Comedy

Dear Blue Eyed Bore (an open letter to Nicky Campbell)

Dear Nick”y” Campbell

This is a fan letter.

I don’t think you have any idea how many people out there deplore your continued retention as a broadcaster and columnist.

If you do, you can’t realise why they loathe you. It’s not because of your opinions, which are entirely inconsequential. It’s because, by being nothing more than a puffed up, monumentally self-satisfied hollow man, you are fundamentally unqualified to share them with us.

You live and work in a little bubble of happy ignorance, where you imagine your musings provoke a reaction, but they don’t. But you, yourself, do. You see, the deafening silence of disinterest in what you have to say every day is drowned out by the angry complaint of anyone with a brain who cares about the society we live in. We’re just mystified at why such a lazy, third-rate, self-promoting pub know-all is being inflicted on the public at large. Are British people so sinful, so beyond redemption, as to deserve this?

You are a pure product of phone-in radio – except now the presenter sounds like the stupid narcissistic punters.

I’m sorry, but being Scottish is not an excuse. You don’t get to be the unconventional “shock Jock”, winding up the English. The fact that you are Scottish is not only profoundly boring (and your constant trumpeting of your Scottishness is crashingly repetitive) but also damning to Scotland. Most Scots I have met are enlightened, interesting, substantial, genuinely (I say genuinely) witty and great company. You are none of these (not that I want to test the last one out). Oh, and a word to the dumb, most Scots don’t keep going on about Scotland.

To compound matters further, your attitude to your 5-Live co-presenters, most of whom are female and every one of whom is more accomplished than you (which I’ll grant you isn’t difficult), is so horribly patronising as to be unprofessional, not to mention offensive. You’re not only stupid, you’re nasty as well.

The fact that your commonplace brand of cloying, emetic waffle, received opinion and weak argument, all masquerading as substance, has enabled you to pursue your career without apparent controversy says precisely everything there is to say about modern broadcasting.

It’s apt that you’re all over the airwaves when at a time when somebody had the idea of dredging up all the pisspoor light entertainment presenters of yesteryear and deciding to put them back on TV and radio, but get them to share their views with us in print as well.  Where the likes of Terry Wogan, Noel Edmonds and Michael Parkinson are being given air time and column inches.  You’re the little prince of all that shite.

Look, on a more positive note, you are an excellent game show host. Possibly one of the best I’ve ever seen. Whatever dubious skills you have, are only suited to this sort of television. It is beyond me how you (and your employers) haven’t recognised this when millions of us out there have.

Yours hoping never to hear or read you ever again

Julien Allen

Dominatrix spanks weirdo

British viewing public in rare display of taste shocker.

On Channel 4, dog trainer Victoria Stilwell returned with It’s Me or the Dog and 1.9 million viewers in the half hour from 8.30pm.

This was enough to beat the second instalment of BBC2′s The Alastair Campbell Diaries, which drew an audience of 1.5 million viewers in the 8pm hour.

Allons enfants…

I sat with a despondent sense of doom (or a doomed sense of despondency) as two unrated unfancied French nobodies, out of their depth at this stage of the competition, M Gasquet and Mlle Bartoli, took on two giants of the game, Mr Roddick and Miss Henin, in their respective singles at SW19 today and immediately started the process of losing very badly, right on cue.

Then, just as it was time for dinner, they went and staved off the inevitable for one moment by taking a set off their illustrious opponents, thereby saving some face and delaying my dinner.

Then….well, then they both won! Well done for knocking cycling off the front of l’Equipe for one day. I’ll print your pictures, because come Sunday, trust me, no-one will remember who you were…

GasquetBartoli

Panic on the streets of Kensington & Chelsea…

1.04pm: this just in from BBC News:

Tories ‘will not change strategy’
There will be “absolutely no change in strategy” by the Conservatives, shadow chancellor George Osborne has said.

