Tag Archives: tv

Zoo – Is This The Silliest Show On TV?

So, years ago – yes, I’m that lazy – I was thinking of making Bad Movies a regular thing on this blog. Although somehow I missed everything but the soundtrack first time around, I wallowed through polished Eighties turd Cocktail and came out the other side wondering how on earth Tom Cruise ever had an acting career after that one. In the interim I cued up another likely stinker – Days of Thunder – and pretty much Adam Sandler’s entire post Happy Gilmore oeuvre.

Needless to say, my Netflix recommendations look…bad. The white text at the top should probably read ‘lasciate ogne speranza voi c’he entrate’, but Netflix hasn’t read Dante so instead I get ‘wacky eighties comedies’, which is much the same thing really.

It was mostly laziness that stopped me from keeping it up, but it was also a period of time where nobody watched movies any more. It was all TV, and in the main it was all very, very good TV. The kind of TV that stomped along in the huge footprints of The Sopranos, and did it very well. House of Cards. Breaking Bad, and its shockingly good spinoff Better Call Saul. And now Stranger Things – I mean, look at that fucking thing. It’s beautiful. It’s like Netflix’s kneeling, hands-clasped apology for commissioning three series of Hemlock Grove.

So yeah. There wasn’t really a great deal of stuff to point and laugh at, except maybe for Hemlock Grove and the bog-awful Sons of Anarchy, and they – like a lot of the bad stuff – wasn’t point-and-laugh bad. Just deathly dull.

But then there was Zoo.

Full disclosure, when I started watching Zoo I was down with a vicious stomach bug. So it might have been feverishness and a lack of food that made me laugh as loud and hard as I did. This show is insane. It’s dementedly awful in a shrieking, so-bad-it’s-good way that I haven’t seen since the dizzy days of Footballer’s Wives. And I’m told they’re doing a third series. Magical. Continue reading


Character wrangling and Downton

So I’m just waiting on say-so from Amazon and Fifty Shades of Neigh is soon to be a thing, an actual book. Once that happens I will post the (sort of) thrilling conclusion and point you nice people to a place where you can get your very own shiny Kindle copy.

In the meantime I’m forced to think about proper writing – the kind that requires thought and research – and face the reasons why the novel I thought I wanted to write in November fizzled out before the fifteenth of the month.

I have a serious problem with the central love story. I’m just not feeling it. At first I had the two of them meet as strangers in chapter one and then came to the conclusion that it just wasn’t going to work. And now I try to grasp why I thought that in the first place I feel like my head is full of bees and I want to punch something.



I’m not sure if it’s my instincts as a writer talking there, or simply my menstrual cycle.

Of course the alternative is that he is someone she’s known for a long time as a friend and then they become lovers, which is tricky to say the least. I don’t want the love interest to come across as one of those clammy, whiny, wimpy Nice Guys who wait like Fry’s Dog for the woman they crave to become single and then act like they deserve her as a prize for their unending patience and kindness – kindness and patience that they would never have bothered with if they didn’t think there was a fraction of a chance that one day she was going to fuck them.

By the same token I don’t want the heroine to do that I-only-want-you-if-I-can’t-have-you thing that made Downton Abbey such a masterclass in How To Annoy Your Audience.

Yes, I’m aware that there are people who found the whole Matthew and Mary saga romantic, but those people don’t have to live in my head, in the company of fictional characters who I would prefer weren’t given to prevaricating, backsliding and generally behaving in a way that makes sane people want to gnaw off a limb.

I was trying to remember why she even broke off the first engagement with him. Was it something to do with the Turkish diplomat who died unexpectedly in her antechamber (And yes, that’s totally a euphemism.) or was it just because the way was clear for them to be together and nothing dries Mary’s snatch faster than a clear, uncomplicated path to happiness. (Except for maybe a dead Turkish diplomat.)

I asked my better half and he reminded me that Mary dumped Matthew first time around because Cora was pregnant with a possible Viscount, a baby who would mean Matthew would have to bugger off back to Manchester and practise law.

It’s easy to forget, because poor Cora didn’t stay pregnant, thanks to the chainsmoking amateur abortionist who does her hair, but then nobody stays anything in Downton for long. It doesn’t matter if you’re pregnant, paralysed, blind, diseased or Burnt Face Amnesiac Long Lost Cousin From Canada – it usually clears up in an episode or two, because we wouldn’t want to deliver on promised drama. That would just be spoiling the viewers.

