Well. What a week THAT was, are we right avid reader? There’s been things going down; the Titanic, Heather Trott, Tulisa Contro-Contos-Whatever, things coming up; the price of pasties, petrol and penises in front of Tulisa (we’ve reached the quota of Tulisa blowjob jokes, worry not).
We’re very surprised that any has any eye fluid left after seeing such awful things going on in the World, and that’s not even taking into Tim Lovejoy and Simon Rimmer moving channel and effectively upsetting all the hungover teens in the country.
All the terrible things that have happened this week don’t mean an iota because y’know what happens soon? It’s only Easter time isn’t it! The time of year that we come together as a united force to perform the rites that make the zombie carpenter’s son stay dead for another year. We’ll all be so full of chocolate and other various sugar riddled carcinogens that we won’t care about anything other than what is playing out before your very eyes: not the scenes of your elderly grandmother silently squeaking out farts before demurely wafting her handkerchief to dispel the noxious fumes, or your young niece vomiting loudly after eating a little too much chocolate, but what is on the telly box.
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Relief, sweet relief as we can finally be quoted accurately on declaring the end of Skins and the start of summer, two things we love more than Michael Barrymore’s pool parties — can we get a Roflcopter?
It’s a slow start to the demise of the series as we know it — yes guys, sorry to say it’s going down shortly, after one final amazefuck of a series with members of each and every cast, probably at uni doing absolutely shit tons of work and writing dissertations on the representation of youth in the media, or not, you know.
Anyway, yeah, so Frankie is around hunting her mum like she’s in a bloody day-glow version of The Hunger Games or something. She’s wearing the same jacket she has been for about nine weeks and its filthy which makes us admire the attention to detail, it’s these little grubby bits that really make the difference.
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Hello Soap fans! Did you have a good weekend? Don’t answer that, we’re only being polite. We couldn’t care less how your weekend went, we’re only filling up some space before we launch into this week’s Soap Spoilers.
We’re heartless and selfish but this is why you want us in a dirty way. Don’t bother denying it, we’re still not listening.
Enough with all this small talk and shameless flirting, let’s find out what’s happening to people in Soapland who are clearly much better than you lot.
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Anyone remember how Torville and Dean got famous? Anyone? It’s that Bolero thing, right? Oh, and everyone knows about it? And is that because ITV keep ramming it down our throats every single Dancing on Ice finale even though it was nearly 30 years ago? Yes? Thought so.
And this year’s Dancing on Ice finale was no different. ITV didn’t even give us a chance to think it might be, because they opened the show with two creepy opera singers doing Bolero whilst Torville and Dean launched their middle-aged bodies around a televised ice-rink trying to recreate something that happened before hecklerspray was even born.
Still, it wasn’t all purple lycra and a desperate need to recreate the 80s. Although some of it was, like Jorgie’s showcase dance. She pranced around the ice to Fame, and did lots and lots of tricky lifts and had a load of professional skaters doing the same thing as her, but slightly better than she’d just done it. She scored 29 out of 30, which looked really good.
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Hidden away at the back of everyone’s consciousness is the worry that they’ll miss out on something important. It’s a normal part of the human condition we’re told and shouldn’t feel too bad about getting onto buses that we don’t need just because there are two people having an animated conversation about something and we want to be a part of it, even if it’s just vicariously.
This is the same thing as what happens on Twitter most nights. People attempt to one up each other by tweeting the funniest thing that they can think of during a show. Sometimes it goes horribly wrong with comments that are verging on racism but would be alright during Allo Allo, whereas sometimes it can bring a programme to life.
Watching Eastenders, for example, can be a tedious task that only a hardened professional should attempt, but seeing people tweeting about McKlunkys or commenting on Shirley Carter’s ever receding skirt hem can really bring a new facet to a normally boring show.
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We’d like to say that seeing another group of self obsessed diehard Conservatives hog our TV’s for the next twelve weeks will be torture. We’d also like to say that seeing them get into every possible problem when dealing with sausage rolls/balloons/bread (delete as appropriate) won’t make our funny bones tingle with what we can only presume osteoporosis feels like.
We’d also like to say that seeing the man who resembles a distended scrotum playing God with people’s lives isn’t a thrilling act of voyeurism.
But we can’t. From start to end The Apprentice is a fantastic hour of TV that, if nothing else, reminds people from the North that people who want to better themselves by fannying around with Profit and Loss sheets and “marketing” will ultimately get slapped down by a man who’s hair could grease enough frying pans to make a million bacon sandwiches. And make him into the modern day equivalent of Jesus and his Amazing Fish Trick.
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Online bullying, or “trolling” as people have been calling it, has been major news over the past few months. Not quite moral panic stage, but definitely creeping up to become a major worry for parents and adults alike.
For some reason parents will insist that their children aren’t harassed and bullied when they’re at home. Madness, we know. It seems that as the number of facebook users quickly escalates towards billions, that more and more people are interacting with each other’s lives; they’re seeing what people like and dislike, experiencing the dizzying heights and soul crushing lows through a distorted lens of ‘shared experience’ that, pre-facebook, would only be shared with friends and family.
But what happens when inconsiderate wankmonkeys decide to ruin a solemn family occasion and post obscenities on an RIP page for a teenager who died?
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Here’s us getting all ready to talk to you about the Skins season finale and how that ending was a bit monumentally rubbish hanging off all the cliffs in the Lake District and it’s only going to be bloody well on again next week isn’t it?
We found that out through the cleverly titled, “Next Week,” section at the end in case you were wondering what sort of powers we had.
On the whole we’ve noticed that Skins is peaking as the unusually fast pregnancy plot moves along.
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