Showing posts with label televizzle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label televizzle. Show all posts

Sunday, 19 April 2009

Unfortunate photo juxtapositions part 2,334,553


I have to say I don't really get the furore over Susan Whatserface from Britain's Got Talent. So she is ugly but a good singer, and because she is ugly no one thought she would be a good singer so when it was revealed she was a good singer everyone was ZOMG!!!UGLEEZ CAN SING!1!!

And then everyone rejoiced and cried with happiness because this ugly woman who can sing has been rescued from her hideously obscure ugly little life in some hideously obscure ugly little Scottish village and is now FAMUS and SAVED and on OPRAH!1!!

Even my brother, who refuses to enter Topman, pay for magazines and walks out the room at the very mention of BGT or X Factor, admitted the other day that he had watched Susan on Youtube and 'It was, like, the most beautiful heart wrenching singing I have ever seen'. The pussyo.

Whilst it is nice that a woman is going to make a lot of money from her singing talent, the whole episode really just serves to highlight the widespread and ikky views of the general public - ugly people are useless and you can only find redemption and happiness through fame. Nice. Then again, I guess it also shows the power of a good ole showtune, and that is never a bad thing..

*gets off soapbox, digs out DVD of Rent*

Thursday, 11 September 2008

Dragon's Den = Social Suicide

A couple of anecdotes for you:

A few months ago, in Subway on Berwick Street.
Man in queue in front of me attempting to pay for a £1.99 sub with a credit card gestures to poster on the wall with his gold American Express.
'Oh look, the Reggae Reggae sauce sub!'

Bangladeshi cashier who clearly speaks as much English as his co-worker who is currently drenching my sub in Mayonnaise despite my request and hand gestures to the contrary
'.' (dull eyed stare)

'You know? Reggae Reggae sauce? The guy was on Dragon's Den!'

'.'
*background noise of me swearing under my breath at the prospect of a 3,000 calorie sub but being too polite to actually complain*

'Dragons Den! On BBC1! The guy sang a little song and they gave him money? Dragon's Den? Yes? Oh.'

He glances around: first to the still blank faced cashier who is now proferring a receipt, then to the equally blank faced condiment-mad co-worker. His eyes finally settle on the glowering girl holding a dripping bundle of greasy bread behind him, before he stalks out, head down.


A few weeks ago, a hairdressers in Crouch End.
An awkward fifteen year old girl whose job consists of pushing hair around the floor, making hair tea and answering the phone with a superfast esturary mutter is nonchalently swinging on the reception chair.

Jabbing at the mouse of the computer and staring intently at the monitor screen - 'thatallbe*outrageous sum of money* plez'

'Oh cool.'
I hand over my card.

*awkward silence punctuated only by more mouse jabs*

'Oh look, those are those hairbrushes they had on Dragons Den!'
I gesture to a pyramid of spikey brushes balancing procariously close to her flinching mouse arm
.

'Huh?'
she looks up at me with half shut eyes and a half open gob displaying her half chewed gum.

'You know? It's like a magic brush that gets rid of tangles? They didn't invest but it looks like he has done quite well for himself.'

'AahdunnerrIdahntwatchit. Canyerputyerpennumberrinyeah?'

'What really? You don't watch Dragon's Den? Not ever'

'Nah.'

'You know what it is, right?'

'Yeh.'

'Oh.'
Another awkward pause until I take back my card and slink off into the day with my poofy blowdryed mushroom hair.

Is this just a terrible co-incidence? Why not try slotting 'that awful band called ham or spam or something' or 'that cap to stop you putting diesel into a unleaded car' into polite conversation with a service level stranger and find out!

Wednesday, 27 August 2008

Lightening the Mood with Urinary Tract Infections

I'm bored and a bit sad, so am going to liveblog 'Embarrassing Illnesses' to make myself feel better.

Although one of my best friends is moving abroad, I have a fat arse and am squandering my precious holiday sitting alone on the sofa (last two fact quite probably related) at least I am not Christian Jessen, Channel 4's very own Clap Doctor.
Cripes! 20.05 and we're already getting closeups of him fingering some teenager's spotty penis.

Pop quiz! If someone said you could be famous and on telly, but only if you checked people for STD's and so would be irrecoverably linked in the public's mind with, well, pubis, would you do it?

Good news. The teenager does not have gonorrhea.

A group of BMX-ers are now having their sperm counted. Obviously smoking 20 a day will make you less fertile, but wanking a lot? I'm sure that's something they tell you in Catholic school. I'm not sure I would want to be told I was firing duds on tv. This programme is not so much 'airing your dirty knickers in public' as literally 'flashing your flaps on the box'. Maybe that's just how the 21st Century rolls.

Oh MAN, how can they get away with showing a 50 year old woman's leaky vag before 9pm watershed? Ha, watershed! Weak bladder! My incontinence fuelled humour knows no bounds.

