Among the many plus points of working from home, a dangerous intruder lurks nearby. I speak of course of daytime TV, a wasteland of feral chavs, middle-aged women talking about their muffs and Noel Edmonds.
Working from home has lots of advantages. There’s the renegade thrill of pitching up barefoot to your office in t-shirt and shorts on hot summer days without fear of censure; no longer being a prisoner to fascist, take-your-turn, office tea-making regimes; and nothing can beat the satisfaction of pausing from work altogether to tune into the test match/Wimbledon/the 3.30 at Newmarket (delete as applicable). But among all the plus points, a dangerous intruder lurks nearby. I speak of course of daytime tv.
‘The DNA tests reveal… you are the father.’
Starting with, the detestable Jeremy Kyle Show. Kyle likes to cast himself as the ultimate moral arbiter for the feral chavs he hectors throughout the programme. Essentially, he vilifies and pillories stupid, poor people in the name of entertainment. It is cheap and distasteful on every level. Kyle is roundly applauded by a studio audience of, for want of a better description, council house pikeys, the very core audience of the show who help prop up this diabolical spectacle. And yet, it is this very sub-set of society that Kyle is lambasting and putting in the stocks to have rotten fruit thrown at them.
The faux sympathy and words of advice Kyle extends to them at the denouement of their sordid tales are as shallow and transparent as a Tory MP smiling for a pre-General election photo call on a Manchester sink estate. If anything, all it does is allow middle class twats like Kyle to look down their noses at the proles, while cleverly, and at the same time, keeping the docile masses in their place. My personal view is, Kyle must have a tiny cock and this is his way of making himself feel better.
Kyle likes to cast himself as the ultimate moral arbiter for the feral chavs he hectors throughout the programme.
Next up, This Morning.
‘It’s time to top up the tan and the bank balance… King Henry VIII had how many wives in total?’
That’s a taxing question by This Morning standards. They go on to chat about soap storylines and the latest reality tv news as if this is the be all and end all. There is a serious slot warning about the dangers of sunbeds in between Rusty Lee on the South Bank laughing like a drain.
Are people reassured and comforted tuning into this inane shit each day? If you possess a shred of intelligence you feel sidelined by such simpleton content. Perhaps I am just an extremely tasteful human being but all I see here are quizzes extorting money from viewers, fatuous talking points, and self-serving z-listers seeking to keep their profile in the limelight.
The cheap theme music wafting though the office can mean only one thing. Lunchtime hell lies ahead. Or, as it’s otherwise known, Loose Women. These awful, dried up, menopausal harridans talk candidly about their lady bits and whether it’s prudent to have some work done. The frank, confessional style of the show is apparently its biggest triumph led by grumpy old female-in-chief Carol McGiffin, who has the sort of sour, perma-frown that could delay the climactic scenes of a bukkake movie indefinitely.
I’ll be accused of being a misogynist but really, what kind of example are they setting for womankind? ‘Oh, but they’re so refreshingly open, talking about their partners and their kids, and their drooping tits. They are one of us,’ female fans would argue. No they’re not, they’re just blatantly playing up to their audience.
Lunchtime hell lies ahead. Or, as it’s otherwise known, Loose Women. These awful, dried up, menopausal harridans talk candidly about their lady bits.
Imagine a group of middle-aged men in the same scenario taking about their cocks and, in the same titillating manner, revealing their desire to hang out the back of Amanda Holden, while a live studio audience, consisting entirely of blokes, laugh along heartily? They’d be taken off the screens for slanderous sexism.
But this is apparently reverse discrimination; defiantly liberal, emancipated women, revelling in the opportunity for some salacious chat. The problem is that unlike, say, the original Sex And The City, it’s not remotely clever, or funny, or ground-breaking.
Come mid-afternoon if you’ve not given up the will to live, you get to choose between The Vanessa Show, The Alan Titchmarsh Show, and Fern. It is all so spirit-crushingly insipid. I’d like to live in a world in which the works of Proust and Sartre are streamed into UK homes during the day. Stuff that encourages enlightenment, introspection and intellectual betterment. But no. Instead we get to watch Louis Spence prancing around in a spangly orange shirt giving ‘Ooh matron’ looks to camera, while the people in the studio lap it up like they’re in the company of some modern-day Bertrand Russell.
Daytime TV schedules are like a portal into a terrifying netherworld in which zombies sit at home, willfully having their brains sucked out as an endless stream of self-serving fame-seekers fill the air with a torrent of vacuous drivel. Oh look, it’s lovely Brian Dowling. Oh look, it’s brave Kerry Katona. Oh look, my frontal lobe has just turned into mashed potato.
Thank heaven then for Countdown as at least it tests the old grey matter, with the delightful Rachel handing out the letters. But just when you’re congratulating yourself on getting the conundrum, Deal Or No Deal arrives.
This is like the Waco of afternoon game shows; a weird cult with Noel Edmonds cast as the David Koresh figure, leading his disciples in what he calls ‘The Dream Factory’. It has a language all of its own and is quite surreal. The studio audience are called ‘the pilgrims’. There is the ‘left wing’, ‘right wing’, ‘the death box’, ‘the power five’ and on a special occasions like Halloween they all get to dress up like complete eejits.
Deal Or No Deal arrives. This is like the Waco of afternoon game shows; a weird cult with Noel Edmonds cast as the David Koresh figure.
At the start of the show, they now go big on contestants’ back stories. They bring out letters and photos of loved ones, and recount heart rending tales about their recent bereavments and tough upbringing. What is it with modern tv and every fucker thinking they’ve got a divine right to have a shot at the big time, or a big win, because they’ve had it so tough in life?
You know what, I wanted to play football for England and be Kate Beckinsale’s boyfriend but do you see me on tv making a big song and dance about it? No, I have dignity. I sit at home sneering at you all instead.
If Noel’s ridiculous 80s Barnet, beard and gaudy shirts aren’t enough to send you round the bend, then his earnestness will. ‘This has been an unprecedented period in Deal,’ he says. ‘We have had games that are so emotional. You will be back for the final part of this game, see you shortly.’
What is guaranteed is before the end, they’ll all be sobbing uncontrollably as the contestant either wins big or spunks the lot. After John gives the usual sort of sincere yarn about how big a difference the money would make to his life, he says ‘No deal’. Now I really want him to win sweet f.a..
‘Blue, blue, blue, blue’ they all chant ahead of the critical box being opened.
Huge sighs of horror greet the appearance of 100,000. I sit there laughing my head off. My personal Schadenfreude runneth over. He ends up with 500 quid.
‘What a wonderful man,’ says Noel at the close of the show. ‘Great character.’ Greedy cunt, I say. Serves him right.
Daytime TV. What point does it serve other than to re-enforce this horribly dumbed down, emotionally retarded country we’ve created? It’s a graveyard for the soul. Its only saving grace, the gorgeous Rachel Riley, and living for the day the letters spell out ‘I love cock’.
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