Okay, I have to admit, in my rigorous planning of this blog, I sometimes like to make my life a little easier by picking programmes, I know without a shadow of a doubt, will be unimaginably, almost incomprehensibly bad. Having watched this show before and shouted at my TV screen with my temple throbbing harder and faster than a hummingbird's heart, shouting "Jesus, how the hell is it this appalling?! Is it even POSSIBLE? Is this even possible?!" I can safely say I may have slipped up. Not because my impression was wrong, good Lord, no, the last time this show was anything other than migraine-inducingly atrocious was when Ralf Little bailed out and what little respect I had left for him recovered.
You see, I forgot to watch it. But luckily for you, I already knew I was going to hate it, and rather than merely inform you of something else (I did attempt to watch "Man in a white hat" but since it made me an incredible combination of both apathetic, and filled with a furious urge to hunt the presenter down, and hit him in the face with a rolled up newspaper, then say "No" in a stern voice), I opted instead, to merely report on what I imagine I would have said, had I managed to summon up enough courage and enthusiasm to watch the show.
10 seconds in, the spittle from my furious cries of rage blocks my view of the screen. I pause, and fetch kitchen roll, wipe it off and start again. Within minutes I'm idly doodling on my notepad, trying not to look at the screen for fear of having a minor stroke. I have already ripped my headphones off and cast them asunder, leaving them marooned, broadcasting inane babble into the empty sea of my carpet. Remind myself to get a deeper shag rug that can absorb this sound so that the squeaks never get near me.
Somewhere around halfway through this show, and having gone through a goodly quantity of vodka, I restart, and start giggling maniacally. Not because of the show, God no, the writing is so appalling I'm pretty certain the writers just hurl their own faeces at a wall and transcribe the results. This is almost certainly not true, more likely, it's a group of people who think they understand the "Youth market" and that they are "risqué" because BBC chiefs told them so. Anyways, the reason I'm giggling is probably because I saw something more interesting than the show in the background. Like, say, an inanimate brick. Or a clock, nonchalantly marking the passing of every second I have wasted. Plunged into a fairly deep mid-life crisis, I consume more vodka. Once I finish off the bottle, the show suddenly takes on a new light, and I have an idle dig around on Wikipedia. The person created this when they were my age. This probably explains why a main character is called "Gaz". Because z is cool when you're 18.
Still digging around, I read it's possibly considering a ninth series. Nine series. I'll let that sink in. Even as drunk as I was alone, I had to sit back and take a moment to let that hit. NINE. After I vomited a combination of alcohol and hatred for everything this show stands for, I finally finished the show, and with an almost orgasmic glow, realised I would never have to watch this show again, because future "reviews" would be pointless and could not build on this. Drunk, I fall into bed, and have nightmares where Gaz tells me he loves me at the end of each episode, I mean, dream.