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
Thursday, 19 April 2007
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
Sunday, 25 February 2007
Most Haunted Live - 24th February 2007
Saturday’s unhealthy dose of post-Victoriana tosh began with a recap of the ‘creepy’ events of Friday in Transylvania where Karl (husband of Yvette) and Stuart (cousin of Yvette) saw an apparition that spooked them so intensely they were forced to flail, flap, wobble and squeal. The camera, and indeed the levelheaded viewer, saw nothing. “I’ve an overwhelming urge to throw myself over the balcony" Stuart opined. Don’t let us stop you, Stu. Kath (hairdresser of Yvette) was ‘terrified’ although the Manc-voiced, turtle mouthed make-up girl is often terrified even by an innocuous sneeze and a mouse taking a pee.
Saturday had a buffoon-like Paul Ross gurning crazily as the Nosferatu-like Julian Clegg gabbled nonsense about a “massive response” from the public which I can only imagine is the 300 drunk folk who text in of an evening to claim that they have seen “a little girl” (why is it always a little girl?).
Someone, incredulously unnamed, catches two girls in a large room walking followed by a shadow of a marching man who emerges from the floor to follow the girls. The para-psychologist cannot explain it – Yvette gets excited…to me it’s a deeply unsubstantiated mobile phone video clip that needs a lot more cross referencing that old ‘historian’ Lesley seems incapable of performing without Google and Wikipedia.
Conveniently a séance in the very same room produced a barrage of orbs (or, as I like to call them, dust) and Karl being semi-possessed by an evil entity who hated David Wells (they always hate poor David, these spirits. How can anyone hate the camp, sweet smelling, overweight Scottish psychic/medium?) Stuart's legs, just as conveniently, stop working…the same Stuart who was beaten, strangled, assaulted, possessed and laughed at by ghosts on previous series. Time to call it a day and apply to Coronation Street again, Stu?
Sadly for me and the other 506 viewers, Vlad the Impailer does not make an appearance. He may have been a Romanian speaking, child hating, pensioner stabbing maniac who loved a bit of black pudding of an afternoon, but even he can remember the horror of Yvette Fielding on Blue Peter circa 1992 and decided an eternity in Hell was preferable to a live broadcast in front of a load of drunken sceptics, excited believers and a bored-looking Paul Ross.
I cannot, despite my best intentions, tear myself away from Most Haunted. Yes, its looks fake, yes its melodramatic, yes Yvette is a pain in the backside, yet the show is frighteningly compelling...as though David Wells has cast some scary psychic mind control spell over me and I cannot switch over until an actual ghost shows its face. There’s an old museum near me more haunted than a Harry Potter chapter…I might email Yvette and Karl and see if they’ll pop by – I may even volunteer my services as a spoon-thrower…I mean, enthusiastic sceptical reporter.
Think Yvette and Karl are honest? Can you fake more convincingly? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
Saturday had a buffoon-like Paul Ross gurning crazily as the Nosferatu-like Julian Clegg gabbled nonsense about a “massive response” from the public which I can only imagine is the 300 drunk folk who text in of an evening to claim that they have seen “a little girl” (why is it always a little girl?).
Someone, incredulously unnamed, catches two girls in a large room walking followed by a shadow of a marching man who emerges from the floor to follow the girls. The para-psychologist cannot explain it – Yvette gets excited…to me it’s a deeply unsubstantiated mobile phone video clip that needs a lot more cross referencing that old ‘historian’ Lesley seems incapable of performing without Google and Wikipedia.
Conveniently a séance in the very same room produced a barrage of orbs (or, as I like to call them, dust) and Karl being semi-possessed by an evil entity who hated David Wells (they always hate poor David, these spirits. How can anyone hate the camp, sweet smelling, overweight Scottish psychic/medium?) Stuart's legs, just as conveniently, stop working…the same Stuart who was beaten, strangled, assaulted, possessed and laughed at by ghosts on previous series. Time to call it a day and apply to Coronation Street again, Stu?
Sadly for me and the other 506 viewers, Vlad the Impailer does not make an appearance. He may have been a Romanian speaking, child hating, pensioner stabbing maniac who loved a bit of black pudding of an afternoon, but even he can remember the horror of Yvette Fielding on Blue Peter circa 1992 and decided an eternity in Hell was preferable to a live broadcast in front of a load of drunken sceptics, excited believers and a bored-looking Paul Ross.
I cannot, despite my best intentions, tear myself away from Most Haunted. Yes, its looks fake, yes its melodramatic, yes Yvette is a pain in the backside, yet the show is frighteningly compelling...as though David Wells has cast some scary psychic mind control spell over me and I cannot switch over until an actual ghost shows its face. There’s an old museum near me more haunted than a Harry Potter chapter…I might email Yvette and Karl and see if they’ll pop by – I may even volunteer my services as a spoon-thrower…I mean, enthusiastic sceptical reporter.
