Reality Bites

Okay, readers of my blog, and knowers of my ramblings will know that I'm not the biggest fan of reality TV. Big Brother, I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, and The X Factor  have slowly but surely become thorns in my side. When they were legitimate psychological and psychosocial experiments, they were fine! Brilliant elements of entertainment that would adorn our TV screens at least once a week.

But now, they've just become another fad. Thankfully, it's not just me who thinks that. Many of my friends and family think such shows and other get-rich-quick schemes are just a waste of time, money and space, thinking that shows that actually entertain would be a better way to brighten up our TV screens.

Recently, however, I've had a bit of an epiphany. There are two reality shows that I've seen recently that I'd be proud to watch on a regular basis! I KNOW! SHOCK HORROR!

Both of them are American, and I have to say now- I have a high doubt that either of them would be picked up in the UK, seeing as we're known for our "stiff upper lips", and all of that jammy stuff that sounds like the cat's pyjamas! They are brilliant shows, though- exploring not just the humorous "let's-watch-this-idiot-wash-their-dirty-laundry-in-public" element, but also the "holy-cripes-is-this-actually-happening" element.



The first is called Solitary. The contestants of this show, as the name suggests, are locked away in solitary confinement, before losing their identity, and becoming known simply as the number that is written in their pod. Which, when you think about it, is bad enough in itself. But the host and rulemaker of the show, a robot called Val [who I regard to be the evil twin of POD from "Snog Marry Avoid?"], puts the contestants through gruelling mental, physical, and emotional challenges, with little reward. Although you think Big Brother tasks may be a bit harsh, they're nothing compared to what's doled out in this show- The contestants here push themselves to their utter limits, sometimes in tasks of self-harm, and self-punishment, boggling the mind with how far they're willing to push themselves to win the ultimate prize of Solitary Champion.

The real sad thing about this show, however, is that with the slow decline and eventual cancellation of "Fox Reality" [the network it airs on], it is unclear whether the show will steam ahead for a 5th series.

The second show is called "Baggage", hosted by world-renowned nutcase-tamer and TV-confessional-holder, Jerry Springer. The premise is pretty simple here- how many times have you fallen for someone, or just been on a date with someone, and then found out that they have one, huge, unmissable flaw about them that ends up being a giant turn-off?

Well, there's no chance on this show. A contestant goes onto the show hoping to find the man or woman of their dreams. They're faced by three attractive members of the opposite sex, each who have three pieces of 'baggage' [or three flaws/turn-offs] that they reveal round-by-round. Each round, the contestant eliminates a member based on their baggage until they're left with one person. You may think that that's the end- but ooooooooh no. After Jerry Springer has rattled off a few [I have to say- pretty damn funny] one-liners, the contestant themself reveals a huge piece of baggage. Their chosen member of the opposite sex then has to choose whether they would still date the contestant based on what they have heard.  This, although simple, can throw up some pretty spectacular results.

In the first episode, a woman who was chosen despite the fact that she shaved her whole face, rejected a man who, in a drunken stupor, ended up having sex with a man in college. And the audience, being typically American, and probably being heavily edited by sound effects, contributes to the drama well; adding to the humour: in one episode, after a woman said she wanted to adopt 5 kids,  the gasps from the audience looked as though they could have just started to suck Jerry Springer's hair away from his head; something which I'm sure would be taken as a national tragedy.

As I previously said- these shows definitely won't get picked up in the UK. But while they're still on in the US, and while we're still being bored by the saaaaaame reality shows year on year here in the UK, I highly recommend them.

Read More

Book Review: Dial M For Merde- Stephen Clarke

Having been a keen reader of Stephen Clarke's "Merde" series so far, I felt obligated, yet excited to read the latest installment in the series. Clarke's fast paced, first-person tales of travel and tedium, centred around the character of Paul West entertained, enthralled, and humoured me; from his bureaucratic cock-ups in Paris, to his relationship break-downs in London, and the charms of America. But can the same be said for his new tale?

Unfortunately not, I say. While the book still has the occassional titter about it, it has nothing compared to the "Oh-ho-ho, laugh-till-the-brioche-explodes-from-your-belly" roars of hilarity from the previous novels. Whilst there were certain sexual elements in the other books, the first quarter of the book seems to be as sexxed up as a Labour Party dossier with a foreword by Jordan. And trust me, when an 18 year old boy with "raging hormones" says that a book has too much sex in it, it really DOES have too much sex. All of this intercourse stems from Paul's travels through France with his girlfriend, Gloria Monday, otherwise known as "M", as she scours the French coasts for signs of endangered species of fish, in her role as ecologist and scientist. This rather mundane plot element is made up for by the fact that Paul has to cater for his friend's wedding, as she attempts to marry into an aristocratic family who look down their noses more than the Jolly Green Giant at a playgroup.

