So Britain’s Got Talent has it? Hmm… given the plethora of acts of questionable entertainment value on public display the other day, I suspect the name of the show may have been abridged from: “Britain’s Got [a shedload of numpty’s who each labour under the misapprehension that they’ve got] Talent”.
At a cursory glance, the cream of ‘talented Britons’ who negotiated their way to the semi-final included a kid’s dance troupe, a peculiar-looking opera singer and a comedically-challenged impressionist so bad that he felt the need to introduce each of his impersonations by name, lest the audience be confused as to who on earth he was failing spectacularly to sound like. For example: “[adopt generic cockney accent] Hello, my name’s Alan Sugar and I need an apprentice. What do you think David Beckham? [adopt generic high-pitched, slightly whiney voice] Well, my name’s David Beckham and I’m a bit thick etc.” – rubbish.
The prize for the winner is the opportunity to entertain The Queen at the Royal Variety Performance. One of the contestants who won’t be mingling with the likes of Joe Pasquale and Cirque du bloody Soleil is the aforementioned impressionist who the next day was exposed by one of the red-tops as some kind of sex pest, which scuppered his chances somewhat. I don’t think it’s the sort of “variety” Her Majesty’s into.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Paul’s Not Young Anymore
“Every time you go away, you take a piece of me with you” crooned tufty-haired ‘80s has-been Paul Young. Looking at him these days with his portly frame and jowls wobbling like pockets of loose change, you wouldn’t think he’d be complaining about a reduction in his size, irrespective of how it came about.
Whoever was taking pieces away with her back in the ‘80s clearly wasn’t taking very big ones.
Whoever was taking pieces away with her back in the ‘80s clearly wasn’t taking very big ones.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Warts and All
One of the more unsavoury (and therefore compelling) programmes on TV lately is Embarrassing Illnesses on Channel 4, where individuals sporting particularly sensitive diseases, afflictions and (best of all) mutations reveal all with the dual benefit of both getting treated by trained medical staff and entertaining the viewing public.
Kicking off a recent episode was a man who thought he’d grown breasts – apparently a not unheard-of complaint. The things splayed across his chest had grown to such proportions that his arms no longer hung at his side, causing him to look like looked like he’d recently been carrying two rolls of carpet under his arms.
After a quick fumble, the doctor told him not to worry because they weren’t actually comprised of breast tissue, and were instead, just fat. “What’s that doc? They’re just moobs, oh that’s alright then.”
Next, the doctor (and the viewer) was treated to the sight of a bristling crop of anal warts dwelling in the nether regions of a particularly portly lady. “Whoah!” said the doctor, a little unprofessionally, on sighting them. “Whoah!” we echoed at home as they loomed into view. Luckily a nurse was on hand with a special freezing gun which turned them into little meaty icicles which would subsequently drop off.
As entertainment goes, it’s not the most tasteful, but it’s fascinating nonetheless.
Kicking off a recent episode was a man who thought he’d grown breasts – apparently a not unheard-of complaint. The things splayed across his chest had grown to such proportions that his arms no longer hung at his side, causing him to look like looked like he’d recently been carrying two rolls of carpet under his arms.
After a quick fumble, the doctor told him not to worry because they weren’t actually comprised of breast tissue, and were instead, just fat. “What’s that doc? They’re just moobs, oh that’s alright then.”
Next, the doctor (and the viewer) was treated to the sight of a bristling crop of anal warts dwelling in the nether regions of a particularly portly lady. “Whoah!” said the doctor, a little unprofessionally, on sighting them. “Whoah!” we echoed at home as they loomed into view. Luckily a nurse was on hand with a special freezing gun which turned them into little meaty icicles which would subsequently drop off.
As entertainment goes, it’s not the most tasteful, but it’s fascinating nonetheless.
Cheers, Big Ears
Some clever scientists have mooted that life expectancy, by the year 2100, may be somewhere in the region of 292 years due to increasingly convenient lifestyles and advances in modern medicine.
Impressive though this may be, it’s worth reminding people of one of the quirks of the human body – that ears continue to grow throughout an individual’s lifetime. I have a nightmarish vision of the future in which armies of centenarians, each with giant ears like fleshy satellite dishes flapping in the breeze patrol the High Streets of the nation, lobes dragging on the ground, tutting at the activities of teenagers.
Oxfam shops would become impossible to navigate and they’d have to widen the pavements in places like Eastbourne. Or maybe coastal living would ultimately become too hazardous as their fragile bodies and huge lugs would prove particularly susceptible to onshore winds. They may all have to move inland, with towns like Reading becoming places of refuge for the elderly.
Maybe immortality isn’t such a great idea after all as, by definition, the size of an individual’s ears would therefore be infinite. Mind you, it never seemed to affect that Highlander fella.
Impressive though this may be, it’s worth reminding people of one of the quirks of the human body – that ears continue to grow throughout an individual’s lifetime. I have a nightmarish vision of the future in which armies of centenarians, each with giant ears like fleshy satellite dishes flapping in the breeze patrol the High Streets of the nation, lobes dragging on the ground, tutting at the activities of teenagers.