A woman has lipo on her aesymmetrical breasts, so now she just has equally horrible saggy tits.

One of the BMX-ers has a low sperm count. We are not told which one it is, but the numerous camera pans gives us a pretty good idea.

FIN.

Pop Fact! - When not fingering diseased genitals, Dr Jessen is an 'accomplished oboist'. He also rides horses. Here is a photo of him looking smug because he has finished a sudoku.

Sartorial 100m Hurdles

Oh God how I wish I had thought of this...

Vice style 'Do's and Don't' from the Olympic opening ceremony.


It fair made me snort into my cornflakes.

Incidentally, I'm off work this week, hence the prolific blogging; it also means I am sampling the 'wonder' that is daytime TV for the first time in about a year. How vile is Jeremy Kyle? Really, who the hell is this perma-angry man who shouts over undereducated poor people as they attempt to defend their poxy lives on national television? I can't believe I ironically dug him at Uni, he is the 21st Century version of the Witchfinder General.

next week on SOB, Biche wonders why aeroplane food tastes so bad, comments that Gordon Brown is a big boring and cocks her hammer in the direction of more sealife held in wooden containers

Wednesday, 21 May 2008

Biche's Book of the Day

.. no, not really. When I stumbled across this I had to pick mine to remember who Lesley Brain was. Thank god for Amazon and their insightful balanced reviewers:

"This is an account of Lesley's time in the Big Brother house last summer and the road that took her there. (Lesley is the grandmother and WI member who calmed down with a strawberry.)
There are lots of laugh-out-loud momentsbut also some sharp insights into the BB experience, including the audition process and what it was like to live with the other contestants (who can forget Ziggy, Chanelle, or Charley?).
Throughout, Lesley draws parallels with the original world of Big Brother in Orwell's "1984". My only complaint is that the 168 pages seemed to fly by, which left this reader wanting a little more. However, the stories are very well told and hopefully we will see a lot more from Lesley in future. Overall, a must read for fans of the show, and plenty for others to enjoy too. "

Well thank YOU, Claire Horton from Surrey. And here I was thinking it was a shameless cash-in from a Big Brother quitter, hypocritically criticising all the other fame hungry wannabees who dared to stick to their guns. And what is she doing on the front cover? Joyfully shelling a pistachio? Reading the smallest joke book in the world? Tearing a tiny person limb from limb in glee?

Much as I like to get on my high horse and ride around dusty Amazon planes, herding reviwers and shouting YEEHAH (oh and I DO) my bookcase is not entirely worthy and Big Brother free...



Look right, my mum had just popped into Waterstones to use the loo and he was there doing a signing and no one was there and she felt sorry for him, yeah?*

But yes, that does mean I not only own a copy but a SIGNED copy.
Why I should just retire now, I'm made.

Edit: I love how it looks like Nick is looking up at Lesley going 'mmm maybe she will drop the pistachio shell my way so I can suck it for sustinence'

*trufax

Sunday, 20 April 2008

If the new Gladiators isn't like this I for one will be sorely disappointed....



These are the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling (G.L.O.W) stars of the euponymous 1980's TV show. Yeah, it was basically like WWF but with laydees; 'Stallone's Sweethearts' the goodie good girls lead by 'pitbull with a facelift' Jackie Stallone (yes HER, awful Big Brother lady and who knew? Worst rapper in the world ever) and 'Kitty's Killers' the bad girls lead by some fat old woman who is probably dead now.

Go to the wikipedia site to read the hilarious descriptions of the girls, their fantastic names and their hilarious feuds, then go to Dlisted.com because I got the video from there, and if it wasn't for Michael K I might never have discovered this wonderful little gem.

I particularly love that because this was 1980's USA there were wrestlers called Palestinia and Ninotchka, naturally the mortal enemies of blonde blue eyed Americana. Oh, to be ten years older and American so I might have had the chance to witness this landmark of television!

Wiki

Dlisted











Edit: Having just seen THIS video, it would appear that Sky One is making efforts to capture the irony obsessed hipster audience. This ruse will most likely fail as Sky One is a naff cheeseball of a channel (and not even in a so-bad-it's good way so much as a 'meh, what's on Living? way'), but luckily there are vast swathes of idiot students who get high on nostaligic shit, and the marketers can easily twist dem demographics to be one and the same. Oh yeah, and the kids will love it too.

Thoughts on Adverts

Yes, yes I know it's been a while (although not as long as I feared it had been) since I have written on this thing... I've been busy at work and so have probably lost all my loyal following (hello you two!) but oh well, I'll keep wittering into the void and pretend that there are people all over the world hanging on my every word.