But all is not as it seems. The tale goes from sex, sun, and ceremonies to murder and mystery in the blink of an eye. As M heads on an excursion of her own to Marseille to meet some other ecologists, an undercover female police officer in a low cut, backless dress [yes, that's right! More sex!] lets Paul know that M isn't a scientist at all. There is only one big fish she cares for- the President of France. And she wants to see his head on a silver platter.

From then on in, Paul heads off on a wild goose chase, trying to balance being a "trateur" [caterer] for his friend, and a "traitre" [traitor] to his assassin of a girlfriend, whilst also cramming in "ambassador for the British nation" into the mix.

But will M get caught? Will Elodie [Paul's engaged friend] get married in time to reap a financial tradition held by the pompous family? Will England assist France like the allies that they have come to be!?



...In all honesty, you may not ever find out. The book seems pretty dry and dull compared to the previous novels, and you'd be forgiven for losing interest, given the fact that the first half is probably as interesting as Stephen Hawking's talking computer conveying the taste of a Ryvita biscuit.

I'd give the book 5/10, due to the small smatterings of laughter and the callbacks to the previous tales. Though I wouldn't really recommend it. My take on it in two words? Sacre bleurgh.

Read More

But If You Have To Explain It, Is It Still Comedy?

As some of you may know, I do standup comedy in my spare time. Although I'm more of the good-natured, ramble-on, just-keep-talking-and-they'll-laugh type, and I'm far from a Frankie Boyle fan, I feel a need to defend him here.
Sharon Smith, who has a five year old daughter with downs syndrome, was on radio five live this morning, complaining that she saw Frankie Boyle for his "cutting, clever" sense of humour, and then became quickly upset when Boyle started making fun of downs syndrome.
No offence or anything, but IT'S FRANKIE BOYLE. Did you think he was going to make fun of them? (Or should I correctly word that: DO BEARS SHIT IN THE WOODS!?)
I find it completely hilarious: this woman goes to see Frankie Boyle BECAUSE he's a nasty bastard, and because he has that cuttingly devastating sense of humour, and then gets all whiny when something that she is so close to gets made fun of. What about everyone else? what about when an issue close to them is touched on?
At the same time, IT'S A COMEDY GIG. Either heckle (it's your public right, I believe), or do the thing that every comedian hates, and GET UP AND LEAVE.
Yes, I agree, Frankie Boyle is an acquired taste. I, myself, am not a fan, and I don't appreciate his type of comedy. But at the same time, you KNEW his style, but you went and saw him anyway.
I guess you're a few sandwiches short of a picnic...

Read More

Brown Borrows Blair Bounce

As we all know, election day is almost upon us. Listening to the grapevine, you'd be forgiven for thinking that Gordon Brown is almost certainly going to be receiving the political beating-of-all-beatings. Backed by "Chancellor Boring", and his very own "Merry Band of Backstabbers", our current Prime Minister needs all the help he can get in order to claw back every ounce of public support that has mysteriously vanished during his tenure as top-dog. But who thought that Labour would have resorted to the predecessor, the enemy, the partner-in-crime?

I'm sure that, while jetting off round the world; combining duties of middle-east envoy with after-dinner speeches and lectures, even Blair had no idea that he would be called on to steady the slow, sinking ship that's become the Labour party. Although some could say that he's responsible for this slow downturn, it could also be said that he should not have to play the back-up role; appearing to be the 'Bill Clinton' behind Gordon Brown's 'Hilary' on his charge for approval.

For Brown, this must be a kick in the teeth. Although he worked with Blair (albeit sanctimoneously) throughout his three terms, we know that the two most powerful men in government (at the time) were at the heads of roaring factions within the party, with several MPs backing their favourites in this political horserace. For Brown to see the man who held this top job from him, swoop in and save the day once again, must hurt more than all the stabbing in the back that he's received over the past few months. What's even worse, though, is the fact that the return of "SuperBlair" will be used as war-fodder in the commons by David Cameron, whose Conservatives are suddenly beginning to finish the pinch.

We all know that this election may be hard-fought, vicious, and mucky- but we may just see that Tony Blair emerges as a top dog...

Read More

Entente Cordiale- My Travels In France- Final Part

I assume that most of you know that I’m 17, and that I try to be as mature as I possibly can [bar the fart jokes, toilet jokes, and sex jokes]. With that in mind, would you think less of me if I said that I thought Disneyland Paris was MINDBLOWING?

