Apologies for the recent haitus but I do have a life outside watching crap on TV. And I was also nearly driven into a coma yesterday by the snooker final meaning that I couldn't blog (they played until 1 in the goddam morning - even Graham Dott had to stifle his yawns towards the end). Moreover, there seems to have been a notable lull in good bad telly of late, despite my best efforts to locate it. Strictly Dance Fever is just excess flab around the tummy of reality TV. Mobster week on Channel 4 only went to prove that films about gangsters are preferable to the ill-educated, morally bankrupt, self-contradictory actuality. I missed The Apprentice precluding any analysis of Syed's departure. I had high hopes for The Great British Menu (BBC, weekdays 6.30 pm) - which I foolishly imagined might take over where Masterchef Goes Large left off - but it doesn't, and let me tell you why. On MGL, contestants would either get chucked off every programme, or at least have their food tasted by the expert judges every day, so it felt like there was some step towards elimination or redemption each time you watched it. On The Great British Menu -which pits two chefs against each other for an entire week in the hope of cooking the meal for the Queen's birthday thingy in June - the whole week is devoted to the chef's perfecting of their individual courses with the judgement taking place on the Friday. So the only people who judge ANYTHING during the course of the week are the chefs themselves - who taste one course that their competitor has produced, and invariably slag it off because that person is their temporary nemesis. POINTLESS and BORING. By Friday - if you have managed to retain the will to find out who the hell won in the end (well done you) - you'll surprisingly discover that it's always the one that runs the Michelin-starred restaurant, such as Marco Pierre White, as opposed to the smarmy TV chef, such as Ainsley Harriot. As in The Eggheads (whom no consortium of fitness instructors from Portsmouth are ever going to vanquish), the boys are pretty much sorted from the men before The Great British Menu's even started (quite literally. I haven't seen one woman so far in this series. Do female chefs even EXIST?). In addition, it's not even as if you can learn how to cook the meals in the show, because they're all incredibly complicated and made with very expensive ingredients like anus of guinea fowl. Oh, and if all that didn't put you off, it's hosted by the repugnant Jennie Bond, who has no connection to the subject matter beyond the fact that in her tiny mind she IS a royal. It's funny how BBC2 can go from getting it so right to so wrong, and so quickly.
Things are looking up this week though, with the return of Lost tomorrow. I know I was angry at the end of the last series, but Yank friends have assured me that the next series is worth it. And of course, there's always Davina if you get desperate. Oh no, they axed that, didn't they? What a shame.
4 comments:
I say this here because I can't say it anywhere else. I am in love with Graeme Dott. There, I've said it. Now take a knife to my throat as I know you must.
I don't feel the urge to commit murder, just the need to get you some professional help. There is clearly something very, very wrong with you. x
It’s his eyes. Without those eyes he’d be nothing – just a man with Moby’s body, the mekon’s head, and an overweight, unattractive wife called Elaine. But look at those eyes when he’s playing (eyeing up a hole and potting the pink, etc, etc). There’s such intensity in those eyes, such profound existential wonder and angst. Oh, I could drown in those eyes…
Errrmmmm. Sorry?
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