I think last time I started blogging again it was inspired by some impotent rage I was taking out on the poor tv, and this time is not much different... recently several adverts have Got My Goat, so I have returned victorious to smash them down to size.

Case 1: BASF Group.
A man climbs up a glacier. He falls! But wait! His rope saves him. An invisible rope. This rope is BASF who rather self importantly call themselves THE chemical company, and thanks to their 'invisible contribution' there is a visible result.

Biche says: Wait, why are they THE chemical company? Aren't Glaxo Smith Cline a chemical company? Call me naive, but in this capitalist opportunistic climate, I somehow doubt that there is only one chemical company. This means they must really mean 'da' like 'you da man' and frankly that's just embarrassing. The more pressing issue however is the very point of the advert - invisible contribution? Then why the hell are you shouting about it three times an hour? That's like me repeatedly announcing that I direct debit monthly money to Amnesty International while in the pub and expecting praise and adulation every single time and not the 'shut up smugface, what are you trying to prove? Get a round in' that I would receive.


Case 2 - Frontline
Oh noes! The dog has the flees! Worrawegonnado?? Why, get Frontline flea repellent of course, 'The Gesture of Love you can Trust'

Biche says: This advert was obviously written by someone so jaded by 'dinner at a place with forks = putting out' that she now lives alone with hundreds of flea free cats.




Oh okay I had more, but now I've been distracted by Bear Grylls twatting around a Saharan salt plain with a urine soaked t shirt on his head, so I will leave you all for now safe in the knowledge that soon I will be back with some...funny...stuff....yeah?

Sunday, 2 March 2008

On the Bed, On the Floor,On the Towel by the Door...

Sarah Silverman and Jimmy Kimmel's hilarious love songs are quite old now (basic moral of this blog appears to be I should post stuff when I see it opposed to when I can be bothered, approximately three months after they are cool and new) but I still nearly 'lol' every time I see Sarah's.. and I guess it makes sense to post Jimmy's too while I am here, even though he covers his lack of wit with a boatload of celebrities..



Wednesday, 20 February 2008

Blogging the Brits 2008

20.01 - Oh look it is a gay, a balloon and a big spider. Hello Mika, hello Brits 2008.
A bit of coolness is wrestled back when Beth Ditto pops up for a duet, but to those who are not wearing their glasses (because they dropped them behind the sofa) it looks like a runner bean duetting with one of those Marks and Spencer gummy pig sweets.

Wow Kelly Osborne looks like a goth Lisa Stansfield, Jack looks like one of those bikers who cook things on telly and Ozzy and Sharon just look the same as they have for the last ten years

20.07 - First joke to fall flat, courtesy of Chris Moyles. A nation is unsuprised.
Take That trounce all those poxy instrument playing bands like Muse and Arctic Monkeys to win Best Live Act. It never fails to astound me how TT always sound like a group of old men piddling away their retirement in a northern pub. They now appear to dress like them too.

20.12 Rihanna and the Klaxons - exciting prospect, amazing strobey set but I can't shake the niggling fear that the Klaxons are always rather crap live. Luckily it is Rihanna, resplendent with a teatowel on her head, that appears to be doing most of the work. Yeah, the actual sound is a bit 'meh' but they look like a Mad Max inspired alien princess and her slaves, so all is not lost.

20.16 Oh GOD, like AIDS in the 1980's Fearne Cotton has reared her ugly head to ruin everyone's fun. I mute her. Thus far the last sixteen minutes would have actually been more enjoyable without sound.

20.23 Apparently Adele has already won the Critic's Choice Award and we are meant to know this. M-to-the-eh, although it is nice to see Will Young again and marvel at his new hairplugs.

20.26 I hope Leona Lewis doesn't win Best British Breakthrough Act, as aside from having to sing live on Loose Women, I don't think she has actually done anything to fuel her huge massive fame as she possesses not so much a team of PR people as a small Roman legion. Oh no, the singing runner bean has won.

20.29 Kylie takes to the stage with a troupe of dancing Quality Street and a bad wig. She is clearly miming, but she has beaten cancer, been cheated on and has a nice smile so all is forgiven.

20.33 Cotton mute again, but I can still see Mika looking slightly contemptuous at whatever it was she said. When Mika looks at you in contempt you know it is time to go and throw yourself into a deep pit of boiling tar.

20.40 Why is Bruce Springsteen nominated for Best Male whatever? Didn't he die ages ago? Good old Kanye: "Someone probably deserves this more than me, but I don't know who they are". Maybe so, but no one rocked hilarious venetian blind inspired sunglasses quite like you dear.

20.43 Modern day Narcissus, Mark Ronson, has won Best UK Male. He probably says something hideously pompous and self congratulatory, but I just gaze at his pretty pretty face. "He looks like he would have been a cute toddler" says the Flatmate dubiously. I think she's just hung up on his rather crap puddingbowl hairstyle though.

