Someone crapped on the floor. Tracey suggests it could be a “small mammal.” Yes, Trace, my money is on Shabnam. Charley thinks she can see a footprint in it. She’s lucky her face didn’t end up in after she spent the night Ziggy baiting, stealing Nicky’s alcohol and allowing the increasingly stressed young old man to deal with the brunt of Nicky’s depression inducing temper. The next day, Nicky and Lesley discuss men. Lesley wants passion. A strange hungry look creeps over her face, the sort of look that could frighten the horses. She knows two men will enter on Friday…she can almost smell them. “What can a man give you?” She asks Nicky. Think about it Lesley. Arrange these words into a well know sentence To Seeing Good Right A!
Carole attempts to occupy the dullards by prizing them away from sunbathing and encouraging them to take part in a sack race. Big Brother scuppers any effort at fun and confines everyone to the house. Ziggy pines for some testosterone company…he finds himself bitching and arguing and talking about emotions, he practically a girl. He worries for Chanelle’s “innocence” fearing she may be “corrupted” although his fears soon die away when a scantily clad Chanelle invites him into bed. Turns out Ziggy is the only one allowed to do any corrupting.
By Friday night two more men are desperately shoved into the house…I’m worried that some over auditioned London himbo who knows Charley from the party scene is about to descend. First in is Gerry a 31-year-old “Greek poof academic”. He’s a gay man who is fed up with boys, over qualified and unemployable. His hobby is basically sex. I sense he is almost a kindred spirit with good old Nicky…I can see them bonding over sugar puffs and ancient civilisation.
Seany, the missing Irish member of Goldie Lookin' Chain is next. He’s a 25-year-old Michael Jackson fan…he even supported him at his trial. A gay man who was “once straight” Seany is a 25-year-old youth worker who hates camp guys and elderly people and dresses like Shabnam's smellier male alter ego. He milks the crowd so much they go from cheers to boos in four and half seconds. Fat legged girls with over bleached hair chant, “Get Charley Out” something duly noted in Seany’s mind. He waits nervously by the door until Sam and Amanda wrestle him to the ground in a rush of oestrogen.
My spidey sense tingles with Seany. I do not like the man…he’s too consciously ‘wacky’ where it comes naturally to Tracey. He’s got narrow eyes and a very cold face…although having said that I’ll probably end up loving him in a few weeks and joining some crazed internet forum of love just for him. I prefer Gerry; he at least has a sense of gratitude, humour and intelligence. I feel bad for slagging Ziggy off now, he aint so bad in comparison.
Tragedy strikes on Saturday when fabulous Lesley Brain decides to leave. She’s too bored to cope and she has smelt the very same bad smell I get with Seany. It’s a pity…she was the only reason I was watching. I blame Seany…he should never have lifted Lesley’s duvet (thank God that’s not a euphemism).
Laura whines and bitches. I had high hopes for Laura but her personality consists entirely of having those “hilarious” big wangers. I’m bored of her twittering on about Ziggy and Chanelle. Her face is so sour she could put herself off food – and that’s saying something. Charley worries about the “Get Charley Out” chants but Nicky tells her to “turn it around”. Nicky dear, Charley would have to save an orphanage of blind one-limbed children from the ravages of fire for that crowd to like her.
My live feed broke down. I really didn’t care. That’s not a good omen.
Love the new housemates? Worry that BO is pungent in the air? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
Monday, 11 June 2007
Friday, 8 June 2007
Big Brother 8: Day 10 8th June 2007
The trouble with hastily enforced OfCom dictated new rules is that you have to stick to them.
Emily, the blonde empty eyed Hollyoaks clone with the voice like a posh Orville the Duck, postponed her tedious rows with Chanelle to dance in her pants in the garden with Charley and Nicky. She tried to be hip, she tried to be jive…she somehow ended up calling Charley a n***er. Heck! Emily retired to bed and hoped no one saw. Charley and Nicky twittered on about how nothing had happened, immediately piquing the interest of the entire house who guessed exactly what was said. Fifteen worn out Channel 4 Executives sat with their heads in their hands, a vision of Shilpa Shetty’s wholesome tears rushing through their minds. Emily is dragged knickerless out of bed at 3.30am and instantly ejected from the house for her racist remarks.
Lesley is unperturbed. Emily’s “stirring” had met a buffer in Lesley. She reads Big Brother’s laminate explanation with no emotion save a twinkle of superciliousness. Ziggy/Zac, a 26-year-old man of 44 nods knowingly, stating that what Emily said was “not cool” before comforting Charley and rubbing Chanelle’s neck. The mood is one of deflation.
Shabnam Soap Dodger, a woman so mucky Channel 4 already employed her in a series about mucky people, is spared her eviction. Still, in Shabnam Land everything is always “great” and everyone “gorgeous.” “I’m just here for exposure” she opines several times a minute. Shabnam dear, please stop exposing it…I for one don’t want to see it. Big Brother cannot be bothered to continue with Shabnam’s punishment now Emily has gone. They relent meekly and the shower room is opened and skanky Shab finally gets a wash. The colour of her bath water! Ugh.
Vapid Twin 1 straightens Chanelle’s hair whilst Vapid Twin 2 looks on. Charley plays the racially abused victim, “Emily wasn’t offensive yeah, but you know, yeah, she so shouldn’t have said it yeah?” I’m sure Charley thinks this will win it for her, after all it worked for Shilpa. Charley my love, Shilpa had decorum and a career you have a size zero arse and a gob like a rip in the space time continuum.
Carole discovers something dangerously close to a personality, something she has successfully hidden since her entrance VT. She decides to play a trick on Lesley which I somehow doubt will go down well. Tracey flops around the house “‘aving it” and “dealing wiv it” extending her annoying repertoire of adding “age” to absolutely bloody everything; Ruleage was broken, Boobage was on display. Someone had a cup of tea-age. Tracey – piss offage and have a washage!
Laura the woman who apprently needs more food than anyone else (you don’t get fat through need my dear, just greed. And thyroid.) lollops on the sofa in her dressing gown contributing nothing, not even a jolly Myfanwyism. She’s a bit like Jo O’Meara but lacking the reckless edge. Since she was prized away from the fridge by Nicky the Fringe, Laura has offered nothing, not even a small undercurrent of wit. Thank goodness for Lesley, a grumpy bossy old woman who I think I shall model myself on.
