Television Can Blow Me (3 page)

Many, many men want to live the glamorous poonhound lifestyle of Aerial Telly yet how many have the intestinal fortitude? How many can take on board that it actually requires more temperance, more discipline, more diligence than a regular “life” style? They want to “be” the “man” but can they make the sacrifices necessary for this act of social magick to occur? The feck they can. For that reason Vernon Kay will spend tonight alone in the spare room, his gigantic bare feet sticking incongruously over the edge of his single bed, eating cold macaroni cheese straight from the tin with one hand, comfort masturbating with the other, crying like a girl guide, periodically scrubbing himself with bleach, howling “why???? why????”

Oh, it seemed like such a good idea to have text-sex with five different women. After all, who would ever find out? After all, glamour models are notoriously reluctant to share details of their private lives with the press, particularly if it involves someone in the public eye. You just got unlucky, Vern. THIS COULD NOT HAVE BEEN PREDICTED.

Perhaps the most humiliating thing of all here is the tragically feeble nature of the infidelity. Kay claims not to have banged any of these broads and I, for one, believe him. It's just that weak. If you're going to be plastered over every tabloid, have your every movement pored over you surely want to have had some compensatory ass, that oh-so-sweet mistake you mentally conjure up during those macaroni jerk off sessions. Instead he has to make do with “omg my twot iz about 2 explode” and “cya babes, hubby back”

“Vernon Kay brands himself 'STUPID'” the headline ran today and you wondered if the chump had actually gone ahead with a branding iron and permanently marked himself with the unpalatable truth everything he says and does already screams. Not so, it transpired and it's probably just as well. You imagine him getting the iron the wrong way round and ending up with DIPUTS permanently embedded in his forehead. And although those death rumours were wide of the mark, if he gets caught out like this again, he may be wishing he was dead.

It is a stark cautionary tale. People should know by now not to play with those club skanks and not attempt to emulate Aerial Telly. You only get a cauliflower arse, a face full of cum, post-traumatic stress disorder and the kind of shakes that make Judy Finnigan look like Mount Rushmore.

Mary Archer - My Life with Jeffrey

“Who you gonna believe - me or your own eyes?” - Chico Marx

Like all gangsters’ molls, Mary Archer has one eye on her man, another on her social standing. Whenever presented with the numerous misdemeanours of her husband she reacts with snotty condescension - unable or unwilling to acknowledge any wrongdoing on his part or her complicity in his crimes.

Channel 4’s documentary was a trade-off - we got previously unseen home movies (yay!), she got a chance to publicise her campaign Justice for Jeffrey (or something) - a cause inexplicably not taken up by any national newspaper. “If you can’t protect imprisoned peers who can you protect?” seemed to be the gist of it.

Familiar territory was cursorily covered - her dazzling academic career, Lord Archer’s serial shagging and inane business dealings. She likes to characterise him as Jeffrey, the risk-taker, the entrepreneur, the go-getter while pervert, swindler and shitbag more quickly spring to mind.

Court cases were like “being stripped naked and held up for examination” ignoring the fact that many people in Soho pay good money for that kind of treatment - her husband quite possibly among them.

Despite the contradictions of their marriage there’s little doubt that they made an effective team. They were the consummate social climbers - expert schmoozers with their now legendary shepherd’s pie and champagne parties where the great and the good would marvel at Mary’s incredible pie and Jeffrey’s significantly less credible tall stories.

Professor Lisa Jardine, former school pal at Cheltenham College, offered a rare moment of insight “I think, deep down, it crucifies her that Jeffrey has not been the huge success she had hoped for.”

She seems doomed to live the existence of a moll - patient, exasperated, star-struck - standing by her man like some pikey nightclub crooner.

Nice pie, though.

The verdict on Mary Archer - My Life with Jeffrey:
Jailbird groupie skunk.

Marks out of 10:
7

Preston’s Walk Out on Never Mind The Buzzcocks

Simon Amstell began to read from Chantelle Houghton’s book Living The Dream: “I’ve always loved M&S, but it had always been too expensive for me. The photoshoot made me feel very posh and upmarket.” As the audience tittered, it was the final straw for Samuel Preston, gennulman and knight of the round table. He leapt from his chair with as much dignity as he could muster (in this case, none) and walked off the set in the manner of Dick Emery’s “you are awful but I like you” woman. The Never Mind The Buzzcocks audience members gasped as his rear-view revealed he had no arse at all to speak of.