20.45 Our takeaway arrives so we get a bit distracted and don't watch the Kaiser Chiefs.

20.59 Kylie wins something and pretends to be all thankful and surprised, like she hasn't won a Brit every year since the dawn of time. The Flatmate and I debate the merits of David Tennant. He is wearing a t shirt like one I had from Gap when I was twelve but I still love him. The flatmate thinks he is 'pathetic' as he is over the age of twenty and wears Converse.

21.00 'A European Bridal catalogue from 1992' takes to the stage and it requires a cast of fifty dancers to make her appear even vaguely interesting. Ladies and Gentlemen, Miss Leona Lewis!

21.05 The U2 Award aka Best International Group. They have now won a lifetime award though, so I think they have been put out to pasture, presumably so someone else can win. Indeed it is Foo Fighters who win and will doubtlessly now win for the next ten years.

21.07 Unfortunately PJ Harvey has not yet been able to break the curse of the Best British Female nomination for the fifty-third year in a row as Kate 'modern Pam Aires' Nash wins. She 'fanks' us all.

21.12 The Foo Fighters win something else, but our Cotton Mute went on too long so we missed what the actual award was for. Dave Grohl takes the piss yet still appears like a nice bloke, such is his all encompassing 'Good Guy' aura.

21.14 Puddingbowl Narcissus performs. "So basically all Mark Ronson does is add trumpets to things" the Flatmate observes. The Winehouse comes on! The world (well, the Brit School who are taking up the front six rows) screams for joy. She looks a little bit pale and sweaty and is vaguely reminiscent of Dorien from Birds of a Feather, but she is alive!

21.25 Arctic Monkeys win Best British Group again. They've actually turned up this year and are in costume so have obviously Sold Out.

21.27 Oh, Dorien is performing on her own. Dorien needing the loo to be strictly accurate to Ms Winehouse's dancing skills. I think it must be the nerves and the hooker heels as the lack of slurred words convinces us that she is actually sober...

21.31 ...unlike Alan Carr who is wankered. Take That win Best Single, voted for by the Great British Idiots. I'm not even sure which single it is for; when I was temping over the summer I had to listen to Capital Radio all day every day and they played Take That so much that I now fall down into a foaming mouth fit whenever I hear a snatch of any of their songs. Gnnnnnnrrrrrrrrhhhhhhrrrr.

21.35 Alan Carr leaves the stage to be replaced by an even more sozzled version of himself ten years down the line - It's Vic Reeves! Vic is very very drunk and we could be seeing our moment of controversy. Or not. Arctic Monkeys are equally wankered and take the piss out the Brit School. Perhaps they haven't sold out after all! Lots of random people stagger drunk around the stage, but we are denied this vaguely amusing spectacle and the cameras instead cut to Fearne Cotton trying to obscure a drunk staggering Alan Carr with her tiny frame. Then just as this in turn gets amusing, it cuts to the adverts.

21.41 I think it is only Paul Mc Cartney left to go so the Flatmate puts the washing machine back on and buggers the tv reception.

21.44 They start the Paul Mc Cartney montage with a load of clips of Wings. Clips of Wings! Ha, god I amuse myself sometimes. Anyway, Wings? What are they trying to prove? That Sir Paul was even vaguely cool after 1970? Even clips of his dead first wife won't make that true.
"I really shouldn't watch this, it makes me angry" The Flatmate comments, an hour and forty four minutes too late. I was all set to disagree and argue that she needs to have more irony in her life, but then Paul gets the mandolin out and I have to change the channel. We change back for a second after the Flatmate disputes my claim that it is a mandolin and not a banjo, but I win, and with that we bid farewell for another year to Britain's Third Best Awards Show.

Monday, 18 February 2008

Totteridge is For Pussies






















Obviously Totteridge is full of WIMPS as no one had got either of these fine videos out the library since 1998. One of the perks of the Flatmate's Saturday job is classy films such as these, plus outrageously underrated and ignored works of literature like 'Russian Fabric Designs of the 19th Century' and '101 Women's Institute Soup Recipies'.

And if you can think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than discussing Moscovite Gingham over a nice bowl of ministrone while the telly blares out the sound of fighter jets in the background, then you sir, are a highly dillusioned individual.

Someone Has Too Much Time On Their Hands..

