Hello my sweet Lord Blog, oh, how I've missed thee.
It's not as easy as it looks to try to make yourself employable. Teaching jobs in this country are spread more thinly than Bruce Forsyth's steel wire hair. At the moment I feel a bit like I might have to resort to wearing thigh high boots and a backless dress, despairingly shaking my goods under the nose of passing College Principles and pouting. "Go on Mr, take a lick of my CV, it's got the sexiest references and every career gap filled..."
CV's are evil little tyrants. Everyone knows that they're only there to get you past the filing clerk on twelve pence a year who's job it is to separate the cannon fodder from the superstars. Theirs is the job to eliminate the candidates who's only highlights are a GCSE in gardening and a three year gap at "Her Majesties Pleasure" and put forward those with eight years at Oxbridge, with three years curing sick orphans in Africanibeanymoreofaselfrighteoustit. All this happens before the interview process really sorts out who gets the job anyway, so they're pretty much only to jump you through that first hoop anyway. ("I really am at Oxbridge. I live under a bridge in Oxford, eating swan droppings and carving ladies names into my arms... I'll get my coat")
It's a horrible pressure when you have to start writing about yourself in the third person, or writing a 500 word 'Personal Statement' and things can get really tricky on the CV front line when you have to remember it's a balancing act trickier than a blind tightrope walker trying to get his Labrador onto the high wire. Remember, at all times you have to be personable, but professional, work well individually, but also in a team, you have a social life, but are dedicated to 'achieving goals', you use phrases like 'achieving goals' rather than first considering extracting your own tongue with pliers and watching it splashing about in a pool of blood on the floor like a worm cut in half by a spade.
Perhaps I'm not the only one who hates playing the game, but I always feel like such a looser trying to write this way. There's never a shortage of people who give you helpful advice like "if you don't blow your own trumpet then who will?" (Head to a park in Coventry with five quid and a packet of Quavers and I bet you'll find someone who will), or "You've got to sell yourself" (I'm confused, am I the giver or the taker in this arrangement?) but I can't write one of these personal statements without coming across like a gigantic boob and wanting to kill myself for being such a self aggrandising tit.
We should give our CVs over to honesty and tell our prospective employers that we are onto their game and that a chat would be far better. We could write jokes, or include some interesting facts about cinema, or use only the word "kill" five hundred times over in a sort of post-modern ironic statement.
We could do that, but we wont. We all know the truth. CV's are a punishment for the fact that you hate the job you are in now, the one you used to have and probably the one you are going to have in the future, regardless of how many volunteering escapades or internships your cheery, eager little grin can survive without resorting to bashing your teeth out with a bit of pumice stone in frustration of where your life went wrong.
Still, could be worse. You could end up being the poor sod who has to read them all. Try making that job sound good on your CV.
Byebyebyebye. x
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Sports Review - Snook-ooer-missus
Blogbusters (presented by Blog Holness)
If ever sport needed a feel good story it is now. After a weekend of football matches called off despite playable pitches, weak arguments about ball tampering, African players being shot at and highly payed football club executives apparently receiving charm advice from 14 year olds, sports feels more depressing than imagining Peter Andre's sad sack visage reading the last rights to a starveling stray kitten that had just been hit by Jordan's 4x4.
In situations as dire as this, it feels unusual to be looking to a series of barrel stomached, nicotine fingered, hollow eyed grease traps hurling spikes at a cork disk whilst a hoard of whooping, multi-necks ingest weak lager and show what 'characters' they are by wearing Aldi fancy dress costumes. I'm not describing a channel 5 documentary on the cost of alcoholism to modern Britain. Luckily, what I'm describing is something more.... something pure... something good...
This is darts.
English television and pub sports have a cosy relationship that goes beyond sanity. Imagine Trisha with a scoreboard? Imagine it with sharpened projectiles to hurl. That is the image of darts and yet, from Phil 'The Power' Taylor (resembles Sgt. Hartman from Full Metal Jacket if he'd forgotten to take his food out of the fridge before he ate it) to Martin 'Wolfie' Adams (imagine a hedgehog sponsored by H. Samuel) we identify with these unique sportsmen who show the greatest of pinpoint skill whilst looking like they would struggle to walk home from the pub without collapsing into an asthmatic puddle of wheezing.
