better, as the banks took on the no-hold-barred money-making ethos of The Markets. The wild, testosterone-fuelled grabbing for wealth and growth was adopted by the bank and things didn’t work out well. Especially, as I’ve already said, the banks were supposed to be watching over the fucking Markets!

Y’see the markets, and capitalism in general, seems to work, as far as I can tell, on the principle that growth can go infinitely, that there are resources in the world to be plundered forever. Which is strange as they seem to only hold one ‘resource’ dear: money. Something artificially created by banks to be infinite, but based on real things. Once upon a time anyway. Now it appears to all the world that money’s based on, well, more money. Which is more than a wee bit weird.

This came to an understated head last year (2008, for those people in the future) when a bunch of investments that were never going to pay back started a bit of a domino effect. This started a ‘banking crisis’. Then a ‘credit crunch’ before the governments of the world held up their hands and said, “We might be in a bit of a recession…”

“…That’s the worst since 1929. And half of you are going to lose your jobs. Maybe we shouldn’t have stripped away all those regulations that were designed to stop this happening again. Oopsie. We’ll fix this. Honest.”

They said a lot, oh yeah. Course they would. Standing, pounding on podiums saying, as people had said almost eighty years before (someone hear an echo?), that this can’t be allowed to happen again. And proceeded to wrist-slap their way through these multinationals and banks, who, in public whined about the restrictions placed on them, when they really had to be laughing their arses off that they’d gotten away with (thanks to those pesky governments, har har).

Cos if the banks were so scared of government reprisals why are they still giving their high-ups ridiculous bonuses? When there are people reduced to poverty and either no longer in their home or afraid that it’s going to be repossessed. They didn’t even learn any lessons from the financial institutions that sank because of their own greed.

And this brings me, finally, to the pre-budget report. In which there is another tiny tap to the wrists of the bankers and then it’s time to look at punishing the public. Oh yes, we had the temerity to have no idea of what the bankers and our governments were doing (while they hid it) so now the whip of budget cuts and tax increases are now on the horizon. Supposedly to tax those of higher incomes, but will only hammer the same people living on the breadline who always take the brunt of these things.

The prevailing theory is this is to win them votes for the general election, by people who intone this as though it should be accepted. We mere mortals couldn’t do better. Perhaps, but at least the politicians could at least be a bit more subtle about it instead of pulling down our collective pants and ordering us to bend over. Or even soften the blow to the people they supposedly represent.

But then British politicians don’t have any loyalty to the people of the country, their first loyalty is to the party.

And all this has prompted their brethren on the right to start screaming, “We’re the only ones who can save you!”

Excuse me:

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!

Okay. This is going to happen. I have no illusions about this. The electorate are so blinded to any other parties that they believe that the Tories are the only ones to replace Labour. It’s like forgetting what a bear looks like after it spent a nice long while mauling you. The Tories set this all in motion during the eighties! You’d have to be mad to think that they weren’t going to come in and slink all this back in.

A party that referred, I’m told, to the lower employees in the public sector as ‘minions’. Tells you everything you need to know about their mindset, really.

There are other parties in the UK, but most of them don’t get much of a chance, thanks to the media in the country. Aren’t they nice for showing us all the options? So people think they’re left with just Labour and Conservative; and often start giggling if you mention the Liberal Democrats. Here in Scotland we also have the SNP, Wales has Plaid Cymru and Northern Ireland has a bunch of parties. But the central government is still in Westminster.

After another stinging slap in the face by our government, I’m left wondering what can be done. I mean the only way to become an MP now is to have gone to university and studied politics, so we now have a bunch of dead-eyed, indoctrinated creatures whose whole life is politics and they’ve never really done anything else. Doesn’t seem right does it? A nice locked system for those privileged few who know the right people. I know it’s always had that aspect but with this new wrinkle it’s harder for anyone outside of the loop to get in.

I think I’ll just sit and wait for Christmas and New Year, hoping that it will all be much better once the first of January rolls around.


Will

Monday 7 December 2009

The Delia Dream.

I have a dream. Not a recurrent dream just a…persistent one. It involves Delia Smith, the doyen of British cookery and woman with some complicated ideas about cooking Christmas dinner. I imagine if she’d gone down the Keith Floyd route of mixing booze with his presenting.

This is informed by something that happened a few years ago. In which the erstwhile television cook stormed the pitch in the middle of a Norwich City game and proceeded to inform the fans, in a coherent and sober way, what her thoughts were.

Now imagine the scene, our host is standing at her traditional homely kitchen counter, in her traditional homely kitchen (in her very own home we are shown through loving exterior wide shots) the ingredients for the upcoming recipe arrayed all nice and tidy around her with the appropriate utensils. And a glass of wine, with bottle nice and handy.

