I get the feeling that television programmes are now not being devised by flesh and blood executives who look to fill in spaces within the schedule, but by sock puppets that go 'narm, narm, narm! I'm a dinosaur!' in a squeaky voice. What else explains Live From Studio Five at 6.30 on Five on weeknights?
You've probably discussed it on a few threads or so, but I got around to seeing this last night. No, I tell a lie, I actually saw roughly 25 minutes of it before picking my double chins off the floor, shutting off the screaming sounds in my brain and turning over to another channel. Before then, I heard that LFSF was a no-go zone for the intellect (some television is, but in this case it could be considered a No-Man's Land where any sensibilities that attempt to creep across it are summarily peppered with bullets and left to die) and that to watch is to peer into the depths of the Fuckwit Abyss itself.
And, jesus, so it was. Chaired by three arrivals from Planet Microsoul, it is, as far as I can discern, an conveyor belt of current affairs, entertainment interviews and gossip open to comment by Melinda Messenger, Ian Wright and Woman Whom I Know Nothing Of. The main news item talked about at time of watching was the case of that fucking idiot who left her toddler kids of four to fend for themselves while she went off on a day-long, alcohol-fuelled bender. The three Brains Trust custodians attacked the content with the intelligence and verve that you'd normally find in a pool of sick that pigeons feed off.
Melinda, bless her, exuded genuine, kind-hearted understanding and concern, and thought that understanding and education, in this instance, was the key, not punishment, although the way she went about it was painful, struggling to find the right words to describe her feelings. She did this by raising her hands upwards and looking to the sky with a strained expression as she spoke, as if presenting invisible cheese to Milkar the Dairy God, or pretending to lift a very heavy draught excluder.
Speaking of which, Ian Wright sought to impose on the conversation by suggesting, in return, that 'punishment is the education that woman needs'. That, apart from 'like, yeah, right, yeah, y'see' was the only point of significance he made about it, although he didn't exactly explain what this punishment would be - being sat on by several fat blokes, presumably, or having her head pressed between two steamrollers driven by gold-medal-winning Olympic athletes.
The Woman Whom I Know Nothing Of (who looked as if she came across a piece of good job luck after being turned down by M&S to work in the womenswear department) seemed to agree with Wright, but then it was difficult to notice her as she retained all the magnetic appeal of a hamster's scrotum, a blah-blah machine with the personal force of a wisp of smoke from a stubbed-out cigarette (she would turn up 'interviewing' Norah Jones with a small series of questions a step up from the standard of "do you look funny with your eyes crossed?").
At one point she remarked that 'we don't know the full facts', which hit the nail on the head completely. Whereas Five Live would take the above news item and spend an hour on it, bringing in psychologists, doctors and social workers to add comment, you had three quacking noises that looked at briefly-compiled news items and remarked on each of them in the same way that people do when at the workplace or in the pub, without any details or information except what they may have read in the Daily Mirror that day. Five may argue that it captures how the public may think or speak on any given subject, but then I would tend to shy away from the impression given by Messenger and Co. that the general public, when tending to discuss matters of any kind, sound like a bunch of semi-finalists in a village idiot contest vying for Thickie Of The Year 2009, where vowels and consonants are weirdly rearranged through indistinct glottal and where intelligence and thought are made to feel like gatecrashers at a party given for those who believe Fray Bentos plays for Real Madrid, or that Hitler won the Eurovision Song Contest in 1965.
In short, fucking awful and a show where seeing was truly believing. Astonishingly, the applause of what seemed a modest studio audience could be heard on returning after the break, which suggests that people like being entertained by supermorons who've not yet decided what to do with this new wonder invention called 'words', or that they've been locked into the studio to undergo an entertainment form of Abu Ghraib, torture through idiocy and mindslay via gibberish, especially by Ian Wright, whose head must be like a strange nightclub where the bouncers within his brain stop knowledge and awareness at the door and proceed to kick the living shit out of them before bundling them off in a taxi to be deposited, dazed and bleeding, in a field somewhere.