With the moronic but strangely compulsive Emily gone, Big Brother really needs some men. I’m a free thinking, future loving feminist and all that balls but please…a couple of Alpha males and a miserable old sod would do the house a world of good, plus Ziggy/Zac, the lipless, leather-faced sh*t stirrer needs someone to call him out. Lesley needs someone who might, just might, get her asides and her jokes. Charley needs another excuse to talk about herself and complain, “I’m not being funny yeah? But…” etc etc etc. Thankfully, two men are to enter tonight.
God rest Emily, long live a man of distinction.
Think Charley is a victim? Trust Ziggy with your life? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
Emily, the blonde empty eyed Hollyoaks clone with the voice like a posh Orville the Duck, postponed her tedious rows with Chanelle to dance in her pants in the garden with Charley and Nicky. She tried to be hip, she tried to be jive…she somehow ended up calling Charley a n***er. Heck! Emily retired to bed and hoped no one saw. Charley and Nicky twittered on about how nothing had happened, immediately piquing the interest of the entire house who guessed exactly what was said. Fifteen worn out Channel 4 Executives sat with their heads in their hands, a vision of Shilpa Shetty’s wholesome tears rushing through their minds. Emily is dragged knickerless out of bed at 3.30am and instantly ejected from the house for her racist remarks.
Lesley is unperturbed. Emily’s “stirring” had met a buffer in Lesley. She reads Big Brother’s laminate explanation with no emotion save a twinkle of superciliousness. Ziggy/Zac, a 26-year-old man of 44 nods knowingly, stating that what Emily said was “not cool” before comforting Charley and rubbing Chanelle’s neck. The mood is one of deflation.
Shabnam Soap Dodger, a woman so mucky Channel 4 already employed her in a series about mucky people, is spared her eviction. Still, in Shabnam Land everything is always “great” and everyone “gorgeous.” “I’m just here for exposure” she opines several times a minute. Shabnam dear, please stop exposing it…I for one don’t want to see it. Big Brother cannot be bothered to continue with Shabnam’s punishment now Emily has gone. They relent meekly and the shower room is opened and skanky Shab finally gets a wash. The colour of her bath water! Ugh.
Vapid Twin 1 straightens Chanelle’s hair whilst Vapid Twin 2 looks on. Charley plays the racially abused victim, “Emily wasn’t offensive yeah, but you know, yeah, she so shouldn’t have said it yeah?” I’m sure Charley thinks this will win it for her, after all it worked for Shilpa. Charley my love, Shilpa had decorum and a career you have a size zero arse and a gob like a rip in the space time continuum.
Carole discovers something dangerously close to a personality, something she has successfully hidden since her entrance VT. She decides to play a trick on Lesley which I somehow doubt will go down well. Tracey flops around the house “‘aving it” and “dealing wiv it” extending her annoying repertoire of adding “age” to absolutely bloody everything; Ruleage was broken, Boobage was on display. Someone had a cup of tea-age. Tracey – piss offage and have a washage!
Laura the woman who apprently needs more food than anyone else (you don’t get fat through need my dear, just greed. And thyroid.) lollops on the sofa in her dressing gown contributing nothing, not even a jolly Myfanwyism. She’s a bit like Jo O’Meara but lacking the reckless edge. Since she was prized away from the fridge by Nicky the Fringe, Laura has offered nothing, not even a small undercurrent of wit. Thank goodness for Lesley, a grumpy bossy old woman who I think I shall model myself on.
With the moronic but strangely compulsive Emily gone, Big Brother really needs some men. I’m a free thinking, future loving feminist and all that balls but please…a couple of Alpha males and a miserable old sod would do the house a world of good, plus Ziggy/Zac, the lipless, leather-faced sh*t stirrer needs someone to call him out. Lesley needs someone who might, just might, get her asides and her jokes. Charley needs another excuse to talk about herself and complain, “I’m not being funny yeah? But…” etc etc etc. Thankfully, two men are to enter tonight.
God rest Emily, long live a man of distinction.
Think Charley is a victim? Trust Ziggy with your life? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
Thursday, 31 May 2007
Big Brother 8: Opening Night: 30th May 2007
So, Big Brother returned, rumours abound of an all-female house, major twists, shocks etc. I idly tuned in, mainly to satiate a rush of self loathing.
The show began with an OfCom enforced apology. Somewhere in Channel 4 Towers I imagine the poor continuity announcer, bound by the hands, tied to a wheel-able armless office chair, shoved at a desk where he was made to read out the ever-so-sincere apology – a grimace audible down the microphone. I searched for subliminal ‘F*ck you OfCom – Jade Goody rules!’ but saw none. I hoped for grovelling, I didn’t get any. I get a feeling the whole summer will be as disappointing.
Davina shimmered into view, all sallow cheeks and leather clad – no more mention of the horror of Celebrity Big Brother. It’s like it never happened! A rudimentary tour of the house got underway, gaudy Perspex, giant beds that promises to “sleep six” and a bath in the living room (tit and arse shots guaranteed). With a panic strewn heart I looked for another House Next Door and I’m sure (hoping) there wasn’t one.
The parade of God awful, brain dead, over bleached and cellulite free morons commenced – almost all as the Daily Star predicted (god, they’re good!) – all women…after a fashion.
First in: 18-year-old twins Sam and Amanda, ‘social work students’ (Gawd help us all) who love pink, shopping, clothes and Barbies. It’s as though someone has trapped the soul of my three-year-old niece into the adult bodies of two berks…and then removed the brain. Cute, like two Bratz dolls left out in the sun too long, the pair jiggled and wobbled, said “luv it, luv it” and “woo” a lot very unconvincingly and finished each other’s sentences. They played the Thick Card, hated ‘chavs’ (the irony!) and proclaimed “everyone loves us!” I highly doubt even their parents are all that keen.
Crowd Reaction: Boos. Of course. Hell, I nearly booed and I was 200 miles away with half an eye on The Apprentice.
Prediction: Out soon. Friday I hope. I’m praying they are one entity and they won’t be forced to be separated, one pining wide eyed at the door as Bozo Twin 2 parties large at China Whites with Nikki Grahame and Calum Best.
