Frankie Boyle's Tramadol Nights
Uncomfortable viewing at the best of times, watching this with your parents is like stripping naked, using your Dad's wig as a pelt and performing Anne Widdecombe's version of the Charleston.
Oh my God she's not going to do thaa...aaaargh WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE FUCKETY HEADED SHITFUCK IS HAPPENING TO MY TV. About as edgy and hip as Hugh Heffner's 1970s archived magazine collection.
Rihanna's live performance on the X Factor Final
Imagine having to explain this hip-thrusting, sexual-referencing, love-bump-shaking jamboree to your 5-yr-old niece. A horny Ronald McDonald with tits and a Barbados accent is not 100% comprehendible to pre-teens.
Nigella Lawson (on any TV show)
I defy anyone to watch this without going red, looking at the floor and sheepishly reaching for the remote. Or masturbating furiously. One of the two.
Specifically Mr Schuster rapping, but basically the whole of Glee
Although there is fundamentally nothing wrong with a load of ethnically representative kids all getting along and having a bit of a dance, Glee takes this basic High-School-Musical principle to new levels of smugness. These kids are so smug you want to scalp every single one them and wear their faces as shoe covers. When they burst into a spectacularly uncomfortable and autotuned to fuck rendition of Kanye West's Golddigger, I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't having an acid flashback. I spent the opening bars thinking: "don't rap, don't rap, don't fucking rap, don't you dare start rapping you self-righteous bunch of ugly lipsmacking cuntballs", but then Mr Schuster starts rapping and all my hopes and dreams lay shattered on the floor smothered in shit.
Look. Guys. I love you all as individuals, I really do. But The Persuasionists? WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS? It’s like visiting Great-Aunt Alzheimer’s who can’t remember who the fuck you are, but who can and will list exact details of her bowel movements over the last month, for forty five minutes. Every turd-droppingly un-funny quip and crass, cataclysmically ill-judged “funny voice” makes you grit your teeth so hard you may end up piercing your own skull.
A Snake Shits on a Table on Come Dine With Me
Watching a snake regally lift its arse and spout lime green mucus with brown bits in at TEATIME is why this programme is on it’s way to becoming a national institution. Someone get this motherfucking snake shit off this motherfucking dinner table. Then get the producers an OBE.
The ‘Bad Auditions’ Song on X Factor
In years to come we’ll look back on this like we look back on the Minipops. We may not as individuals be responsible, but as a society we must hang our head in, if not paedo-shame this time, then cavalcade-of-mental-abuse-shame. Order these people a coach back to Broadmoor, stuff a few tenners in their pockets, and we’ll agree to say no more about it.
The Sex Education Show
Ok. See the bit at 00:36, where the middle-aged woman says “He just doesn’t have that drive now. But I do!” See her husband’s face? See how it carries the ennui and quiet despair of a thousand uncomfortable nights spent spooning with a sweaty back? That’s the British way. We’re not French. We’re not Berlusconi, or Obama or fucking Anna Chapman. We don’t have good sex, and we never will. And I’m fucked if I want to watch Anna-tantric-and-teabagging-Richardson torment people about that. FUCK OFF, and leave the poor bloke alone.
“You don’t wanna be a loser on UK TV doo ya?”… nope. No I don’t. As much fun as it is laughing at the poor, the fat and the dim having a bikini-clad lilo race at the behest of the world’s biggest twat, there’s something so gurningly repugnant about this show that it defies all adjectives. Calling it a roundabout of pus-filled shite barrels, displaying their sexual organs and fucking things like lesser-evolved Bonobo monkeys, is just nowhere near enough.
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