I have seen the future. And it's dribbling down its chin while it's talking.
Avoid. Avoid.
You've probably discussed it on a few threads or so, but I got around to seeing this last night. No, I tell a lie, I actually saw roughly 25 minutes of it before picking my double chins off the floor, shutting off the screaming sounds in my brain and turning over to another channel. Before then, I heard that LFSF was a no-go zone for the intellect (some television is, but in this case it could be considered a No-Man's Land where any sensibilities that attempt to creep across it are summarily peppered with bullets and left to die) and that to watch is to peer into the depths of the Fuckwit Abyss itself.
And, jesus, so it was. Chaired by three arrivals from Planet Microsoul, it is, as far as I can discern, an conveyor belt of current affairs, entertainment interviews and gossip open to comment by Melinda Messenger, Ian Wright and Woman Whom I Know Nothing Of. The main news item talked about at time of watching was the case of that fucking idiot who left her toddler kids of four to fend for themselves while she went off on a day-long, alcohol-fuelled bender. The three Brains Trust custodians attacked the content with the intelligence and verve that you'd normally find in a pool of sick that pigeons feed off.
Melinda, bless her, exuded genuine, kind-hearted understanding and concern, and thought that understanding and education, in this instance, was the key, not punishment, although the way she went about it was painful, struggling to find the right words to describe her feelings. She did this by raising her hands upwards and looking to the sky with a strained expression as she spoke, as if presenting invisible cheese to Milkar the Dairy God, or pretending to lift a very heavy draught excluder.
Speaking of which, Ian Wright sought to impose on the conversation by suggesting, in return, that 'punishment is the education that woman needs'. That, apart from 'like, yeah, right, yeah, y'see' was the only point of significance he made about it, although he didn't exactly explain what this punishment would be - being sat on by several fat blokes, presumably, or having her head pressed between two steamrollers driven by gold-medal-winning Olympic athletes.
The Woman Whom I Know Nothing Of (who looked as if she came across a piece of good job luck after being turned down by M&S to work in the womenswear department) seemed to agree with Wright, but then it was difficult to notice her as she retained all the magnetic appeal of a hamster's scrotum, a blah-blah machine with the personal force of a wisp of smoke from a stubbed-out cigarette (she would turn up 'interviewing' Norah Jones with a small series of questions a step up from the standard of "do you look funny with your eyes crossed?").
At one point she remarked that 'we don't know the full facts', which hit the nail on the head completely. Whereas Five Live would take the above news item and spend an hour on it, bringing in psychologists, doctors and social workers to add comment, you had three quacking noises that looked at briefly-compiled news items and remarked on each of them in the same way that people do when at the workplace or in the pub, without any details or information except what they may have read in the Daily Mirror that day. Five may argue that it captures how the public may think or speak on any given subject, but then I would tend to shy away from the impression given by Messenger and Co. that the general public, when tending to discuss matters of any kind, sound like a bunch of semi-finalists in a village idiot contest vying for Thickie Of The Year 2009, where vowels and consonants are weirdly rearranged through indistinct glottal and where intelligence and thought are made to feel like gatecrashers at a party given for those who believe Fray Bentos plays for Real Madrid, or that Hitler won the Eurovision Song Contest in 1965.
In short, fucking awful and a show where seeing was truly believing. Astonishingly, the applause of what seemed a modest studio audience could be heard on returning after the break, which suggests that people like being entertained by supermorons who've not yet decided what to do with this new wonder invention called 'words', or that they've been locked into the studio to undergo an entertainment form of Abu Ghraib, torture through idiocy and mindslay via gibberish, especially by Ian Wright, whose head must be like a strange nightclub where the bouncers within his brain stop knowledge and awareness at the door and proceed to kick the living shit out of them before bundling them off in a taxi to be deposited, dazed and bleeding, in a field somewhere.
I have seen the future. And it's dribbling down its chin while it's talking.
Avoid. Avoid.
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