And it's not just darts. Ever since 84 billion people watched Dennis Taylor wearing upside down spectacles and beating Steve Davis to the world championship about a million years ago, we British have enjoyed an unhealthy relationship with booze based gaming: darts, snooker and now poker are televised events that continue to draw despite the lack of physical activity.
This week sees the weakest of the brands (snooker) begin its Masters series and the BBC will be desperate for the sport to attract the kind of excitement that the darts provided all last week. Unfortunately, the entire success of the tournament, from a commercial perspective, seems to rest on Ronnie O'Sullivan's continued participation. If he goes, expect to see viewing figures dwindle and the fun factor fall through the floor while Hazel Irvine attempts to ignite excitement by introducing links to a VT of John Virgo describing safety play in monotone. This will not do.
Snooker has developed the reputation for high skill mixed with rank tedium. It's gone from Jimmy White, charming like a cockney bookmaker on the fiddle, to a kind of televised chess. It's the only sport that suffers from the skill of it's players. The better they get at blocking out the distractions and finishing on a color, the more the audience turns over to Countdown just for a cheap thrill.
So,without further agadoo, here is the blog's suggestions for bringing a game about very hard balls back to the forefront of sporting excellence - come on... if I'm successful they might make it an Olympic sport. There's got to be three golds in the bag there?
1. Impose a shot time limit.
Snooker takes about a fortnight. When you watch the darts, each throw takes seconds, each hurl of the dart providing that pleasing 'thhhhhuuurrrruuuummmp' noise as the board is penetrated with a fat man's projectile. In snooker, sometimes it takes a full cycle of the moon before the player chalks his cue. Give them ninety seconds per shot. Maximum. Actually, sod that, give them ten seconds each and if they miss the timing, they are electrocuted. This is a 'no mercy' overhauling and there can be no half measures. The sport is the winner.
2. Introduce a set based scoring system
"....and this match is meandering towards its conclusion, as it's 13 - 1 to Ronnie with only 14 frames to win..." Balls to that. Three frames to a set (the winner is first to 2). You can never be so far behind so long as you win the sets. Snooker is a game where everything can change on a single shot, so for gods sake, start exploiting that. Or put electricity in the cues and each player can electrocute their opponent 3 times during the match, to be used any time they choose.
3. Change the colors a bit
4. Sack everyone who introduces and commentates on snooker
5. Remove the dress code
The players look like waiters in an ITV Drama Premier. So I say no more waistcoats. They could have themed tournaments where they are dressed up as Teletubbies or Sesame Street characters. It couldn't be more degrading than going around dressed like James Bonds gay brother.
6. Introduce team based contests
7. Liven up the pious crowd
8. Extra pockets
There are six pockets on the snooker table. Give them a few more. Sure, the game would be easier, but it would make for much less tedious safety play and higher scoring (and therefore quicker matches), leaving more time for the audience to drink and get over their migraines induced by the table cloth and high levels of electricity in the air.
9. Fewer reds.
I don't know what genius put so many frigging red ones on the table, but come on: They're only worth one point and the part of the game spent dueling over reds goes on for ages. Fewer reds means getting to the business end of a frame quicker and keeping the chuckles high.
10. Extra points for potting colors in certain pockets.
Remember Big Break, the snooker based game show hosted by giggle master and racist Jim Davidson? Course not. But the contestants got extra points for potting balls in special pockets - there was a yellow pocket, a blue pocket, etc. That meant that scores could be more readily beaten by very skilled players. Or perhaps they could introduce a special 'electric pocket' - pot the black in it, and your opponent is cooked like a chicken nugget in a George Foreman (the grill, not inside the actual ham faced boxer)
11. Ban the rest, the extension and any other random tat.
What is it exactly that snooker players are compensating for? Well I say 'no more'. No extenders, no spiders, no other things that you call 'aids' but we call 'cheating'. You don't see a dart player reaching for his extending metal arm to get nearer the board? Well do you? Do you? NO. Have some electricity, you punk.
So, there you have it. The game is saved and entertainment is the winner. Next week: The Arab / Israeli conflict. Shouldn't be too hard.
Byetothemuthafuckinbye. xx
If ever sport needed a feel good story it is now. After a weekend of football matches called off despite playable pitches, weak arguments about ball tampering, African players being shot at and highly payed football club executives apparently receiving charm advice from 14 year olds, sports feels more depressing than imagining Peter Andre's sad sack visage reading the last rights to a starveling stray kitten that had just been hit by Jordan's 4x4.