Think Yvette and Karl are honest? Can you fake more convincingly? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
Friday, 16 February 2007
Waterloo Road and The Verdict. 15th February 2007
Waterloo Road is largely and enjoyable viewing experience despite its many, many flaws. There seems to be a distinct lack of drama on any channel at the moment that deals in anything close to reality. The ‘concept’ drama is still very much alive and, in my opinion, had outstayed its welcome. Waterloo Road has at least one foot in the real world and has a smattering of believable characters – the cynical old History teacher, the spinster French teacher, the irritating expelled student with a face you could take ratting.
Unfortunately a few too many worthy ‘issues’ are creeping in and gathering, riot style, into the one same episode: pupil-teacher crush, lonely teacher gets MS, stressed mother goes into tragic premature labour, ex-junkie goes home to her sinister step-dad, teenage girl raped in bushes, 17-year-old boy begins illicit tryst with 30-year-old secretary…Still, the authentic moments shine through and that makes it almost worthwhile. I’m quite hopeful the issues will resolve ad a bit of human drama may surface.
The Verdict had too much human drama – so much so I thought I might end up having a nervous breakdown. The show was incredibly depressing, yet frighteningly real. The biggest problem for me was not the very predictable young-girl-roasted-or-raped-by-grubby-footballers trial, it was the ridiculous jury. I’m sure the BBC was trying to highlight the very real difficulty and responsibility such a trial holds, but choosing a jury that would never pass the selection stage was simply pointless. An ex-footballer with a penchant for girlfriend beating and dogging? An angry ex-rapper cleared – eventually – of murder? A campaigning mother who’s child was herself raped and murdered? An ex-MP jailbird who himself lied in court? A woman who began a world famous sex-toy shop? Come on! Most people with dull and colourless lives would struggle with such a trial but neither the ‘victim’ nor the ‘accused’ can have felt any confidence when they saw that bizarre group of ‘representatives’.
Naturally all charges were acquitted and, surprisingly for me, the jury did do their best to remove emotion and follow the facts only – but the truly harrowing aspect of the entire show was that at least 75% of the jury felt that the victim had been raped but couldn’t convict the accused for a very minor – but very real – reason. It appears that burdening a rape victim with a very public display of disbelief is much easier to live with that burdening a guilty party with prison purely on a technicality.
It’s no wonder the conviction rate for rape is dropping. If any potential future rape victims watched The Verdict, I doubt they’d even bother phoning the police – and who can blame them?
Bring back comedy. Please? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
Unfortunately a few too many worthy ‘issues’ are creeping in and gathering, riot style, into the one same episode: pupil-teacher crush, lonely teacher gets MS, stressed mother goes into tragic premature labour, ex-junkie goes home to her sinister step-dad, teenage girl raped in bushes, 17-year-old boy begins illicit tryst with 30-year-old secretary…Still, the authentic moments shine through and that makes it almost worthwhile. I’m quite hopeful the issues will resolve ad a bit of human drama may surface.
The Verdict had too much human drama – so much so I thought I might end up having a nervous breakdown. The show was incredibly depressing, yet frighteningly real. The biggest problem for me was not the very predictable young-girl-roasted-or-raped-by-grubby-footballers trial, it was the ridiculous jury. I’m sure the BBC was trying to highlight the very real difficulty and responsibility such a trial holds, but choosing a jury that would never pass the selection stage was simply pointless. An ex-footballer with a penchant for girlfriend beating and dogging? An angry ex-rapper cleared – eventually – of murder? A campaigning mother who’s child was herself raped and murdered? An ex-MP jailbird who himself lied in court? A woman who began a world famous sex-toy shop? Come on! Most people with dull and colourless lives would struggle with such a trial but neither the ‘victim’ nor the ‘accused’ can have felt any confidence when they saw that bizarre group of ‘representatives’.
Naturally all charges were acquitted and, surprisingly for me, the jury did do their best to remove emotion and follow the facts only – but the truly harrowing aspect of the entire show was that at least 75% of the jury felt that the victim had been raped but couldn’t convict the accused for a very minor – but very real – reason. It appears that burdening a rape victim with a very public display of disbelief is much easier to live with that burdening a guilty party with prison purely on a technicality.
It’s no wonder the conviction rate for rape is dropping. If any potential future rape victims watched The Verdict, I doubt they’d even bother phoning the police – and who can blame them?