Preston’s problem is he has a chip on his shoulder about his colossally stupid wife. He believes (correctly) that we all know she’s colossally stupid and consequently believes that every comment about her is obliquely referring to her colossal stupidity. He is a middle-class boy so desperate to adopt working-class culture that he left his lovely sophisticated French girlfriend to marry the kind of girl he thinks we all marry - a soppy salt-of-the-earth with a heart of gold and a brain of marshmallow.

Looking like Bryn, the village mong from The District Nurse, he tried to ice grill Amstell several times but he looked 12 years old and just served to emphasize the fact that his nipples outweigh the rest of his body by several ounces. With his glittery cardigan and tiny, tiny frame he looked like a contestant on Mini Pops, Channel Four’s doomed paedogeddon lip synch farce.

Some have characterised his actions as gallantry and they’re nothing of the sort. He knows he married a shallow, vapid twat and is understandably embarrassed about it. Given that all she does all day is polish his forehead and sell various parts of their private life to tabloid and gossip magazines she’s got to expect some negative publicity once in a while and her minute mong boy husband has got to suck it up also.

Presturd plainly thinks we should treat his wife like a handicapped child, unable to fend for herself and Chanturd has certainly spent her life cultivating this image. She’s always been the ditzy girl all in a tizz, twirling her hair, waiting for the big strong clever man to come along and get her out of a pickle. She’s famous for no reason at all and his band are so depressingly pointless they can barely be said to exist. You simply can’t trust a man with no lips and no arse.

And as for Presturd’s claim that he was about to punch Simon Amstell - does anybody seriously think he’d try that if Mark Lamarr were still host? Amstell, as ever, handled the situation excellently. You’d never really call him a professional looking presenter but, despite being obviously rattled by the incident, he pulled it through, aided by a Preston lookalike Bill Bailey dragged from the audience to complete the show.

Presturd insists he is not embarrassed by the clearly embarrassing broadcasting of his strop. “I think it’s brilliant - at least I’ve got principles. No one’s got principles any more,” said the publicity whore celebrity wedding photo selling cunt. Presturd can fuck himself in the ear all day every day and so can his parasite wife.

The verdict on Preston’s Walk Out on Never Mind The Buzzcocks:
Worthless celebrity collapsing under its own weight.

Marks out of 10:
8

Sport on TV: pundits, commentaturds and their filthy lies

It's easy to forget that most docile product sponges will go through their lives seeing very little live sport so the medium of television is the delivery system for the majority of sport we consume and when that system is hijacked by corrupt dishonest coverage or deluded commentary we are left with a distorted picture of what sport is and TV needs to be held to account for that.

When done rightwise, though, it's a joy. HBO's boxing team have been nailing the shit out of their broadcasts for decades and that's why I pay tribute to the beast Larry Merchant. If there were more like him there would be less reason for chapters like this.

The World Cup has been kidnapped and molested by blowhard shitsacks who don’t care about football, tradition or noise pollution

When South Africa featured a gigantic dung beetle rolling a football across the pitch in its World Cup opening ceremony like some arcane faecal worship ritual, it was at once an act of social magic, a piece of grotesque symbolism and a chilling mission statement. It said “we are going to take the greatest team sport on the planet, the greatest sporting event in the universe and turd it up beyond all recognition. You fuckers won’t even recognize it by the time we’re through”. And, man alive, have they ever lived up to that?

It is no small undertaking to ruin Association Football’s World Cup and many have tried. Even giving it to The United States of America - a country who neither like nor understand the game - could fully screw up its magnificence. And yet South Africa has achieved it and the main weapon in its armoury is a shitty 3 foot long plastic trumpet known simply as the Vuvuzela.

The etymology of Vuvuzela is unclear. Many believe it comes from the onomatopoeic Zulu “vuvu” meaning “to make noise”. But as Aerial Telly has pointed out several times the etymology of a word is not its meaning. What Vuvuzela means is an instrument of show-off blowhard hogs with no interest in football, no consideration for others and no off button. The monophonic hornets’ nest honk is the least welcome sound since the ping of the last dress button holding Beth Ditto’s unholy gunt from spilling out.

Of course that despicable time serving commissar Sepp Blatter has defended the atrocity, claiming we should not seek to “Europeanise” the World Cup. Knowing full well that our aim is merely to denausify the tournament, Twatter has gone this line asking how we would feel if our traditions were banned in football grounds? What, you mean the spectacularly annoying ones nobody of consequence gives two fucks about? Delighted I’m sure. Next question?