TV

A slowly growing sense of hopelessness and impending doom

Story #1: London’s burning. Again.

Story #2: The markets are in freefall and various economies are failing. Again.

Story #3: There’s been a massive increase in crime in rural areas since the recession started.

I don’t know what story #4 was on the BBC’s early evening news yesterday because I switched off at that point.

Each of the stories was presented in isolation, with fuck all by way of analysis or thought apart from a flash of Stephanie Flanders’ revolting green skirt.

It’s all linked, of course, and none of it is remotely surprising for those with half-an-inch of long-term memory. It happened in the 80s during a recession. It happened during the 90s in a recession. Just because we didn’t have a recession for 15 years doesn’t mean we should raise an eyebrow that the slash and burn approach to economics adopted by PBD and Gideon have resulted in exactly the same social upheaval that occurred when That Bloody Woman did the same thing three decades ago.

There are only two differences now.

First, rolling news channels have been invented. They’ve got to fill all that airtime somehow. The riots of the 80s just got ten minutes at the start of the evening news bulletin. Now it’s all riots, all the time. Breaking news is the new light entertainment.

Second, our leaders – the people in whom apparently sane and rational individuals were inexplicably prepared to place their trust just over a year ago – were absent. Whatever other flaws she had (and I think she had a couple), you can’t imagine a complete vacuum in Downing Street when That Bloody Woman was in charge. Even Bliar and Arrivederci Gordon realised some bugger had to hold the fort.

Everybody deserves a holiday. Even PBD and Gideon. (Or, more accurately, their families.) But, in real life, everybody in my department is not allowed to go on holiday at the same time. It is shameful beyond comprehension that the Prime Minister, the Deputy Prime Minister, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Home Secretary and the Mayor of London were all on holiday at the same time.

And I notice Chauncey Gardiner was on his hols, too, only deigning to come back from Devon’s Adenoid Extraction Recovery Unit AFTER PBD had announced he was getting on a plane to fly back from Tuscany. That tells you everything you need to know about our Leader (sic) of the Opposition.

What was our Coalition administration’s stunning Plan B while everyone topped up their tans? William Hague and Vince Cable. The former, a man whose leadership credentials have already been roundly rejected by the British electorate in a plebiscite; the latter, a man whose sole achievement over the past 15 months has been to demonstrate his lack of temperamental suitability for ministerial office. It shows how well the Don’t Panic Double Act went that first Nick Clegg, then Theresa May and then finally PBD dragged their sorry arses back to work like a half-hearted zombie invasion.

Gideon remains absent, soaking up the Californian sun. Rome burns but it’s nothing to do with him, guv.

Of course, the real salt is yet to be rubbed into the wound. Wait for it – it’s coming: the emergency police powers. We’re inches away from a police state. But then maybe that’s what our politicians have wanted all along.

And one final thing. What the fuck has this got to do with the Olympics? How many people were murdered in Los Angeles in 1983? Or Beijing in 2007? Grow a fucking pair. If you want to try to shift attention away from the fact that you have wrought this on yourselves by pursuing exclusionary policies, fine. But some of us would have preferred all along if the £9.3 billion or more of public money being spent on the Olympics had been spent pursuing inclusionary policies.

Not for the first time, the Minister quotes with approval Tom McRae:
Rioters of London, remember to leave some real estate standing so mortgage companies have a product to deny you.
I wish the poor shopkeepers luck in claiming on their insurance or getting small business loans. The wrong buildings are on fire.

(Thanks to Radio Nixon for the post title.)

