Doctor Who, I have ardently chirped from the branches of superiority, is for children. "It's about a time-travelling hero armed with a screwdriver which appears to solve every problem ever thought of, doing battle with inter-galactic monstrosities" I cried, in a long-winded slogan of indifference towards the whole thing.
In an effort to turn what was a mild apathy about the whole thing into a full-blown hatred of it, I watched this series like an avid viewer might, from episode one through five and I can honestly say I genuinely enjoyed it. Sure there's little niggles about the whole thing, but in general, it was captivating, amusing and generally a worthwhile excursion into the imagination of the writers.
The writing is, in general, pretty good at setting a sense of tension so utterly palpable it didn't glue me to my chair so much as force me down. The last episode was a two-parter about Weeping Angels (Essentially, you have to look at them, or they kill you.) which was so terrifying I had nightmares for days. By the start of tonight's second part, I was thinking "If the Doctor doesn't kill the Weeping Angels, I will never sleep again". I also realised I referenced him as "The Doctor" rather than Doctor Who, and knew I had been taken in.
However, the one region the writing does let me down (And this may only be my complaint) is in what I cheerfully describe as "Assistant's Syndrome". The Assistant inevitably falls wildly in love with The Doctor, that's always a given. Equally, the Assistant has an unerring ability to find the most pressing danger, and immediately offer themselves up like lambs to the slaughter, all while under the misapprehension this shows bravery rather than boneheaded idiocy. This causes the Doctor to divert his efforts away from saving Delta-1 or some other planet, and saving one fairly thick girl. By the end of the episode, I was practically willing her to die in increasingly stupid ways. "Assistant" is a misnomer, given that I rarely see her help. I prefer "Force of unimaginable distraction".
So the writing in regard to the general relationship the Doctor and the Assistant has is pretty formulaic, but I can accept that in respect to the other writing, which is chaotic and inventive, occasionally witty and very engrossing. The whole show feels very tightly put together, like they start with a plan for it then work around that, and whilst at a very obvious level it follows the pattern of "Doctor doesn't want any trouble, is roped in against a group of unknowable evil, appears to be losing, pulls out magic trick, saves day" while we also have the whole assistant thing in the background, the magic trick is usually something you weren't expecting, and the group of unknowable evil is generally pants-wettingly terrifying.
I can't comment on Matt Smith, since I've not watched any other Doctor, but he seems generally efficient at being Doctor Who, I guess. The Assistant I hate, because of her role of "Get in trouble, get saved, possibly save day", but I can't really fault Karen Gillian for that, and since I assume that's the image the writers wanted, she is portraying the part sublimely.
Disappointingly, then, the show is good, the acting is good, it's Saturday night television for all the family which is both interesting and sort-of intellectually challenging, which is why I enjoy it. "It's for kids" still rings true, but that doesn't mean adults can't revel in a few minutes of idle amusement. I heartily recommend it, despite its niggling flaws.
Saturday, 1 May 2010
Friday, 30 April 2010
Election Debates
Even though I know thanks to viewing figures, that more people saw Piers Morgan want to go cruising with Kevin than saw Nick Clegg storm the Leaders' Debate, I felt it somewhat remiss of me to pass up this television extravaganza and make more than a passing reference to it.
In homage to a combination of caring who runs the nation, and having 90 minutes on my hands, I just watched the debate on iPlayer, and as I sat there, time ticking away, I suddenly realised why politicians are rarely on the mainstream media (except for Boris Johnson), and that's because they're quite dull and have a tendency to speak a lot without saying anything (except for Boris Johnson).
The politician I would most happily slap this accusation onto is David Cameron, who appeared to be flirting with liberal voters so often, it was somewhat reminiscent of Wile E. Coyote laying traps for Road Runner. I half expected to see a pile of Liberal ideas, as directed by a sign saying "Liberals vote here!" with a loosely concealed snare lying round it connected to an anvil overhead. Thankfully, though, generally, Wile E. Coyote is the one to get crushed, and to extend this metaphor, ideally, Liberals would see through it, while Conservatives would be aggrieved at his defection from their own ideals, and crush him mercilessly.
When he wasn't flirting, he was randomly making up policies ("Fine, we're not cutting free eye tests!") and generally, being vague and non-committal, whilst appearing bold and decisive. "We're setting a cap on immigration!" he proclaims loudly. What is that cap? No-one knows. Will it affect (I'm using Nick Clegg's figures here) the 80% of immigrants coming from Europe? No. So he's setting an as yet undetermined cap on 20% of immigrants. How he's managed to make this appear like a clampdown I cannot possibly begin to fathom.
Gordon Brown was braying loudly in the corner, "It's the same old Tory party!" (practically the new Labour slogan by the end of the debate), and, although it pains me to say this, he's right to an extent. We've had the "B&B owners should be allowed to kick gays out" incident combined with Philip Lardner's gem "Gays are not normal" (He was talking about the teaching of being gay as you know, an okay life choice, in much the same way as I had to learn about alternative theories for the creation of life on the understanding that they're all valid.) which were essentially, betrayals of the image Cameron wanted to present, that of a forward-thinking libertarian utopia, but not, I think, betrayals of how the party actually is. Cameron it appears, is trying to hold on to the traditionalists whilst wooing the Liberals, which is like trying to hold on to your wife while hanging around gay bars. It just doesn't work, and once you're found out, you come across in both camps as insincere.