Second in: Lesley, a 60-year-old retired head hunter who looks like my Auntie Janet but with a better speaking voice. The VT showed her manicured kitchen. She stood only feet away from a book so she is clearly what passes as the ‘intelligent’ quota and she will, therefore, come to her senses within 72 hours as soon as she spots young Pedro’s* erection in the pool one morning when the twins jiggle in tandem. (* Pedro is stereotypical boy who I’m sure is only hours away from our screens.) Lesley is “unpredictable” and hates to be “messed about.” Er, this is Big Brother. Idiot! I for one an immensely looking forward to one of Lesley’s “temper tantrums.” That might even be worth the live streaming fee. Lesley thinks she’ll win. Get a grip woman!
Crowd Reaction: Boos and a half hearted murmur of disinterest.
Prediction: Will walk, run, flee, escape, take flight, disappear, abscond….you get it.
Third in: 21-year-old Charley, an unemployed and unemployable London “It Gewl” with a boob job that couldn’t be more obvious if she'd had them sellotaped to her arse cheeks. Charley writhed her tiny bum in denim shorts and spouted inane crap about “gahin’ aaahhtt” and “baaayyyin’ cloaves” even though she had no job. She financed her cliché ridden existence through her cousin Kieran Richardson, seemingly the only member of her gene pool with any discernible talent, a Man Utd star who bought her a Mini Cooper. Oh Kieran, if only BMW developed brains, then your cash would have been better invested. You have to question the credentials of anyone who has their own name as a tattoo – are you ever likely to forget?
Crowd Reaction: Boos beyond belief…well, no. Not really I expected them. “Get her out!” before she even went in. Marvellous.
Prediction: She’ll be a grower. I think she’ll become a firm favourite soon. That, or a complete cow. These women, eh? No middle ground.
Fourth in: Tracey, a 36-year-old cleaner trapped in 1991 with her Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Shitcoat, pink hair and love of “getting it in a field” (that meant something so different in 2001.) She ‘danced’ on to the stage and talked about how she liked to get “f*cked and bolloxed” and how much she loves her job. She likes the buzz, hates liars and is a happy person because she’s a “nice person.” She sets off good vibes in me even though I have spent the night worrying she may descend into a Tourettes-lite Pete Bennett ‘worthy’ winner who is ever so, ever so, ever so whacky.
Crowd Reaction: Fairly good. None sexually attractive women always do well.
Prediction: If she doesn’t go crackers and at the prospect of no all night, Acid House raves and no glow-in-the-dark babies dummies on a string, she’ll do well.
Fifth in: Chanelle, a 19-year-old from Wakefield who is a prettier version of Victoria Beckham but with none of the charm or ability to bag a millionaire husband, thus forgoing this reality TV shite. She’s clearly smarter than she likes people to think – a terrible indictment of the 21st century is the perpetual, shameful hiding of intellect under a bushel most media hungry women indulge in. Chanelle wants to “give Yorkshire a good name” - well considering she is following in the footsteps of Justine (Who? Exactly!) and ‘Lesleh’ (dumpy gobshite with a heart of stone) it won’t be too difficult.
Crowd Reaction: Pretty girl? Half a working brain? They hate her. Of course. One man bravely cheers.
Prediction: If she is, in fact, not a plant, I think I might like her. I’ll swim against the tide.
Sixth in: Shabnam, a 22-year-old jobless Londoner (Blimey, is there no other city in the entire UK in which to find an unemployed bint?). Shabs is crazy. We know this because she tells us so thirty six times a minute and describes how everyone thinks she’s “nutty” and “mad”. She wears pink gloves, a yellow scarf and shakes her hips like a Nan at a disco. Yeah man! Wild! Her personality is “larger than life” apparently and she loves make up. (Good. Lord.) She likes food and thinks she talks sense. Why do I see her at the centre of a lot of rows?
Crowd Reaction: A relative cheer, hardcore boos. She acts like a knob and gets many more boos.
Prediction: I somehow sense antipathy.
Seventh in: Emily is a 19-year-old drama student and is exactly how you would imagine a 19-year-old drama student. The possessor of misplaced self worth, arrogance and an immediately irritating voice, she seems the sort of girl men will love and girls will hate. She’s one of those well- off types you encounter at university who can’t understand why your daddy hasn’t bought you a brand new car yet despite the fact that a) daddy ran off with a teenage neighbour when you were six or b) he’s still into “manual work” and can’t even afford his own teeth. She looks like Peaches Geldof but with a face you don’t want to punch quite as much. She wants to meet a Pete Doherty type in the house. Don’t be stupid woman! After bullies, racists and trans-gendered anorexics do you really think Endemol would stoop so low as to recruit skanky smack heads as entertainment? What am I saying? Yes. Yes they would. (Kidney? Anyone?)
Crowd Reaction: Half boos, half-hearted claps. Silence, mainly.
Prediction: Errrr? Nowt really. Nowt.
Eighth in: Laura, a 23-year-old nanny is basically a chubby Emo who has forgotten that smiling and pink are banned by the Emo MySpace Massive. Laura is instantly nice but then, so was Grace last year (gulp). Laura is fattish so women like her. She also has a caring job, a cute accent and a sense of self-deprecation (last spotted in 2002 with Alison…only five years in the waiting. Good grief). She wants the dead to look “nice” and she talks quickly like a Welsh Vicky Pollard. She’s fiercely anti-smoking and pro-cooking and has embraced a long lost little known concept called fun.
Crowd Reaction: Good. Cheers, mainly.
Prediction: Difficult. Mid ranging, I think.
Ninth in: Nicky, a 27-year-old admin worker. She has a big fringe and a small frame. Adopted from India into an Irish Catholic family, she loves to smoke (oh now I see the conflict aspect...racism was so last year, smokingism is the key). She’s “sick” of men and seems quite grumpy. I like that. As someone of a similar age and job role as Nicky, I can smell an affinity but I think the best (worst) is yet to come.
Crowd Reaction: Silentish, one boo, two claps and a cheer.
Prediction: Difficult. Last two weeks. I think.
Tenth in: Carol, a 53-year-old Londoner (yawn) who’s the obligatory bisexual. I met a podiatry assistant one called Beverly who wore cat emblazoned jumpers, no make up and a beard and was a passionately fervent “equal rights for caravaners” campaigner. Carol could be her sister. She shakes her fists limply, is also unemployed and used to be a ‘health worker’ (how very generic). She says “facking” a lot just so we know exactly how passionate she is. She does look like a woman who prefers the company of cats but she is, in fact, a campaigner to save local hospitals, stop nuclear testing and end all wars. Carol is a novelty; an opinionated cause caring female who worries not a jot about her appearance. I don’t know what to do with my face. She’s so rare; Bill Oddy should be studying her.
