I’m going to apologise in advance for this, because I’m totally confused. And I have a feeling that my confusion is going to translate into talking a massive load of shit for the next five minutes of your life, for which I’m sorry.
I’ve been to Liverpool. I love Liverpool, in fact. I like to go and have a nice look around Quiggins, maybe go to the Cavern Club or the Carling Academy. Once I went to a northern soul night where Clint Boon was DJ-ing.
‘Can I have some Jackie Wilson?’ I asked.
‘No’, he replied.
‘Well fuck off then.’
I got thrown out. But still, it was a good night and I always have a little snigger to myself when I hear ‘This Is How It Feels’. From the start of Desperate Scousewives though, I’m lost. The only thing I recognise is the Liver Building, and that’s only in the vain hope that the birds will stretch their stony wings, fly free and shit all over the cast of this vapid, pointless programme. Listen, I like trash. I’m not sitting here on some, ‘I only watch Newsnight and X Factor is beneath me and TOWIE is for pikeys’ rant. I watch TOWIE. I’ve even been known to have a bitter wank over Mark Wright in a port-induced Friday night fug. But then, TOWIE – as shit and shoddy as it is – does have something very different. It has a glimmer of heart, a little, little sense of humanity. You’d quite like Arg to lose a bit of weight. You want Joey to wear tighter pants until his bollocks implode. We were all quite smug when Sam and Billie got a bit of a beating. You quite like the big fat lass who wants to lose a few pounds. They’re stupidly, annoyingly real.
The success factor of anything like this depends on the ability of the programme to relate to the viewer, and TOWIE does – whatever you think of it – manage to do that. But what’s endearing about Desperate Scousewives? Absolutely nothing. This is a world so far removed from anything I’ve experienced that it’s hard to comment with any sense of balance. These are the uber-glossy, frighteningly groomed women whose dream is to land a rich footballer/businessman/playboy and live out the rest of their days shopping. They take four hours to get ready to go to the shops. They are, as my mother would have called them, ‘titty-tight arses’. I found a dog biscuit in my knickers the other day. Worse still, my other half wasn’t even surprised, and we don’t even have a dog. Our worlds will never collide.
The only thing I recognise is the Liver Building, and that’s only in the vain hope that the birds will stretch their stony wings, fly free and shit all over the cast of this vapid, pointless programme.
Let me try and summarise last night for you. We think bitchface Layla might have slept with Joe, and Elissa (Joes’s casual bit) is being quite nice about it. Seems like a sweet girl. She’ll be axed by the next series. Jodie attached Kenneth Williams with a spray tan, then sent a series of fake texts urging him to talk with his boyfriend about not wanting children while he inexplicably polished the mirrors in Bumder Towers. Amanda attacked a predatory gay man who’d been blogging about her hair being shit. Chloe asked for a free membership to George’s club. George, the man with the sparkle, wit and charm of a snowman on fire, told her to fuck off. Chloe looked sad.
If there was one saving grace to last night’s episode of this turgid tray of cat shit, it may have been the relationship between Danny and Debbie. Or non-relationship, as it turns out. Compared to the other over-inflated, fat-necked wankers featured on the show, Danny actually stood out as quite a nice guy. He loves Debbie. He thinks she’s a ‘beautiful person inside and out’. He thinks the best way to demonstrate this will be to take a keyboard into her garden and serenade her with a lovely song.
‘The neighbours are all looking!’ shrieks ungrateful Debbie before diving back under her duvet. I don’t know if they were more surprised at a man singing on a lawn, or the fact he’d actually brought something into the neighbourhood as opposed to……ah, cheap joke. And of course, totally unfounded. I once had a great night with a couple of Liverpool lads who twoced a Corsa to get us to Salford. Salt of the earth. The sight of poor Danny and his mate dragging a keyboard and stand up the road in abject embarrassment was admittedly quite funny though. And his total, all-encompassing humiliation at being denied, as he called it, his ‘Rapunzel’ scene was tangible; clearly he’s never tried climbing up hair extensions. If she doesn’t want you now Danny, she isn’t going to suddenly fancy you when you’re in a wheelchair and dribbling down your own chin. It’s a long fall from the third storey.
My vitriol could continue for pages. But I won’t waste any more of your time. Safe to say, unless those lovely chaps from ST call me and ask me to review this, it won’t ever grace my screen again. I’ll be watching the Sorority Girls. Or Tool Academy. With port.
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