Both leaders seemed happy to attempt to demolish the Lib Dem's amnesty on illegal immigrants who have done nothing wrong and are already here. I suggest that labour (And the lib dems, in fairness, who claimed that the other parties were ignoring the problem of immigrants that are already here) should check the system, which allows for application for "Indefinite leave to remain", ie. The right to stay in this country, after 14 years of illegal residence provided there was no unlawful activity (Link) which was inserted by the Conservative government of the early nineties. All Clegg is doing is tightening this current system, and freeing up resources for chasing immigrants who pose a genuine threat to the population. It hardly seems the kind of thing they should be allowed to leap on.
But then, they tried to leap on his opposition to spending billions of pounds on a currently working Trident nuclear deterrent, and instead to try and impose less nuclear weapons worldwide. So he wants to save money and get less nuclear missiles worldwide. That maniac. He'd blow us all up, if he hadn't axed the missiles he requires. He didn't even authoritatively state he was ditching them, but they have 9 to 14 working years left, and there's no need to make a decision yet, spending billions in a hasty decision. That sounds almost logical.
Clegg too, has Vince Cable as his treasury spokesman, who has a PhD in Economics and has lectured for the London School of Economics. By comparison, the alternatives Darling and Osborne, have a law and modern history degree respectively. I know they'd have workers with degrees in economics to work it all out for them, obviously, but I'd rather have a man who knew the area in charge. You wouldn't have a plane being flown by an idiot with two pilots behind him passing him notes about how to fly it, would you? Why is the economy any different, especially given we're all passengers in the hands of incompetent people.
Vince Cable has been credited with being aware the rise in credit and the boom market was almost inevitably going to lead to a crash (Surprisingly, it took a man with an economics degree to realise that if banks let people borrow absurd amounts of money to fuel an increasingly risky fund management programme, and then the banks lose that money, and the people aren't able to pay it back, then it's not going to work).
Essentially, though, David Cameron has spent the last 3 weeks petulantly moaning "I was winning, and I was meant to win, and that beastly Nick's gone and RUINED it!" and generally crying into his sour grapes, while Clegg seems to have magically conjured up some sort of, and it hurts me to say this, Obama-esque belief in the power of democracy amongst younger voters particularly, while Gordon Brown is essentially admitting "I may be crap, but I already know where everything is".
I understand this wasn't particularly witty, but one thing's for sure, if I see David Cameron, with his face like an enchanted pancake, standing on the steps of number ten, smiling and waving at his adoring fans, I will lose faith in politics forever.
In homage to a combination of caring who runs the nation, and having 90 minutes on my hands, I just watched the debate on iPlayer, and as I sat there, time ticking away, I suddenly realised why politicians are rarely on the mainstream media (except for Boris Johnson), and that's because they're quite dull and have a tendency to speak a lot without saying anything (except for Boris Johnson).
The politician I would most happily slap this accusation onto is David Cameron, who appeared to be flirting with liberal voters so often, it was somewhat reminiscent of Wile E. Coyote laying traps for Road Runner. I half expected to see a pile of Liberal ideas, as directed by a sign saying "Liberals vote here!" with a loosely concealed snare lying round it connected to an anvil overhead. Thankfully, though, generally, Wile E. Coyote is the one to get crushed, and to extend this metaphor, ideally, Liberals would see through it, while Conservatives would be aggrieved at his defection from their own ideals, and crush him mercilessly.
When he wasn't flirting, he was randomly making up policies ("Fine, we're not cutting free eye tests!") and generally, being vague and non-committal, whilst appearing bold and decisive. "We're setting a cap on immigration!" he proclaims loudly. What is that cap? No-one knows. Will it affect (I'm using Nick Clegg's figures here) the 80% of immigrants coming from Europe? No. So he's setting an as yet undetermined cap on 20% of immigrants. How he's managed to make this appear like a clampdown I cannot possibly begin to fathom.
Gordon Brown was braying loudly in the corner, "It's the same old Tory party!" (practically the new Labour slogan by the end of the debate), and, although it pains me to say this, he's right to an extent. We've had the "B&B owners should be allowed to kick gays out" incident combined with Philip Lardner's gem "Gays are not normal" (He was talking about the teaching of being gay as you know, an okay life choice, in much the same way as I had to learn about alternative theories for the creation of life on the understanding that they're all valid.) which were essentially, betrayals of the image Cameron wanted to present, that of a forward-thinking libertarian utopia, but not, I think, betrayals of how the party actually is. Cameron it appears, is trying to hold on to the traditionalists whilst wooing the Liberals, which is like trying to hold on to your wife while hanging around gay bars. It just doesn't work, and once you're found out, you come across in both camps as insincere.
Both leaders seemed happy to attempt to demolish the Lib Dem's amnesty on illegal immigrants who have done nothing wrong and are already here. I suggest that labour (And the lib dems, in fairness, who claimed that the other parties were ignoring the problem of immigrants that are already here) should check the system, which allows for application for "Indefinite leave to remain", ie. The right to stay in this country, after 14 years of illegal residence provided there was no unlawful activity (Link) which was inserted by the Conservative government of the early nineties. All Clegg is doing is tightening this current system, and freeing up resources for chasing immigrants who pose a genuine threat to the population. It hardly seems the kind of thing they should be allowed to leap on.
