Katia and Basshunter: will we have to call them Kunter?

WARNING, KIDS AND MY MUM. This blog contains moderate swearing and moderate ideas of an adult nature.

I’m surprised that people who hate Big Brother haven’t yet set up a campaign to have us spend several weeks watching the goings-on inside the Rage Against the Machine house.

I’m not one of those people. I love it. For many years I’ve defended it: it’s not dumbing down, some of the dialogue is worthy of Beckett, the situations worthy of Chekhov (the writer, not the bloke who steers the Starship Enterprise). Just look, for example, at Katia and Basshunter  playing Fart Tennis (who can forget Gielgud and Olivier in the wonderful Fart Tennis scene in The Cherry Orchard?). OK, maybe not that. But other bits are dramatic and comedic gold.

For me, Basshunter is one of the two stars of the show so far. Here’s a man who wants to be a role model for teenage boys. Which I’m sure he is if you’re aspiring to masturbate 25 times in one day, as he confessed to doing (surely by the end of the day he’d just be ejaculating dust and some feathers). Maybe it was something to do with his Tourettes; maybe in a strange example of autosuggestion he would involuntarily shout “wank!” 25 times a day then feel he had to do as he’d said.

But do we really want our youngsters to subscribe to the theory that hairy arses muffle the farts or, whilst we’re on the subject, to find nothing more arousing than a woman farting (“I’ve got a hard-on”, the smooth-talker confessed when Katya first let rip)? No wonder he’s been nicknamed B. Asshunter – I just worry what he does once he’s hunted them down.

As for Katya, we’ve heard more from her arse than from her mouth. The former girlfriend of 174 year old Ronnie Wood – a man whose face is so wrinkly it looks like it’s made out of Heidi Fleiss’s lips – she’s clearly a woman who goes for looks. Still, romance is what we want in Big Brother, though if Kat and Basshunter get together, will we really have to call them Kunter?

Passive praying can damage your health.

Stephen Baldwin is the other star of the show. If you like your preachers with a touch of axe-man-standing-over-your-bed-in-the-middle-of-the-night, then Stephen’s your man. I actually thought about asking to go into the House this year (I’ve got the right level of inverted commas to apply to the word “celebrity”), but seeing him I’m glad I didn’t. It’s great he’s allowed to read his bible for an hour a day (Sisqo’s allowed to read the lyrics of the Thong Song for an hour a day), but I couldn’t bear the preaching. I’m sure Heidi, a woman who looks like she applies her lipstick with a lawnmower, will soon get him to practice what he preaches and crucify him. I can’t help thinking they should create a praying area in the garden, next to the smoking bench. No-one should have to inhale other people’s prayers.

It’ll be interesting to see how Stephen’s “platonic” crush on Stephanie Beacham develops. She disturbs me – there’s something vaguely Benjamin Button going on there. She’s 80 with the skin of a 21 year old farting ex-Rock’n'Roll WAG.

Other housemates are also available and there’s much to look forward to: Dane Bowers and Alex Reid (who only keeps his top on if the role really demands it) competing in a Katie Price Foreplay memory task and I’m sure we can expect a surprise visit from Nicola T’s husband, Mr.T. We might even find out where Lady Sovereign has buried Mel C whose face she’s clearly stolen.

Bring it on!

With thanks to @stanandollie for the pictures.

Big Brother: crouching tiger, breaking wind… is a post from: David Schneider's website

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The Queen can't hide her disappointment at the 11th Queen Mother, Matt Smith

For an hour and 15 minutes yesterday, Twitter in the UK went silent as the country respectfully witnessed the passing of the much-loved 10th Doctor. The event had a lot in common with the death of the Queen Mother (like the Doctor, she was 905 when she passed), or even the death of Diana. In fact Mohamed al Fayed has already demanded an enquiry into the suspicious circumstances of the Doctor’s regeneration. Truly, David Tennant was the Doctor of People’s Hearts (both of them).

