ON THE BUS: a journey into idiocy

Now this may come as a surprise but ordinarily I'm a mild mannered kind of fellow. I wouldn't say boo to a goose. Unless the goose had specifically asked me to (perhaps to cure a fit of hiccups). But if there was going to be one thing, one insidious, pointless, idiotic cultural tic that would one day see me snap like an atrophied elastic band, grab the nearest blunt/sharp/radioactive object and start swinging away like Babe Ruth in a cloud of bees, it's this - people on public transport who play their music through mobile phone speakers.

Where do I start? How do I begin to vent this tumour of pent-up hatred, this blood-boiling, gut-churning tidal wave of vitriol I have backed up inside me? What do I want to say to you, denizen of the back seat, ensconced inside your tattered hoodie, pustulant boils flung carelessly across your face with the lackadaisical air I have no doubt is applied to every area of your worthless, irritating life?

Well firstly I want to say, get some semblance of musical appreciation. If we have to listen to your music, if it truly is our sad lot in life to watch you play the moronic DJ to your toxic-looking mate in the seat opposite you, then at least let that music be vibrant or thoughtful or experimental or life-affirming. What we don't want to hear is querulous, mewling cretins spewing the musical equivalent of the Ebola virus over our quivering ear holes. We'd rather not listen to the preschool ramblings of a bigoted, closed-minded, no talent, bottom feeding Nazi Media Whore just because it has a semi-rhythmic beat behind it, thank you very much.

Of course such considerations are rendered null and void because you're playing the aforementioned musical aberration on POSSIBLY THE SINGLE WORST AUDIO PLAYBACK DEVICE IN THE UNIVERSE. When I was 4 years old I had a plastic record player made by Tomy that had better fidelity than that carcinogenic box of wires you clutch in your grubby paw. Seriously, dude, it sounds like a group of crickets are conducting a rave in a match box. And just because you're mindlessly bobbing your head along to the white noise like a life-sized meat marionette whose operator is having a seizure, it doesn't mean we're suddenly going to recognise it as music.

You dead-eyed, unthinking, arrogant, attention-seeking, TURBO GIT.

Thank-you. That's put off the stroke for another few years I reckon.

MARK THOMPSON: the knee-jerk of idiocy

there's a bit of turmoil in west london. firstly, today i heard that the base of the once great standard in superior broadcasting is teetering on the edge of selling out and the miracle doughnut that is BBC television centre may well be sold. SOLD! to someone. who knows who, probably for about £300 million.

due to the unique way the BBC is funded, er...
we're going to sell it.

shocking.

but i was left stunned today by a far more ridiculous slither of news from the world of world class telly. it's all come from the incredible inflation that recently occurred in the press over the supposed phone in 'scandals' uncovered by the infallible newspaper journalists of our liberated country. i thought at the time, as i do even more now, that the whole thing was blown all out of proportion. suddenly it became unbearable to the british public that TV might bend the truth slightly, on occasion, in order to better present a program.

most unthinkable (according to the broadsheets) was the idea that a when a few phone-in competitions had had technical problems the show producers decided to grab a member of the production team to stand in as a competition winner (thus retaining the beats and rhythms of the show) and donated the prize to charity. i guess the journalists - speaking for we general public - think what should have happened was a presenter come onto screen and said, "sorry, something's gone wrong so we're going to forget about the phone-in and improvise for the 3-and-a-half minutes that was originally dedicated to trying to get some quality viewing out of a muffled conversation with a sniveling semi-retarded ten year old... um, so konnie.... how are your teeth today?"

IT'S ENTERTAINMENT.

who gives a post-dubbed-squirrel-fuck if they have to bend the truth every now and again? by all means refund the bankrupting 75p everyone spent on their phone call because their opinion mattered so much they 'simply had to pick up the phone' but don't - for god's sake - let it ruin the future of quality broadcasting. as it may well do.

yes, really.

why?

how about this:

today i heard that programmes like Top Gear are facing a shake up where they won't be able to 'lie' as much. yes; i used the word lie because that's what the idiots at the helm if this idiotic process have deemed a necessary word for it. for some reason top gear (and many other shows too, i use this only as an example); top gear, an ENTERTAINMENT show has been attacked because it takes it too far making us think that 3 completely different cars can arrive after a 4000 mile race within 5 minutes of each other.

for a start: what absolute moron would ever think that this is exactly what happened? what mind-numbed oblivious fool would ever consider the idea that week after week the antics of the three presenters racing and rallying and building and breaking, and always ending in a photo finish, could ever be the complete unabridged unadulterated truth? ever noticed the fact that it's E.D.I.T.E.D.?

dumb-asses.

secondly: why the hell would we want to see the actual practical result of each activity? i'd put money on the fact that it'd be utterly boring TV. if skilled directors and editors want to chop and change some dull footage of old cars driving about a bit so that i can spend an hour escaping into a fantasy world full of intrigue and wit, bloody let them. that's why i watch entertainment shows. to be entertained. the clue is in the name of the genre.

today i heard that CBBC presenters now have to say "here's one we made earlier," because they're not allowed to imply that it was solely them and not a researcher that stuck the sparkly star on the box. i mean seriously, that's not just putting the cart before the horse but sending it careering down the hill and into the river before even waking the horse up. as if a four year old child could give a spun shit about who actually made that particular prop when they have the joy of pritt stick and glitter ahead of them.

i hope the person or people who are encouraging this "honesty" gain some perspective soon. if not, i worry that we might be heading towards the news being presented from a big grey room, the floor covered in cables, by two people in t-shirts and no makeup reading from some slightly creased bits of A4 paper.

that is if we can see them without any lights on.