But then, they tried to leap on his opposition to spending billions of pounds on a currently working Trident nuclear deterrent, and instead to try and impose less nuclear weapons worldwide. So he wants to save money and get less nuclear missiles worldwide. That maniac. He'd blow us all up, if he hadn't axed the missiles he requires. He didn't even authoritatively state he was ditching them, but they have 9 to 14 working years left, and there's no need to make a decision yet, spending billions in a hasty decision. That sounds almost logical.
Clegg too, has Vince Cable as his treasury spokesman, who has a PhD in Economics and has lectured for the London School of Economics. By comparison, the alternatives Darling and Osborne, have a law and modern history degree respectively. I know they'd have workers with degrees in economics to work it all out for them, obviously, but I'd rather have a man who knew the area in charge. You wouldn't have a plane being flown by an idiot with two pilots behind him passing him notes about how to fly it, would you? Why is the economy any different, especially given we're all passengers in the hands of incompetent people.
Vince Cable has been credited with being aware the rise in credit and the boom market was almost inevitably going to lead to a crash (Surprisingly, it took a man with an economics degree to realise that if banks let people borrow absurd amounts of money to fuel an increasingly risky fund management programme, and then the banks lose that money, and the people aren't able to pay it back, then it's not going to work).
Essentially, though, David Cameron has spent the last 3 weeks petulantly moaning "I was winning, and I was meant to win, and that beastly Nick's gone and RUINED it!" and generally crying into his sour grapes, while Clegg seems to have magically conjured up some sort of, and it hurts me to say this, Obama-esque belief in the power of democracy amongst younger voters particularly, while Gordon Brown is essentially admitting "I may be crap, but I already know where everything is".
I understand this wasn't particularly witty, but one thing's for sure, if I see David Cameron, with his face like an enchanted pancake, standing on the steps of number ten, smiling and waving at his adoring fans, I will lose faith in politics forever.
Thursday, 29 April 2010
Britain's Got Talent
Everyone's favourite thinly veiled 19th century freak show is back again! "Roll up, roll up!" cries Simon Cowell, while the two smarmy sycophants he calls his fellow judges, Amanda Holden and Piers Morgan, half-heartedly repeat what he says.
As you may have guessed, the edgy and innovative ITV have changed absolutely nothing about this ratings smash, and why would they? It's a myriad of successes, even the finest minds in Britain couldn't find a single fault with it. This is, of course, why more people watched it than watched the election debates on ITV, 10.3 million for BGT, compared to 9.4 for the election debate. Scarily this means, logically, that more people care who wins Britain's got Talent than who runs the country. Perhaps we could combine them, hold "Westminster's got Talent", and have the winner form a Government ("What are you going to do for us today?" "I'm going to fiddle my expenses, live on stage! See that DVD I bought? No you don't! It was a taxi journey to Luton airport!")
We've gone off-topic. I say "we", I'm perfectly happy to take most of the blame for that. Really, I've gone off-topic. You've been wondering what I'm going to say about the judges. I'll enlighten you.
The Judges are Simon Cowell, Amanda Holden and Piers Morgan. As with all judges on these shows, they have absolutely no right to be judging "talent", and are so heavily formulaic, I'm surprised they don't just tattoo what they're going to say onto their foreheads, so I don't have to hear them actually talk. Or we could train some budgies to do their job. Amanda-budgie will give a standing ovation to anyone who didn't get "buzzed off", Piers-Budgie will be delighted to vote them through, or whistle at the contestant with barely concealed scorn for time-wasting, while Simon-budgie will look to the audience for a pause so long you'll stop and look at your watch, as if considering their opinion and everything he's seen, before giving the inevitable "You have three yeses!" whistle-sequence.
In our sadly non-Budgie reality, Simon will always be the "Hard to impress, speaks his mind" man, Amanda is "Maternal figure, looking out for the acts" whilst Piers Morgan critically reviews everything as either "Reminding him of everything good about Britain" (Not the bloody News of the World, eh Piers?) or "Hysterically bad".
In what I can describe as a misguided attempt to mix this formula up, Simon Cowell contracted the flu (Which I would be prepared to bet was something to drive this horrendous storyline along, rather than a real event. The odds of Simon Cowell catching the flu are roughly the same as the odds of Simon Cowell catching smallpox. He's a millionaire TV presenter, not a homeless man or an old, impoverished woman.) and everyone's favourite Louis Walsh was drafted in "Last-minute" to judge.
Louis Walsh was, of course, Britain's favourite formulaic character from one of the other shows in Simon Cowell's stable. Fortunately, he is almost pleasingly anarchistic in this show, and you can really tell he lo...Oh goodness, I can't lie, Louis seemed to be less "Difficult to please" and more "Arrogantly dismissive", and was essentially alone in all but the most obvious of judgements, while Amanda and Piers appeared to rebel by voting against him.