I’ll admit now that I’m not much of a rollercoaster kind of guy: I’m the type of person who would rather get in a bumper car, and adhere to as many road traffic laws as I can, whilst displaying an air of decorum as every other person smashes into me and distracts me from my dream. Disneyland, however, may have just changed me. Waking up at eleven, we headed to the theme park on the train. Even from the outset, the place looks beautiful- upon entry to the park, you’re faced with primp and polished, cottage-like buildings, all clean and aligned to millimetre perfection, and sparkling; even in the dark of the clouds. Even I, a seventeen year old boy with testosterone raging through my veins, hardly managed to stop myself from jumping in a camp manner and screaming “OH EM GEE, I SSSSOOOO WANNA LIVE HERE!”

One of my friends, who was visibly ecstatic at the thought of being in Disneyland for her [wait for it, this pause is needed for the effect] SEVENTH time, led the charge for us to head to Space Mountain, Mission II. According to her, it’s “so much better than Mission I,” the coaster that is in the Florida Disney theme park. Me, in my pre-coaster state, was, and I’ll admit this, slightly afraid. Even though even the name “Space Mountain” sounds even more wussy than Graham Norton [or Richard Simmons for US readers] on a pink space hopper in a ballerina outfit, I was afraid that it’d go round a bend a little too fast, and would end up flinging me off to some far-fetched and little-known part of the Disneyland park, resulting in me waking up three days later with a weird Mickey-Mouse-shaped lump on the top of my noggin. As we got closer and closer, the feeling of being scared slowly adapted to the feeling of nervousness. Not a bad nervousness, like when you’re waiting outside a doctor’s office, and you know he’s going to tell you that the golf-ball you accidentally ingested was limiting you to six days of life, but a good nervousness.

“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”
That quote was my own. During the whole ride, with my hair being tossed about more than a L’Oreal advert on acid, I cheered and whooped in amazement! It was AWESOME. Not content with riding just once, we ran round to the start of the queue once again, and re-rode the ride. Take two, however, was not so smooth. While boarding the ride, I accidentally pushed down the seat lock in front of me, causing my friend, who was getting into the seat, to trip slightly. After the ride was over, and everyone else’s seat lock came up, mine stayed on and kept me hostage. Touché, Disneyland, Touché.

We then made a run for the Finding Nemo ride. I’d give you the proper name for it, but unfortunately I’ve forgotten it. Although you may think it’s a pretty lame ride, it’s really not that bad! It’s not the most enthralling amusement available, but it’s certainly a bit of a surprise! I recommend sitting in the front seat- the first downhill left-hander’ll hit you off kilter, and that makes the ride so much more awesome!

Ride of the day, however, has to go to the Aerosmith ride. In the queue, you get to see tonnes of memorabilia from various artists [and surprisingly, even though it’s Disney, there were no Jonas Brothers collectibles. Oh, wait, I said ‘artists,’ didn’t I? My mistake!] , and you even get to see a video of the band explaining why and how they designed the rollercoaster. The ride itself, though, is phenomenal. There’s a countdown from 5 at the start of the ride, and then it truly does [with a bit of a jolt at the start], as the legendary rock quote states, go to 11. We repeated this ride three times before we headed to the star attraction, the well renowned, the infamous:
TOWER OF TERROR.
I’ll say right now that I didn’t find it to be “all that” [as all the ‘hip’ people say nowadays]. The ride itself is little more than a lift going up and down more than a yoyo at superspeed. The staff at that particular ride, though, are incredibly talented actors, who portray hotel workers, each with a little quirk [One of them gave me an extremely dirty look, and told me to “get off the carpet”, and another told my friend that they may meet their demise]. In fact, this caused one of my friends to be slightly infatuated with one of the ‘workers’, and to be honest, I thought the feeling was mutual- he was really hamming it up for my companions.

Although this was the end of our Disneyland trip, we headed back to the hotel, and then onto the Champs Elysée. We decided to dine at an Italian restaurant. Our waiter, a portly, goateed man, however, seemed to dislike our choice, and proved that there were chips on his shoulder, as well as in the kitchen. He also seemed to dislike my sudden comic turn over the “floating island” that was on the desert menu, deciding to shake the dish in my face before presenting it on the table; the giant, spherical marshmallow causing the yucky, viscous custard to splash out of the bowl.

After this, we decided to head to a club up the road, named “Queen.” The waiter at the restaurant laughed when he heard my friend’s plans to take me into the club, his outburst of laughter caused by the fact that the apparent target audience of the club was homosexual. Waiting outside, and viewing a shaggy-haired Asian man fall flat on his face from the sheer quantity of alcohol he had consumed, we decided to take a rain check on the club.