...apart from me. Observe in all it's glory, the Wikipedia entry for Edd the Duck (most hilariously tenuious bits in bold):

"Edd the Duck (originally Ed the Duck) is a popular puppet mallard duck with green hair who appeared on the Children's BBC "The Broom Cupboard" in-vision continuity alongside (human) presenters Andy Crane and Andi Peters.
He made his debut in late 1988, originally with a bald head until a viewer sent in a
mohican-style hairpiece, which became his trademark. His co-star and enemy was Wilson the Butler, a character who was off screen apart from his arm visible to the viewers.
Edd the Duck starred in a number of
pantomimes and short films along side actors including Bill Oddie and Gorden Kaye. One of his best-loved films shows how be became a zookeeper at Twycross Zoo and fed the chimps at their tea party. Another of his films shows how he trained to be a top chef and made afternoon tea for the Queen and in another he learns to fly a plane and serves crusty bread, pond weed and pizza to his duck passengers.
His ambition is to be a Blue Peter pet.
Edd the Duck also starred in two computer games from
Zeppelin Games. He was the official mascot of the English competitors at the 1994 Commonwealth Games as well as being adopted as the official mascot of the British Olympic team.
Edd the Duck released his own single, "Awesome Doody!" in 1990 - after receiving singing lessons from Sonia, who advised him to use the rap genre.
CHORUS:
I'm hip, hop, happening and I'm totally gonna die,
I'm Edd the Duck and I'm an awesome doody!
Edd the Duck is also a great fan of
Kylie Minogue who popped in to visit him in the Broom Cupboard.
A theatrical duck, Edd parodied Warren Beatty's character, appearing in a yellow raincoat as Duck Tracy with his mute friend as Quackless Baloney.
Edd the Duck was also found responsible for the phenomenon of "Quack Circles" after the growing prevalence of
crop circles across the country. These were yellow circles with the word "quack" written on them and it was not until they appeared with increasing frequency and even on the BBC symbol before Neighbours that Andi Peters realised Edd was responsible.
Edd the Duck had his own cartoon strip in a BBC magazine. He was also parodied in a cartoon strip called "The Garbage man", which appeared in short lived British comic
Toxic.
Edd's birthday is 1st June, but he is perpetually six years old."

I reckon the main suspects are either Andi Peters or some man with a cold, cold hand who spent the 90's crouched under a desk with his head in Andi's crotch.

Thursday, 14 February 2008

Hilarious Two-weeeks-too-late Joke of the Day

Jeremy Beadle requested that his ashed be scattered over his vegetable garden at home.
New for ITV's Autumn line up: ' Watch Out Beadle's a Sprout'

Look yeah, I had a whole post planned on the Beadle; full of anecdotes of how I watched it behind my BBC employed parents' backs and that I never noticed his little hand and had to actually go look it up on the internet after singularly failing to get a load of 'on the other hand..' jokes. But it just sounded totally lame so I canned it.

Wednesday, 13 February 2008

Photo of the Day - Heroin Chic

No, it is not particularly current, undiscovered or kitsch, but I just re-stumbled these photos that show a girl's descent into homeless druggy hell over a fifteen year period.

And being something of a portrait photo geek, I find them completely fascinating.

Looking on the tinternet it appears she might be called Maria Ramos, but there appear to be quite a lot of people rather unfruitfully trying to find out if this is true.
Presumably because they have the aim of hunting her down to make a hugely inconsequential channel 4 documentary about drug abuse, obviously complete with sober sounding voiceover and grainy B&W stock footage of New York dubbed with police sirens and women's screams to pad out the two minutes footage they have of some police officer shrugging and going "Who?" and some crackhead going "Who? Oh she dead. You gotta dollar?"

Tsk!

p.s Is it me, or is it suprising that Stella Vine hasn't recreated these mugshots in huge daubs of paint yet?

Thursday, 7 February 2008

Slow Afternoon - An Essay on Miami Ink

Aah Lovefilm. After three glorious months, I am now shelling out £12.99 a month for lots of dvds, which is something of a double edged sword. On one hand this is alright, I hate owning loads of dvds as I don't have storage room for them and I am renowned for never watching films more than once, if that.
On the other hand, I am renowned for never watching films more than once, if that.

Something about sitting down for a hour and a half watching a drawn out formulaic story is not only crashingly boring once the ending is evident, but makes me remember in an epiphany style *gasp* that I am wasting my life. And I resent being reminded of that on a bi weekly basis, particularly by a big movie star doing their Oscar turn in that bit of the film just after the middle where everything seems to be going wrong, only for it to be resolved at the end.

So I have basically become the Queen of the boxsets.

This was initially ace as I was able to witness the greatness of the Wire without shelling out for whatever obscure cable channel it is on, and watch every singe episode of Fraiser you can currently rent.
Unfortunately now I am up to the series of Fraiser where it has begin to jump the shark*, so I have been forced to look further afield for new brain sweeties.

Enter Miami Ink.

The premise is simple to the point of 'duh' - five guys who are renowned tattoo artists set up a parlour in Miami and tattoo people. We see how one tattoos and hear the stories behind each tattoo they do.