Simon Cowell came back and so forth, but to be honest, if you care about the story, watch Eastenders or something, that's not what drives this show at all, it is the contestants! And they have delivered, turning up hundreds, nay, thousands of people who think they have a gift. Even I, with my untrained eye, can see they do not possess anything more than a misguided ego and wilfully horrid friends telling them "It'll be a laugh!", before taping it and playing it any social function they attend for the next 15 years. "Oi, Dave! Get the video! Tim's comin'! I haven't watched that muppet sing f'years!" (This makes every contestant's choice of song hilarious if you think they're going to have to watch it with their "Mates" about 10 years into the future).
And inevitably, they will sing. Oh, they sing or they dance, but if we remove music from the equation we are whittled down to about 3 contestants. And we found one of them in this show, Kevin Cruise, who sang too, but the sheer spectacle of the man brought me to my very knees weeping with laughter, which I think was unintentional, and therefore, even more hilarious. He came on a ship-thing and said he was a ship entertainer.
Briefly, I thought the man was insane, and was talking about the little cardboard ship he had with him, and was about to pull out sock-puppets of the captain and the chef and speak to them, and his act would essentially be a man losing his mind right there on our screens! "Ahoy, there, Captain Hand, how be the ship today?" "Oh, fine lad, she's in top condition" he would mouth back with his hand, then he would get his left hand to talk to his right hand "Alright chef, what's for dinner?" "Risotto, cap'n!", so that he himself is totally uninvolved. I would find that bizarrely engrossing.
Sadly, though, it turned out he meant a real ship so all was well. In a sense. He was the single campest man I have ever seen, it's like he's the secret lovechild of Dale Winton and Graham Norton, which should alarm you enough to realise he will almost certainly win.
This prompted Piers Morgan to say the funniest thing he has ever said, which was "I'll go cruising with you anytime", which was, I imagine, wholly intentionally innuendo-ed.
At its heart this show is a meaningless foray into how deluded people are. Every audition is exactly the same. Anyone who does anything other than sing or dance is, essentially, crap at what they do, or it's so mundane, it's about as entertaining as watching your mum do the laundry, then three people give a prepared critique of it, questioning at times whether the Queen would like to watch it.
But look outside, that vast, vacuous heart, and the show is a lovable way to kill an hour of your time. If reading is too hard and you just want the magic picture-box to thrust an hour of your life away, I can think of little better than this show. Is Simon going to pause for 2 seconds, or 3? And then is he going to smile and say yes, or say yes and smile? Tense thoughts.
If I'm brutally honest, the only elements of this show I genuinely enjoyed were Ant and Dec, who shone so brightly in a sea of otherwise putrid dross and cluttered detritus, I can assume they are the sole survivors and have lit flares so that they can be airlifted to a better show. They seem funny and obviously are by now, pretty good at working with eachother, as you'd hope.
I realise this takes heavily from Ben Elton's Chart Throb, and therefore encourage you to read it if you have time. Fortunately, Cowell has admitted he is quitting, and I can only hope this causes the whole sordid thing to collapse under the weight of its own self-satisfied smugness.
It would be easy to take digs at Piers Morgan, but since I'm a gentleman who doesn't wilfully offend celebrities, unlike some former newspapers editors who have been named frequently, I shan't. But it was pretty hard not to call him "Piers Moron" all the way through (Private Eye).
As you may have guessed, the edgy and innovative ITV have changed absolutely nothing about this ratings smash, and why would they? It's a myriad of successes, even the finest minds in Britain couldn't find a single fault with it. This is, of course, why more people watched it than watched the election debates on ITV, 10.3 million for BGT, compared to 9.4 for the election debate. Scarily this means, logically, that more people care who wins Britain's got Talent than who runs the country. Perhaps we could combine them, hold "Westminster's got Talent", and have the winner form a Government ("What are you going to do for us today?" "I'm going to fiddle my expenses, live on stage! See that DVD I bought? No you don't! It was a taxi journey to Luton airport!")
We've gone off-topic. I say "we", I'm perfectly happy to take most of the blame for that. Really, I've gone off-topic. You've been wondering what I'm going to say about the judges. I'll enlighten you.
The Judges are Simon Cowell, Amanda Holden and Piers Morgan. As with all judges on these shows, they have absolutely no right to be judging "talent", and are so heavily formulaic, I'm surprised they don't just tattoo what they're going to say onto their foreheads, so I don't have to hear them actually talk. Or we could train some budgies to do their job. Amanda-budgie will give a standing ovation to anyone who didn't get "buzzed off", Piers-Budgie will be delighted to vote them through, or whistle at the contestant with barely concealed scorn for time-wasting, while Simon-budgie will look to the audience for a pause so long you'll stop and look at your watch, as if considering their opinion and everything he's seen, before giving the inevitable "You have three yeses!" whistle-sequence.
In our sadly non-Budgie reality, Simon will always be the "Hard to impress, speaks his mind" man, Amanda is "Maternal figure, looking out for the acts" whilst Piers Morgan critically reviews everything as either "Reminding him of everything good about Britain" (Not the bloody News of the World, eh Piers?) or "Hysterically bad".