This was our last night in Paris, and it was an extremely cool trip. Although Paris may not live up to the hype that is cast on it, it is still an extremely cool city, with extremely cool photo opportunities, too. I recommend it, and if you plan on going at any point: Bonne voyage!

Read More

Entente Cordiale- My Travels In France- Part 2

[Day 2]

The roads of Paris reminded me of a cross between the villages of Spain, and London. The driving conditions, however, reminded me of India. I don't know what French drivers have for breakfast, but it either makes them super-courageous, or super-blind. Upon returning to the more civilised roads of Britain, I thought that it was a miracle that, in the weekend I had spent in France, I had managed to escape with both my life, and without any tyre marks on my anatomy. Ducking, diving, and swerving; you feel like you're in somewhat of an action movie as you navigate your way. I think that if a Frenchman were to describe what he sees during his car journey, he'd say something like: “Aaaah! Zere are cars on ze left, cars on ze right, and a couple of passengers on ze bonnet.”
I worry for the pedestrians of France- there are no stop-lines for drivers on the roads, and the lights are about as visible as a chav at a Star Trek convention. Here, in Britain, we have the “THINK! Road Safety” campaign. I'm surprised that in France, they don't have the “Seriously... don't even bother...” campaign.
But for an even better view of how lax the French are at safety, you should take a cab. Firstly, there's a minimum charge of six euros. Considering the fact that I've frequented a place where cabbies would drive you half way up a mountain for fifteen euros, six euros for a couple of miles seems pretty out of order. But due to the fact that you could potentially suffer from three cardiac arrests, and a bout of hyperventilation on the way, I guess it's worth it. One cab driver, who we had on the second day, was so busy using his iPod, that he forgot that he was driving the cab.

On day two, after managing to still be alive, we decided to visit a small boulangerie [bakery, for those who didn't get past year 8 French] down the street from the hotel. My friends both got a pizza slice [which apparently tasted appalling], and a couple of sweet things, namely a chocolate chip bread stick, and a croissant aux amandes, which tasted great. The only problem is that the French shopkeepers are incredibly dull. I don't know whether they've had botox injected into their cheeks, but in my opinion, you'd need a couple of winches in order to force a smile onto those Parisian faces. You do them a good service by giving them an income, and they repay you by giving you a substandard good, and by throwing your change into your face [I mean it- there was one woman who flung her coins so hard that they almost ended up embedded into my visage]. What happened to service with a smile? Oh yeah, I forgot, we left it on the Eurostar.

We also decided to visit the Louvre. Yes, that's the one; the one with the Mona Lisa. The security there is CRAZY- with bag scanners on all of the wings of the museum/gallery, it's like they're EXPECTING you to smuggle the Mona Lisa out with you in your handbag as you leave. Unfortunately, the actual gallery was closed, but the shopping section [where there are various brand stores and even an Apple shop] was open, and so we wandered round there. Even without the art, the Louvre is a masterpiece in itself, with the Louvre pyramid, and the various pieces of architecture inside it being extremely beautiful [though I was lucky to hold the hand of the true masterpiece].
After a cab ride back, we decided to head to the eleven o'clock showing of the Moulin Rouge. I hadn't seen the movie, and although I had heard the title before, I had absolutely no idea of what was going to happen. Although we reserved three tickets for the show, we still had to wait in a horrendously long line. It seems that the French are no good at queueing, either- just like they like to drive three abreast, they like to line up three abreast, too. Thinking that the line would move about an inch in the half an hour before the show, my friends vanished to get a pizza from a shop that was down the road. As if by magic, while they were being given free shots and a pizza by the shopkeepers [who were Italian], the line moved up quickly. My friends and I were forced to quickly scoff the pizza, and donate half to various people who were wandering the street. Ironically, that was the best piece of food that we had while we were in France. After braving the freezing cold, we sat in the show.
Those who know me know that I really have no idea what to do when I'm faced with the prospect of having to dance and/or watch other people dance. Usually, I sit still as a statue while my head commentates: “Wow, you can put your left foot behind your right ear... Wow, that's... err... good...?”
So naturally, I was nervous at how I should react to the dancing in the show [which I must say is pretty good- even though I know absolutely nothing about dance and its intricacies.]
The part of my brain that controls reactions to nudity and ventriloquism, however, got a good workout that night. Obviously, the show is extremely tasteful- it's not just one French bird tottering onto the stage in ridiculously high stilettos going “Euuh! Feuhk Me!” It really is a well co-ordinated and well planned extravaganza.
The night ended with a ventriloquist taking to the stage and performing a mini stand-up routine with a few chosen members of the audience. Although there were times where he was obviously cheating by covering his mouth and delivering lines, he was a treat to watch, and was hilarious. Apparently, he was also a cunning linguist, conversing in French [obviously], English, Spanish, and German- though, admittedly, he did struggle when he called a Chinese man onto the stage to indulge in some audience participation.
If dance, comedy, and nudity isn't your sort of thing [even though, deep down inside, I believe that's what every human craves most- a wiggle, a giggle, and a flash], then you could just go for the champagne, or to meet new friends- both of which we did as well as watching the spectacular show.
After heading off for a couple of drinks with our new-found friends, we headed back to the hotel for a good night's sleep- for tomorrow, we would be a rollin' and a coastin'.