30 Things The Minister Did On His Sabbatical

  1. Learned more than he ever wanted to know about multiple myeloma, bone marrow transplants, quadruple heart bypass surgery and the work of cardiac intensive care nursing staff.
  2. Spent a lot of time driving up and down the M1.
  3. Lost 70lbs.
  4. Put 28lbs back on.
  5. Lost another 21lbs.
  6. Put another 18lbs back on.
  7. Lost another 14lbs.
  8. Joined the Labour Party in the hope that the new leader wouldn’t be a breathtakingly clueless wanker of the first water.
  9. Resigned from the Labour Party due to the breathtaking cluelessness of its new leader, Edward Samuel Miliband, Wanker of the First Water.
  10. Helped fund four albums (by Sophie Madeleine, Emmy The Great, Terra Naomi and a work-still-in-progress by Kat Edmondson).  Girls with guitars, eh?
  11. Been very impressed indeed by and become very well acquainted with the music of John Grant, The Wellspring, Sun Kil Moon, School Of Seven Bells, Alicia Witt, The National, Pete Yorn, Hannah Peel and A Fine Frenzy.
  12. Bought Tom McRae‘s back catalogue. Some fucker’s got to feed his pigs.
  13. Watched a lot of House, Wallander and Community, while wishing I lived in the States so I could watch more of Craig Ferguson.
  14. Got an iPad.
  15. Bought my godson his first iPod.
  16. Waved a fond farewell to Chesterfield FC’s “atmospheric” old stadium on Saltergate.
  17. Watched in open-mouthed amazement as Chesterfield FC won the Fourth Division title in their first season in their really rather fabulous new stadium.
  18. Bought a couple of domain names I like a lot.
  19. Almost completely deGoogleified my life.  Fuck, that felt good.
  20. Discovered and greatly approved of Mighty Leaf Teas.
  21. Got even more anal about fonts and typefaces.
  22. Fell in love some fabulous Mac software – Alfred, Flow, Hype, iA Writer, Sparrow.
  23. Installed a PowerLine network at the Ministerial Residence.  (I’m sure the Minister’s Wife would have preferred me to redecorate the staircase and landing, but you have to pace yourself at my age.)
  24. Discovered that Nerina Pallot is a seriously top lass.  (Her new album’s out next week.)
  25. Fell for Pop Culture Happy Hour.  Glen Weldon is now my personal hero.  (Mistyped that last sentence.  It originally said “Glen Weldon is now my personal herp”.  I think Glen Weldon would approve.)
  26. Had a Twitter exchange with Nicky Fucking Campbell in which I was so civil I did not once call him “Nicky Fucking Campbell”.
  27. Saw several David Ford gigs (travelling 150 miles through a snowstorm to attend one) and read David Ford’s book, I Choose This.  Was not disappointed once.
  28. Had brief work-related journeys to Miami, Puerto Rico, San Francisco, Paris, Munich, Madrid and Stockholm.  Didn’t really enjoy them but Stockholm is lovely (as are its inhabitants).
  29. Came up with an idea for Coalition Cabinet Toilet Paper, because wiping my arse is the only thing that shower of unmitigated cock cheese is fit for.
  30. Generally despaired rather a lot.
So we’re back.  Buckle up: it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Against All Odds (Take A Look At Me Now)

Earlier today I completed my third 24-hour urine test.

This time the 5-litre plastic container came with a set of instructions.

At this point I should say that the 5-litre plastic container is not entirely empty on collection; it contains an amount of sulfamic acid, so you have to be a bit careful with it.

My local hospital has produced a photocopied A4 sheet that amounts to six different ways of saying, “DON’T STICK YOUR TODGER IN THE PLASTIC CONTAINER WITH ACID IN IT!”

No shit, Mr. Health & Safety…

Anyway, two more election leaflets today.  The Labour one, like the Tory one last week, went straight in the bin.  Curiously, however, we did read every word of the BNP leaflet before recycling it, just out of fascination.

The British National Party leaflet was the one featuring the Italian pensioners and the American workers.  Got to laugh, haven’t you?

What struck us was that not only were the testimonials fake, but the leaflet didn’t mention any BNP candidates’ names, or feature their photographs.  Nice to know that the nasty racists standing in our area are so secure in their nasty racism that they won’t even associate their selves with it.

One of the “fun” parts of being signed off work until I die or 5 June (whichever is the sooner) is recording lots of guff on the Sky+ box and watching it.

So today I’ve watched Gregory’s Girl (still magnificent after nearly – gulp – 30 years) and, courtesy of the strangely named channel Zone Romantica, the first two episodes of the – gulp – 26-year-old The Thorn Birds.

Armed with a laptop, Wikipedia and Google I determined while watching said mini-series that this…

…subsequently turned into this…

It was tough enough on the 12-year-old Minister back in 1983 when she turned into this:

It all cast a whole new perspective on Father Ralph de Bricassart‘s urges, I can tell you.

Talking of Sky+, I have this evening left the Minister’s Wife watching Mike Gatting, Kay Burley, Dave Rowntree of Blur and Pattie Boyd playing Celebrity Bridge.

Once again for clarity, that’s Celebrity Bridge.

On Sky Arts 2.

Baise-moi.

Through early morning fog I see visions of the things to be

Last Friday night I recorded the first episode of Reggie Perrin.

Yesterday I watched it.

Now I’m out of touch with British sitcoms.  I can’t remember the last consistently good British sitcom I saw.  The first series of Green Wing was good.  The short-lived Freezing certainly showed promise.  There was the occasional chuckle to be had in Free AgentsExtras was a curate’s egg but when it was good it was bloody good.  The first series of The Office was obviously superb.

The other British sitcoms I have seen in the past decade have been so mediocre as to have made no lasting impression on me.  Any supposed golden age long behind us, perhaps “anonymnous mediocrity” is the standard by which British sitcoms should now be judged.

Still, however, I can’t remember seeing anything so woeful as Reggie Perrin.

Reggie Perrin makes Paul Merton’s remake of the Hancock scripts look like a good idea.