In what I can describe as a misguided attempt to mix this formula up, Simon Cowell contracted the flu (Which I would be prepared to bet was something to drive this horrendous storyline along, rather than a real event. The odds of Simon Cowell catching the flu are roughly the same as the odds of Simon Cowell catching smallpox. He's a millionaire TV presenter, not a homeless man or an old, impoverished woman.) and everyone's favourite Louis Walsh was drafted in "Last-minute" to judge.
Louis Walsh was, of course, Britain's favourite formulaic character from one of the other shows in Simon Cowell's stable. Fortunately, he is almost pleasingly anarchistic in this show, and you can really tell he lo...Oh goodness, I can't lie, Louis seemed to be less "Difficult to please" and more "Arrogantly dismissive", and was essentially alone in all but the most obvious of judgements, while Amanda and Piers appeared to rebel by voting against him.
Simon Cowell came back and so forth, but to be honest, if you care about the story, watch Eastenders or something, that's not what drives this show at all, it is the contestants! And they have delivered, turning up hundreds, nay, thousands of people who think they have a gift. Even I, with my untrained eye, can see they do not possess anything more than a misguided ego and wilfully horrid friends telling them "It'll be a laugh!", before taping it and playing it any social function they attend for the next 15 years. "Oi, Dave! Get the video! Tim's comin'! I haven't watched that muppet sing f'years!" (This makes every contestant's choice of song hilarious if you think they're going to have to watch it with their "Mates" about 10 years into the future).
And inevitably, they will sing. Oh, they sing or they dance, but if we remove music from the equation we are whittled down to about 3 contestants. And we found one of them in this show, Kevin Cruise, who sang too, but the sheer spectacle of the man brought me to my very knees weeping with laughter, which I think was unintentional, and therefore, even more hilarious. He came on a ship-thing and said he was a ship entertainer.
Briefly, I thought the man was insane, and was talking about the little cardboard ship he had with him, and was about to pull out sock-puppets of the captain and the chef and speak to them, and his act would essentially be a man losing his mind right there on our screens! "Ahoy, there, Captain Hand, how be the ship today?" "Oh, fine lad, she's in top condition" he would mouth back with his hand, then he would get his left hand to talk to his right hand "Alright chef, what's for dinner?" "Risotto, cap'n!", so that he himself is totally uninvolved. I would find that bizarrely engrossing.
Sadly, though, it turned out he meant a real ship so all was well. In a sense. He was the single campest man I have ever seen, it's like he's the secret lovechild of Dale Winton and Graham Norton, which should alarm you enough to realise he will almost certainly win.
This prompted Piers Morgan to say the funniest thing he has ever said, which was "I'll go cruising with you anytime", which was, I imagine, wholly intentionally innuendo-ed.
At its heart this show is a meaningless foray into how deluded people are. Every audition is exactly the same. Anyone who does anything other than sing or dance is, essentially, crap at what they do, or it's so mundane, it's about as entertaining as watching your mum do the laundry, then three people give a prepared critique of it, questioning at times whether the Queen would like to watch it.
But look outside, that vast, vacuous heart, and the show is a lovable way to kill an hour of your time. If reading is too hard and you just want the magic picture-box to thrust an hour of your life away, I can think of little better than this show. Is Simon going to pause for 2 seconds, or 3? And then is he going to smile and say yes, or say yes and smile? Tense thoughts.
If I'm brutally honest, the only elements of this show I genuinely enjoyed were Ant and Dec, who shone so brightly in a sea of otherwise putrid dross and cluttered detritus, I can assume they are the sole survivors and have lit flares so that they can be airlifted to a better show. They seem funny and obviously are by now, pretty good at working with eachother, as you'd hope.
I realise this takes heavily from Ben Elton's Chart Throb, and therefore encourage you to read it if you have time. Fortunately, Cowell has admitted he is quitting, and I can only hope this causes the whole sordid thing to collapse under the weight of its own self-satisfied smugness.
It would be easy to take digs at Piers Morgan, but since I'm a gentleman who doesn't wilfully offend celebrities, unlike some former newspapers editors who have been named frequently, I shan't. But it was pretty hard not to call him "Piers Moron" all the way through (Private Eye).
Monday, 12 April 2010
BBC iPlayer
Due to the delightful internet speeds I get at home, the only really viable way to watch television online is to download the full show hours, possibly days in advance of watching it. Normally, of course, I would just stream the show, and after a certain point go "This is dreadful" and turn off, or finish it, rapt with excitement and tingling with the sensation of pure joy. However, once I download something, I feel, in some respects, committed to the programme. It's languishing on my hard drive, resentful and bitter that I have yet to finish it, mutinously muttering under its breath. I wouldn't be surprised if it randomly deleted data for fun at my expense. "Windows cannot find "Firefox"", etcetera. This is where the marriage metaphor ends.
So I end up watching the full programme, in bits, over the course of the week I'm allowed to view it for, then I feel somehow angry at iPlayer, like this is in some aspect their fault. "I wouldn't even be watching this if I could stream it! Ugh!" flicks through my mind repeatedly.
And why would I blame iPlayer, the service is unimaginably excellent. It is a constant joy for me to browse the site and view videos and so forth. I can scarcely imagine my chaotic existence without it, shambling aimlessly around youtube in search of entertaining television. Occasionally it demands I have to install the desktop thing again to download a programme, but that is hardly a gigantic inconvenience given how utterly superb the service is. And it's not just "Good for a television site", it's a good site overall. Easy to navigate, delightfully easy and clear to understand, and generally well-built. The only problem I have ever had is when I assume something has been broadcast on TV and it was not, and I begin to wonder where it is on iPlayer. Basically, iPlayer's only real fault is that I am inept.
