Sunday, November 28

Review: I'm a Celebrity... Get Me Out of Here

I'm a Celebrity remains the best reality show on TV, despite turning us all into callous POW camp guards, says Mark Lewis

The cruelty on I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here started off like a Japanese game show. It has become like a Japanese concentration camp.

Shit inspecting demon

At the beginning, eating bugs used to be a rarity; an uber-trial late on in the programme which separated the men from the boys, then made them all eat mashed up cockroaches anyway. Now in its ninth year, eating bugs has become something the celebrities have to do just for the authorisation to take a shit.

This weekend, (Saturday and Sunday, 9pm, ITV1) a vast woman called Alison from Birmingham and a Playboy bimbo with a voice so grating she makes you want to dip your ears in a food blender, had to keep live insects the size of Hugh Hefner in their mouths for twenty seconds, while two Geordies who used to be PJ and Duncan shouted numbers from the sidelines. Had he still been alive, Commander Tatsuji Suga of the Batu Lintang POW camp would have been taking notes. And wanking like teenager.

But IACGMOOH nevertheless remains the most compelling of reality shows. Perhaps it is because you know it will only last three weeks. Perhaps it is because once you have abandoned every concept of human decency and bought into the spiteful voyeurism, you may as well enjoy it. Most of all it is because Ant, Dec et al have completely nailed the concept. Voting to keep a person in, rather than voting to kick them out, guarantees the monsters remain and the dullards go. Gillian McKeith – a woman described by Jenny Eclaire as “a ghastly creature. Ghastly!” and Shaun Ryder as “an ‘orrible, nasty fucker,” remains. “Lovely rock,” Cheryl Gascoigne (a woman so nice that had she been chief of Northumbria police, would have let erstwhile husband, Paul, have a crack at talking down Raoul Moat with a fishing rod and six beers that time) was the first to go.
Lembit (Limp Bizkit) Opik, Alison Vast, and Britt Eckland have all followed.

So as we go into the final week, here are the Television Review odds on the probably victor:

Gillian McKeith: So poisonous she teaches wickedness classes to Mephistopheles and his evil hoards, and on Saturday night, forced Ryder into such a state of tautological incandescence that he screamed at her, “not only are you full of bullshit, you’re a lying bullshitter.” Could cast a spell to force a victory.

Aggro Santos: Tremendously tedious. But with the idiot charm of a simpleton. “Do I look like a Korean?” asked fat Caucasian, Dom Joly on Sunday night. “I don’t know man,” replied Santos.


Kayla Playboy: Voice like a corkscrew drilling into your brain. But showed some mettle. And some cleavage. Unlikely victor still.

Dom Joly: funny favourite. Masterful liar, and unapologetic bastard.

Stacey X-Factor: Unpretentious, surprisingly sharp, big-chested, supposed dim-wit. Joint favourite

Shaun Ryder: Innate decency, and charming bumbling of a cleaned up drug-nut, could see him walk out in the crown. Might end up killing McKeith, though, and see him dragged out in a police van.

Linford Christie: Extreme masculinity make his trials dull to watch. Body of a god, despite being 50. Very scared of cold water.

Jenny Eclair: Good value comedienne. Could do quite well. But not as funny as Dom, or nice looking as Stacey.


Tuesday, November 23

Review: River Monsters

River Monsters? Well, there is a river, says Saul Sherry

I’m Jeremy Wade, Biologist and Extreme Fisherman.” And so begins River Monsters (Tuesday, ITV1, 7:30pm) in the midst of a flashback to something which hasn’t happened yet. There’s nothing there, just Mr Extreme Fisherman desperately trying to build a reason to paddle around on a boat.

To be fair to the Intense Angler, the boat is on the Congo. It’s not his first time here either, as he alludes to throughout the show. Years ago he searched unsuccessfully for a mythical fish so big it would drag unsuspecting fishermen to the their deaths. “Me and this river have some unfinished business”, Wade declares. At this point, we all realise that River Monsters is a documentary in the way that a jelly bean is a functioning human kidney.

Or is it? Suddenly he is delving into the heart of Africa, areas of mineral richness which have been exploited by Europeans, leading to extreme poorness. But no, it’s an associative game. Poorness leads to toughness, meaning that Wade the Zealous Gill Killer is tough. He’s the Chuck Norris of angling. The Ross Kemp of Rex Hunt’s world. 