In situations as dire as this, it feels unusual to be looking to a series of barrel stomached, nicotine fingered, hollow eyed grease traps hurling spikes at a cork disk whilst a hoard of whooping, multi-necks ingest weak lager and show what 'characters' they are by wearing Aldi fancy dress costumes. I'm not describing a channel 5 documentary on the cost of alcoholism to modern Britain. Luckily, what I'm describing is something more.... something pure... something good...
This is darts.
English television and pub sports have a cosy relationship that goes beyond sanity. Imagine Trisha with a scoreboard? Imagine it with sharpened projectiles to hurl. That is the image of darts and yet, from Phil 'The Power' Taylor (resembles Sgt. Hartman from Full Metal Jacket if he'd forgotten to take his food out of the fridge before he ate it) to Martin 'Wolfie' Adams (imagine a hedgehog sponsored by H. Samuel) we identify with these unique sportsmen who show the greatest of pinpoint skill whilst looking like they would struggle to walk home from the pub without collapsing into an asthmatic puddle of wheezing.
And it's not just darts. Ever since 84 billion people watched Dennis Taylor wearing upside down spectacles and beating Steve Davis to the world championship about a million years ago, we British have enjoyed an unhealthy relationship with booze based gaming: darts, snooker and now poker are televised events that continue to draw despite the lack of physical activity.
This week sees the weakest of the brands (snooker) begin its Masters series and the BBC will be desperate for the sport to attract the kind of excitement that the darts provided all last week. Unfortunately, the entire success of the tournament, from a commercial perspective, seems to rest on Ronnie O'Sullivan's continued participation. If he goes, expect to see viewing figures dwindle and the fun factor fall through the floor while Hazel Irvine attempts to ignite excitement by introducing links to a VT of John Virgo describing safety play in monotone. This will not do.
Snooker has developed the reputation for high skill mixed with rank tedium. It's gone from Jimmy White, charming like a cockney bookmaker on the fiddle, to a kind of televised chess. It's the only sport that suffers from the skill of it's players. The better they get at blocking out the distractions and finishing on a color, the more the audience turns over to Countdown just for a cheap thrill.
So,without further agadoo, here is the blog's suggestions for bringing a game about very hard balls back to the forefront of sporting excellence - come on... if I'm successful they might make it an Olympic sport. There's got to be three golds in the bag there?
1. Impose a shot time limit.
Snooker takes about a fortnight. When you watch the darts, each throw takes seconds, each hurl of the dart providing that pleasing 'thhhhhuuurrrruuuummmp' noise as the board is penetrated with a fat man's projectile. In snooker, sometimes it takes a full cycle of the moon before the player chalks his cue. Give them ninety seconds per shot. Maximum. Actually, sod that, give them ten seconds each and if they miss the timing, they are electrocuted. This is a 'no mercy' overhauling and there can be no half measures. The sport is the winner.
2. Introduce a set based scoring system
"....and this match is meandering towards its conclusion, as it's 13 - 1 to Ronnie with only 14 frames to win..." Balls to that. Three frames to a set (the winner is first to 2). You can never be so far behind so long as you win the sets. Snooker is a game where everything can change on a single shot, so for gods sake, start exploiting that. Or put electricity in the cues and each player can electrocute their opponent 3 times during the match, to be used any time they choose.
3. Change the colors a bit
I guess the balls have to stay the same colour or everyone would forget what each one is worth (it would be like changing how traffic lights work - cruel, but I suppose it would be potentially entertaining... let's call that a 'work in progress'. Changing the colors of the balls, not changing the colors of traffic lights. That would be as insane as electrocuting sportsmen), but does the table HAVE to be green? What about purple or orange? What about different colours for different tournaments? Puce? Strobe? You could have Paul Smith design them and give everyone watching a migraine, just for giggles.
4. Sack everyone who introduces and commentates on snooker
Snooker commentators are very dull. Hazel Irvine is a boy child in a sweater. Steve Davis is the loose cannon of the group. Surely it hasn't come to this? Either kill them all or let them go mad and say whatever they like. None of this whispering or blithering on like the elderly family member at a wake everyone is desperate to get away from to go to the bar. Let them swear. Let them curse. Surely, cries of: 'cock it, that was fucking brilliant' would be far more exciting than the usual nonsense about angles and safety play. Come on lads, put some effort in or you may die. By electrocution.