I know I compared Downton to a deflated souffle but I never expected to be so right. The scene in the first episode where Daisy almost poisons the entire Crawley family but doesn’t is like a metaphor for the entire series.

Possible new heir? Holy shit – that’s going to change the whole dynamic. Quick, pass the soap.

Burnt Face Amnesiac Long Lost Cousin From Canada? Meh – it was probably nothing. Anyway, he got bored and wandered off after one episode.

Matthew got paralysed in the war? Oh shit son – what are they going to do now his penis doesn’t work? Will Lavinia have to hire a new gamekeeper?…oh, wait – he’s fine. Somehow.

The scene where Matthew leaps to his feet after six months in a wheelchair is one of the most gloriously silly things I have ever seen on TV, right up there with the episode of The Colbys where Fallon left the series in a spaceship. We were pointing at the television and hooting like gibbons – it was fucking great.

“What the fuck just happened?”

“Oh come on – didn’t you see it coming?”

“Well, yeah, but didn’t they have muscle atrophy in 1919?”

Apparently not. Apparently they didn’t have brains in 1919 either, if the Spanish Flu episode was any indication. Global pandemic comes to Downton? No problem. Come on over. Bring your baby. Bring your inlaws. We’ve only got three patients down with a vicious, fast acting disease which has wiped out millions – it’s probably not that contagious.

Of course, poor old Lavinia’s dance-card was marked since Matthew discovered that his wee-wee worked again and Little Miss I-Only-Want-What-I-Can’t-Have was positively moist at the thought that Lavinia had first dibs on the resurrected organ.

Exit Lavinia, who was tucked up in bed with some hot milk. As soon as she took a turn for the worse, enter half a dozen gawping Crawleys to stand around maskless, open mouthed and breathing heavily while she expired of an extremely contagious disease.

Downton Abbey? More like Darwin Abbey. Fucking hell.

I love that Lavinia got to miss out on heliotrope cyanosis and drowning horribly in her own fluids so that she could die like the unwanted plot point she was and bless the endless, boring, back and forth fuckery that passes for Matthew and Mary’s romance. And I love that Lavinia dying like an angel (in the face of all medical odds.) and blessing the endless, boring, back and forth fuckery then fed into into the endless, boring, back and forth fuckery, causing Matthew to wail that he and Mary were cursed and could never ever ever be together.

You’re not cursed. You’re just idiots. Go and lock yourself in a shed somewhere and fuck. Please. Nobody can take it anymore.

It’s so stupid. I love it. I love that annoying Fisher-Price revolutionary of a chauffeur, and his habit of barfing up chunks of A-Level History over Sibyl every time she goes down to see him.

“I love you – did you hear Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian empire, has been assassinated?”

“Come away with me. They stormed the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg – I think there might be a revolution.”

“Kiss me, I’m Irish – and I lost relatives in the Easter Rising of 1916.”

God, it’s so terrible. I want the new chauffeur to be James Joyce – doing a spot of freelancing while he polishes up his next draft. He could make lewd suggestions to Lady Edith and send her screaming from the garage.

“Edith, he wanted you to do what on a glass topped coffee table?”

Downton Soufflé

I didn’t like GosfordPark. I thought it was soggy and far too pleased with itself. Similarly I’ve never cared much for Julian Fellowes. He looks like the result of right wing attempts to clone Stephen Fry, so that people on the other end of the political spectrum can have a frighteningly erudite celebrity of their very own, one who can present highbrow quiz shows and be relied upon not to spout leftie claptrap at dinner parties.

Unfortunately something went wrong with the cloning process and it’s not only the famous Fry nose they’ve missed by a mile – Fellowes is just not that talented.

So naturally I didn’t fancy Downton Abbey. Everyone told me that the costumes were gorgeous, the sets were stunning and everything was oh so beautiful, but I really struggled to care. I’ve never been that interested in the lives of the rich. For a start I’m not entirely sure what they do all day.

It’s partly because there’s not a lot to do all day that I wandered back to Netflix – there’s only so much writing I can do per day before my brain starts making brrr brr brr noises and everything I write after that is more or less gibberish. The ironing pile may be getting taller but there’s no rush, and as for cooking, forget it – I’m still recovering from Christmas Dinner and the three days of relentless preparation it took to get everything right on the night. Despite having things to do I’m still deep in that irresistable soupy meh-time between Christmas and New Year, before we all feel like we should take up some form of self-improvement – work harder, eat salad, lift weights. I know it’s coming, so let me sink in the soup awhile, at least until the first of January. Soupy-inbetween times seemed as good a time as any to lose my Downton Abbey virginity, so that’s exactly what I did.