Reggie Perrin was so bad that I do not believe there to be sufficient hyperbole in the world to express just how cosmically wretched it was.

Throughout the never-ending 28 minutes’ running time I not only didn’t laugh or chuckle once, I didn’t even smile.

I am a fan of the original Fall And Rise Of Reginald Perrin from the 1970s: I own the two series on DVD.  My complaint, though, is not that something untouchable has been remade or even that it is not as good as the original, simply that Reggie Perrin is so irredeemably poor in every aspect that it should never have made it to broadcast had an even remotely effective quality control process been in place.

The pre-broadcast interviews were keen to point out that this was a sitcom filmed before an audience.  If that’s the case, the audience in question must have been either watching a different performance, stoned or a combination of the two.  The “laughs” came a good couple of seconds after the “punchlines” and their intensity bore no relation to the strength of the gag.

Having sat open-mouthed in disbelief through the entire car crash, I invited The Minister’s Wife to dip her toe into the waters.  She lasted less than three minutes before deleting the recording from our Sky+ box in horror.

Yet perhaps we have been spoiled by the likes of 30 Rock because – remarkably – the programme did not get a total flaying in the papers.

Damian Thompson in the Telegraph hits the nail squarely on the head:

The updated Reggie Perrin [is spectacularly] worse than the original… There aren’t enough sofa cushions in the world to cover viewers struck by chronic embarrassment after tuning in to the remake. “Have a good day at the office,” says Mrs Perrin as Reggie heads off to the railway station. “I won’t,” he replies. Cue cackle from the audience, little realising that it has just heard the best joke of the episode, if not the series.

At least now we know why Clunes seemed defensive in the interviews he gave for the show. The revamped Reggie Perrin belongs in the annals of comedy disasters.

It’s nowhere near enough, but at least Thompson made an effort.

Sam Wollaston in The Guardian managed to critique the programme without once referring to its content, instead choosing to lament the paucity of imagination behind the commission.

I wish I could get paid for avoiding doing my job but at least he didn’t say it was good.

Tom Sutcliffe in the Independent comes dangerously close to that crime by concluding that, “it’s not a disaster, by any means, which may be the best you can hope for from such an unimaginative commission.”

Like the studio audience, Sutcliffe was clearly watching something else.  I shudder to think how bad something must be for Sutcliffe to consider it a disaster: by this measure the World Glass Coffee Table Shitting Championships hosted on Sky 3 by Elton Welsby, Matt Lorenzo and a naked Keith Chegwin might just about qualify.

The war criminal, though, is Andrew Billen in The Times.

HE GIVES THIS PUTREFYING CORPSE OF A PROGRAMME 4 STARS.

OUT OF 5!

It is… very funny, largely because of Martin Clunes as Perrin who lumbers through home, his daily commute and his office life, like a giant suffering the early stages of pathological disinhibition. Clunes must have been wary of stepping into Leonard Rossiter’s shoes. He is funnier than Rossiter was in the part.

“Funnier than Rossiter”?

What the buggery fuck is Billen on?

My unbridled outrage is let down by my inability to express just how dire this programme truly is.

Anyone can say that something was an unadultered disaster, but that doesn’t do this anything like justice.

This dreadful, awful, abysmal programme is so thoroughly poor on every level that anybody who laughed at it should be sectioned for the good of the rest of the community.

That something so bad could have been produced without the involvement of Simon Cowell is a very worrying development.

Roget’s entries for “execrable” are:

accursed,  blasted,  blessed,  bloody,  confounded,  cursed,  damn,  darn,  infernal

None are remotely strong enough to describe how inept Reggie Perrin is.

The adjective “poor”, defined as “deficient, inadequate” Roget brings us:

base, below par, common, contemptible, crude, diminutive, dwarfed, exiguous, faulty, feeble, humble, imperfect, incomplete, inferior, insignificant, insufficient, lacking, low-grade, lowly, meager, mean, mediocre, miserable, modest, niggardly, ordinary, paltry, pitiable, pitiful, plain, reduced, rotten, scanty, second-rate, shabby, shoddy, skimpy, slight, sorry, sparse, subnormal, subpar, substandard, trifling, trivial, unsatisfactory, valueless, weak, worthless

Add them all up and you still only get 7.38% of the way towards appreciating how desperately appalling Reggie Perrin truly is.

It is so bad that in any walk of life other than The Arts, the Chancers responsible for passing off such substandard produce would lose their jobs.

Before facing a public flogging.

And being imprisoned.

For life.

Imagine that Microsoft ad for that music software I posted the other month.  Triple its paucity.  And extend it to 28 minutes…

YOU’RE STILL NOWHERE NEAR REGGIE MOTHERFUCKING PERRIN.

The first episode was so bad that you have to watch it to understand.

It’s on iPlayer – the gizmo that makes “the unspeakable unmissable”.

Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.