Bring back comedy. Please? Chillywinter@hotmail.co.uk
Saturday, 10 February 2007
10th February 2007 - Dancing on Ice & Primeval
Dancing On Ice glittered onto ITV1 with lacklustre sparkle. Though I can enjoy this show even whilst comatose in a wine fuelled stupor it lacks something and I’m not entirely sure what it is. Let’s be honest, ice dancing isn’t actually dancing at all is it? Sliding along in tan tights with a fixed grin whilst a perma-tanned, sequin dipped young man flings you though the air, legs akimbo with gusset flashing, isn’t really the same as the Nutcracker Suite or a pulsating, dramatic Tango. Still, it was okayish.
Duncan James who, if the Dictionary was pictorial would have his face appearing next to the definition of ‘smarmy’, had strangely big hair, an orange skin tight top and a disinterested looking partner. Poor Stephen Gately was admonished – probably quite rightly – for not only not dancing but also for not moving, not smiling and not ‘connecting; to his partner. Kay ‘The Bulldog’ Burley seemed only too keen to connect with her partner, the lovely Fred, who looked as though he’d rather remove his own teeth with a toy plastic hammer than let young Kay perv over him for much longer. Fairly, Kay and Stephen polled the lowest scores where as thinning-haired, thickly-chested ex-rugby star Kyran Bracken stormed the top of the leader board with his amazing ability to slide on one knee and bend simultaneously as he danced!
Primeval followed. Clearly aiming for the roaming ever-so-slightly despondent Dr Who/Robin Hood crew, it began with the standard humour and intrigue fair. A scientist (Douglas Henshall), his loyal student (James Murray) and an irritant know-it-all interloper (Andrew Lee-Potts) head into the Forest of Dean to investigate a large hole in a fence and an apparent errant dinosaur. Meanwhile, a lizard loving zoo girl (Hannah Spearitt) decides to venture into the same forest where a young boy found a computer-generated lizard.
I thought I’d give this a go for two reasons. 1) I know Andrew Lee-Potts in real life quite well and he’s a nice bloke and 2) I was hoping Hannah Spearitt could undo the awful image ex-S Clubbers now have in my mind since grubby Jo O’Meara showed her miserable gob on Celebrity Big Brother.
After a lovely looking Home Office worker (Lucy Brown), who bares an uncanny resemblance to Henshall’s dead/missing wife, turned up I knew I was watching a sub-standard X-Files/Torchwood business with scheming characters, annoying kids, time portals and banging music – yet it was surprisingly enjoyable and I haven’t seen a Douglas Henshall performance yet that I didn’t like.
Trouble is, no one in the Home Office is as young or as pretty and Lucy Brown and…I’ve been to the Forest of Dean and the only thing of any creepy note I encountered was an over enthusiastic old man obsessed with fingerless gloves and onanism.
Still, quite a good night in with ITV1.
Duncan James who, if the Dictionary was pictorial would have his face appearing next to the definition of ‘smarmy’, had strangely big hair, an orange skin tight top and a disinterested looking partner. Poor Stephen Gately was admonished – probably quite rightly – for not only not dancing but also for not moving, not smiling and not ‘connecting; to his partner. Kay ‘The Bulldog’ Burley seemed only too keen to connect with her partner, the lovely Fred, who looked as though he’d rather remove his own teeth with a toy plastic hammer than let young Kay perv over him for much longer. Fairly, Kay and Stephen polled the lowest scores where as thinning-haired, thickly-chested ex-rugby star Kyran Bracken stormed the top of the leader board with his amazing ability to slide on one knee and bend simultaneously as he danced!
Primeval followed. Clearly aiming for the roaming ever-so-slightly despondent Dr Who/Robin Hood crew, it began with the standard humour and intrigue fair. A scientist (Douglas Henshall), his loyal student (James Murray) and an irritant know-it-all interloper (Andrew Lee-Potts) head into the Forest of Dean to investigate a large hole in a fence and an apparent errant dinosaur. Meanwhile, a lizard loving zoo girl (Hannah Spearitt) decides to venture into the same forest where a young boy found a computer-generated lizard.
I thought I’d give this a go for two reasons. 1) I know Andrew Lee-Potts in real life quite well and he’s a nice bloke and 2) I was hoping Hannah Spearitt could undo the awful image ex-S Clubbers now have in my mind since grubby Jo O’Meara showed her miserable gob on Celebrity Big Brother.
After a lovely looking Home Office worker (Lucy Brown), who bares an uncanny resemblance to Henshall’s dead/missing wife, turned up I knew I was watching a sub-standard X-Files/Torchwood business with scheming characters, annoying kids, time portals and banging music – yet it was surprisingly enjoyable and I haven’t seen a Douglas Henshall performance yet that I didn’t like.
Trouble is, no one in the Home Office is as young or as pretty and Lucy Brown and…I’ve been to the Forest of Dean and the only thing of any creepy note I encountered was an over enthusiastic old man obsessed with fingerless gloves and onanism.
Still, quite a good night in with ITV1.
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