Read More

Entente Cordiale- My Travels In France- Part 1

Being British, the stereotype of the French being narcissistic,  arrogant, overly-suave buggers has forever been around me, and like many others, I have also joined in with the playful banter about our southern neighbours without actually going to France. So my feelings were slightly mixed when I took up the opportunity to go to Paris for a  weekend.

[Day 1]

Leaving on the 4.31 Eurostar from St. Pancras International, bound for Paris, Gare du Nord, there was a sense of camaraderie between the passengers on the train. Whether this was an "Oh shit, I'm going down so I'm taking you all with me" bond, or a "Well... we have a four hour ride, let's make friends" bond is still unknown, but it seemed fun at the time, with my friends and I making friends with quite a few of the other English speakers that were huddled around us, and making little bets between ourselves on whether the dude with the bald head and funky goatee opposite us would finish his bottle of wine before we got to Paris.

Paris, though... Paris really is a different kettle of fish to what I was expecting. I fell into my own trap, and thought Paris would be quite a tiny place- just like quite a few foreigners think London's just a small little town, slap bang in the middle of England, with nothing but a row of shops, and a steady line of peasants all vying for the opportunity to have one sip of tea [and no more than that- it's against the law, y'know] with the oh-so-magnificent Queen. Paris, though, is massive. Having got to the Eurostar station, we needed to successfully navigate our way to our hotel. This, dear readers, is where I started to miss London. The French tube maps are largely the same as British ones- but with a couple of key differences: The lines have numbers, not names, and instead of using a proper key to display the line numbers, they're just in a minuscule circle on the end of the line itself. Now, that's just asking for trouble, isn't it?

Luckily, though, the information desk was manned, and we got three tickets to La Bastille, where our hotel is located.

I know I've complained about the London Underground system quite a lot [it's because I'm British, I swear!], but I have to say that given the choice between the "Underground" and the "Metro", I'd pick the "Underground" every time. Metro trains are tiny, and everyone inside looks deadpan, with literally no expression, even though they're being squashed against the walls, and the seats, and having their face violated by another passengers luggage.  The doors, too, don't open themselves, and are locked by a passenger via a tiny latch. If no passenger wants to get off at a stop, no-one opens the latch, and the doors stay closed. This was a source of great worry to me and my friends, who feared that we wouldn't be able to work the latch system at our stop, and we'd be stuck on the train to "insertfrenchterminusstationhere". What was more amazing, though, was the fact that French passengers [or Parisian ones, at least] don't like to pay for their tickets. Various passengers leapt across the turnstiles at stations, inspiring an "OH MY GOD! WE SHOULD DO THAT!" from my friends.

Getting to La Bastille metro station, you'll realise that although Old Street station has 9 exits, and Swiss Cottage has about 5, nothing is as complicated as a station in France that has roughly 4 exits. Making it to the main station concourse [after an incident where a blind woman on a mobile phone ended up clattering into our bags, causing a flurry of:

"OMG! SAY SORRY IN FRENCH!"

"...Je suis desolée!"]

we stood for a literal half an hour, and deliberated which exit to pick. It felt like we were in one of those horror movies where you need to pick the right way out to escape alive, or the zombies [or in this case, French people who looked pretty battered after their evening commute] would eat you. We finally opted for the exit that said "Boulevard de Bastille", and immediately felt sorry for doing so. We ended up in the Boulevard de Bastille wing of the station, looking like real travellers, and helpless ones at that. We stood near a map [which was the only thing available, seeing as the workers at the information desk seemed to adore the schadenfreude that occurred by leaving the desk unmanned, and watching several passengers (actually, I'm just saying that to feel better- it was really just us) scratching their heads and looking extremely scared], and seeing as we couldn't see the road of the hotel on it, we decided to ask the people that passed by.