5. Remove the dress code
The players look like waiters in an ITV Drama Premier. So I say no more waistcoats. They could have themed tournaments where they are dressed up as Teletubbies or Sesame Street characters. It couldn't be more degrading than going around dressed like James Bonds gay brother.
6. Introduce team based contests
I like the idea of creating Pro-Wrestling style 'tag teams' of snooker players who square off against each other. It could be used as a vehicle for bringing women into the professional game (why aren't there any? Surely this is one sport without any advantage for men?) and have more exhibition matches. When one player is at the table, his partner could 'trash talk' his opponents or psyche them out by tapping the table when a good shot is hit. Rivalries could be settled with the electricity enhanced cues after the bell rings.... sorry... I mean, after the match ends.
7. Liven up the pious crowd
The first way to do that is to encourage noise during the shots. If darts players can hit a double 6 from what is essentially the basement of a noisy pub, then I'm sure snooker players could survive without a quasi-religious atmosphere and the referee snarling at anyone who so much as releases a fart during a shot.
The second way to liven up the crowd is simple. Give. Them. Beer.
8. Extra pockets
There are six pockets on the snooker table. Give them a few more. Sure, the game would be easier, but it would make for much less tedious safety play and higher scoring (and therefore quicker matches), leaving more time for the audience to drink and get over their migraines induced by the table cloth and high levels of electricity in the air.
9. Fewer reds.
I don't know what genius put so many frigging red ones on the table, but come on: They're only worth one point and the part of the game spent dueling over reds goes on for ages. Fewer reds means getting to the business end of a frame quicker and keeping the chuckles high.
10. Extra points for potting colors in certain pockets.
Remember Big Break, the snooker based game show hosted by giggle master and racist Jim Davidson? Course not. But the contestants got extra points for potting balls in special pockets - there was a yellow pocket, a blue pocket, etc. That meant that scores could be more readily beaten by very skilled players. Or perhaps they could introduce a special 'electric pocket' - pot the black in it, and your opponent is cooked like a chicken nugget in a George Foreman (the grill, not inside the actual ham faced boxer)
11. Ban the rest, the extension and any other random tat.
What is it exactly that snooker players are compensating for? Well I say 'no more'. No extenders, no spiders, no other things that you call 'aids' but we call 'cheating'. You don't see a dart player reaching for his extending metal arm to get nearer the board? Well do you? Do you? NO. Have some electricity, you punk.
So, there you have it. The game is saved and entertainment is the winner. Next week: The Arab / Israeli conflict. Shouldn't be too hard.
Byetothemuthafuckinbye. xx
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
Unemployment, sky ice and twatbadgers
Welcome to the blog party.
One of the few things in life that is more upsetting than getting a kitten for Christmas, only to find that mummy forgot to drill air holes in the box (but remember, a cat isn't a cat until you look inside, so don't open any more presents again... EVER) is that feeling of being chucked out of the other end of the festive season, like some glitter coated rectal jewel, and suddenly it is the first day of January.
Truly, this is the time of year when the spectre of harsh reality rears its head like an evil darkhearted spring, arriving to kick you awake from the hibernation of winter by chucking a pale of water over your head and ushering you into the bathroom for a good scrubbing with a Brillo Pad.
Everyone is furious and howling like toddlers on the first day back at work, glimpsing the gazillion or so emails awaiting petty attentions and staring wistfully at the clock when it reaches noon, remembering the good old days of being sat on the sofa in three day old pants eating cheese twists from the packet and scratching themselves until the 6th re-run of Celebrity Come Dine With Me comes on. And God only knows what the men would be thinking (ohhhhhh, a joke based on genders doing something slightly different from what you would expect!!! That is so amusing I literally prolapsed with glee. All over the kitchen chair.... mmmm, sticky).
At least, that is how it should be unless you are a jobless bum like me. Nowadays, spending my afternoons eating cheesy snacks would actually be an upgrade. I've moved backwards from eating foods out of the packet because that seemed like a lot of hard work and so have taken to smearing golden syrup over my lips first thing in the morning and lying in wait in front of the TV in case flies land on them and become entrapped in the syrupy coating. I'm then free to use my tongue to flick them into my slobbering, retched mouth hole before chewing them to a slimy, but sugar enriched, paste.