And yet, sometimes, due to broadcasting rights (I imagine), some stuff doesn't go up there, which annoys me a tad, but not so much as to detract from the overall experience.
In comparing this site to other television broadcasters' online services, I have used very little of Five and itvplayer (I briefly remember Five asking me to pay to watch House on their site, and realised the internet probably has House floating about for free. And itvplayer is relatively good, except it only shows itv shows.) so in this comparison, it's primarily "4od" versus "iPlayer".
Briefly, I was a 4od man, back in the good old days, when it had full series of shows it formerly broadcast like "Black books", while iPlayer only had last week's shows. Then 4od, in what I can only imagine was a fit of childish rage and a curiously selfish nature, decided that their online video sharing service was not the best place to show online videos, and took them all down. In that single moment, I was distraught. Then I tried to find them again by clicking through all the menus on the site, going to a series of useless pages. It was like a maze, except, cunningly, they are all dead-ends. Then iPlayer embraced me. It said to me "If you don't forget to watch within a week of broadcast, we've got it, right here for you. Waiting, and easy to find" and I swooned. They even have "Series catchup" where they have every episode of a series up there.
Conclusion: iPlayer is magnificent, 4od is acceptable, itvplayer is ok at showing itv shows, Five's online service is probably ok, who knows, I don't really watch channel 5.
So I end up watching the full programme, in bits, over the course of the week I'm allowed to view it for, then I feel somehow angry at iPlayer, like this is in some aspect their fault. "I wouldn't even be watching this if I could stream it! Ugh!" flicks through my mind repeatedly.
And why would I blame iPlayer, the service is unimaginably excellent. It is a constant joy for me to browse the site and view videos and so forth. I can scarcely imagine my chaotic existence without it, shambling aimlessly around youtube in search of entertaining television. Occasionally it demands I have to install the desktop thing again to download a programme, but that is hardly a gigantic inconvenience given how utterly superb the service is. And it's not just "Good for a television site", it's a good site overall. Easy to navigate, delightfully easy and clear to understand, and generally well-built. The only problem I have ever had is when I assume something has been broadcast on TV and it was not, and I begin to wonder where it is on iPlayer. Basically, iPlayer's only real fault is that I am inept.
And yet, sometimes, due to broadcasting rights (I imagine), some stuff doesn't go up there, which annoys me a tad, but not so much as to detract from the overall experience.
In comparing this site to other television broadcasters' online services, I have used very little of Five and itvplayer (I briefly remember Five asking me to pay to watch House on their site, and realised the internet probably has House floating about for free. And itvplayer is relatively good, except it only shows itv shows.) so in this comparison, it's primarily "4od" versus "iPlayer".
Briefly, I was a 4od man, back in the good old days, when it had full series of shows it formerly broadcast like "Black books", while iPlayer only had last week's shows. Then 4od, in what I can only imagine was a fit of childish rage and a curiously selfish nature, decided that their online video sharing service was not the best place to show online videos, and took them all down. In that single moment, I was distraught. Then I tried to find them again by clicking through all the menus on the site, going to a series of useless pages. It was like a maze, except, cunningly, they are all dead-ends. Then iPlayer embraced me. It said to me "If you don't forget to watch within a week of broadcast, we've got it, right here for you. Waiting, and easy to find" and I swooned. They even have "Series catchup" where they have every episode of a series up there.
Conclusion: iPlayer is magnificent, 4od is acceptable, itvplayer is ok at showing itv shows, Five's online service is probably ok, who knows, I don't really watch channel 5.
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Twitter: An Epilogue
Good news, blog-fans! Are you semi-literate and afraid of these vast swathes of text, waking up in cold sweats at night screaming "Why can't I just read it!?", or are you a deeply sadistic person who enjoys watching me squirm through my hypocrisy, or are you struggling to commit witty aphorisms to memory? If you belong in any of these categories, good news! I now have a twitter account (To the sadists, this was a long and difficult decision, with lots of self-deprecation going on), meaning I can keep you informed with minimal character count.
Watch as I try and abbreviate "appalling" to "Apllng" so that its meaning is rendered completely void! Gasp in wonder as I drop apostrophes to try and make the cut! Be amazed as I begin to believe punctuation is obsolete!
Roll up, roll up, the Twitter circus is in town.
Link for those brave enough to see: Twitter
Watch as I try and abbreviate "appalling" to "Apllng" so that its meaning is rendered completely void! Gasp in wonder as I drop apostrophes to try and make the cut! Be amazed as I begin to believe punctuation is obsolete!
Roll up, roll up, the Twitter circus is in town.
Link for those brave enough to see: Twitter
Sunday, 28 March 2010
Two Pints Of Lager and a Packet of Crisps
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.
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.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Chris Moyles' Quiz Night
As part of my recent trend to discuss self-harming with you, I sat down and watched Chris Moyles' Quiz Night. I viewed it with much the same trepidation as I would if I were to sit down and watch a horse trample a man: I feel like I should step in, but I can't do anything.
