Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Ranting and Canting

Celebrity Love Island. My God what is going on. I have no desire to blog on this subject, except as a form of purgative like a gut relieving belch or fart. If I rant my spleen about it here, quickly, I can get on with other things. And I like moaning about shit TV.

The scene of its birth, embarrassingly transparent. A TV programme-makers focus group. An ideas forum. A brain storming session. An ideas factory. A think-stink tank.
And a question "What makes these programmes, these, reality programmes work. What brings in the punters. Come on give us your ideas?"
"Celebs?" Celebs are a draw.
"Yes. Like it like it". And what about action. What should they be doing?"
"Sex?" Sex is a yes-brainer.
"Yes. Like it. Celebs. I can see it now. Young celebs - sort of sporty, pop-type, fame obsessed hangy- onny wastrels with sex on their minds." On holiday. A holiday-type atmosphere. Young-uns always score sex on holiday.

Fortune seeking z lister-celebs with wooing and sex at the top of the agenda if they're to win their way to money and fame and more sex. Their pathetic little insignificant minds. One track minds. Shagging. All they're good for. Washed up, untalented, on-the-cusp-clinging-on-lookers and wannabe tabloid fodder.

"We'll be minted!" Conclude the programme makers. The ideas gurus.

They will be too. A guaranteed success - the public gets what the public wants. That's it then. A reality programme with none of that crap involving unknown married middle-age dowagers and doting daddies. Let's big up with the single totty, the lads-mags-lads and their muses. And make sure they're, well, if not famous, at least heard of, or almost heard of through some simple endeavour or involving some dubious overnight publicity.

Let's have Big Brother meets I'm a Celeb and lose the bad tempered Stuarts the neurotic Pennys, banish those boring Deans eating all those beans. And strumming their guitars. Badly. All those mercurial gays and their claws-out fall-outs. And honest chumps and fatty clever cloggies and weird eccentrics and dying pensioners. And all their chivalry and nice guyness and cozy nannying and cheeky grinned chappesque and cooking tantrums and kind to cute animals palaver. They don't do the sex thing see. They're there, but they're not there. See.

It's the rude slags and outrageous chavs. The beery young blokies with their cocks forever in their hands. They're the real deal. They'll get involved in the main attraction.
The dumb Jades the pneumatic Jordans. The desperate nerd-like Pauls and love sick Peters. They are the heroines and heroes of the game. They played the game. They got dirty with each other. They performed against the odds, the tutting, the forbearance of the others, against a backdrop of sexless mundanity. Despite the disapproval of other contestants they gamely tickled and teased and joshed, and giggled and shagged on mainstream telly.

Next time, let's make a programme entirely out of Jades and Jordans and Pauls and Peters and Helens, and go for it, large. Lets blanket it. Let's make Celebrity Love Island.

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