I've even got to the point where lifting my arms to use the remote seems like a ridiculous expenditure of effort, so have instead placed it on a small table in front of me so that I can lean forwards and pound my face into the numbers whenever Diagnosis Murder gets a bit dull (i.e. when it starts) until I become concussed.
Today, I was able to look outside my window at the pwetty ickle skyice that was falling from the heavens and learnt that if you squint a bit, the world looks like it's piped into your head from a badly tuned TV. Unemployment means that everything I see is being mediated in some form or other: my news is gathered from TV or Internet, my culture is reviewed online, my relationships are texted or imagined (actually, mostly imagined).
In short, to get the best from unemployment one has two choices: you either go mad (it's cheap, leads to affordable housing, makes you a hoot at dinner parties when you start eating candles or accusing the mirrors of sleeping with your wife) or you go outside.
Tomorrow I'm supposed to be heading to Londonsville for a knees up with some old pals, but something tells me that if I try that, I had better bring a shovel - and this time it's not for the creation of shallow graves while fleeing several authorities; it'll be to dig me out of the snowbound hellhole that this country is likely to become.
The news is making an unreasonable amount of fuss about why we can't seem to deal with snow. Moaning about trivial things like keeping trains and buses running or gritting the roads and not nearly enough time preventing those awful pictures of snowmen that 'ordinary members of the public' send in. Everyone I know secretly loves a bit of snow and the fact that it causes chaos is one of the big reasons. It's a little dose of anarchy in our otherwise predicable lives that makes it great; a day off work, a day off school, pretty streets and houses.
The only people it seems to affect are those people we see caught up in the 'chaos on the roads' that is reported back to us by the news outlets like we're witnessing an apocalyptic social catastrophe threatening to pull apart the fabric of time and space and suck us into a sort of white hell, where only those with shovels and a working water tank will survive, and not just a few pictures of some frozen precipitation and a bunch of pinhole eyed, workaholic, slack brained marionettes weeping over the dents in their Audi Twatbadgers. Which, by the way, could have been easily avoided if they weren't too stupid to stay at home, put the kettle on and get on the sofa.
Unless, of course, they had somewhere to get to. Like a job. Bastards.
Loveyourfacexx
One of the few things in life that is more upsetting than getting a kitten for Christmas, only to find that mummy forgot to drill air holes in the box (but remember, a cat isn't a cat until you look inside, so don't open any more presents again... EVER) is that feeling of being chucked out of the other end of the festive season, like some glitter coated rectal jewel, and suddenly it is the first day of January.
Truly, this is the time of year when the spectre of harsh reality rears its head like an evil darkhearted spring, arriving to kick you awake from the hibernation of winter by chucking a pale of water over your head and ushering you into the bathroom for a good scrubbing with a Brillo Pad.
Everyone is furious and howling like toddlers on the first day back at work, glimpsing the gazillion or so emails awaiting petty attentions and staring wistfully at the clock when it reaches noon, remembering the good old days of being sat on the sofa in three day old pants eating cheese twists from the packet and scratching themselves until the 6th re-run of Celebrity Come Dine With Me comes on. And God only knows what the men would be thinking (ohhhhhh, a joke based on genders doing something slightly different from what you would expect!!! That is so amusing I literally prolapsed with glee. All over the kitchen chair.... mmmm, sticky).
At least, that is how it should be unless you are a jobless bum like me. Nowadays, spending my afternoons eating cheesy snacks would actually be an upgrade. I've moved backwards from eating foods out of the packet because that seemed like a lot of hard work and so have taken to smearing golden syrup over my lips first thing in the morning and lying in wait in front of the TV in case flies land on them and become entrapped in the syrupy coating. I'm then free to use my tongue to flick them into my slobbering, retched mouth hole before chewing them to a slimy, but sugar enriched, paste.
I've even got to the point where lifting my arms to use the remote seems like a ridiculous expenditure of effort, so have instead placed it on a small table in front of me so that I can lean forwards and pound my face into the numbers whenever Diagnosis Murder gets a bit dull (i.e. when it starts) until I become concussed.