Twitter, who’d shouted so loud and irreverently at the passing of Michael Jackson, removed her cap and bowed her head in respect (Oh my God. I clearly think Twitter’s a girl). There was much tweeting of “Shh!” and calls for respect before the show started. For the first time on Twitter I didn’t dare tweet a sarky comment for fear of having my passport revoked (writer Emma Kennedy found herself in the middle of World War Who when she dared to slag off the show and – heaven help us – David Tennant’s sex appeal whilst it was on).

Cribbins is actually 3 inches tall. CGI was used to make him look normal height.

In case you missed the show it was basically about John Simm and the rest of the population of the Earth turning into Simon Pegg until Timothy Dalton came along wearing some thick red curtains (as a Time Lord with the whole of space and time available to him, he could have surely chosen something a bit better). Bernard Cribbins was an undoubted highlight, doing his best acting since he was Hornby-sized in the 70s advert (one for the 40-somethings there. If you don’t know it here it is – it was the Avatar of its time.) By the end of the show us regular Whoniks were reduced to tears. Mostly by the sight of Matt Smith (Give him a chance, OK?!).

The BBC plans a raunchy new Dr Who spin-off series starring Tiger Woods

There had definitely been a danger of overkill over the holidays. Using the same technology for OmniTennant appearances as Santa uses to get presents to all the children on Christmas night, David T was everywhere. It turns out that at the Copenhagen conference on climate change, the UK had reluctantly agreed to a 40% reduction in David Tennant programmes by 2020. I was worried with the Christmas episode that Dr Who had overstretched itself (he should never have jumped that Sontaran shark). But some great performances, a plot you could almost follow and the lap of honour in the last 20 minutes which rewarded us fans by pissing off newcomers  brought it round. We were left with only one question on our lips: just how much did Billie Piper ask for that appearance.

Now all we have to do is wait for Matt Smith’s 1st episode – the one where he takes on the Cyniks.

With thanks to @stanandollie for the pics

Dr Who and the 11th Regeneration of the Queen Mum is a post from: David Schneider's website

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The funniest man in Britain. And Harry Hill. (How dare I even make that joke?)

I was at the British Comedy Awards on Saturday night. Compared to other years, it was pretty mild (I was there when Julian Clary joked that he’d been fisting the chancellor Norman Lamont, a joke which led to his career being awarded to Paul O’Grady). The only real surprise was that Ryan Giggs didn’t win anything. Still, there was the usual amont of quality bitterness. It can only be a matter of time before they feed some poor victim to the baying comic masses by including a Lifetime Lack of Achievement Award (hope I don’t get a nom for that one). Here are some thoughts, a couple of jokes and some padding…

BEST LIFT AWARD – one of the highlights of the Awards is the lift you get from reception to the studio when you first arrive. The idea is to get in a lift which, if it burst into flames, would inflict a loss on British comedy so severe they’d be forced to show repeats of “Allo Allo” for a generation. This year’s haul was Griff Rhys Jones, Keith Allen and Frankie Boyle. Not too bad. I suspect if we’d been stuck there for days Frankie and Keith would have eaten me by Day 3.

MOST SHOCKING JOKE: This was the first year (I think) that the Comedy Awards weren’t going out totally live but were subject to a 15 minute delay known as Andrew Sachs Time. Which I think encouraged my liftmucker Frankie Boyle to really go for it, comparing the unusual award-announcing combination of Pamela Anderson and Vivienne Westwood to a before and after advert. That bit went out. The bit he added (what it was before and after) didn’t. Some people on my table thought he meant to say “HRT” but I think he knew exactly which 3 letters he wanted to say.

PERSONAL HIGHLIGHT: Lee Majors. The Six Million Dollar Man. I still sing the theme tune to myself when I’m running, convinced it will make me go faster. I loved Harry Hill’s impression and Lee Majors’ face as he did it. He just had to suffer something he’d suffered thousands of times, like the guy I once worked with called Anil Rash. To us, though, it was hilarious and a one-off. How we laughed!

MISSED TV TRICK OF THE NIGHT: What?! They didn’t show us the faces of the gutted kids when Charlie Brooker won (I’ve already banged on about this here). Ross and Brand have a lot to answer for.