Followed at 2.43pm by, er, this from BBC News:

Tories ‘will listen’ over terror
The Tories have promised to “listen to new evidence” for holding terror suspects for longer without charge. Shadow chancellor George Osborne told the BBC his party was open-minded.

Where’s Malcolm Tucker when you need him?

Taking the Michael Holding…oh, and the piss as well.

The West Indies players are threatening to go on strike because they aren’t being paid enough.

The West Indies players are threatening to go on strike because they aren’t being paid enough.

Sorry, I just thought I’d write that again just in case you thought you were dreaming the first time you read it.

CHUTZ·PAH [also hutz·pah] n. Utter nerve; effrontery: “has the chutzpah to claim a lock on God and morality” New York Times. [Yiddish (khutspe) from Mishnaic Hebrew (huspa), to be insolent]

Ten days and counting

There are rare occasions on which you just have to stand back and applaud.

Armando Iannucci has today provided one such moment.

Do you ever spend a lot of time composing angry emails in your head? I mean the sort of ones you feel like writing after you’ve just gone into a bank and said, ‘I’d like to take five pounds of my money out, please’, and the staff member says you can’t because the bank’s new policy is only to give money to customers who’ve a counter-signature from their next-of-kin with an accompanying list of items you’re going to buy with the money, provided they’re of no practical value and can dissolve in water; plus, it’s a requirement of the bank that anyone asking for money has to agree in advance to a small piece of throat-surgery involving the insertion of a microchip near your oesophagus that allows the bank-teller to alter the pitch of your voice remotely so that on occasions you can unexpectedly sound like Beth Orton; and now if you turn to that monitor up there behind you, you can see footage shot yesterday of the assistant manager hosting a children’s birthday party on a makeshift rug made from your money while serving champagne to your next of kin?

I mean the sort of letter you write after that; one full of your most venomous threats brilliantly articulating all the shades of your fury, one that will go down as the finest document in protest literature.

Well, that’s how I’ve been feeling ever since Tony Blair mouthed off about how ‘feral’ the media had become in its relentless pursuit of opinion over fact. Incensed, I was; livid; my head-veins positively whip-lashed with rage.

All week I’ve been working out in my head a poisonous reply to post here; the ultimate summing up of Blair’s maggot-headed slipshoddiness with the truth, something about how only a man with the soul of a clown-fish could possibly have a go at the press for their ‘confusion of news and commentary’ and berate them for not pushing facts over opinion while at the same time telling his party that ‘judgments aren’t the same as facts: I only know what I believe’, which, if you analyse it, is him putting opinion over reality and thus challenging 2,500 years of Western epistemology; oh yes, I was working up to some blindingly furious berating of him for surrounding himself with mimsy little yes-horns like Ruth Kelly who bleat opinions about how immigrants should learn English, but who do so by saying, and I quote, ‘we can recognise the richness that diversity brings, and try to not only recognise people’s identities but then create frameworks in which those people come together’, which sounds as far away from the English language as Saturn; I was steadily brewing up a grand signing-off in which I shouted: ‘He just wants facts, does he?’

Well here’s a fact: he bombed kids without checking and everyone hates him, the squawking whoopee cushion – but then I realised I really couldn’t be bothered.

He goes in two weeks’ time. The summer’s coming, cold beers can be taken outside in the evening, strawberries now look like they mean it. I’m going to forget about him, right now. So here, now, what you’re reading is the last ever time I mention him, or get worked up about any of the ill-thought-through drizzles of eye-catching, brain-gouging ideas he has.

For the next two weeks, I plan to ignore him, quite actively and aggressively. He’s gone. This, this here, is the last time I type Tony Blair.

Aaaaaaaaah, that tastes soooo good! Now I’m off to get rat-knackeringly drunk.

Fillum 2007

The Guardian‘s Peter “Pete” Bradshaw really doesn’t like Ocean’s Thirteen:

It’s just the tiniest bit better than Ocean’s Twelve. To be worse, or as bad, the film would have had to have been a single 122-minute shot of 13 dead haddocks on a slab.