Crowd Reaction: Good. They love her. She still acts like a tit, like your mum on drugs.
Prediction: Dunno why, but I suspect an early eviction.
A man is going in on Friday, just the one. I pity the poor penis-less fool. It’s not only the (previous) women who were stereotyped. I can somehow already see Pedro the Prick gazing absently at Twins in Pants. Meanwhile over on BBC1 Sir Alan Sugar fires the largely blameless Naomi in favour of the chinful, frog like gimp Simon – a man who, though amusing, is summed up in one simple word: Tosser.
Think Big Brother is on to a winner? Would you want to be the only man in that house? Worried that Simon is guaranteed the job? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
The show began with an OfCom enforced apology. Somewhere in Channel 4 Towers I imagine the poor continuity announcer, bound by the hands, tied to a wheel-able armless office chair, shoved at a desk where he was made to read out the ever-so-sincere apology – a grimace audible down the microphone. I searched for subliminal ‘F*ck you OfCom – Jade Goody rules!’ but saw none. I hoped for grovelling, I didn’t get any. I get a feeling the whole summer will be as disappointing.
Davina shimmered into view, all sallow cheeks and leather clad – no more mention of the horror of Celebrity Big Brother. It’s like it never happened! A rudimentary tour of the house got underway, gaudy Perspex, giant beds that promises to “sleep six” and a bath in the living room (tit and arse shots guaranteed). With a panic strewn heart I looked for another House Next Door and I’m sure (hoping) there wasn’t one.
The parade of God awful, brain dead, over bleached and cellulite free morons commenced – almost all as the Daily Star predicted (god, they’re good!) – all women…after a fashion.
First in: 18-year-old twins Sam and Amanda, ‘social work students’ (Gawd help us all) who love pink, shopping, clothes and Barbies. It’s as though someone has trapped the soul of my three-year-old niece into the adult bodies of two berks…and then removed the brain. Cute, like two Bratz dolls left out in the sun too long, the pair jiggled and wobbled, said “luv it, luv it” and “woo” a lot very unconvincingly and finished each other’s sentences. They played the Thick Card, hated ‘chavs’ (the irony!) and proclaimed “everyone loves us!” I highly doubt even their parents are all that keen.
Crowd Reaction: Boos. Of course. Hell, I nearly booed and I was 200 miles away with half an eye on The Apprentice.
Prediction: Out soon. Friday I hope. I’m praying they are one entity and they won’t be forced to be separated, one pining wide eyed at the door as Bozo Twin 2 parties large at China Whites with Nikki Grahame and Calum Best.
Second in: Lesley, a 60-year-old retired head hunter who looks like my Auntie Janet but with a better speaking voice. The VT showed her manicured kitchen. She stood only feet away from a book so she is clearly what passes as the ‘intelligent’ quota and she will, therefore, come to her senses within 72 hours as soon as she spots young Pedro’s* erection in the pool one morning when the twins jiggle in tandem. (* Pedro is stereotypical boy who I’m sure is only hours away from our screens.) Lesley is “unpredictable” and hates to be “messed about.” Er, this is Big Brother. Idiot! I for one an immensely looking forward to one of Lesley’s “temper tantrums.” That might even be worth the live streaming fee. Lesley thinks she’ll win. Get a grip woman!
Crowd Reaction: Boos and a half hearted murmur of disinterest.
Prediction: Will walk, run, flee, escape, take flight, disappear, abscond….you get it.
Third in: 21-year-old Charley, an unemployed and unemployable London “It Gewl” with a boob job that couldn’t be more obvious if she'd had them sellotaped to her arse cheeks. Charley writhed her tiny bum in denim shorts and spouted inane crap about “gahin’ aaahhtt” and “baaayyyin’ cloaves” even though she had no job. She financed her cliché ridden existence through her cousin Kieran Richardson, seemingly the only member of her gene pool with any discernible talent, a Man Utd star who bought her a Mini Cooper. Oh Kieran, if only BMW developed brains, then your cash would have been better invested. You have to question the credentials of anyone who has their own name as a tattoo – are you ever likely to forget?
Crowd Reaction: Boos beyond belief…well, no. Not really I expected them. “Get her out!” before she even went in. Marvellous.
Prediction: She’ll be a grower. I think she’ll become a firm favourite soon. That, or a complete cow. These women, eh? No middle ground.
Fourth in: Tracey, a 36-year-old cleaner trapped in 1991 with her Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Shitcoat, pink hair and love of “getting it in a field” (that meant something so different in 2001.) She ‘danced’ on to the stage and talked about how she liked to get “f*cked and bolloxed” and how much she loves her job. She likes the buzz, hates liars and is a happy person because she’s a “nice person.” She sets off good vibes in me even though I have spent the night worrying she may descend into a Tourettes-lite Pete Bennett ‘worthy’ winner who is ever so, ever so, ever so whacky.
Crowd Reaction: Fairly good. None sexually attractive women always do well.
Prediction: If she doesn’t go crackers and at the prospect of no all night, Acid House raves and no glow-in-the-dark babies dummies on a string, she’ll do well.
Fifth in: Chanelle, a 19-year-old from Wakefield who is a prettier version of Victoria Beckham but with none of the charm or ability to bag a millionaire husband, thus forgoing this reality TV shite. She’s clearly smarter than she likes people to think – a terrible indictment of the 21st century is the perpetual, shameful hiding of intellect under a bushel most media hungry women indulge in. Chanelle wants to “give Yorkshire a good name” - well considering she is following in the footsteps of Justine (Who? Exactly!) and ‘Lesleh’ (dumpy gobshite with a heart of stone) it won’t be too difficult.
Crowd Reaction: Pretty girl? Half a working brain? They hate her. Of course. One man bravely cheers.
Prediction: If she is, in fact, not a plant, I think I might like her. I’ll swim against the tide.
