I nearly hurt myself laughing at Never Mind The Buzzcocks last night. Back in the day, I was a fan of this show. Then the host was the superslick 50s throwback Mark Lamarr. He was great and I thought would not be easily replaced. Nonetheless the new guy is fantastic: I'd had a brief review of this guy at Ratkinson's House of British Review (in Khandallah) and was impressed, but that was as nothing to a particular moment in this show (not to mention his non-stop riling of Jermaine Jackson). It was suggested that Courtney Love could crush the slender host like a twig. To which his riposte, presented like a Poirot resolution with a biro comported as a cigarette holder... "Or maybe she kill me and make it look like suicide". I almost threw my back into a spasm laughing while the screen flashed up the message "SIMON AMSTELL IS DEFINITELY WRONG".
I've also been watching the monstrous I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here. It's trite, annoying and utterly hypnotic with the most loathsome panto characters (most of whom would be nice as pie outside the artifical construct of the show). But, my goodness, it is compulsive. From plastic Janice Dickinson through Rodney Marsh with his repetitive humour/misogyny to the New Age patroniser Lynne Franks it is utterly theatrical.
Hopefully they'll also bring over the new comedy/drama about estates agents. Entertaining stuff in a mainstreamy sort of way, even if a bit mean-spirited. It's nice to be watching telly again, as you may have guessed.
Did nothing today, and yet I don't feel I wasted my time. Needed, I think. I'll get back into the swing soon enough, and there's only Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday to organise before the plan kicks in again. Then I have no free days until Christmas! Scary stuff, eh?
Perpignan piccie:
Have more Narbonne while we're here...
No comments:
Post a Comment