The initial laughs come from the hilarious stories of the tattoo shop patrons. Basically it appears you can't just get a tattoo for the hell of it, it always has to mean something and this itself means one of two things.
Either you get people who get full out epitaphs and portraits of dead loved ones on their legs or chests (snore) or you get the hilariously tenuous excuses for significance, which always go along the lines of : 'Well I want to get a pirate ship on my stomach as it symbolises that I am a free spirit, and because I swear I was a pirate in a past life, and I can really relate to their ethos, y'know?' or 'I want to get a flaming skull on my back? Because it's like mortality yeah? Tico is a skull now, and by putting it on my back it is the past, and it shows I am moving on, and putting things behind me'**

So that's great, but if that were not enough, the programme is obviously edited for multiple adverts, which means in each show you get the (usually bereaved) patron earnestly telling the same story ("Chico was only twelve when he choked on KFC") at least three times, each time in tears but with a slight variation of word order, followed by the tattoo artist musing on their customer ("to lose a kid like that, to chicken y'know man...Das hard")

The greatest lure of Miami Ink however is undoubtedly the tattoo artists themselves, particularly the 'owner' Ami James, who is (apologies for the lazy simile, but hardly anyone watched The Armstrongs) like David Brent, but if he were American and in charge of running South Beach's most famous tattoo shop.
Ami does the voice-over for the series, which mean we get gems like 'Ever since I was young, I have had problems with my anger' spoken over footage of him completely flipping out, kicking things and shouting at the other guys like a testosteroned lunatic and 'I guess Andrea's idea is a little unusual' as we see him look utterly disgusted and confused at someone's tattoo request.

Then there is the way he treats his 'apprentice' Yoji, a fully grown man, who we see getting married and becoming a father during the course of the series. Ami ritually abuses Yoji in a way which could be shown in schools as a textbook example of bullying, complete from demasculising him by making him do inane tasks like clean Ami's car, to just constantly and cruelly ripping the piss out of him while the others look on and laugh.
And yet Yoji has apparently been subjected to this low paid abuse for the last five years, on the vague promise (vague, but repeated about ten times an episode) that he will one day be 'a real tattooist', said in a voice which makes you wonder if they edited out the words'...the blue fairy will come and make you.....' ,
So perhaps he deserves it somewhat, as surely no one is THAT stupid.


The next great thing about Miami Ink, is the way it is filmed. I love American 'documentaries' such as M.I and The Hills etc, as they are in fact so scripted and completely contrived it becomes fun to actually try and see the truth lurking deep underneath. For example, there is the internet rumour going around that Ami is gay, which makes for great analysis - not because I care whether he is gay or not - but to see the looks he gives the beefcakes who stride in to get their chests tattooed, and to listen out as to whether he ever refers to his 'partner' in the masculine form.
Another example of my inferences of truth is that I think that Chris Garver doesn't like Ami at all. Chris is far and away the most talented tatooist, and is also far and away the least 'tv' of the tattooists. In the segeway group shots of them striding down South Beach to funky music and bizarre camera angles, he generally keeps his shirt on, and he appears less prone to overblown statements a la Ami 'I knew den. I had made. A friend fur life' James.
He also appears hugely uncomfortable whenever Ami is around, and can often be seen lurking in the back of shots looking like a man embarrassed or occasionally exasperated.
Then again, maybe Ami is gay and he is a raving homophobe. I am just inclined to believe the former because I am shallow and I think he is fit.
Whatever the case, he does draw great tattoos, and I suppose, grudgingly, that after all the David Brentisms, propaganda style editing, contrived situations and repeated sob stories, the process and resulting tattoos are quite interesting in themselves.


*on an incidental note, did you see the episode of Two Pints of Lager where Johnny died by attempting to jump over a shark? HO BLOODY HO YOU BUNCH OF SELF REFERENTIAL CUNTS, an episode where the entire cast was obliterated by the ebola virus (played by guest star Daniel Day Lewis) couldn't make TPLAAPC anything other than the worst fucking thing my eyeballs have ever seen.
** the former is true, believe it or not.

Wednesday, 6 February 2008

Bigotry, Politics and Butt Ugly Puppets

It has to be said it is not unknown for the Biche to make generalising slurs against the Irish, using only her Irish surname and an encounter with an Irish boys school in a hotel in Rome as justification. And this is obviously bad and wrong; emigrating to Australia, dropping an O' before coming back over to England a hundred years later is not exactly what one would call an authority on such matters, and probably any school of seventeen year old boys would try and rape several members of a London sixth form as 'English girls are slags'.

But I digress.

Regardless of my ill conceived prejudiced ideas about the Irish, this is a nation which has allowed a puppet of a Turkey to not only have FOURTEEN hit singles and SIX albums (including a greatest hits) but also possibly represent them in Eurovision 2008.

And who is this Turkey Puppet? Why Dustin the Turkey! A sidekick from the Zig and Zag show, a hideous cultural low of the nineties in it's own rights, but thankfully, for those of us who live outside the Emerald Isle and value our eardrums, one that ended in 1993.