Glued to my seat with a combination of horror and whatever monstrosity poured out of my arse the second I saw Chris Moyles onscreen, I idly imagined what acts of atrocity I must have spent my past lives committing to culminate in this moment. Initially, I went with "removing the screws from key points on Ikea furniture, causing marriages to fail as quickly as that wardrobe", but then I decided this was nowhere near severe enough to inflict this level of karmic retribution upon me, so eventually, I settled on "Spending a previous life absent-mindedly drowning kittens and beating puppies", which seemed just adequate enough to make Chris Moyles appear on the television.
I will admit, I had a certain morbid curiosity about the show, but then Jimmy Carr went on it and I thought "Hey, it'll have at least one redeeming factor, so I can watch it now!" and, with eager delight, pressed on.
And this delight was, oddly, not massively misplaced. Initially, of course, I found myself almost wishing Peter Sutcliffe was in the room with me, since this would be better justice than any prison sentence, and also, he could possibly kill me and spare me the pain, and probably be more exciting by chasing me around the room, humming the Tetris theme tune to add a sense of peril (Because, obviously, one man chasing you armed with a hammer isn't perilous enough without an eight-bit classic in the background, right?).
Eventually, though, I found myself warming to the show. I believe at one point, I laughed, then glanced furtively around to check no-one had heard this. It would be less embarrassing to admit that I have nightmares where I menstruate than to tell people I laughed at a Moyles joke. However, slowly but surely, throughout the programme, I found myself watching, almost engrossed and becoming slightly enamoured with Jimmy Carr.
Fundamentally, even though my respect for Chris Moyles has gone up at least 60-fold, he can't really carry the show alone, and is so dependant on having interesting or good guests, if the show has terrible guests, it will completely collapse, and fail to work at all, and I imagine, become the hour of television I assumed it would be.
Still, better premise than "The Bubble".
Glued to my seat with a combination of horror and whatever monstrosity poured out of my arse the second I saw Chris Moyles onscreen, I idly imagined what acts of atrocity I must have spent my past lives committing to culminate in this moment. Initially, I went with "removing the screws from key points on Ikea furniture, causing marriages to fail as quickly as that wardrobe", but then I decided this was nowhere near severe enough to inflict this level of karmic retribution upon me, so eventually, I settled on "Spending a previous life absent-mindedly drowning kittens and beating puppies", which seemed just adequate enough to make Chris Moyles appear on the television.
I will admit, I had a certain morbid curiosity about the show, but then Jimmy Carr went on it and I thought "Hey, it'll have at least one redeeming factor, so I can watch it now!" and, with eager delight, pressed on.
And this delight was, oddly, not massively misplaced. Initially, of course, I found myself almost wishing Peter Sutcliffe was in the room with me, since this would be better justice than any prison sentence, and also, he could possibly kill me and spare me the pain, and probably be more exciting by chasing me around the room, humming the Tetris theme tune to add a sense of peril (Because, obviously, one man chasing you armed with a hammer isn't perilous enough without an eight-bit classic in the background, right?).
Eventually, though, I found myself warming to the show. I believe at one point, I laughed, then glanced furtively around to check no-one had heard this. It would be less embarrassing to admit that I have nightmares where I menstruate than to tell people I laughed at a Moyles joke. However, slowly but surely, throughout the programme, I found myself watching, almost engrossed and becoming slightly enamoured with Jimmy Carr.
Fundamentally, even though my respect for Chris Moyles has gone up at least 60-fold, he can't really carry the show alone, and is so dependant on having interesting or good guests, if the show has terrible guests, it will completely collapse, and fail to work at all, and I imagine, become the hour of television I assumed it would be.
Still, better premise than "The Bubble".
Monday, 22 March 2010
Shockwaves ads
Spotify has recently been advertising some hair gel muck on their music player. This travesty of an advert revolves around the principle that my computer has a magical mirror in it. "Mirror, mirror, in my computer, who's the fairest of them all?" is greeted with a needless advertising campaign along the lines of "Not you, because your hair looks so terrible that children flee from you in parks and women would never talk to someone with hair like that." which is, at best, only mildly insulting. If this ad campaign, along the lines of "You look so crap you need our help to look normal" was for, say, weightwatchers, then INSTANTLY, the Guardian would have an article about how it was damaging to children's self-confidence through the tricky period of puberty and was going to cause heartache, stomach-ache, and eventually showing more ribs than a greyhound and dancing away the hours at some deserted strip club before eventually succumbing to malnutrition.
Fortunately, because it's "Only hair", the Guardian keeps shtoom, preparing for another marked assault on the dangers and perils of bullying, or something.