T4 HOSTS: the vaccuous clothes-horses of idiocy

due to unforeseen circumstances i found myself witnessing t4 on sunday today. an unwelcome surprise to me was the revelation that june sarpong is still allowed on television, complete with her rasping grapple at the english language and ever-so-slight hint of permanent confusion in her eyes.

traditionally deviant channel four have seemingly flipped the meaning of "subversive television." rather than the punk foundations that won over young, hip and trendy viewers at the dawn of alternative tv; the programmers of said channel have opted for "try to appeal to the mindless... let's celebrate mediocrity!" attitude. instead of searching long and hard for witty, intellectually cutting charismatics; they've stepped into the street, found the person with the loudest voice and wheeled them onto the set.

so they settled on june sarpong? her and all the other t4 presenters?

just because the tv says these people are funny, doesn't mean they actually are. certain characteristics give away the secret that they aren't really cut out for the job.

• when her voice sounds like scratching your nails down a blackboard while coughing like a disease-ridden smoker.
  
• when the furniture around her has more screen presence.
  
• when he has to read from an autocue to appear witty.
  
• when they look dumbstruck by a band who they clearly haven't heard of before.
  
• when their wardrobe looks like it was designed by a topshop store-cupboard cleaner.
  
• when his hair has more personality than him, and it's the personality of that shouty-guy from the police academy films.
  
• when their facial expression is limited to either "smug" or "bewildered."
  
  

jesus, while searching for the above picture i discovered one of some hollyoaks cast members winning some kind of award. i assume it was for "undeservedly highest tv ratings without decent script/director/actors/camera work/storyline" or something.

DRAMA STUDENTS: the gibbering monkeys of idiocy

I can still feel the blood pounding in the back of my head. My hands have been balled up into fists for so long I’m finding it difficult to type and I have a series of crescent shaped marks in the soft flesh of my palm left by my own fingernails. My eyes are bloodshot, my jaw is cramping and my teeth have been ground down to powder.

This morning I had the ‘pleasure’ of sharing my commute to work with three young actors from an esteemed drama school. These charming individuals spent the entire 20 minute bus ride complaining loudly in identical, theatrical automaton voices about every single other person on their acting course. No stone was left unturned in their seemingly eternal quest to root out every glitch, every weakness, every wrong inflection and mispronunciation in their colleagues’ performances.

“Did you see Rachel’s attempt at Juliet in her showcase? You know some people just can’t cope with classical texts, I don’t know what they were thinking giving it to her. It’s such a gift of a role and she does nothing with it."

This kind of talk went on for the duration of my time on the bus. Discussed clearly and unashamedly for everyone to hear. Each of their friends were considered in turn before being summarily dismissed; picked apart and dissected using the blunt tools of a theatrical vocabulary cannibalised from A-level Theatre Studies set texts and applied with all the finesse of Neanderthal man learning to cross-stitch. What utterly contemptible morons. Not once did they turn the dim spotlight of their 2-watt critical facilities on themselves. In fact, as far as they were concerned, and by some astronomical coincidence, we, the humble bus-riding travellers of London, were luckily enough to be sharing our morning commute with the only three perfect exponents of theatrical technique that the world had ever seen. Even within the group a vile game of one-upmanship was being played out, with passing allusions to their own genius dropped in among the general vitriol, poison and unthinking crap they were spouting. All topped off with the pathetic caveat ‘Of course I love the girl but…’ as if this would make the whole insidious conversation any more palatable.

I hate this aspect of theatre. I hate the bitchiness, the insecurity, the need to beat down others to make yourself feel talented. What’s the point? Surely theatre is a collaborative art form which benefits immeasurably from a tight, supportive company intent on making each other look good? Those idiots on the bus haven’t even finished their training and they’re already well schooled in the cowardly art of two-facedness. Do drama schools now teach Bitching as a module alongside Stage Combat and Lecoq?

Of course there’s a twist in the tail and it’s one that I’m aware means I lose the moral high ground forever. Because by another astronomical coincidence I’d seen that trio of actors before. At a series of showcases at a local theatre.

And they were shit.

JORDAN: the unbridled media whore of idiocy

i've worked it out. i knew it couldn't have been all it appeared to be. nothing and noone could exist with that little depth. ladies and gentlemen, despite all our belief systems, one of this nation's greatest treasures is:
Jordan.

i know, i was shocked as you are now. i literally just spewed over my fresh filled pasta when i realised it.

katie price/mrs. peter andre/media-whore/dumb-ass... call her what you will, but she is an artistic genius. she joins the ranks of Leigh Bowery and Gilbert & George as members of society who have dedicated their entire life to their art and in doing so, enriched life's great quilt-cover.

in a sacrifice of her own human looks she has turned her body into a social commentary on the falseness of our current society. a walking representation of the ugliness of materialism, the mediocrity of the nation and the ignorance of worldwide injustice.

she has even entered into a life-long contract (a marriage no less!) with a person who represents everything that is stupid in the modern world. not content with that, she is abandoned mother to a footballer's son, a man who (like other footballers) is vastly overpaid and living an undeservedly decadent life for his contribution to society. not only that (!) one of her sons is an ethnic minority and she made damn sure he'd also turn out to be disabled by drinking and smoking during pregnancy. what an amazing woman.

i'm sorry jordan, if you wanted to wait until your old age (29?) before you revealed this secret, but i think you deserve to be congratulated right away on your achievements.

i think the true beauty of what she has achieved is in the art of misdirection. allowing her stretched~airbrushed~flesh to grace the covers and broadcasts of what we could entitle "bad-media" means that those people with more resources than their genitalia can easily find more quality information and do something about the problems of this world. an easy rule of thumb:

picture of jordan = nothing of value here.

thank you katie.

i'm still trying to work out the symbolism of a hot-air balloon race, but i'll get there.
well done jordan, good luck to all who sail in you.