Review: Desperate Scousewives (Or: Why Paul McCartney Will Now Affect A Boltonian Accent)

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Derek Acorah, Colleen Rooney and Jennifer Ellison. What does these people all have in common? They’re all gigantic dicks. Dicks that are so bulbous that slightly less dense objects, like Abbey Clancy gravitate towards them and start to orbit them. Like the rest of the Sun and Pluto. (Did you know that the galaxy is secretly pleased that Pluto got downgraded from Planet status? The interstellar bitches).

Purely by coincidence, they all happen to hail from Liverpool! What’s more there are now a whole new batch of people hailing from the city that are equal, if not bigger dicks than all the “voices” in Derek Acorah’s head. You know, the ones that he pretends he hears for money.

Those people are being showcased as part of E4’s latest “scripted reality” show, Desperate Scousewives. Yes. It does sound like Desperate Housewives. Isn’t that funny and clever?

No. It isn’t.

So what’s in store for this latest batch of abhorrent arseholes?

Well, there’s a pair of sexually starved homosexuelles, who run a salon and have an army of dogs at their beck and call, and are branching out into anal bleaching. They’re taking on a woman with the personality of a dyslexic puppy as a full time employee, which is going to be hilarious. Don’t get your hopes up. It probably won’t be hilarious but she may turn up on a 20th anniversary edition of Animal Hospital where she hopefully won’t make it through the night.

There are a number of buxom beauties who eventually blend into one ear-bleeding harem, each with less self-respect than the last. Admittedly, it is the women that make these shows what they are; TOWIE is all about Amy Childs and Lauren Goodger, and Made In Chelsea is all about Milly Rara Smythe III and her trysts with the oddly transsexual man.

A “journalist” and a “blogger” who stand in a doorway instead of doing what their supposed to be doing (like tramps do); i.e. photographing Anne Diamond’s funeral for her son or trying to figure out how to make three packets of noodles last until payday, like every other freelance worker. That’s what the reality is people. There’s no fancy batwing dresses for us at Hecklerspray. We have to work part time wiping sweat from Russell Grant’s stomach to keep us in Snack-a-Jacks and Spongebob Squarepants crumpets. Thats the harsh reality of not having a conventional job.

Now… who else is missing from this cavalcade of idiocy? Oh, that’s right: a pack of ravenous fannyrats who go out of their way to mess with the heads of those poor, deluded women.

If you want to watch something that will give a true reflection like Easten… The Only Way Is… Coronati… Crimewatch, then this isn’t the show for you. It has almost no redeeming features and is, in fact, an almost carbon copy of most of the scripted reality TV shows that have gone before, including The Only Way Is Essex, Made In Chelsea and even the batshit crazy women found in Keeping Up With The Kardashians.

There’s not really much that makes the next episode seem like anything other than a wasted hour, because you’ve already seen all the possible scenarios that could occur. There’s not going to be any deus ex machina style interventions from errant Gods, although there may be an appearance from Cilla Black.

Although there is the threat/promise of naked men’s bums next week, so we suppose there’s that?

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