Luckily, however, I'm not alone in this opinion, and after a very brief google search came across another blog intimating exactly my concerns. Infact, there are loads, all offering an "Open letter" to Spotify/NME/shockwave. Feel free to google search it if you don't believe (Or use an alternative search engine. No, not Bing, I said "Alternative" not "Completely useless Bing". Damn Google, so ubiquitous) . Infact, I'm going to idly link you to one with swearing.
http://timward.wordpress.com/2010/03/15/an-open-letter-to-spotifyshockwaves-nme/
Here's my opinion of an "Open letter"
Dear Spotify,
Your marketing campaign caused me to kill myself because no one likes me because my hair is astonishingly weird. Women slapped me just for not wearing a bag over my head. Your ad made me stunningly aware of the countless untold miseries my hair has wrought upon my tortured soul. You have freed me from this torment. Thank you Spotify! Now if only spotify advertised razorblades ("Gillette, the cleanest cut an emo can get, guaranteed scar! Interesting ice-breaker! So good they banned it in mental hospitals!") so that they could tie in with their other viral marketing campaigns and I can listen to Journey's Greatest Hit, whilst self-harming and weeping openly because no-one loves me, and I am worthless hateful scum. Thank you for this reminder.
...It's more "Open Letter/Suicide note". What's next Spotify, "Cut your hair, not your wrists"? If you use that, I demand, in form of recompense, a free Spotify premium upgrade so that I never have to listen to such a terrible campaign again.
Fortunately, because it's "Only hair", the Guardian keeps shtoom, preparing for another marked assault on the dangers and perils of bullying, or something.
Luckily, however, I'm not alone in this opinion, and after a very brief google search came across another blog intimating exactly my concerns. Infact, there are loads, all offering an "Open letter" to Spotify/NME/shockwave. Feel free to google search it if you don't believe (Or use an alternative search engine. No, not Bing, I said "Alternative" not "Completely useless Bing". Damn Google, so ubiquitous) . Infact, I'm going to idly link you to one with swearing.
http://timward.wordpress.com/2010/03/15/an-open-letter-to-spotifyshockwaves-nme/
Here's my opinion of an "Open letter"
Dear Spotify,
Your marketing campaign caused me to kill myself because no one likes me because my hair is astonishingly weird. Women slapped me just for not wearing a bag over my head. Your ad made me stunningly aware of the countless untold miseries my hair has wrought upon my tortured soul. You have freed me from this torment. Thank you Spotify! Now if only spotify advertised razorblades ("Gillette, the cleanest cut an emo can get, guaranteed scar! Interesting ice-breaker! So good they banned it in mental hospitals!") so that they could tie in with their other viral marketing campaigns and I can listen to Journey's Greatest Hit, whilst self-harming and weeping openly because no-one loves me, and I am worthless hateful scum. Thank you for this reminder.
...It's more "Open Letter/Suicide note". What's next Spotify, "Cut your hair, not your wrists"? If you use that, I demand, in form of recompense, a free Spotify premium upgrade so that I never have to listen to such a terrible campaign again.
Friday, 19 March 2010
"Journey's greatest hits!"
I just heard this advertised on spotify. "Journey's Greatest Hits! Out now!". I imagine that CD would be better released as a single, entitled "Journey's Only Hit."
Cooking
Last night, I attempted, against all medical advice, to cook my own dinner, with the accompanying, but slightly terrifyingly ominous, "Ah, that'll probably be alright" and "It looks clean enough...", which, if I recall, is the sound coming out of an NHS surgery according to Republicans (Smell that? Smells like satire. Oh, that might be my cooking).
Anyways, I was attempting to rustle up a simple chicken korma, I didn't even have to cook the rice, I had a processed brick of the stuff I had to microwave, so in reality all I had to do was fry some chicken, pour in some sauce and add the microwaved rice, then consume from the pan. I even pushed the boat out and popped some naan breads in the oven. I know, but don't worry, despite this Grecian god-like prowess in the kitchen, I am, infact, just a man.
Pleasingly, I thought the whole process had gone simply marvellously, as I sat nibbling on naan bread and rice. "My" I thought. "This was a considerable success." went through my head as I watched "Let's Go To Prison". I went to bed, well-nourished and pleased with myself.
Disappointingly, though, it soon started, this sense of deep unease and internal chaos from within my internal organs. Suddenly, I developed a fever! Nightmare. I was up till 3 am, sweating profusely. Luckily, though, I soon fell asleep to have nightmares, causing me to wake up, periodically, going "Argh" and coated in a light film of sweat.
Lesson learnt. Tonight for dinner I order pizza.
(I didn't have anything more interesting to talk about, such is the riveting adventure that is my life.)
Anyways, I was attempting to rustle up a simple chicken korma, I didn't even have to cook the rice, I had a processed brick of the stuff I had to microwave, so in reality all I had to do was fry some chicken, pour in some sauce and add the microwaved rice, then consume from the pan. I even pushed the boat out and popped some naan breads in the oven. I know, but don't worry, despite this Grecian god-like prowess in the kitchen, I am, infact, just a man.
Pleasingly, I thought the whole process had gone simply marvellously, as I sat nibbling on naan bread and rice. "My" I thought. "This was a considerable success." went through my head as I watched "Let's Go To Prison". I went to bed, well-nourished and pleased with myself.
Disappointingly, though, it soon started, this sense of deep unease and internal chaos from within my internal organs. Suddenly, I developed a fever! Nightmare. I was up till 3 am, sweating profusely. Luckily, though, I soon fell asleep to have nightmares, causing me to wake up, periodically, going "Argh" and coated in a light film of sweat.
Lesson learnt. Tonight for dinner I order pizza.
(I didn't have anything more interesting to talk about, such is the riveting adventure that is my life.)
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