"Excuse moi, Ou est la Rue Croazatier?" I asked various people. Helpfully, as if we hadn't tried that, all of them pointed to the map and walked off. Pas merde, Sherlock. We decided to traipse up the stairs, bags in tow, and try and find a cab driver, or at least anyone upstairs who would know the directions to the hotel. Luckily, a taxi rank was just nearby, and after being directed to the first cab in the line [I think it's a rule in the "Fellowship of the Cabbie" or something], we handed the driver the card, and zoomed off to the hotel.

While driving on a French road, you discover a lot about the place. For example, you see that various drivers consider "synchronised three-point-turning on a road narrower than a dark alley" a sport, not a death trap. There's also the fact that Parisian pedestrians seem to think that they're built like the iron man, and will be completely unharmed if they walk into the road. There's one think you can't deny, though, and that's that France is a beautiful city, especially at night. The architecture is plain awesome, and the blinking lights in the dead of night just enhance the beauty, and turn everything into a masterpiece.

After surviving the wreckless French roads, and putting our stuff in the hotel, we decided to wander. My friend wanted cigarettes, and I, wanting to put my B at GCSE French into use, decided to ask where to buy them. The only problem is that when I wanted to speak French, a little bit of Spanish kept popping out. I got "acheter" [French for 'Buy'] mixed up with "comprar" [Spanish for 'Buy'] and ended up creating "Ou on peut compris des cigarettes?", which I think may just mean "Where can one understand these... Cigarettes?"

French 1, Ravi 0.

You'd probably expecting French crepes to be the most brilliant crepes in the world. But it's at this point that I'll need to break your hearts and shatter your dreams: the best thing about the first creperie we went to, was the sweater that was being worn by the man making the crepes. I would rather have eaten my own leg that ordered the rubber [it was meant to be cheese] filled pancakes that were received. After covering the shame of the crepes [or should I say "craps"?] with a packet of hard haribo, and a can of Fanta, we headed back to the hotel to say goodnight to a good first day.

Read More

Healthcare Hypocrisy

"You dirty thieves! You dirty thieves! You dirty thieves!"

How things have changed since Obama's election over a year ago. A public, which, then, could never be more together, has slowly turned into a public that could never be more apart. An electorate which, then, voted Obama in for healthcare reform, has silently been wishing to impeach him on the same issue. A country, which, then, was proud to be making history, has become a country of regret.

Obama, to Americans, was an inspiration, a whirlwind, and a star. But recently, views have changed. Rather unfairly, in my opinion, Americans are turning their back on the president, and- even more importantly- the health care reform that was a key point in the election. Even in Texas, where many children are unprotected by the existing health insurance scheme, as well as the rest of the country, where insurance companies are well renowned for turning down claims, there is high opposition for a universal healthcare system, which could, potentially, save the lives of millions.

There are various points that those in denial of the proposal are using to back up their staunch opposition. One of these, is the fact that they see the NHS (which has been used as a big example) as a shambolic excuse for a healthcare system. Although we Brits do complain about the National Health Service, I think we can all admit that we are extremely lucky to have it; instead of being in a position of having to pay extra, and letting capitalism decide our health. I'll admit that it's not perfect- but what is? Even those with private healthcare have a lot to complain about, and there are various NHS sucess stories.

Americans (as you may see from the quote at the start of the post) do not want to have their money taken from their wages. Although this is extremely understandable in the current economic climate, I'm going to end this post with one question to you:

If you're so opposed to paying for a service that'd help millions; why are you not so concerned about paying for an illegal war that kills millions?

Read More

CoCo go BangBang

It's Saturday 23rd of January. It may be a dark day for many; but nothing haunts more than the clouds at NBC. Bodies lay strewn across studio floors, producers cry in anguish, and there is an eerie silence. Conan has been defeated.

... Okay, maybe not, but tomorrow (tonight in the US) really WILL see the end of the late night war that has plagued and pleasured our TV screens for the past couple of weeks. We've seen it all- bad imitations, ruthless slagging matches, and even the odd protest.

Despite the support that Conan O'Brien managed to rally up (including Letterman, Kimmel, and the odd million people here and there), Jay "NotOnMyChinnyChinChin" Leno has wrestled back the tonight show. If we were to carry on the war metaphor of above, I think we'd see that Leno has a few bulletholes in his armour. CBS' David Letterman has been particularly (and in my opinion rightly) ruthless; having been involved in a ruckus over the Tonight Show in 1993, with Leno (who won the show with a few backroom-deals). Leno, in riposte, has reused the same lame material night after night. Yes, you guessed it, the "omg, Letterman used to shag interns at his show and everyone's forgotten, but I'll try (and fail) at making it funny!" Comebacks.

