TV

Move the fuckers to Salford

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By the time I grumpily stomped from the lounge at about 6.15 last evening, the BBC Six o’clock News had worked its usual spell and made me feel like I’d been anally violated by a grizzly bear who’d run out of lube.

The bulletin having worked its way through the BBC’s palette of PowerPoint effects while patronisingly explaining to me what a recession is, and played a pointless succession of clips of Rupert Murdoch saying nothing helpfully interspersed by Nicholas Witchell consdescending to explain what it was that Rupert Murdoch was not saying anything about, the final straw came while George Alagiah introduced an item about The Great Drought Of 2012.

You see, it rained quite heavily in some parts of the country yesterday.

But the bulk of England is in a drought. Half-empty reservoirs, hosepipe bans, etc.

And those two things BLEW GEORGE ALAGIAH’S TINY MIND.

Clearly, the BBC thinks it’s impossible for there to be a drought (brought about by a sustained, long-term period of low rainfall) alongside a couple of hours of rain.

The BBC almost certainly blames the European Court of Human Rights for “them” taking away our God-given right to water our petunias WHEN THERE’S CLEARLY LOTS OF WATER AROUND SO WHAT IS THEIR PROBLEM, BLOODY JOBSWORTHS?

I didn’t wait to hear the “report” on this pressing “news” item, doubtless pointlesly topped and tailed by some poor schmuck in a raincoat who’d been told to drive around at great expense with his cameraman and sound engineer until they found somewhere where it was tipping it down with rain.

I pray that the Chief Executive of British Waterways (or whoever they interviewed for incisive insight and enlightened comment into this incredible phenomemon) replied:

“Two years – almost no rain. One day – heavy showers. Now fuck off, do the job we pay our licence fees for and go and report on what’s happening on South Sudan.”

But as there’s no mention of that on the front page of today’s Daily Mail I have to assume that didn’t happen.

Maybe tonight, eh, George?

How The Guardian loses millions of pounds every year under Alan Rusbridger

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Today is 4 April 2012.

There have been 95 days in 2012 so far.

In 2012 to date The Guardian has run 93 stories that include the phrase “Mad Men”.

Sky Atlantic’s viewing figures for the first three episodes of series five of Mad Men:

  • episode one – 98,000
  • episode two – 45,000
  • episode three – 47,000

There are roughly 60 million people in the UK.

47,000 as a percentage of 60,000,000 is less than 0.08%.

229,000 people bought The Guardian in January 2012 according to the industry circulation figures.

0.08% of 229,000 is 183.

So, adding in the friends and family of each journalist, the almost-daily stream of Guardian articles about Mad Men have been aimed at about 200 people.

A slowly growing sense of hopelessness and impending doom

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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

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  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)

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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.

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