Today, I was able to look outside my window at the pwetty ickle skyice that was falling from the heavens and learnt that if you squint a bit, the world looks like it's piped into your head from a badly tuned TV. Unemployment means that everything I see is being mediated in some form or other: my news is gathered from TV or Internet, my culture is reviewed online, my relationships are texted or imagined (actually, mostly imagined).
In short, to get the best from unemployment one has two choices: you either go mad (it's cheap, leads to affordable housing, makes you a hoot at dinner parties when you start eating candles or accusing the mirrors of sleeping with your wife) or you go outside.
Tomorrow I'm supposed to be heading to Londonsville for a knees up with some old pals, but something tells me that if I try that, I had better bring a shovel - and this time it's not for the creation of shallow graves while fleeing several authorities; it'll be to dig me out of the snowbound hellhole that this country is likely to become.
The news is making an unreasonable amount of fuss about why we can't seem to deal with snow. Moaning about trivial things like keeping trains and buses running or gritting the roads and not nearly enough time preventing those awful pictures of snowmen that 'ordinary members of the public' send in. Everyone I know secretly loves a bit of snow and the fact that it causes chaos is one of the big reasons. It's a little dose of anarchy in our otherwise predicable lives that makes it great; a day off work, a day off school, pretty streets and houses.
The only people it seems to affect are those people we see caught up in the 'chaos on the roads' that is reported back to us by the news outlets like we're witnessing an apocalyptic social catastrophe threatening to pull apart the fabric of time and space and suck us into a sort of white hell, where only those with shovels and a working water tank will survive, and not just a few pictures of some frozen precipitation and a bunch of pinhole eyed, workaholic, slack brained marionettes weeping over the dents in their Audi Twatbadgers. Which, by the way, could have been easily avoided if they weren't too stupid to stay at home, put the kettle on and get on the sofa.
Unless, of course, they had somewhere to get to. Like a job. Bastards.
Loveyourfacexx
Saturday, 2 January 2010
TV Review - Dr. Who, What, Why and When
Hello my blogic problems.
This week, I am coming to you from the past. Yes, lucky for me, I have managed to find a little zip in the corner of time itself. Actually, it looked more like a corner that hadn't been properly stuck down and, my curiosity piqued, I decided to peel at the fabric of time like a child picking at a lose scab in the bath. This means that I have secret knowledge of the future but unfortunately, my every action can only be played out to you in real time and the ability to re-write history has evaded me. Of course.
Obviously, this is a power not to be messed with, or misused to smite my growing list of hapless enemies. The fact that I lack the ability to prove that I am in the past, sending this message forwards through time, would to some hardened cynics, sound like an almighty contrivance. Luckily, before I caught (catching? catch? ...ooh, time travel plays right havoc with your tenses) up with the present again, I was able to track down and sell my story to Russell T Davies while he was still in the draft stages for his last and final Dr. Who script, due to be aired over Christmas. I was able to assure him that despite the fact that everything I have just told you is ridiculous, false and, in a screenplay, would contain enough plot holes for you to wrap the script around loose leaf tea and brew yourself a lovely cup o char I had every confidence that, in his hands, my tale of time slippage would make perfect, logical and inspirational sense.
So with this in mind, I settled in to watch the second half of the 2 part 'The End of Time' episode of Dr. Who on New Years Day, knowing that a genius like Rusty T would be able to iron out these problems in the second and third draft of the script allowing a confident and meaningful segway from David Tenant's ubiquitous portrayal of the time lord to Matt Smith's Who: Version 11.0.
Looking at the show as a whole, you have to admire both RTD and the BBC for bringing a 'bigger than life' sense of spectacle back to the Christmas schedules. Immediately, the philharmonic opening credit score soars out of the TV (which still includes the timeless, almost ethereal theme music) and the image of the Tardis sailing through time comes bursting onto the screen with such effect that even a Who idiot like me can feel a ping of excitement fluttering through my Quality Street infested bowels.