Sixth in: Shabnam, a 22-year-old jobless Londoner (Blimey, is there no other city in the entire UK in which to find an unemployed bint?). Shabs is crazy. We know this because she tells us so thirty six times a minute and describes how everyone thinks she’s “nutty” and “mad”. She wears pink gloves, a yellow scarf and shakes her hips like a Nan at a disco. Yeah man! Wild! Her personality is “larger than life” apparently and she loves make up. (Good. Lord.) She likes food and thinks she talks sense. Why do I see her at the centre of a lot of rows?
Crowd Reaction: A relative cheer, hardcore boos. She acts like a knob and gets many more boos.
Prediction: I somehow sense antipathy.
Seventh in: Emily is a 19-year-old drama student and is exactly how you would imagine a 19-year-old drama student. The possessor of misplaced self worth, arrogance and an immediately irritating voice, she seems the sort of girl men will love and girls will hate. She’s one of those well- off types you encounter at university who can’t understand why your daddy hasn’t bought you a brand new car yet despite the fact that a) daddy ran off with a teenage neighbour when you were six or b) he’s still into “manual work” and can’t even afford his own teeth. She looks like Peaches Geldof but with a face you don’t want to punch quite as much. She wants to meet a Pete Doherty type in the house. Don’t be stupid woman! After bullies, racists and trans-gendered anorexics do you really think Endemol would stoop so low as to recruit skanky smack heads as entertainment? What am I saying? Yes. Yes they would. (Kidney? Anyone?)
Crowd Reaction: Half boos, half-hearted claps. Silence, mainly.
Prediction: Errrr? Nowt really. Nowt.
Eighth in: Laura, a 23-year-old nanny is basically a chubby Emo who has forgotten that smiling and pink are banned by the Emo MySpace Massive. Laura is instantly nice but then, so was Grace last year (gulp). Laura is fattish so women like her. She also has a caring job, a cute accent and a sense of self-deprecation (last spotted in 2002 with Alison…only five years in the waiting. Good grief). She wants the dead to look “nice” and she talks quickly like a Welsh Vicky Pollard. She’s fiercely anti-smoking and pro-cooking and has embraced a long lost little known concept called fun.
Crowd Reaction: Good. Cheers, mainly.
Prediction: Difficult. Mid ranging, I think.
Ninth in: Nicky, a 27-year-old admin worker. She has a big fringe and a small frame. Adopted from India into an Irish Catholic family, she loves to smoke (oh now I see the conflict aspect...racism was so last year, smokingism is the key). She’s “sick” of men and seems quite grumpy. I like that. As someone of a similar age and job role as Nicky, I can smell an affinity but I think the best (worst) is yet to come.
Crowd Reaction: Silentish, one boo, two claps and a cheer.
Prediction: Difficult. Last two weeks. I think.
Tenth in: Carol, a 53-year-old Londoner (yawn) who’s the obligatory bisexual. I met a podiatry assistant one called Beverly who wore cat emblazoned jumpers, no make up and a beard and was a passionately fervent “equal rights for caravaners” campaigner. Carol could be her sister. She shakes her fists limply, is also unemployed and used to be a ‘health worker’ (how very generic). She says “facking” a lot just so we know exactly how passionate she is. She does look like a woman who prefers the company of cats but she is, in fact, a campaigner to save local hospitals, stop nuclear testing and end all wars. Carol is a novelty; an opinionated cause caring female who worries not a jot about her appearance. I don’t know what to do with my face. She’s so rare; Bill Oddy should be studying her.
Crowd Reaction: Good. They love her. She still acts like a tit, like your mum on drugs.
Prediction: Dunno why, but I suspect an early eviction.
A man is going in on Friday, just the one. I pity the poor penis-less fool. It’s not only the (previous) women who were stereotyped. I can somehow already see Pedro the Prick gazing absently at Twins in Pants. Meanwhile over on BBC1 Sir Alan Sugar fires the largely blameless Naomi in favour of the chinful, frog like gimp Simon – a man who, though amusing, is summed up in one simple word: Tosser.
Think Big Brother is on to a winner? Would you want to be the only man in that house? Worried that Simon is guaranteed the job? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
Thursday, 19 April 2007
Property Ladder and The Apprentice - 18th April 2007
Property Ladder, a show guaranteed to get the blood pressure rising in sheer annoyance saw Simon and Dave convert an old medical centre in Bristol and Mark and Kate convert an old massage parlour in Northampton.
Mark and Kate were two self satisfied smugly annoying bozos, over quaffed and toe-curlingly accented (“oh yah, the propeeerrrtyyyy will be a challenge”). Naturally I despised them due to envy, who on earth has £192,000 as a budget? How do I find one of these multi-millionaire backers with a distinct lack of interest and wholehearted trust? Moronic Mark, a small minded man with an inferiority complex refused to listen to the near billionaire property developer Sarah Beeney when she advised against knocking down the existing build just to throw up some other God awful construction. Even gimlet-eyed Kate began to despair.
Mark, who displayed the personality of a dead gnat, twittered about the “difficulties” of property development (Hey, go work in Tesco, idiot!) yet steadfastly refused to follow any advice from the Beeney and her property minions. No, Mark, why would you need a qualified project manager to run your crappy little empire for you? Not when you can wander around in a hard hat looking like a bulldog licking a thistle. Chinless gimp.
Simon and Dave, who decided that even the council planning department would not get in their way, began work in earnest. Despite the planners insisting on some changes, Simon and Dave’s apartments were stunning, beautifully finished and sold with ease. I was almost glad for them except I was consumed by jealousy.
Karma sought out Mark and Kate and they failed. I was even more glad at this.
The Apprentice stumbled to the screen with an underwhelming whimper. The heavily scripted, over dramatised, media graduate produced show saw Ghazal and Adam head up their teams with the brief to design, make and sell sweets at London Zoo. Jadine, the fire breathing, nostril flared loudmouth found herself on the same team as Tre, the lizard like arsehole with a superiority complex. I waited for the predictable fireworks. Thankfully, they did not come.
Adam, a little ray of sunshine if ever there was one, was overwhelmed by posh Katie and simple Simon who dominated the plans. Ghazal, a doe-eyed fawn like woman with an incredibly fast voice, fared not much better, pulling worried faces and uttering the tedious “I’m not here to make friends” catchphrase pontificated at least every three minutes on this show.
