Wednesday 13 October 2010

TV Democracy

It is my duty to inform you that you were abused last night.  Statistically it is likely that most of you will have watched television for about 4 hours yesterday, during which time you were being unwittingly oppressed. It may not have felt like it - I mean it’s not like you were being waterboarded while a government agent took a DNA swab from 5 inches up your urethra with a metal spatula - but none the less you were being mentally abused. 

In a country where we consider ourselves free under democracy, we are being degraded and humiliated by a television dictatorship that is discreetly unzipping it flies and unleashing a hot torrent of acrid piss into your ears and eyes and saturating your brain. They call it light entertainment; I call it Audiovisual Mind Rape.  Not very catchy I know, but I accidentally watched a few seconds of ‘What Katie Did Next’ and my IQ dropped faster than a Premiership Footballers pants in a Harvester (they are usually confused by the promise of a Spit Roast on the menu).

What the fuck am I blathering about? I will tell you.  We spend on average 60 days a year watching television. Unquestioningly and obediently flicking through the channels for 2 solid months a year until we find something we can vaguely tolerate and then convince ourselves we enjoy it.  Now you must understand that I am not having a bash at the concept of television itself; I love the noisy, colourful, time wasting slut as much as anyone. What I object to is the fact we are subjected to such horrific crimes of entertainment without having any real say in the matter.  At this point I was going to list all the programmes I dislike, but I am pretty sure you know the ones I’m talking about and if you don’t then there is no hope for you anymore. Go watch America’s Next Top Model in the bath and cuddle a toaster, it’s the only humane thing to do now. 

Perhaps you think I am wrong, and you may be right. You’re not of course, I am right and you are wrong.  You may be saying; ‘Hey, I like the X-Factor. It’s easy to watch, entertaining and I love scripted, manipulative karaoke shows hosted by animatronic waxworks.’  But do you really? I mean really, really?  Or do you just like it because you have been given no decent alternative?  Someone emerging from Josef Fritzl’s Basement of Love would almost certainly think that a bowl of cornflakes is awesome, especially if they don’t have to be bummed before being given a spoon.  But really that’s not that great at all; it’s just that they don’t know any better.

Did anyone ask you if you wanted Britain’s Got Talent made in the first place? No. Some pony tailed media twat sat around a big glass table with other pony tailed media twats and they decided that this is what you want.  So they went ahead and made it and then shoved it in your face so hard that all you could do was obligingly open up your brain and let them force their cock shaped TV show repeatedly into your head.  I make no apologies for the overly colourful simile – if BGT is not the biggest cock shaped thing on television then I will never raise this subject again. Yeah, right.

Where is our democracy? This is not freedom, we are being forced to watch stuff that would make a visiting alien send a report back to their home planet simply containing the words; ‘Cunts. Avoid.’  I want choice. I don’t want to have Simon Cowell in my house anymore. I am so fucking tired of TV offering me insights into Peter Andre’s latest shopping trip and what sort of socks he likes to wear when in LA.

We deserve better and I am certain that given the choice we would choose to have a whole different type of TV made for us, rather than having to choose something vaguely tolerable from the mindless shit that is put in front of us every night.  Here is an unbiased(ish) example to illustrate my point: We get to choose by (free) telephone vote which one of the following shows is commissioned and shown on a Saturday night:

Option 1:  Britain’s Big Sparkly Song Show.  Emotionally vulnerable and mentally delusional members of the public are told they are unbelievably fantastic by production assistants before going on stage and miming to an autotuned Mariah Carey cover of a N-Dubz cover of a looped Christina Aguilera sample.  A panel of multi-millionaires will tell them they are lovely, but are in actual fact complete talentless fuckwits, but re-affirm that they are lovely. The winner, selected after 16 sodding weeks of the same thing, gets to mime to another cover record which is released at Christmas, have a highly publicised eating disorder before disappearing into obscurity and then shooting themselves in the face. 

Option 2:  Fame Is Mine.  Every single reality TV celebrity of the last 5 years that is available for work (i.e. all of them) is invited to a studio for a mystery reality show.  On arrival they are sent to Cambodia, one of the most heavily mined (as in explosive mines, not the highly watchable Chilean collapsing type) countries in the world. They then walk in an extended line through a huge minefield.  The survivors go through to the next round and the next week they are sent to Angola for more of the same. This is repeated every week until only one remains who is then declared the winner. That’s it. We reduce our excessive surplus of D-List celebs and some of the most dangerous minefields in the world are made safe. 

No contest surely?  Sadly, until we the people are given the power back, all we can do is piss and moan about the quality of TV at the moment. But that is arguably a better form of entertainment in itself. 

Having said all this, I do genuinely enjoy Masterchef with Greg Wallace enthusiastically shoveling badly made apricot tartlets into his big shiny head and then looking guiltily at Michel Roux Jnr. because he didn’t even taste it as he threw it down his gullet. ‘Facking laaaverly’ as Greg would say. 

1 comment:

  1. Dave, that is bloody awesome.

    More of the same please, it cheers me up immensely!

    Daz

    ReplyDelete

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