In that itself we see the cruel irony of this situation. Conan, even before this mess, was revered as the better entertainer, a showman, and a crowdpleaser, who along with Andy, his announcer, brought a bit of zing to the 11.30pm timeslot. With the ammunition of the recent events, he, along with Letterman (and his quick jibes), Kimmel (who did a whole show as Jay Leno), and Ferguson (who was brilliant before he vowed to concentrate on more pressing matters- again, rightly so in my eyes), have excelled themselves, providing truly awesome comedic comentary to this dramatic debacle. Leno, on the other hand, seems to have got worse; his bad, and needlessly harsh jokes even inciting boos from the audience at stages.

Believe it or not, Jay Leno has even tried to make himself look like the victim of the situation. Although there may be truth to this (this was Jeff Zucker's idea after all (... Oops, sorry, did I say Zucker? I meant Sucker.)), it is hard to see how Leno is the one bawling his eyes out. Even if put in a headline of simple words (I dunno... Maybe: "Man With Thousands of Supercars Gains Old Job. Better Entertainer Left Jobless"), it's impossible for this headline to show Mr Bigchin as the victim.

Although there will be a few out there screaming: "what the hell!? This isn't his fault! Blame NBC!", surely Leno needs to take some of the blame- he's done this for the Tonight Show before; and he hasn't exactly told NBC to give Conan more time to settle in (despite saying "it's yours, Conan" on the show five years ago).

The Tonight Show with Conan O'Brien has been going for just seven months. SEVEN months. The flop show "Joey" was given a longer run. In the time the show was on, NO-ONE was able to go through the full birth process (conception to labour). I managed to get my own job, and lose it in about an eighth of the time.

Jimmy Fallon, who has been quite silent about the NBC civil war, spoke out about the network and Leno, stating that he, like O'Brien, and Letterman, would never be able to progress from "Late Night" to the "Tonight Show". From an outsider's perspective, you can only assume that Jay Leno is going to invest in the latest "immortality technology", and keep hold of the show forever.

This has been a long, enthralling, but tragic war. It'll be a shame to see Conan go.

Ratings:
Letterman: 7/10
O'Brien: 9/10
Ferguson: 6/10
Kimmel: 7/10
Leno: 3/10
Fallon: 2/10
Carson Daly: ... I'm sorry... Who?

Read More

CONservative posters

Hi everyone! If you're going by my past posts, you're probably expecting me to rant on about NBC's late night situation, and get all mad about some old guy who's spouting a load of bollocks. But I think Jay Leno can wait for a night.

Today, I come bearing political gifts. Those readers from Britain will know that we're facing an election. David Cameron, leader of the Conservative party, had a poster campaign that was lampooned so much that he quickly became the laughing stock of Whitehall [for readers who are Brown haters- don't worry- Gordon will ALWAYS keep his position as Court Jester].

There's a site on the internet where you can create your own versions of the David Cameron poster [Clickety Click!] . This is probably the most awesome website I've come across in a long while. Enjoy it, and have fun- I certainly did. Here are some things I made earlier [click on the images to see the full size versions- ENJOY!]:

Read More

Pat Robertson? Spouts more BULLCRAP than Robert Pattinson.

Now, you're probably sitting there going: "Hmm, Ravi, didn't you talk about Pat Robertson yesterday?"

And the answer to that, of course, is yes I did.

"So why are you talking about him again, Ravi?"

Well I will tell you.

THE BASTARD INFURIATES ME.

Now, I'm not one to bear a grudge, and I hate hating those who are undeserving of it. But this man [who in my eyes, really isn't much of a man at all] is a complete and utter DOUCHE. Now, those of you who know me well, know that I call myself a douche on a regular basis out of truth. But for crying out loud, this man is something else! Who else has the dimwittedness to go on a social networking site, and call himself "God's Best Friend™"!? That's right, you read that completely correctly. WITH a trademark. And not only that, he nominated HIMSELF for a "shortyaward" [see printscreen].

He then preceded to followfriday HIMSELF. I don't think that I've ever seen someone so narcissistic, egocentric, and CRAZY in my entire life.

And if that [along with yesterday's rant] is not enough, he seems to take extreme glory in being a racist, a sexist, and a staunch republican. Didn't the bible say that man was made in gods image, and that everyone is made equal? Either "God's best friend" can't read; or he won't be the "best friend" any more. Instead of me rabitting on about how much I hate this rank douchebag, here are a selection of his tweets [Plus a retort of mine that I thought wasn't too bad]. I hope you feel as insulted and infuriated as I did.