Adam wanted organic sweets until he heard the price, and quickly opted for the most unnatural ‘natural’ orange lollies known to man – essentially a solid sugar blob on a stick that sells for £2. The bespectacled manipulator extraordinaire Natalie, ignored Adam’s orders to name the lolly “Tiger” and she instead opted for “Natural” which only caused Trading Standards and a million yummy mummies to have a nervous breakdown when they contemplated the E numbers within.
Ghazal and Jadine attempted to make chocolate with pathetic consequences after sending Tre and Christina out to look for lolly sticks in London that came in batches of less than 1000. Things were tense but Ghazal stuck her head in the ground. “There are no problems. Everything is fine” with a surly curl of the lip and throbbing veins in her neck began to protrude. Their lollies sold for a sickening £2.50 each and sold quickly, especially when Tre targeted fat people and Christina force fed the kiddies.
After informing all parents that the lollies were basically toxic, Adam’s team sank further when, dressed as a lion, he scared several small children to death and Sophie the physicist became consumed with bizarre morality and simply couldn’t sell the crap on a stick to worn out, financially strapped parents. People are not Sophie’s forte; she’d rather consider dark matter and the concepts of time travel.
Adam’s team eventually lost by a measly £10 and the increasingly loathsome Ghazal gloated away. I was convinced that Adam was a goner, his bickering with Natalie and his inability to answer a question was beginning to look like curtains. Sophie however got the boot. Sir Alan, it seems, despises morality and scruples – whether you miss your family or hate to harass parents for the umpteenth time, it's not good enough "in the business world". Tre and Christina, on that basis, will go far.
Would you ignore Sarah Beeney? Are you here to make money, not friends? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
Mark and Kate were two self satisfied smugly annoying bozos, over quaffed and toe-curlingly accented (“oh yah, the propeeerrrtyyyy will be a challenge”). Naturally I despised them due to envy, who on earth has £192,000 as a budget? How do I find one of these multi-millionaire backers with a distinct lack of interest and wholehearted trust? Moronic Mark, a small minded man with an inferiority complex refused to listen to the near billionaire property developer Sarah Beeney when she advised against knocking down the existing build just to throw up some other God awful construction. Even gimlet-eyed Kate began to despair.
Mark, who displayed the personality of a dead gnat, twittered about the “difficulties” of property development (Hey, go work in Tesco, idiot!) yet steadfastly refused to follow any advice from the Beeney and her property minions. No, Mark, why would you need a qualified project manager to run your crappy little empire for you? Not when you can wander around in a hard hat looking like a bulldog licking a thistle. Chinless gimp.
Simon and Dave, who decided that even the council planning department would not get in their way, began work in earnest. Despite the planners insisting on some changes, Simon and Dave’s apartments were stunning, beautifully finished and sold with ease. I was almost glad for them except I was consumed by jealousy.
Karma sought out Mark and Kate and they failed. I was even more glad at this.
The Apprentice stumbled to the screen with an underwhelming whimper. The heavily scripted, over dramatised, media graduate produced show saw Ghazal and Adam head up their teams with the brief to design, make and sell sweets at London Zoo. Jadine, the fire breathing, nostril flared loudmouth found herself on the same team as Tre, the lizard like arsehole with a superiority complex. I waited for the predictable fireworks. Thankfully, they did not come.
Adam, a little ray of sunshine if ever there was one, was overwhelmed by posh Katie and simple Simon who dominated the plans. Ghazal, a doe-eyed fawn like woman with an incredibly fast voice, fared not much better, pulling worried faces and uttering the tedious “I’m not here to make friends” catchphrase pontificated at least every three minutes on this show.
Adam wanted organic sweets until he heard the price, and quickly opted for the most unnatural ‘natural’ orange lollies known to man – essentially a solid sugar blob on a stick that sells for £2. The bespectacled manipulator extraordinaire Natalie, ignored Adam’s orders to name the lolly “Tiger” and she instead opted for “Natural” which only caused Trading Standards and a million yummy mummies to have a nervous breakdown when they contemplated the E numbers within.
Ghazal and Jadine attempted to make chocolate with pathetic consequences after sending Tre and Christina out to look for lolly sticks in London that came in batches of less than 1000. Things were tense but Ghazal stuck her head in the ground. “There are no problems. Everything is fine” with a surly curl of the lip and throbbing veins in her neck began to protrude. Their lollies sold for a sickening £2.50 each and sold quickly, especially when Tre targeted fat people and Christina force fed the kiddies.
After informing all parents that the lollies were basically toxic, Adam’s team sank further when, dressed as a lion, he scared several small children to death and Sophie the physicist became consumed with bizarre morality and simply couldn’t sell the crap on a stick to worn out, financially strapped parents. People are not Sophie’s forte; she’d rather consider dark matter and the concepts of time travel.
Adam’s team eventually lost by a measly £10 and the increasingly loathsome Ghazal gloated away. I was convinced that Adam was a goner, his bickering with Natalie and his inability to answer a question was beginning to look like curtains. Sophie however got the boot. Sir Alan, it seems, despises morality and scruples – whether you miss your family or hate to harass parents for the umpteenth time, it's not good enough "in the business world". Tre and Christina, on that basis, will go far.
Would you ignore Sarah Beeney? Are you here to make money, not friends? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
Monday, 2 April 2007
Coronation Street - 2nd April 2007
The day of Tracy’s trial verdict (and the shock had all but diminished thanks to Les Battersby’s alleged drunken outpourings to the press last week). The biggest shock I got was how Claire and Ashley Peacock’s stairs managed to move from the middle of the living room to the front door. Now, Jason Grimshaw might have been able to handle Charlie’s client list single handed as well as his baby daughter, but even he couldn’t move a flight of stairs in half an episode with no mention or mess.
While we anxiously (frustratingly) waited for la Barlow’s demise, we were treated to more of Liam and Leanne’s flirting which really consists of Leanne gurning and contorting her voice into the sort of high pitched squeal only dogs can hear, and Liam’s incoherent slack jawed rambling through his hair. I still can’t decide if Liam Connor is really, really annoying or quite attractive and really, really annoying.
Tracy, glossy haired and revenge oriented, fluttered into court after barely acknowledging her young daughter, grimacing and scowling – determined to punish her long suffering parents. “Miss Barlow is an accomplished liar,” the prosecution counsel declared in her summing up. She’s not that accomplished! Every time she tells a lie she smiles and giggles with a theatrical glance to the side – it’s a wonder the jury was ever needed – she might as well have walked into court in a T-Shirt featuring Charlie Stubbs’s smashed-in skull and the words “It Was Me” emblazoned across her chest.