Next thing you know he is poking around with a small half-dead catfish. Clearly a true Extreme Fisherman. “Toothed Lungfish,” he says, fingering someone else’s catch again. “Looks like it could eat a fish.” Clearly not lying about the Biologist bit either.

All this fish talk isn’t just boring me, as Captain Scale Smotherer switches again to how violent life can be. Every time he mentions how weird something is, we are treated to a burst of X-files wobbly light effects. Suddenly fish hooks are flying off the side of the boat and embedding themselves in flesh (or cloth, probably). Blood splatters across wood, it is gratuitous. Gratuitously shit.

“I’m in the Congo, searching for a giant catfish,” he reminds us. Which sums it up, really. He’s also making out this normal fishing village out to be something from the Heart of Darkness. When the fish does arrive, its an anticlimax because you are expecting Marlon Brando to pop out of the water with cotton wool stuffed in his cheeks.

Well, it’s not just that. It’s also the fact that the fish he catches aren’t huge at all. He lands two normal size fish, but is quick to point out that “two fish can mean double the power.” Extreme Fisherman, Biologist and now Physicist, it would seem.

Turns out there is no big fish, it’s just people getting snagged on their own hooks. Less River Monsters and more Angling Safety Tips, I think.

Monday, November 22

Reviews: Coppers and Panorama

Wakefield's police are about as bright as a broken 40 watt bulb, says Mark Lewis  

At just 25 years old, PC Phillipa Child already has four years' experience dealing with Wakefield’s pub and bar detritus. It hasn’t gone to waste. Using all her experience and humbling policing skills on Coppers (Monday, ITV1, 9pm) the young hotshot quickly got to the bottom of one high street distraction. “I think she’s probably had too much to drink,” she says. On reflection, the signs were there: The hang-headed screeching, the fingers down the throat, the vomit in the hair. But it took PC Child to put a name on the symptoms.

And she was only the brightest of West Yorkshire’s finest detectives. The programme opened with one of her more satirical colleagues shouting, “booyakasha, this is my car!” at the camera, cleverly appropriating pseudo-Caribbean patois in a parody of assumed police contempt for black culture.

“I love nicking people,” he says later. “If I could, I would just nick people all the time.”

“I’ll kick him in the bollocks,” observes another.

“It’s coppers as you’ve never seen them before,” says the voiceover, imagining that the old bill the general public run into are the ones emerging from seminars on nuclear physics, rather than the ones saying, “you’re not telling me to suck your cock,” to quicker witted drunks telling them to “suck my cock.”

And that, it occurs to me, is exactly the kind of discourse we should be exporting to the Middle East. According to Panorama (BBC1, 9pm) there are “faith schools” in the UK which are using Saudi Arabian textbooks to teach British Muslims un-British lessons about Jews and homosexuals.

In the spirit of cultural exchange, how about we send our own textbooks back to Saudi Arabia? Sure, it’s fairly offensive hearing that British kids are being taught that homosexuals should be killed, and Jews metamorphose into monkeys and crabs. But it is hard to imagine Al Ekhbariya TV not being equally appalled at discovering a Tricolore 4a textbook with a scene from La Rochelle where school kids have scrawled ill-proportioned speech bubbles out of the mouth of Pierre, telling Claude to “suck my circumcised cock.”

Review: All Star Family Fortunes

Family Fortunes is an idiot’s paradise, but is it harder to hate when done for charity? Saul Sherry investigates

Where Family Fortunes once had an assured place in the UK world of four to five channels, it holds an odd position now among the neon stimulant driven miasma of other, equally bland quiz shows.

In an effort to breathe life in to a stale format, the intros are edited quickly. Also really badly, and on a shoe-string budget. One family live in a London semidetached. This is the family of celebrity Heather who has really made her name on Harry Hill’s TV Burp (she’s also an Eastender, apparently.) She’s introduced with the opportunity to show off her Donald Duck impression, it’s quite good really, considering the spasmodic entertainment abortion which is coming up. The other family lives in a castle in Dublin. They are the owners of a celebrity Boyzone. Not that one who’s name you know. Their introduction is notable for the fact that his wife and sister are identical. Apparently it is also worth telling us that he owns an 11 inch telescope.