Downton starts with glorious, anvil-like subtlety. The Titanic sinks and all the servants scurry about downstairs like mice in a grandfather clock saying things like “I thought it was supposed to be unsinkable!” and “Oh, how sad!” before the craggy butler scowls and tells them to piss off and iron his Lordship’s newspapers. No, really. That happens. They iron the newspapers so that his Lordship doesn’t get the print on his hands.

The French really had the right idea about these people, didn’t they?

Then Lady Mary gets out of bed in nothing but a transparent nightdress with the light behind her and I see in startlingly erotic detail why Lady Mary is the author’s special precious darling. Blimey.

A bell rings downstairs and the mice start peeping like the ones on Bagpuss and there is a lingering shot of a dish of rice and eggs which the cook helpfully tells us is kedgeree, because it’s a historical detail and this is a historical series and oh look at the history everyone.

Turns out the Earl’s cousin and his son bought it on the Titanic (More history). Whoops. The Earl mentions those ‘poor devils in steerage’ and how they’ve ‘gone to a better life’, except they haven’t really. If there isn’t a lovely afterlife awaiting them then the odds are that they drowned, alone and afraid in the black, icy waters of the North Atlantic, after wasting their single shot at life wiping the bums of pointless people who apparently need their newspapers ironed.

More tea, your Lordship?

The Earl goes upstairs to break the dreadful news to his wonky voiced transatlantic Countess, who is gravely concerned about breaking the news to Mary. As it is, she needn’t have worried. Lady Mary is miffed that she’s going to have to go into mourning and slightly relieved that she’s not going to have to marry her second cousin in order to tie up the estate. Okay, I’m with her on that bit. Ew.

Mary feels vaguely guilty that she doesn’t feel sadder about the dead cousin/fiance but that doesn’t stop her pointing out that even if she didn’t care for him then her plain sister Edith would probably have snapped him up. Mary doesn’t seem a very nice person, even though the author apparently loves her and she looks great in a see-through nightie. Is her second name Susan, by any chance?

Basically, the half-baked central conflict of Downton is that the sinking of the Titanic has dumped Lord Hugh Bonneville in the middle of a very bad heir day. He has none. All he’s got are the sisters Lear upstairs and due to some very boring inheritance law they can’t inherit, even though Maggie Smith turns up to outclass every other actor in the thing and scheme half-heartedly to make Mary the heiress of Downton.

Then a gay Duke turns up to demonstrate that most homosexuals were closet cases back in 1912, because you could go to prison for it – another magical history lesson from Julian Fellowes. Also the gay Duke might marry Mary, so the Countess and Dowager paint Mary’s tits with neon-signs and hurl her in his general direction.

Turns out that the Duke is awful – just awful. He’s such a lump that the butler comments that “His Grace turned out to be quite graceless,” and everyone laughed and laughed and laughed at this clever play on words. Well, Lord Fellowes probably did, but I think it’s one of those things only he gets, like the enduring allure of his personality disordered heroine.

Appalled by the Duke, the Earl decides to give that plan a miss and says he will carry on with his previous plan, passing the heirship over to a third cousin who is (gasp!) the son of a doctor. It’s practically trade.

Mary has a little mope when she realises she’s not going to be a Duchess. Edith says he’s slipped the hook and Mary says at least she wasn’t fishing without bait, which is presumably a reference to Edith’s not-that-gorgeous face and figure. No, seriously – why am I supposed to like this girl? Currently she’s coming across as a right little see-you-next-Tuesday.

Gay Duke goes gaily upstairs to frolic with Thomas the dead-eyed footman, only Thomas the dead-eyed footman is in a blackmailing mood. Ooh, excitement! Except we can’t have too much excitement because it’s bad for us, so the Duke snatches the written proof of their scandalous Wildean fuckytimes from Thomas’ drawers and promptly lobs them on the fire, putting paid to that almost-interesting plot strand. It’s about this time that I understand why Downton is addictive – because there are few things funnier than watching a plot soufflé deflate in full view of the audience.

Initially I resisted watching Downton because the class structure in that particular era and setting is enough to turn my stomach. I didn’t think I could handle watching the downstairs crew run around waiting on every whim of the dickheads upstairs, which was pretty much the plot of GosfordPark. And someone died. I think?

