Blandness at Breakfast
This morning, Paul McCartney's wife Heather was interviewed on BBC Breakfast. I was only half awake, but it appeared she was trying to get more members of the public to carry a donor card by using George Best as an example of what such an act can acheive. (She also appeared to have a pound or so of chicken skin hanging from under each arm, and if I didn't know better, I'd say she was skagged up, but that's by the by.)
The interview was grotesque. Between them, the tediously inoffensive Sian Williams and the effortlessly nondescript Dermot Murnaghan managed to navigate their way through the five minute piece without demanding the obvious question of how the suffering fuck George Best, even in the wildest flush of post-funeral sycophancy, could possibly seen as a positive advert for carrying a donor card, but that's not to say that in breakfast nooks around the nation, millions of viewers weren't spitting their Weetabix out in disbelief and angrily making the same enquiry of their TV sets. They would also probably be demanding to know why Hop-Along's tits appear to start at her elbows, and why she was allowed on the telly to promote a cause she had seemingly only a passing interest in. (In case you're wondering, it took only two minutes thirty seconds for her to mention her missing leg - a record, I think.)
Yes, the interview was grotesque, but as breakfast entertainment, it was fantastic. I'm not used to having my jaw loosened by the telly before 9am, but today the BBC did me proud. It was not only the treat of having a repulsively self-involved and pointless 'celebrity' big up a repulsively conceived campaign in such a bizarre way, but also the stark contrast to the standard breakfast fare. Usually, the BBC serves up items that are blander than the Anglican church, such as the ten-minute piece last week on paper aeroplanes, or a fascinating and not-at-all excruciating OB from Hampton Court or some similar day-out destination for the heavily-medicated. But today, seeing a one-legged methadone user plead the case for donor cards by citing the example of the worst transplant candidate since history began lifted my heart and raised my bile in equal measure. What a way to start to the day!
Thing is, though, even when the BBC's being bland at breakfast (99.99% of the time), it is nevertheless more stimulating than what the other channels offer. GMTV is like having breakfast with call centre queers and overweight housewives as they discuss this week's issue of Chat. Sky advertises its early morning programming with the monument to tedium and vanquished dreams that is Eamon Holmes promising that whatever news he has to give us, he shall do it 'with a smile'. If that doesn't deep down make you want to shit into your hands and rub it into your face, then you really should question what use your continued existence could possibly serve.
Channel 4: Will & Grace (one unfunny joke, served 4,900 different ways, to varying magnitudes of whooping audience hysteria). BBC2: Lazytown (it's for children, but bland children). What is the telly trying to do to us?!
I'm not asking for pornography, or even the televised torture of the beardy old cunt off Hollyoaks. All I want is something vaguely interesting to watch whilst I put away my breakfast. I want interesting news items, not in-depth investigations into conkers. I want laughter and vitriol, not valiumed grins and platitudes. And I want Mishal Hussain to present it. Nekkid.
And one more thing - if Vanessa FUCKING Feltz appears during the BBC London news to announce today's topic for her radio phone-in, I swear I shall hunt her down, slit her throat, and see that Essex eats well off the result. However, I'll not dwell on the matter just now, for she is to feature in a future entry (to be entitled 'Vanessa Feltz is Alive - Why?').
The interview was grotesque. Between them, the tediously inoffensive Sian Williams and the effortlessly nondescript Dermot Murnaghan managed to navigate their way through the five minute piece without demanding the obvious question of how the suffering fuck George Best, even in the wildest flush of post-funeral sycophancy, could possibly seen as a positive advert for carrying a donor card, but that's not to say that in breakfast nooks around the nation, millions of viewers weren't spitting their Weetabix out in disbelief and angrily making the same enquiry of their TV sets. They would also probably be demanding to know why Hop-Along's tits appear to start at her elbows, and why she was allowed on the telly to promote a cause she had seemingly only a passing interest in. (In case you're wondering, it took only two minutes thirty seconds for her to mention her missing leg - a record, I think.)
Yes, the interview was grotesque, but as breakfast entertainment, it was fantastic. I'm not used to having my jaw loosened by the telly before 9am, but today the BBC did me proud. It was not only the treat of having a repulsively self-involved and pointless 'celebrity' big up a repulsively conceived campaign in such a bizarre way, but also the stark contrast to the standard breakfast fare. Usually, the BBC serves up items that are blander than the Anglican church, such as the ten-minute piece last week on paper aeroplanes, or a fascinating and not-at-all excruciating OB from Hampton Court or some similar day-out destination for the heavily-medicated. But today, seeing a one-legged methadone user plead the case for donor cards by citing the example of the worst transplant candidate since history began lifted my heart and raised my bile in equal measure. What a way to start to the day!
Thing is, though, even when the BBC's being bland at breakfast (99.99% of the time), it is nevertheless more stimulating than what the other channels offer. GMTV is like having breakfast with call centre queers and overweight housewives as they discuss this week's issue of Chat. Sky advertises its early morning programming with the monument to tedium and vanquished dreams that is Eamon Holmes promising that whatever news he has to give us, he shall do it 'with a smile'. If that doesn't deep down make you want to shit into your hands and rub it into your face, then you really should question what use your continued existence could possibly serve.
Channel 4: Will & Grace (one unfunny joke, served 4,900 different ways, to varying magnitudes of whooping audience hysteria). BBC2: Lazytown (it's for children, but bland children). What is the telly trying to do to us?!
I'm not asking for pornography, or even the televised torture of the beardy old cunt off Hollyoaks. All I want is something vaguely interesting to watch whilst I put away my breakfast. I want interesting news items, not in-depth investigations into conkers. I want laughter and vitriol, not valiumed grins and platitudes. And I want Mishal Hussain to present it. Nekkid.
And one more thing - if Vanessa FUCKING Feltz appears during the BBC London news to announce today's topic for her radio phone-in, I swear I shall hunt her down, slit her throat, and see that Essex eats well off the result. However, I'll not dwell on the matter just now, for she is to feature in a future entry (to be entitled 'Vanessa Feltz is Alive - Why?').
posted by Stephen Beckett at 11:57 AM
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