But wait! I hear you cry (in my head) surely you love trash culture in all it's forms! No. Zig and Zag, two ugly shouty puppets that looked like the kind of crappy scummy toys you find hanging off the front of a dustbin van with ping pong balls for eyes, are one of the exceptions to the rule. It's like people who like musicals not liking Rent (fools!). I also bear this grudge as we had two goldfish at school back in those dark days that I wanted to call Salt and Pepa, but thanks to stupid democracy and a show of hands, ended up being called after the two scummy bits of old flannel.

A further note about Dustin, which again, Biche would never dream of using to strengthen her tenuous dislike of the Irish, is the fact that in the 1997 General Election, several THOUSAND Irish people nulled their ballots by voting for 'Dustin'.


Mind you, in a clime where several thousand Londoners are going to effectively sully their ballots by voting for a racist ignorant Tory on the account that he is a 'jolly funny fellow' and 'a bit PG Wodehouse' I can't really criticize. I'd vote for a hideously ugly assemblage of braying flannel over Boris any day.

Thursday, 24 January 2008

A Sad Indictment of 21st Century Life

Yesterday my friend was mugged by two men who stamped on her face and attempted to steal her bag and phone. They failed on both counts, but she was left severely bruised and with a broken nose. She staggered to the local gym, where they called the police and me, as I live around the corner.

When I rush down to the YMCA about five minutes later, I find my friend giving her statement to the police..and being filmed.

'Err... why is there a camera?' I asked as I helped to calm her down and wipe blood off her face.
'Is this some new police thing?'
'Oh, we're being filmed for a reality tv series' the policeman taking the statement said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
'You can have your face blurred if you want..'
Ignoring him I turned to my friend, who was still pretty hysterical but slowly starting to make sense.
'Did you agree to this?' I asked
'Dunno, I didn't really ask why.' was her dazed reply.

Disapproving, but too distracted to really kick up a fuss about exploitation and release forms, I steadily ignored them hovering as I wiped blood, called family and waited for the ambulance.

And waited.

And waited.

About half an hour later my friend was still bleeding quite badly and the ambulance hadn't come.
'Can we not get a lift in your car?' I asked the policeman
'Err no, there are four of us, so plus you two there wouldn't be room.'
'Oh.'
*ten minutes pass*
'Well, could you not leave the camera crew here, give us a lift and then come back and collect them? I think some things can be left undocumented'
'Errrm I'm not sure.'
*Look of Death from Biche*
*whispered discussion between coppers and cameras*
'Yes, yep we can do that, please make your way to the car'

I wonder if that part will make it onto the tellybox...

Saturday, 3 November 2007

"That is like, massively disrespecting of your trousers"

The Armstrong and Miller show has moved to BBC1 primetime, which, as any fan of comedy knows, means completely selling out and becoming rubbish and crap an' 'at. I haven't seen many episodes, but have actually been pleasantly suprised by how not rubbish it is, which has quite a lot to do with these characters:




Friday, 2 November 2007

Burning (ho ho) Questions of the Day


* Who keeps on burning the pile of refuse sacks full of chicken bones outside KFC in Crouch End?

This appears to happen about once a week and leads to the further query as to why a giant smoldering heap of orange plastic and bones smells distinctly like overcooked bacon.

I somehow doubt it is an organised protest like this photo rather than a load of little scallywags on their way to school. The ruffians!



*Why people are so shocked that that young girl was kicked off X Factor for happy slapping?

She's from North Finchley for chrissakes. There is not much to do in the 'armpit of london'* apart from smoke weed in carparks, try and get served in the Tally Ho and mooch up and down the grey streets looking for a brightly tracksuited youth to give you one round the back of Hollywood Bowl, so really her violence is proabably an artistic act of self expression at the grey futility of her homeland. Probably. In any case, she should be thankful. It's not like she lives in Friern Barnet.
* (c) Biche 2001

*Why there are so many ginger people in Eastenders?
I haven't seen this programme in a while but when I did I began to wonder if it was some special Comic Relief Episode or something. Bradley, his dad, Sean, Mickey, that kid who has the Manc dad...okay well that's it, but I heard that Patsy Kensit is coming back with a load of kids, at least one of which WILL be a ginge.
It has to be noted that I bare no ill will towards people of the gingery persuasion, hell, after a freak dying accident a long time ago I was one of them and was saddled with the nickname 'ginga' for at least four years, by which time I had blonde hair and anyone new who met me wondered why the hell I was nicknamed thus.
I do however find the ginger ratio in Eastenders, which purports to be a realistic soap set in the east end of London, quite amusing. At last count there were approximately four asian people and one black person in Eastenders, versus the four gingers. In the real east end of London there approx 77,885 asian people and only 1,956 ginger people*.
*based on my calculations of asian-white population percentages of Tower Hamlets plus the fact that 2% of caucasians are redheads. Thank you Wikipedia!