Anyway, there was a moment in Downton where Daisy the scullery maid almost accidently poisons the whole horrid lot of them, but is saved by deus ex machina in the shape of a second footman. At this point the sad fffffffffffffffffffffst of the plot soufflé deflating can be heard in Japan.

Now, Daisy’s alright, but that’s plainly her job. Daisy’s job is to skip around being the adorable, perky dishmonkey who says the things the viewers are thinking, just like housemaid Anna’s job is to be the compassionate one and dead-eyed Thomas’s job is to be dead-eyed and scheming and secretly gay. They’re not exactly well-drawn characters, so that kind of puts paid to creating much sympathy for them.

What I didn’t count on was the downstairs crew being as much a pack of charmless dickholes as the poshos upstairs. I’ve heard enough to guess that the new valet Bates is probably a nasty piece of work, but they don’t know that – they’ve just met him. To them he’s just a new valet with a bum knee, who turns out to have been batman to his Lordship in the Boer War. So he’s a veteran and you’d think they’d treat him with some decency because of that, but no, because everyone at Downton is a prick.

Instead they stir the shit at every opportunity and kick the stick out from under him, causing him to faceplant on the gravel in front of his Lordship and the Duke. They go to every length humanly possible to get the poor bastard fired and do, presumably knowing it will be damn near impossible for him to get a job elsewhere.

There must be something in the water in Downton, some mineral rich stream of horrible that runs under the house, poisoning everyone inside – except for Daisy, but let’s face it, she’s probably not allowed to drink from the taps. If she tries she gets a stern ‘No!’ and a bop on the nose from a rolled-up (unironed) newspaper and therefore remains quite nice.

I want to watch these worthless fuckers suffer. Fortunately history says that the early twentieth century will visit untold miseries on their awful heads – war, pestilence and death. Famine, of course, has already shown up and is gravely afflicting the ladies in the house, whose tiny twenty first century figures look frighteningly emaciated in 1912 fashions.

I absolutely get it now. It’s like Dynasty or Footballer’s Wives – reprehensible people in plush settings and expensive costumes, overacting and administering cunty remarks and occasional slaps. I don’t know why I didn’t figure it out sooner, because this kind of crap is like crack to me. I’m slow on the uptake these days – I must be the last person on earth to get the joke. Well, me and Julian Fellowes.

When Psychics Screw Up

Psychic Sally Morgan takes the million dollar challenge. 

Now, I’m going to take a guess and say that Psychic Sally will not pass this test. Obviously, if I’m right, that means I’m psychic, or I’m just basing my guess on the results of every single other sceptic-approved test of self-proclaimed psychics. So far, nobody has ever passed the test and the million dollar prize goes uncollected. And while you can’t prove a negative, the continued failure of attempts to prove the positive make the existence of psychic phenomena more and more unlikely. It’s like James Randi’s Reindeer – while hurling reindeer from the Eiffel Tower does not necessarily prove that Santa Claus doesn’t exist, it does cast a certain amount of doubt on his flying around in a sleigh driven by eight flying reindeer. It also really annoys Parisians and conservationists.

But so, Sally. I don’t think she’ll make it, mainly because she is one of the most pedestrian psychics in the business at present. She’s just not that good. I wish I could remember where I read it (Possibly BadPsychics.com) but Sally did a reading for a gentleman in which she claimed he was going to meet a woman named Anna, move to New Zealand and have twins. Not outside the realms of possibility, you might think. Slightly less possible when the client had never had a relationship with a woman and had no interest in having a relationship with a woman on the grounds that he was gay. Then there was the incident of Bernard the Gender Confused Ghost – she’s just fucking hopeless.

Ditchwater Sal got her television break with a daft late night show called Star Psychic, in which she performed readings for the kind of Z-list celebrities who have their agents call heat whenever they’ve had a row with a spouse, got a new hairdo or been diagnosed with psoriasis. Now, hot-reading is easy enough, but it’s an absolute cinch when your clients are self-absorbed bucketmouths with no social filters whatsoever. Bonus points if they’re so dense they don’t even remember what privileged information they blarted out in public last week.

It’s testament to Sally’s staggering ineptitude that she managed to fuck up even while working with the easiest celebrity meat in the psychic business. In 2007 she did this reading with Big Brother winner Brian Dowling. Turned out Sally’s claim that ‘she knew of Brian Dowling’ was a bit of a porky. She knew Brian Dowling. In fact, she’d read for him before.

