Anyone who has caught Chantelle: Living the Dream on E4 probably agrees that its more my idea of a nightmare. The newly inaugurated celeb is going to have to hope that her existence will perk up a bit in the luxury department; over the course of the series we have seen her spend one night on German BB which looked horrific, an awful lot of time on Loose Women, The Wright Stuff and Richard & Judy, and even more with the Ordinary Boy. Now God forbid I should ever share an opinion with George Galloway, but every time I see Preston I'm inclined to agree that he IS a "sneak" and that, yes, you CAN tell it from his eyes. What a charmless man he really is. He met Chantelle's whole family for tea last week and just skulked moodily on the periphery of the room. I'd have been livid if I was her, all the way back in the car, "And that was my GRANDAD! He was in the goddamn WAR for Christ's SAKE, show some RESPECT and LOOK at him when he's talking to you next time!!" Poor old Chants. No freebies, no knight in shining armour, no discernible talent. Just the endless roundabout of daytime TV appearances and freezing cold shoots in bikinis for 'Now'. Living the dream indeed.
I watched the final of Project Catwalk because the show has garnered so much bad press, I thought it was my place as a connoisseur of shit-truffles to sample it. Most of the adverse publicity centred on the choice of Liz Hurley as presenter, which I think the editors must have retropectively tried to remedy because she only took up about 180 seconds of airtime in total. You could still tell her detractors were speaking the truth though, even in that relatively short space of time she made Chantelle look like David Attenborough.
Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe had its last programme of a three episode pilot last night, and I shall certainly be writing to BBC4 to demand they commission the series, and so should you. We are living in an age where a new breed of telly is emerging from the placental sac of very fat and probably crack-addicted mother. I don't mean reality TV (although I include some examples), because the notion of reality TV covers far too broad a church of programming these days and requires further, more analytical subcategorisation. I'm thinking of the "panel of experts" reality gameshow (Strictly Come Dancing, It Takes Two, The X Factor), late night interactive "audience call-up" gameshows (Quizmania, Dare), the "domestic harridan" self-help show (You Are What You Eat, Perfect Housewife), and others. It's an expanding list. What these programmes have done, to use Brooker's terminology, is turn the TV from being at the "heart of the family" into "a tawdry little slot machine in the corner", either through encouraging us to develop emotional attachments to contestants, manipulating us temporally and at a very vulnerable hour to part with cash, or ensuring that we all buy the associated McKeith or Turner book from the series. The purpose of all these programmes is the same though - to FLEECE us. Telly isn't a friend. It's our enemy. And I elect Brooker to be our commander of operations in the dark months of war which loom ahead, especially with 'ITV Play' just about to avariciously launch. Our country needs him, and your country needs you!
Oh, amazing DOND yesterday - possiby the best ever? - Saj stuck to her guns after losing the £250,000 and revealed £50,000 in the box she had refused to deal to the banker or swap. I nearly cried. Oh, alright then. I did cry. Of note also was Edmonds sexual attachment to poor Sajila, who had to put up with having her bottom groped by him. There aren't many sides to Edmonds I like, but this one I certainly don't and I implore him to keep his filthy mitts to himself in future. Don't blow it before you've even got it back, Noel.
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