That last detail is important – watch it carefully.

She launches into her opening salvo; a lovely little starter that involves pancetta and cheese. She stutters and stammers a bit, but let’s be honest, that’s just her style. Saint Delia can be forgiven any kind of inarticulate garbling because she has our best interests at heart, she wants us to learn to cook and enjoy it. Bless her heart.

Try not to be distracted by her earrings, as mesmeric these adornments are – looking like those head phones that people really serious about music wear – you do not want to miss any of this wonderful, tasty recipe. The food is the important thing, not the preposterous jewellery.

Seriously.

During this segment she sips daintily at this wine. Stuff that is probably quite expensive, but that she has a cellar the size of your entire house full of. After all Delia’s a very wealthy woman and rightfully so. She’s worked hard over the decades to bring good cooking and awareness of fresh ingredients.

Y’know until this controversial tome came along, but we won’t worry about that either. Oh no.

At the end of her guide to creating this culinary treasure she looks pretty relaxed and the wine bottle is looking a little over half empty.

It’s all good for Delia.

She now guides us over to another worktop. Homely as the first, forgetting the fact that you’re now being guided through a kitchen that a family of three could live in with room to spare for garage. It doesn’t matter, it’s the illusion that she’s just like you and I, and she happens to know all these wonderful things about cooking.

Our loosened hostess carries the glass and bottle of wine with her to this second counter. There’s already two bottles of wine waiting there, open, for her, but this is neither here nor there.

Her next dish is a, let’s say, stew, full of fresh vegetables, spices, herbs and whatever meat might be in your brain at the moment. A game stew. How’s that? A mix of venison and partridge perhaps. Yum.

The wine takes something of a bashing in this section, as this dish requires a lot of cooking so poor Delia is becoming rather thirsty. And giggly. Really it’s infectious, how much fun she’s having chopping and browning meat and cooking vegetables. She even makes some potatoes to accompany the dish, as well as a nice red currant jelly.

It’s all a lot of work and she babbles with increasing ebullience. Sometimes meandering away from the task at hand, pointing at the camera man and laughing at that oh-so funny birthmark that looks like an ejaculating penis on his face or becoming quiet and contemplative as she ruminates about how much she loves her husband, he’s a pain in the arse, but that doesn’t matter, because we’ve been through so much…

Now watch as an empty wine bottle is discreetly taken from the counter. Delia isn’t even aware as she sloshes some more wine into her glass, gets confused, asks if that was supposed to go into the stew and is told that’s the bottle of red on her right.

She quaffs her drinking wine, while pouring her cooking wine into the pot. A few finishing touches and a few more slugs of wine and we can leave the pot to simmer while Delia brings us to dessert.

“Don’t you take that camera off me, ya basserds!” she shouts when the poor, penis-faced camera man moves a little too fast as she moves back to the original counter.

This counter, by the magic of television and a put-upon and unsung home economist, has been cleaned and the ingredients for the meal’s finale are placed out.

A tiramisu. Oh dear.

She goes through creaming the mascarpone and cream together, swaying and making obscene suggestions to the camera man, “Is that to scale?” she asks the poor man, pointing the mark that he’s becoming ever more conscious of. She manages this, just.

Soaking of the sponges proves too much and things take a turn for the disturbing. The coffee liqueur bottle is to her lips in a flash and its contents are guzzled with disconcerting speed. It’s quite amazing that she doesn’t spill any as she’s swaying like a sapling in a hurricane.

“Thissis boring! Less fuckin’ party!” she cries and clambers up onto the counter and starts to dance, gripping the coffee liqueur bottle, with wild abandon.

The crew look on, being showered by Tia Maria, unsure of what they should do. With grim professionalism, and perhaps a little bit of vengeful glee, the cameraman keeps his lens firmly on the action.

Delia’s warmed to this party idea and is now calling for some “fuckin’ music”. Her blouse has fallen off one shoulder, revealing densely freckled skin, much to the horror of every member of the crew. Except maybe that producer who’s had a thing for her since the early days.

“C’mon! Get yer fuckin’ clothes off! Don’t be such a buncha prudes!” she slurs, undoing more buttons on her blouse. “Get em off!”

Some production assistant has scurried out of the room to retrieve Delia’s husband, who has that ‘oh, fuck, not again’ look about him and grabs her off the counter.

Our last view of Delia as the credits roll is her being dragged out of the kitchen, stripped to her bra and screaming, “Yer alla buncha fuggin’ borin’ cunts! Aaaargh!”

Join us next week when she makes coq au vin.

That is a dream. Isn’t it beautiful?


Will