THE GOODY BAG: No $20,000 earrings or jewel-encrusted condoms (actually not that practical idea come to think about it), but there was a Pocket Guide to Dubai (“Sale. Everything Must Go!”?), a Bowel Cancer foam bum (thank God they didn’t go with a brown ribbon) and a Tunnocks Caramel bar. Ambassador, wiz zees Maryland Mini Cookies you are spoileeeng us.

GENEROSITY SHOCK: Mayan mythology tells that once every 2 or 3000 years a roomful of bitter comedians will actually feel unsullied warmth and generosity for one of their number. It happened with Graham Linehan’s award. For a moment, we all felt pure pleasure for a lovely and talented bloke. In the aftermath, confusion and sickness reigned – it was like just after everyone blacked out in FlashForward: what happened? What were those strange emotions? Quickly, someone made a joke about James Corden and normal bitterness was soon restored.

And one final thought…

MICHAEL McINTYRE: Let’s be clear. He’s a nice bloke who makes a lot of people laugh. He is not Joseph Fritzl. Although he did share a lift with him on the way to the studio.

Thanks to @2muchcoffeekate for the Ferrero Rocher gag.

The Bitterish Comedy Awards is a post from: David Schneider's website

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Jordward. At one point everyone was trying to get in with the twins.

You have to hand it to Simon Cowell. In a bid to outwit the campaign against an X-Factor Christmas No.1, he’s announced that this year’s winner’s song will be a version of “Killing in the Name” by Rage Against the Machine. Thus he wins.

Of course that’s not true. Though fans of Rage Against the Machine will tell you that the new line-up of Leona Lewis, Jedward and that old man who did some breakdancing on “Britain’s Got Talent” has been a disappointment. I totally understand the rage against the X-Factor machine. It’s agony to know that a constituency of knee-jerking automaton fans will buy a record, however crap, and get it to number 1 at Christmas. Still, it worked for Cliff Richard.

And that’s slightly my point. This is nothing new. It’s just that now, like that monkey that Jeff Goldblum turned inside out in “The Fly”, we can see the innards, the mechanics of the music biz, or at least the ones we’re allowed to see:  the process of selecting a plastic star, the A&R man (Simon Cowell), the ruthlessness.

But it’s one of the great things about X-Factor that the monkey guts are out there. It’s like democracy in miniature, complete with all the manipulations and flaws and spin and sham. At the next general election, Johnathan and David Dimbleby will no doubt be known as Javid, and if no party gets an overall majority it will go to Deadlock, with the Queen probably bottling it and putting it to the public vote. The Jedward phenomenon is like an experiment in what would happen if the Science Fiction Loony Party got enough votes to really threaten the system.

Personally, I didn’t like the twins. They shouldn’t have been there. We have to remember that women threw themselves under horses for the right to vote on the X-Factor. But as a true free-speech liberal, I may not approve of how they sing but I will fight tooth and nail for their right to sing like that. Except with the Wham one. That was awful.

You could have a field day analysing what we can learn about democracy and voter intentions from protest votes in reality shows. We should ask a political correspondent – John Sergeant, perhaps. Ultimately, though, the people saw Jedward off. That’s the great thing about reality TV. It reassures me that, in the end, the great British public are honest, unprejudiced rewarders of talent, decency and good teeth. Democracy works.

Even in the 50s, Xfactor brought families together

I’m an X-factor fan (there, I’ve said it!). I know it’s massively flawed, especially the new format where the first half of the results show has nothing to do with the competition (though I did enjoy that woman last week who was one of the best Michael Jackson impersonators I’ve ever seen. Janet Something). But at a time where viewing habits are so split, it’s good to have something that unites us whether we hate it or love it or just want to slag off the strange black meringues Dannii calls her hairdo for that week.

Don’t get me wrong, I want Rage Against the Machine to get to number 1. It would make a vital statement about democracy, the power of subversion, and the resistance to a cultural hegemony imposed upon us by the Big Business. Then again, that Joe Mcelderry has got such a cute smile.

Thanks to @stanandollie for the pics.

X(mas)-Factor is a post from: David Schneider's website

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