I thought I could get by without it.
I was wrong.
As one of the 900,000* elite British citizens who bothered to watch The Daily Show the way Jon Stewart intended – on a daily basis – 2011 started in the most unseemly manner imaginable.
With no warning whatsoever, January, a notorious runt of a month, became infinitely more desolate when the only television programme I felt compelled to watch religiously suddenly disappeared from the face of the earth/my TV guide (the Global Edition would later resurface at stupid o’clock on a Monday but, like a lefthand wank or a fist-fight with a dwarf stripper, once a week is simply not enough).
Carried here in the UK by Channel 4’s Guardian-reading big sister More4, I’d come to rely on Comedy Central’s satirical flagship as reliable source material in my never-ending quest to appear more intelligent than I really am. I’d spent the previous 5 years making smart-arse references to American politicians I didn’t really know anything about at parties I hadn’t been invited to, and three drunk idiots seemed vaguely impressed once.
“Larry Craig admires men’s penises,” I’d bellow at random women I assumed must be attractive, because they were stood in the same Ikea-lit kitchen as a couple of hipster dicks in Kanye West sunglasses. “With his mouth.”
It was the most important I’d ever felt.
He’d been wilfully and maliciously extracted from the schedules by some spack-handed, coat hanger-wielding More4 abortionist.
But now, without Jon Stewart feeding me my lines, my burgeoning reputation amongst the beatnik aristocracy hung in tatters.
After an almighty tirade that culminated in me coming within a three-quarter backswing of slaughtering the neighbour’s Labrador with a 5-iron, I eventually got enough of my shit back in a sock to investigate Mr Stewart’s mysterious abduction more thoroughly on something called “the Internet” (Google it if you’re not sure). And that’s when the Pain Train careered boxcab-first into Destination Truth. Utter fucking carnage.
As it transpired, my instincts were as wrong this time as they were the time I assumed you could mimic the effects of LSD by drinking Cillit Bang: Jon Stewart wasn’t taking an extended post-Hanukkah vacation at all. In actuality, he’d been willfully and maliciously extracted from the schedules by some spack-handed, coat hanger-wielding More4 abortionist. And why? Well, if the months since are any indication, for no other reason than to make room in broadcasting’s stinking crypt of a womb for some much-needed endless repeats of Grand Designs and that apocalyptically awful gawp-porn carnival whose name I thankfully forget. You know the one: team of narcissistic smarm-boils masquerading as qualified Doctors invite 58-year-old taxi driver Geoff to share the disfiguring penile malady he was too embarrassed to show his GP withthe entire fucking nation; a bare-faced piece of freakshow exploitation that excuses itself with the ubiquitous edutainment-style portmanteau disclaimer, assimilating the myth that TV is once more the philanthropist, selflessly giving us, the audience, the chance to “broaden our knowledge of human biology” by staring blankly at a necrotic stub of blowfly-infested cock-meat.
More4 will, of course, have it otherwise. According to “a spokeswoman” (telling that no-one would have the sand to put their name to such a profoundly stupid statement), the show was evicted from its original daily-at-8.30pm-that’s-why-we-call-it-The-Daily-Show luxury dwelling and rehoused amongst the once-a-week-at-11pm projects to, I quote, “bolster More4’s roster of high-end American programming”.
What? The? Fuck? Jettison The Daily Show – half-an-hour of, unless I’m very much mistaken, high-end American programming – in order to bolster your roster of high-end American programming? 'Paradoxical' doesn’t do Faceless Spokeswoman’s unique brand of blue-sky thinking justice. I'm not sure anything would. That’s exactly the sort of freewheeling, petrol-sniffing ‘logic’ that led me to smash my penis to a sickening pulp with a claw hammer in a bid to bolster its roster of high-end blow jobs.
Instead of 30-minutes expanding our understanding of/disdain for stateside politics in the company of people far more insightful and funny than we could ever hope to be, we get yesterday’s smug affluence on an incessant purgatorial loop.
All this dumbfuckery does beg the question, if The Daily Show doesn’t fit More4’s new remit, what does? And this is where I lose my sense of humour, because The Best Show on Television was butchered and dumped in the Pine Barrens so More4, in their infinite wisdom, could free up enough coin to buy the rights to…
Wait for it...
Drum roll, please…
The US version of Shameless.
Yes, Shameless. A transatlantic retread of a British TV series that ceased to be relevant or funny the second we all realised it was never either of those things to begin with. Old rope. Old rope that we made at great expense then sold cut-price to the Yanks so they could wipe their big fat truck-nuts all over it and sell it back to us at a tidy profit. No wonder More4 don’t have the money to buy The Daily Show anymore. With that kind of 360-degree business model it’s a small miracle they can afford the £190k-worth of disposable dribble-bibs their execs must drool through each year. Fuckwits.
Thankfully, as we go to press, Shameless USA has failed to materialise, though I’m sure, like death, it's coming (I’ve since found out the Grim Reaper arrives at the end of this month). In the meantime, instead of 30-minutes expanding our understanding of/disdain for stateside politics in the company of people far more insightful and funny than we could ever hope to be, we get yesterday’s smug affluence on an incessant purgatorial loop – Groundhog Day with the same upper middle-class twat having the same £300,000 bespoke granite work surfaces fitted in the same dream kitchen in the same dream home in the Cotswolds we all hoped would burn to the fucking ground the first time we saw it. Repeatedly.
I resisted the temptation to jerk a knee way back in January, figured I should take a moment to reflect, cogitate, let the dust settle. Well here we are half a year down the line and just as I suspected, exiling The Daily Show has proved the single dumbest crime TV has perpetrated, since Minipops gave predatory nonces something to cum at while the playgrounds were empty.
Well, too much abuse has gone on too long. I let them take my TV show and now I want it back.
So while I scour eBay for various jigsaw-puzzle pieces of Kalashnikov, may I implore anyone out there with a sense of civic duty and a Twitter account to award the #bringbackthedailyshow hashtag some much needed yard-time, rallying everyone they know to fill out this online request form with the simple demand that Jon Stewart be restored to his rightful circadian throne. If the Tunisians can bring down an entire government with a few iPhone apps and a Facebook account, surely we can raise the modicum of revolutionary zeal needed to cajole a pudgy Channel 4 bigwig into belching something moderately illuminating down our optic nerves once a day.
Your choice, brothers and sisters: half an hour of enlightenment or ogling Janet’s post-natal cervical prolapse for all eternity. And the winner is…
*Average daily viewing figures Jan-Dec 2010, begging the question, where the fuck was everyone else?
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