The aforementioned jury was a veritable public sector wet dream…men, women, young, old, Sikh, Muslim, Chinese, White – I couldn’t see a one-armed pension aged bespectacled lady or a mixed race blind man with a white stick but that’s nearly every other box ticked.
Les was right (allegedly) and a very predictable guilty verdict was reached (there has to be a moral majority somewhere – this isn’t EastEnders you know!) and Tracy got life with fifteen years minimum. Heck, she’ll be 45 when she gets out, maybe even older. Jim McDonald went to nick for mere, justifiable manslaughter and has never been seen since. So much for Kate Ford’s ‘open door’ contract. I doubt we’ll see her anytime soon, not with her current head, at least.
Think Tracy should have got off? Amazed by Deirdre’s tearless crying? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
While we anxiously (frustratingly) waited for la Barlow’s demise, we were treated to more of Liam and Leanne’s flirting which really consists of Leanne gurning and contorting her voice into the sort of high pitched squeal only dogs can hear, and Liam’s incoherent slack jawed rambling through his hair. I still can’t decide if Liam Connor is really, really annoying or quite attractive and really, really annoying.
Tracy, glossy haired and revenge oriented, fluttered into court after barely acknowledging her young daughter, grimacing and scowling – determined to punish her long suffering parents. “Miss Barlow is an accomplished liar,” the prosecution counsel declared in her summing up. She’s not that accomplished! Every time she tells a lie she smiles and giggles with a theatrical glance to the side – it’s a wonder the jury was ever needed – she might as well have walked into court in a T-Shirt featuring Charlie Stubbs’s smashed-in skull and the words “It Was Me” emblazoned across her chest.
The aforementioned jury was a veritable public sector wet dream…men, women, young, old, Sikh, Muslim, Chinese, White – I couldn’t see a one-armed pension aged bespectacled lady or a mixed race blind man with a white stick but that’s nearly every other box ticked.
Les was right (allegedly) and a very predictable guilty verdict was reached (there has to be a moral majority somewhere – this isn’t EastEnders you know!) and Tracy got life with fifteen years minimum. Heck, she’ll be 45 when she gets out, maybe even older. Jim McDonald went to nick for mere, justifiable manslaughter and has never been seen since. So much for Kate Ford’s ‘open door’ contract. I doubt we’ll see her anytime soon, not with her current head, at least.
Think Tracy should have got off? Amazed by Deirdre’s tearless crying? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
Saturday, 31 March 2007
Doctor Who & Any Dream Will Do - 31st March 2007
Doctor Who returned after being endlessly trailed for the last few weeks. I had my excitement levels ratcheted up earlier by scuttling over to YouTube to watch the full series trailer, just to get a squealy fan girl look at The Master. The first episode was always going to be a foundation laying enterprise where the audience were introduced to The Doctor’s new sidekick, junior medical doctor Martha Jones. Martha’s hospital was the setting, mainly because a backwards black cloud sucked the building up to the moon.
Martha was remarkably unfazed, although she has lived through the Cyberman invasion and some weird spaceship over the Thames so it was understandable. The moon was overrun with the Judoon, rhino type monsters in fetching contoured body armour, who isolated the hospital to try and screen out a human looking blood thirsty Plasmavore hiding amongst the Earthlings.
Being of alien stock himself, The Doctor was in danger but the Judoon tracked down the Plasmavore, in an old lady guise, before abandoning the humans to a booby trapped MRI and diminishing oxygen levels.
It all ended well, naturally. Martha went back to her younger brother’s birthday party, and a predictable family row. The Doctor however was smitten and couldn’t keep away from young Martha – not after he managed to plant a crisis kiss on her back on the moon. The unflappable Martha gladly stepped aboard The Tardis and flew (according to the sneak peek) into the past with The Doctor.
In all, it was a good episode, tightly plotted with nice knowing nods to past episodes (for the army of Geeks who’d be happily emailing Russell T Davis the flaws otherwise). There were some cute one liners too – the usual David Tennant charm and Martha’s quip regarding the Plasmavore’s Stig like henchmen (‘aliens? Where from, planet Zovirax?’)
Freema Agyeman was more than competent, a charming and marginally less annoying companion for The Doctor than Rose, and with much more chemistry which I will look forward to watching develop. I’ll return to the series I imagine – just to see how much better it can get.
Any Dream Will Do repeated last year’s How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria? (Where they found Connie “I-can-do-eight-shows-a-week-oh-no-I-can’t-I-have-a-sore-throat-again” Fisher.) Here they auditioned several nubile young men for the part of Joseph in a revival of Rice and Lloyd-Webber’s Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Lloyd-Webber ‘scoured the regions’ for raw talent. When I say scoured I do, of course, mean he was chauffer driven. When I say regions, I do, of course, mean he ventured all the way to Camden, London. (And I still labour under the illusion that the UK is made up of so much more than the grubby capital.)
Toothsome twinsomes John Barrowman and Denise Van Outen helped chair the panel with pudding faced vocal coach Zoë Tyler and doddery Everton chairman Bill Kenwright. Every candidate sounded the same and seemed to look one of two ways – scruffily handsome and rugged or fresh skinned pasty faced pretty boys.
It was almost entertaining in a laboriously repetitive way. Thankfully it is something I’m sure I can dip and out of. If I can be arsed.
Can’t understand the fuss over Doctor Who? Love West End Musical more than life itself? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
Martha was remarkably unfazed, although she has lived through the Cyberman invasion and some weird spaceship over the Thames so it was understandable. The moon was overrun with the Judoon, rhino type monsters in fetching contoured body armour, who isolated the hospital to try and screen out a human looking blood thirsty Plasmavore hiding amongst the Earthlings.
Being of alien stock himself, The Doctor was in danger but the Judoon tracked down the Plasmavore, in an old lady guise, before abandoning the humans to a booby trapped MRI and diminishing oxygen levels.
It all ended well, naturally. Martha went back to her younger brother’s birthday party, and a predictable family row. The Doctor however was smitten and couldn’t keep away from young Martha – not after he managed to plant a crisis kiss on her back on the moon. The unflappable Martha gladly stepped aboard The Tardis and flew (according to the sneak peek) into the past with The Doctor.