It has long been a universally accepted Christmas gripe that there will be 'nothing on' over Christmas, much like 'there wont be any snow' and 'it starts earlier every year', we Brits seem to have decided that Christmas, much like the weather, is worthy of small talk derision. I'm not sure when this imagined 'golden age' of Christmas TV started or ended and although true that, whenever it was, it was unlikely to include 'Celebrity Family Fortunes' (ITV1), 'Ant and Dec's Christmas Show (ITV1) and 'The All Star Impressions Show' (IT.... oh, you get the picture) I still can't really remember a time when there wasn't a collective groan once the Queen had done the biz and before 'The Italian Job' came on. The thick slice of real Christmas afternoon and New Year spectacle offered by Dr. Who is welcome, inviting and refreshing.
However, once the excitement of the credits had died down, the programme itself had me scratching my head and rubbing my chin with a sort of otherworldly incomprehension of what my eye holes and ear sockets were squawking towards my moist brain worms. I thought I had a vague realisation of what was going on in the Whoniverse, but the thing kept jumping from plot point to plot point like a child on a burning mattress. The script almost resisted comprehension from anyone without a doctorate in Doctor: "Who are these noodle faced aliens? What are they going on about? Oh, the master? That's John Simm isn't it? I liked him in that thing that had a policeman what did a swear. Oh, he was a lark wasn't he, all hitting people and misogynist, with his boiled ham face. Wait, what now? Who's this old guy? Is it Bernard Cribbins? Off Jakanory? Off dictionary corner? What's he doing? That's not Susie Dent. Oh, wait, there's John Simm. Why's he got a weird face? Why's he done his hair so he looks like H from Steps' borstal educated older brother?" ...and on and on and on.
It was so densely packed with what I can only describe as 'stuff' that by the time James Bond (not Daniel Craig, one of the 'dirt' Bond's) rocked up wearing his smoking jacket and carrying a planet, I was in a kind of trance, not really getting why I was still watching, but feeling like a rubber necker at a railway disaster: enjoying the spectacle, but unable to fully grasp that it all must mean.... something. You were pummeled into shock by the famous faces, the special effects, the teary confessions of regret and a knowing acceptance of what was to come (namely the Dr's death and regeneration) until I reached a point where the quality of the script or acting was redundant to my experience, completely arbitrary to the sensory melee.
When the end finally came, David Tenant, obviously learning from his stint in the RSC, took about half an hour to actually feel the 'pinch' and shuffle himself loose the mortal coil. The final sequence was a sort of 'Match of the Day' round up of all the loose ends, hanging plot points and previously seen characters that probably made sense to somebody, but not to bloody me matey. In fact, by that stage, we had heard so many times that it was the 'end' for Dr. 10 that they didn't even attempt to suspend disbelief and showed us a fatally irradiated and therefore 'dying' Dr. simply wandering around, looking a bit grim and back slapping with everyone he'd ever met - including John 'Any dream will do, so long as there's a cheque involved' Barrowman, Belle de Jour, a warewolf and Catherine bleedin' Tate.
Sadly for me, it seems that despite all the hype, the wailing and the nostalgia, the conclusion to this Dr's incarnation lacks the awe inspiring, jaw dropping sense of finale that was intimated by both the title of the episode and the finality that the departure of RTD and David Tenant from the show implied. Perhaps the best news of all is for Matt Smith, the potentially ill fated 11th Dr. Despite promising the end, what this final show was really about was proving that the format still retains the scope and the landscape for an entirely new beginning.
Byesebye. x
This week, I am coming to you from the past. Yes, lucky for me, I have managed to find a little zip in the corner of time itself. Actually, it looked more like a corner that hadn't been properly stuck down and, my curiosity piqued, I decided to peel at the fabric of time like a child picking at a lose scab in the bath. This means that I have secret knowledge of the future but unfortunately, my every action can only be played out to you in real time and the ability to re-write history has evaded me. Of course.
Obviously, this is a power not to be messed with, or misused to smite my growing list of hapless enemies. The fact that I lack the ability to prove that I am in the past, sending this message forwards through time, would to some hardened cynics, sound like an almighty contrivance. Luckily, before I caught (catching? catch? ...ooh, time travel plays right havoc with your tenses) up with the present again, I was able to track down and sell my story to Russell T Davies while he was still in the draft stages for his last and final Dr. Who script, due to be aired over Christmas. I was able to assure him that despite the fact that everything I have just told you is ridiculous, false and, in a screenplay, would contain enough plot holes for you to wrap the script around loose leaf tea and brew yourself a lovely cup o char I had every confidence that, in his hands, my tale of time slippage would make perfect, logical and inspirational sense.