Friday, 26 October 2007

This Charmless Beeb (or Biche takes a metaphor too far)


Now they say BBC 3 is the televisual equivalent of your boyfriend making you pasta for dinner - it's cheap, a mix of bland and tasteless and you will only eat it when you really can't be bothered to interfere or suggest something else. But for all the disparagment and sneaky bitching to your friends, you realise that there is a certain charm in its homemadeness and that mixed in with the overcooked penne and raw mushrooms there is hope of a better tomorrow - the onions at least were nicely fried and in only half a bottle of oil this time. 'What the hell?' you think, 'I'll stick with it. By next month he might try something more risky and perhaps foreign. An Old El Paso Fajita kit perhaps.'


But yes, BBC3. So much potential, but potential doesn't always pique your interest or allow your bowels to move for two days. So here I suggest my tips for making BBC3 good:

1) Line up the cast of 'Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps' and shoot them. Erase all the tapes, burn all the evidence and then bury it all in the wastelands outside Elstree, which I think that would be Stanmore. Okay, so we can never truly forget, and if we go on holiday to the Rhineland we will have to endure crackpot Bett und Fruhstuck owners swaggering around like Mancs going 'Eh Deneeese get meh kecks will ya oh Jonneh you knobend' but we will merely stare down at our gekochtes Ei with the quiet dignity of those who know there is no point dwelling on our shameful past, but that we look on towards greater things.

2) Fire this Charmless Bellend. For those who don't know (it's not hard, he's so personalityless he often gets upstaged by soft furnishings or the little red light on the bottom of your telly that indicates that it is on) this is Benjamin Fry. He is a 'psychological coach' who gets wheeled out on such magnus opiae as 'Spendaholics' and 'Freaky Eater: Addicted to Spaghetti Hoops' to walk around in a big coat talking to a fat bossy woman about whatever working class oik (and it always is) is being subjected to wanton analysis that week. He then murmurs at aforementioned oik lots of difficult questions like 'so what do you like about Spaghetti Hoops?' before nodding his big luminous head like one of those sunlight activated 'ornaments' you get in Clinton Cards and are found soully on the dashboards of 16 year old girls.
Now I quite like programmes where I can pick up lots of stupid little tips that I think will tremendously benefit my life but that do not in any way shape or form(make a healthy burger bun out a lettuce leaf/don't piss away money on expensive pesto etc) but this vapid nodding gonk makes 'fun factz!' about stuff seem about as interminable and useful as the lord's prayer said through a balaclava. And yet dispite this irrifutable fact he has been on two (and counting!) 'documentary' series for the beleagured channel.

3) Don't Lie! Now we all like our telly to be Glasnost these days, death to nodding shots, death to editing the Queen, death to the Blue Peter cat etc, but BBC 3 wantonly flouts this 'nu truth' with great titles that do not follow through. I will hold my hands up and say yes! 'Addicted to Cheese' and 'Addicted to Spaghetti Hoops' were kinda good in their 'look at the freaky oik' way, but 'Addicted to Chicken'?? That was just a fat girl who occasionally had some wings in between all the pizza, pie, chips and unreformed lard she ate. 'The Real Hustle'? They give them their money back at the end! 'Sex with Mum and Dad'? LIES!!!1!!!

4) Bring back good comedy like 'The Mighty Boosh' and 'The Smoking Room'. Bring back which ever great person commissioned them. Fire the bellend who obviously thought there was a dearth of shite poor sketch shows that further purpogate the myth that women can't be funny and commissioned Touch Me I'm Karen Taylor AND Little Miss Josslyn.

Sunday, 16 September 2007

LoLyoaks

Now I love Hollyoaks in much the same way as I love my novelty alarm clock shaped like a cat - it's hilarious, cheap, crap, pretty to look at and has an infuriating jingle. In fact, the only thing I love more than Hollyoaks is the photos the cast have to pose for to illustrate the stories of the week for the various tv listings magazines.. observe:














So here we have Rhys perving on Hannah's ear in the harrowing plotline that culminates in 'Pushing Brain' a late night Hollyoaks special featuring British tv's first simulated earfuck while other cast members get it on rather implausibly in soft focus to somehow pad the action out to half an hour, and Michaela and that guy whose name I can't remember in the episode where she rehabilitates him back into society via the medium of salsa after his repetitive wanking injury. Duh. Worth a thousand words people..

Well anyway, the rather marvelous www.lowculture.co.uk has taken these photos and parodied lolcats in a way that is either utterly amazingly fantastic or completely incomprehensible, depending on how up on your low culture you are:

So simple, yet great!