Read More

What the hell is up with the world?

I would like to start this post by offering my sympathy and [atheist] prayers to the people who have been affected by the recent earthquake in Haiti. I'm going to donate some money later on, and I hope it goes some way to the recovery that will happen over the weeks, months, and years that go by.
But there are two major points to this blog post today.

Firstly, I want to express my DISGUST at Pat Robertson. After the disaster in Haiti, this televangelist [who I would prefer to call a televasshole] declared that Haiti had signed a pact with the devil, and this was their curse for it. Now, I know that religion has had run ins with political correctness in the past, but surely, even someone as thick as three short planks would realise that it's the wrong thing to say, and the wrong time to say it.
But then again, this IS the man who predicted a year of global violence in 2008, stated that the USA would be hit by storms placed by god, and declared that the world would end in 1982 [Ironically, a statement that he addressed on twitter recently, by saying: "People sometimes laugh at me for predicting Doomsday would be in 1982. They just MISHEARD. I ACTUALLY said 2012."]
I took pride in writing the gag “There are various differences between Russell Brand and @ThePatRobertson, of course: one of them won't stop talking shit, and the other's Russell Brand.” A bit harsh, perhaps, but if you look at Robertson’s twitter feed, I think you’ll see what I mean.

Secondly, I want to express my disgust at NBC. I’m not American, nor am I a Late Night TV host [even though, in some stupid way I dream to be], and I am not an avid watcher of Conan O’Brien. But I feel that NBC have been quite rude and immature in their dealings with O’Brien, and with Late Night in general. The show has been on air for little more than 7 months. Everyone concurred that the predecessor in the timeslot, Jay Leno, was slowly petering out, and O’Brien really was the right man for the job. In many ways, he still is, with Jay Leno failing in his primetime slot, and being rendered by many as unfunny.
Even though I’m more a fan of the Scottish Conan Guy rather than the Actual Conan Guy, I have to say that I support Conan O’Brien in his statement. Should the “Tonight Show” be moved to 12.05AM, it’ll be the first time in its history to do so, and, as reflected by O’Brien in his statement, would disgrace the name of the show and its former hosts.
NBC, it’s been seven months. SEVEN. Conan was hugely successful, but it always takes time to build a rapport with a new show. As I said, I am not a late night presenter, nor am I an entertainer or someone in a line of work where people actually give a crap. But I do know what it feels like to do your job while the management watches you like a hawk, and threatens to throw you out the door before you’ve had the chance to prove yourself. So please, stop bickering, give the man what he wants, and more importantly, GIVE HIM A CHANCE.

Read More

Blasphemy Laws!? Christ on a bike!

Last Friday, as we all know, beckoned in the new year for us all. A new year, a new decade- but more importantly, in Ireland- a new law.
Of course, laws are made all the time, and a government can never please everyone. However, this law has caused substantial unrest, and I for one, feel that opposition is justified.
It has now been made illegal to blaspheme in Ireland. Illegal to the tone of a €23,562 fine, in fact.
As a fan of comedy, it's impossible to not see the irony in this case. If I'm frank, even someone with the sense of humour of a boiled gnat would see the funny side of this. Atheist Ireland, who (rightfully, in my opinion) challenged the law, decided to publish 25 quotes, that would contravene the new law. One of the quotes was from that oh-so-racially-intolerant, god-hating SWINE...


... Jesus Christ. Yes, you read that correctly. Apparently Jesus Christ (who may or may not have featured a tiny bit in the bible- I forget), was a blasphemous figure. Surely, the Irish Government must have realised that SOMETHING was going wrong when they (potentially) had to arrest someone for a BLASPHEMY law for quoting JESUS.

Obviously, though, the largest ironic part of this, is the fact that the Irish government wants to control what the public say, when their own MP's have recently become internationally infamous for using "unparliamentary language" while parliament's in session.

Blasphemy laws? To hell with 'em!

Read More

The final Celebrity Big Brother Series!

Yep, that's right. The latest retard convention is upon us!
Here we are again, sitting on our butts, watching people who are APPARENTLY famous try and live together in a heavily controlled environment.
In the flock this year, we have one whore, and 10 people who have slept WITH a whore. Namely Katie Price.
There is only one REAL famous person inhabiting the house, and that's Vinnie Jones. And I think all of us, in harmony, feel that this is too low for Vinnie Jones. Even someone of his standards can do better than this.

So now we've found out who the housemates are, there's only ONE question that we're ALL asking. "When will this year's annual race row happen?"

Read More