Vernon seems more pleased to see this one. “It’s Mikey from Boyzone!” he screams to camera. “FROM DUBLIN!”. Then the questions are asked, and nothing here has changed in the Fortunes fomula. “Name someone you would not expect to hear swearing,” says Kay. You. You personality fuck void. The castle dwellers quickly establish themselves as being superior to the ones from the normal house, and to compensate Heather unleashes Donald Duck again. Vernon laughs, the audience laugh, the Boyzone laughs.

At the point where Vernon is asking, “what would you do with your trousers when not wearing them?”, short of hearing something like “put them in a furnace to get rid of the evidence”, I challenge anyone to maintain complete interest in what’s going on on screen. Things perk up in the name gender reversal round, where a woman called Lesley competes against a man called Fran to think up another word for ‘big’. This is the point where the Eastender and her family start to show how shit at this game they really are. Turns out the top answer is ‘large’. Who would have guessed? For leaving the game without scoring any points, Heather gets £1,000 pounds for her charity of choice. It makes slagging the show off a little tiny bit more difficult. It doesn’t really, it just gives me something else to write down.

“BIG MONEY!!!” squeals Vernon, as a way to allude to the oncoming final round. First question: Name a way of getting across a river. I lean across to my girlfriend, “what channel is this on?” I ask. Without looking at the screen she replies, “channel shitbags” (Saturday, ITV1, 6.30pm). We are looking forward to having kids.

When it is all over, Boyzone starts to rip his brother for having said February in response to the question “name a month with 31 days”. He himself answered September. 
All in all they won around £6,000 for their charity. Which is good, it really is. It’s amazing. I just wish they would donate the money directly. And add in Vernon’s wage, the studio costs and all the advertising revenue.

Thursday, November 18

Review: Sarah Beeny's Restoration Nightmare

Sarah Beeny's latest show is so interminably self-indulgent it is practically perverted, says Mark Lewis

A mix up at Channel 4 would have
made the show more tolerable
It is hard to conceive of a programme more tedious than a Sarah Beeny-presented hour-long show about restoring Sarah Beeny’s own 97-bedroom stately home in East Yorkshire. But Sarah Beeny’s Restoration Nightmare (Wednesday, Channel 4, 8pm) manages it by being the first of a three part series about restoring Sarah Beeny’s own home presented by Beeny and her even more dreadful husband, Graham.

‘The Queen of TV restorations’ is going to have eat her own medicine or somesuch, we are told. It is the equivalent of Gillian McKeith poking through her own shit, disturbing an insect, contracting Malaria, then getting a course of fake antibiotics from a bogus GP. Only a lot less fun. It’s difficult to imagine the agony of having to project-manage an East Yorkshire, stately home restoration from a second home in West London. But somehow Sarah and Graham are going to have to push through the pain. (It puts the cuts in benefits to alcoholic, disabled, Glaswegians into proper perspective.)

And that is just one element of the torture. They also have to deal with a film crew hanging around to take whimsical shots of them standing by their new lake, and three hours’ worth of a voiceover man saying ad infinitum that Sarah Beeny has got a big, crumbly, stately home which needs restoring cheaply, and in just six months. The irony of filming Sarah and Graham choosing sinks for five minutes before yawning and complaining to each other that choosing sinks is “so boring,” is evidently lost on the pair.

They are like Jeeves and Wooster, without Jeeves. Or any humour. So removed are they from the misery of every day British life that George Osborne fancies them a little aloof. Sarah’s brother, Dicken, is actually married to Graham’s sister, Dickette. Even the Royal Family can’t manage that level of gene management anymore.

And the whole time we have to keep swallowing this clock-ticking conceit, without the voiceover man even once shouting, “you’ve had the house for ten years, you stupid posh bint. Why the fuck do you need to get it finished in the next six months?” It is like Sixty Minute Makeover for nobs called Dicken from Notting Hill.

It would take a heart of stone not to want them to fail. But the existence of this programme, makes the possibility vanishingly remote. Despite the six-month deadline, you know that Graham’s lifelong dream of being just a little wealthier is going to come true.

“Graham has dreams and I make them happen,” says Beeny at one point. “It’s a dangerous partnership.” With a show as interminable as this one it is impossible not to ponder just how far this dangerous partnership of dream-making bastardry goes. It usually ends with Graham’s mouth being too muffled to utter the safety word, and dying with a noose around his neck Caradine-style in a locked cupboard full of oranges and old roof tiles.

But even that wouldn’t be worth watching the next two episodes for.