Sally doesn’t seem to have much luck with the Irish. Her latest fuck up occurred in Dublin and became the subject of wider interest when a caller named Sue relayed the whole gory story to RTE1’s Joe Duffy.

Throughout the exchange, Sue repeatedly states that she was baffled by how the prompter she overheard knew so much information about the people in the audience. Of course, the answer is right here on Sally’s own website.

I feel as though I should be reproducing this in the kind of sickly pink font favoured by Sal herself, but here’s the money shot, ladies and gentleman.

Throughout the show Sally will give spontaneous messages to the audience from spirit world. Get to the venue early to take full advantage of the many ways that Sally can give you a message:

* Complete one of Sally’s ‘Love Letter’ cards in the venue foyer and leave a question for Sally.

* Leave a video message on Sally’s special ‘Psychic Cam’ which she may play during the show.

* Bring a photo of a loved one passed and Sally may be able to connect with them in spirit world. Please note that due to the high volume of people photos cannot be returned. Please use copies not originals.

Get ready to be part of this psychic phenomenon…as they say seeing is believing!

It certainly is, Sally. It most certainly is.

This is the sound of my soul

There is something frighteningly comforting about hearing the pips.

Bip. Bip. Bip. This is BBC Radio 4. Here is the news at 12.00.

It hasn’t changed. In a world where news is no longer news unless accompanied by loud incidental music and graphics so increasingly mad that Chris Morris could no longer send them up, dear old BBC Radio 4 gives it to you straight. And that’s just so soothing.

They could tell you that every nuke in the world was trained on Great Britain and we were all going to be vapourised by teatime. But they’d do it so calmly and with such old world charm that you’d smile and say “Oh well – had a good innings,” and put the fucking kettle on.

It’s great. I love Radio 4. I just don’t listen to it that often because the experience is all too Proustian. I just stood stock still in the stairwell listening to the pips and all of a sudden I was six years old again and everything smelled of developing fluid and curry – those all pervasive smells that drifted from the direction of Dad’s makeshift dark room (Enter when red light is on and die.) and the kitchen respectively. I was six and it was 1982. My Little Pony was the most exciting new development in my world. There was a large amount of plasticine stuck to the carpet in my bedroom. I was probably making something out of a cardboard box – did a lot of that when I was six. And always to the background of Radio 4, to the pompous constant rumble of the Commons chamber, to radio plays and the old Goon Shows and the serialisation of Lord of The Rings.

It may seem a little archaic to some people, but trust me – this was the only way some working class parents could handle small children in the 1980s. Plug the little shits into the radio and pray they don’t want to watch any more TV than is strictly necessary. Advertising creatures more or less perfected what they call (And I translate from a language that would have given even H.P. Lovecraft a raving case of the heebie jeebies) ‘pester power’ in the 1980s. Children, they surmised, are basically small mobile Ids with no idea of the value of money and very, very loud voices. In other words, they are the perfect consumer. Bad news for those parents who, like so many in Thatcher’s awful Britain, had no fucking money.

Consequently, here’s a cardboard box. Now listen to the radio, shut the fuck up and stay out of the darkroom.

Luckily for my parents I was very interested in cardboard boxes.

Oh, and apropos of nothing, the month of madness approaches. It really is nearly November and time for a balls-to-the-wall mentalathon in which we all have nervous breakdowns and write uneven novels about…um…well, whatever is this year’s zombies. Last year it was vampires, believe it or not. Lot of vampire novels. Lot of people bravely trying to rescue the undead from their current sparkly, brushable My Little Vampire image.

I think the damage is done, actually. It’s probably going to be a good fifteen or twenty years before pop culture has another vampire fad. I don’t think True Blood is doing very well, is it? (I didn’t even finish watching series one – I couldn’t stand the jacked up accents and constant ugly, sweaty fucking. Jesus, don’t these people ever cuddle afterwards?) And the Twilight bandwagon is really creaking to an embarrassing halt. You can tell that the studio is desperate to milk this franchise until its tits turn black and eventually drop off – how can you make two movies out of Breaking Dawn when there’s barely enough plot in the book for one? And the trailer is already laugh-out-loud funny – this roaring epic movie score over what is essentially appears to be a movie about getting knocked up on your honeymoon. Whoo. The score for their married life together is going to be amaaaaaaazing, including such tracks as the up-tempo Bella Goes To Tesco, the combatitive, timpani heavy You Left A Log In The Toilet And Didn’t Flush and the poignant, tender Go To Fucking Sleep, Darling, Mummy Is Tired.