In all, it was a good episode, tightly plotted with nice knowing nods to past episodes (for the army of Geeks who’d be happily emailing Russell T Davis the flaws otherwise). There were some cute one liners too – the usual David Tennant charm and Martha’s quip regarding the Plasmavore’s Stig like henchmen (‘aliens? Where from, planet Zovirax?’)
Freema Agyeman was more than competent, a charming and marginally less annoying companion for The Doctor than Rose, and with much more chemistry which I will look forward to watching develop. I’ll return to the series I imagine – just to see how much better it can get.
Any Dream Will Do repeated last year’s How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria? (Where they found Connie “I-can-do-eight-shows-a-week-oh-no-I-can’t-I-have-a-sore-throat-again” Fisher.) Here they auditioned several nubile young men for the part of Joseph in a revival of Rice and Lloyd-Webber’s Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Lloyd-Webber ‘scoured the regions’ for raw talent. When I say scoured I do, of course, mean he was chauffer driven. When I say regions, I do, of course, mean he ventured all the way to Camden, London. (And I still labour under the illusion that the UK is made up of so much more than the grubby capital.)
Toothsome twinsomes John Barrowman and Denise Van Outen helped chair the panel with pudding faced vocal coach Zoë Tyler and doddery Everton chairman Bill Kenwright. Every candidate sounded the same and seemed to look one of two ways – scruffily handsome and rugged or fresh skinned pasty faced pretty boys.
It was almost entertaining in a laboriously repetitive way. Thankfully it is something I’m sure I can dip and out of. If I can be arsed.
Can’t understand the fuss over Doctor Who? Love West End Musical more than life itself? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
Wednesday, 7 March 2007
Life on Mars/Interview With a Poltergeist - 6th March 2007
Sam Tyler had to endure yet another episode of Life on Mars where he was right (‘it’s not the IRA!’) but his belligerent colleagues refused to believe him until he had irrefutable proof. Surely by now even his misanthropic, racist boss Gene Hunt would have stopped in his tracks – just for a moment – to wonder, ‘why is this guy always right?’
Hunt was determined to thwart on IRA campaign by arresting anyone whose surname began with an “O” – before indulging in a bit of ‘Paddy’ bashing. Now, I don’t remember the 1970s – mainly because I wasn’t born (the parents were only nippers) but I always imagine it to be brown and dingy yellow and the Life on Mars set certainly seems steeped in these grim tones. Maybe on the first day of 1980 people had to be treated for shock because they saw the colour red for the first time.
Already half way through what is the last ever series, it is difficult to know where this will go – will we ever find out why Sam Tyler is in the 1973 coma – if that’s what it is? And if he suddenly wakes up, won’t it be ever-so-slightly contrived? Still, I can only trust in the excellent writing so far, even if Sam’s coma trauma tends to manifest in sinister TV characters and an irritatingly smug mystery caller on a brown bakelite phone. The best line of the night was in the pub when Sam tried to explain why a traumatised Ray was behaving oddly, “He’s got PTSD” he said. Hunt was appalled. “He’s a bloody hero, and you’re saying he’s got the clap!”
Interview with a Poltergeist, followed up on the story of the ‘poltergeist’ found in North London in 1977 where furniture, fireplaces and children alike were thrown across various rooms. Seeing the original police interview of the time only served to make Life on Mars seem like a biting piece of 1970s realism – “W”PCs with flicked hair and clipped accents and scruffy looking men with bushy unkempt collar length mops and beige tank tops.
The scariest thing about the whole show was not the undoubtedly weird ‘paranormal’ activity but the state of one the girls, Janet Hodgson, now – skeletal, pale with long witch-like hair, she spoke through sallow cheeks with all the clarity and articulation of Pete Doherty after a heavy night in China Whites. I’m hoping this is less a result of heroin and more a result of long standing physic trauma from being dragged out of bed of a night by an irate dead pensioner.
The fabulous looking paranormal investigator, complete with crazy moustache and bottle-bottom glasses, had sadly died by the time the programme was aired. Hopefully for him, the riddle of that house has now been solved since the show left the viewer with no answers at all and a frustratingly balanced perspective.
Love the 1970s? Believe in ghosts? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
Hunt was determined to thwart on IRA campaign by arresting anyone whose surname began with an “O” – before indulging in a bit of ‘Paddy’ bashing. Now, I don’t remember the 1970s – mainly because I wasn’t born (the parents were only nippers) but I always imagine it to be brown and dingy yellow and the Life on Mars set certainly seems steeped in these grim tones. Maybe on the first day of 1980 people had to be treated for shock because they saw the colour red for the first time.
Already half way through what is the last ever series, it is difficult to know where this will go – will we ever find out why Sam Tyler is in the 1973 coma – if that’s what it is? And if he suddenly wakes up, won’t it be ever-so-slightly contrived? Still, I can only trust in the excellent writing so far, even if Sam’s coma trauma tends to manifest in sinister TV characters and an irritatingly smug mystery caller on a brown bakelite phone. The best line of the night was in the pub when Sam tried to explain why a traumatised Ray was behaving oddly, “He’s got PTSD” he said. Hunt was appalled. “He’s a bloody hero, and you’re saying he’s got the clap!”
Interview with a Poltergeist, followed up on the story of the ‘poltergeist’ found in North London in 1977 where furniture, fireplaces and children alike were thrown across various rooms. Seeing the original police interview of the time only served to make Life on Mars seem like a biting piece of 1970s realism – “W”PCs with flicked hair and clipped accents and scruffy looking men with bushy unkempt collar length mops and beige tank tops.
The scariest thing about the whole show was not the undoubtedly weird ‘paranormal’ activity but the state of one the girls, Janet Hodgson, now – skeletal, pale with long witch-like hair, she spoke through sallow cheeks with all the clarity and articulation of Pete Doherty after a heavy night in China Whites. I’m hoping this is less a result of heroin and more a result of long standing physic trauma from being dragged out of bed of a night by an irate dead pensioner.
The fabulous looking paranormal investigator, complete with crazy moustache and bottle-bottom glasses, had sadly died by the time the programme was aired. Hopefully for him, the riddle of that house has now been solved since the show left the viewer with no answers at all and a frustratingly balanced perspective.
Love the 1970s? Believe in ghosts? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
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