So with this in mind, I settled in to watch the second half of the 2 part 'The End of Time' episode of Dr. Who on New Years Day, knowing that a genius like Rusty T would be able to iron out these problems in the second and third draft of the script allowing a confident and meaningful segway from David Tenant's ubiquitous portrayal of the time lord to Matt Smith's Who: Version 11.0.
Looking at the show as a whole, you have to admire both RTD and the BBC for bringing a 'bigger than life' sense of spectacle back to the Christmas schedules. Immediately, the philharmonic opening credit score soars out of the TV (which still includes the timeless, almost ethereal theme music) and the image of the Tardis sailing through time comes bursting onto the screen with such effect that even a Who idiot like me can feel a ping of excitement fluttering through my Quality Street infested bowels.
It has long been a universally accepted Christmas gripe that there will be 'nothing on' over Christmas, much like 'there wont be any snow' and 'it starts earlier every year', we Brits seem to have decided that Christmas, much like the weather, is worthy of small talk derision. I'm not sure when this imagined 'golden age' of Christmas TV started or ended and although true that, whenever it was, it was unlikely to include 'Celebrity Family Fortunes' (ITV1), 'Ant and Dec's Christmas Show (ITV1) and 'The All Star Impressions Show' (IT.... oh, you get the picture) I still can't really remember a time when there wasn't a collective groan once the Queen had done the biz and before 'The Italian Job' came on. The thick slice of real Christmas afternoon and New Year spectacle offered by Dr. Who is welcome, inviting and refreshing.
However, once the excitement of the credits had died down, the programme itself had me scratching my head and rubbing my chin with a sort of otherworldly incomprehension of what my eye holes and ear sockets were squawking towards my moist brain worms. I thought I had a vague realisation of what was going on in the Whoniverse, but the thing kept jumping from plot point to plot point like a child on a burning mattress. The script almost resisted comprehension from anyone without a doctorate in Doctor: "Who are these noodle faced aliens? What are they going on about? Oh, the master? That's John Simm isn't it? I liked him in that thing that had a policeman what did a swear. Oh, he was a lark wasn't he, all hitting people and misogynist, with his boiled ham face. Wait, what now? Who's this old guy? Is it Bernard Cribbins? Off Jakanory? Off dictionary corner? What's he doing? That's not Susie Dent. Oh, wait, there's John Simm. Why's he got a weird face? Why's he done his hair so he looks like H from Steps' borstal educated older brother?" ...and on and on and on.
It was so densely packed with what I can only describe as 'stuff' that by the time James Bond (not Daniel Craig, one of the 'dirt' Bond's) rocked up wearing his smoking jacket and carrying a planet, I was in a kind of trance, not really getting why I was still watching, but feeling like a rubber necker at a railway disaster: enjoying the spectacle, but unable to fully grasp that it all must mean.... something. You were pummeled into shock by the famous faces, the special effects, the teary confessions of regret and a knowing acceptance of what was to come (namely the Dr's death and regeneration) until I reached a point where the quality of the script or acting was redundant to my experience, completely arbitrary to the sensory melee.
When the end finally came, David Tenant, obviously learning from his stint in the RSC, took about half an hour to actually feel the 'pinch' and shuffle himself loose the mortal coil. The final sequence was a sort of 'Match of the Day' round up of all the loose ends, hanging plot points and previously seen characters that probably made sense to somebody, but not to bloody me matey. In fact, by that stage, we had heard so many times that it was the 'end' for Dr. 10 that they didn't even attempt to suspend disbelief and showed us a fatally irradiated and therefore 'dying' Dr. simply wandering around, looking a bit grim and back slapping with everyone he'd ever met - including John 'Any dream will do, so long as there's a cheque involved' Barrowman, Belle de Jour, a warewolf and Catherine bleedin' Tate.
Sadly for me, it seems that despite all the hype, the wailing and the nostalgia, the conclusion to this Dr's incarnation lacks the awe inspiring, jaw dropping sense of finale that was intimated by both the title of the episode and the finality that the departure of RTD and David Tenant from the show implied. Perhaps the best news of all is for Matt Smith, the potentially ill fated 11th Dr. Despite promising the end, what this final show was really about was proving that the format still retains the scope and the landscape for an entirely new beginning.
Byesebye. x
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