Oxfam shops would become impossible to navigate and they’d have to widen the pavements in places like Eastbourne. Or maybe coastal living would ultimately become too hazardous as their fragile bodies and huge lugs would prove particularly susceptible to onshore winds. They may all have to move inland, with towns like Reading becoming places of refuge for the elderly.
Maybe immortality isn’t such a great idea after all as, by definition, the size of an individual’s ears would therefore be infinite. Mind you, it never seemed to affect that Highlander fella.
Fragrant Funerals
According to a recent report, tumps of Russian men are dying as a result of drinking aftershave and cleaning agents, some of which contain up to 97% alcohol. So much so, that an astonishing half of all deaths of “working age” men in the country are due to hazardous drinking. These chaps may have met a premature end, I bet their breath smelled fantastic (unless they were drinking Joop!).
Heinz M and Ms
A thought occurred to me while watching our three-year-old yomp his way through a plate of Alphabetti Spaghetti on toast yesterday: do Heinz skimp on the cost of producing a separate W by just doubling the amount of Ms, as when they’re upside-down on a plate, they appear indistinguishable?
Similarly, if they were to introduce lower-case characters, the letters b, d, p and q are all interchangeable. They could save a fortune, (except, of course, they’d have to produce each of the other 22 letters as well).
Admittedly it wasn’t a very interesting thought, but a thought nonetheless.
Similarly, if they were to introduce lower-case characters, the letters b, d, p and q are all interchangeable. They could save a fortune, (except, of course, they’d have to produce each of the other 22 letters as well).
Admittedly it wasn’t a very interesting thought, but a thought nonetheless.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Tame Nightmares
There was footage of an Alice Cooper stage-show on telly the other night (called Welcome to my Nightmare or some such clichéd tat, and of the conceptual kind that abounded in the ‘70s). Filmed back in the days when Mr (or should that be Mrs?) Cooper was regarded as something of a renegade with a “shocking” penchant for heavy eye makeup and hanging himself, it made for amusing viewing.
In the show, our Alice largely spent his time emerging from behind cardboard tombstones and popping balloons with a plastic sword, or cavorting with dancers dressed as giant spiders clambering up and down a makeshift web. The rest of the time he spent striking theatrical poses like a first-year drama student and shouting a lot. Hmm, terrifying. Parents – protect your children’s eyes.
It was amusing to watch something which may have seemed rebellious and edgy at the time now appearing fantastically tame. In fact, the most nightmarish thing about the entire show was the somewhat unflattering red jumpsuit he wore which unfortunately left very little to the imagination.
This tempering of what was once seen as subversive isn’t a quality restricted to Mr Cooper, and it’s well-documented that what goes around comes around in music. Years ago, Elvis’s swaying hips were the most seditious thing in the world of entertainment, with each trademark wiggle sending out seismic shockwaves of repressed sexuality across America, corrupting young girls and disgusting their parents.
And so to today, where the natural inheritor of Alice Cooper’s crown is Marilyn Manson, who has kept the pasty face and heavy eye makeup of his predecessor, and who has his own effect on impressionable youth. To all of you moping around in your big black coats and peculiar hair: your little hero, with his toyshop props and one googly eye, is about as outrageous and subversive as those root vegetables that used to appear on That’s Life that resembled malformed genitalia.
Time will judge him just as it judges everything else. He’s just a normal skinny chap called Brian who’s had a persona constructed by some clever marketing people at the record company in an effort to convince you that you might like to buy his music, and really you’re no different from the girls who used to go into paroxysms of delight every time Mr Presley flung his pelvis left and right. Aah! Bless you all...
In the show, our Alice largely spent his time emerging from behind cardboard tombstones and popping balloons with a plastic sword, or cavorting with dancers dressed as giant spiders clambering up and down a makeshift web. The rest of the time he spent striking theatrical poses like a first-year drama student and shouting a lot. Hmm, terrifying. Parents – protect your children’s eyes.
It was amusing to watch something which may have seemed rebellious and edgy at the time now appearing fantastically tame. In fact, the most nightmarish thing about the entire show was the somewhat unflattering red jumpsuit he wore which unfortunately left very little to the imagination.
This tempering of what was once seen as subversive isn’t a quality restricted to Mr Cooper, and it’s well-documented that what goes around comes around in music. Years ago, Elvis’s swaying hips were the most seditious thing in the world of entertainment, with each trademark wiggle sending out seismic shockwaves of repressed sexuality across America, corrupting young girls and disgusting their parents.
And so to today, where the natural inheritor of Alice Cooper’s crown is Marilyn Manson, who has kept the pasty face and heavy eye makeup of his predecessor, and who has his own effect on impressionable youth. To all of you moping around in your big black coats and peculiar hair: your little hero, with his toyshop props and one googly eye, is about as outrageous and subversive as those root vegetables that used to appear on That’s Life that resembled malformed genitalia.
Time will judge him just as it judges everything else. He’s just a normal skinny chap called Brian who’s had a persona constructed by some clever marketing people at the record company in an effort to convince you that you might like to buy his music, and really you’re no different from the girls who used to go into paroxysms of delight every time Mr Presley flung his pelvis left and right. Aah! Bless you all...
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