Charlie Brooker's Screen Burn

by Charlie Brooker

  Shameless revolves around the Gallagher family, a bunch of hand-to-mouth Mancunians living on the sort of housing estate that slowly knocks itself down from within, thereby saving the council the bother of sending in bulldozers in a few years’ time. They’re teenage scallywags with obligatory hearts of gold, tumbling around their oblivious, boozy dad Frank (played by David Threlfall as a clownish, Ghost-of-Christmas-Future version of Liam Gallagher). Each night, Frank ends up sparked out on the living-room floor, languidly vomiting his way through an alcohol-induced coma. It’s hard not to admire the man.

  Reading some of the pre-transmission hype for Shameless you could be forgiven for expecting the finest drama serial ever made. This happened for two reasons: 1) it’s from Paul Abbott, who wrote State of Play, most journalists’ favourite show of 2003, and 2) it’s jam-packed with earthy, poverty-stricken northerners who swear a lot, with funny accents and everything, and there’s nothing us professional southern sissies love more than that.

  None of which is to say Shameless isn’t really, really good – because it is – but if you approach it expecting something akin to a council estate version of Teachers, as opposed to a work of life-altering resonance, you’ve less chance of walking away disappointed.

  You’ve less chance of walking away at all if you venture into one of the Toughest Pubs in Britain (Sky One), a cheerful pop-doc hailing a selection of downright terrifying establishments which put the ‘hole’ into ‘watering hole’.

  Cue uplifting stories of East End hard men crapping in pint glasses, and a man walking into a Sheffield pub wielding a machete because he’d misplaced his hat there the previous night. Windowless scum-pits, sawdust-and-blood-spattered guzzle houses … you name it, it’s here, discussed with a disarming frankness: one landlord describes his clientele as ‘losers … you know – going-nowhere people’.

  The highlight has to be the Wyndham Arms in Merthyr, which bristles with toothless, white-haired Welsh psychopaths, every single one of whom would fight you to the death, if only on the grounds that they’re so near death anyway it makes little difference to them.

  The star of the Wyndham Arms is the decrepit Bob (looks-wise, imagine Bill Oddie getting his teeth kicked out in a thunderstorm), a man whose personal mantra is ‘Fuck everybody else’. Bob once set his own hair on fire in order to intimidate a pair of French tourists who walked into the pub by mistake – proof that old-fashioned knockabout comedy isn’t dead, even if Bob himself isn’t far off.

  But that’s booze for you. Cheers!

  I Love Powderkeg Britain [24 January]

  Is it just me, or are the 1990s turning into the 1980s, and the 1980s into the 1970s? Tonight on Channel 4 there’s a superb documentary called Strike: When Britain Went to War (C4), and it’s full of clips from 1984 that appear to have been shot in 1974 – a wash of dull colours, fag smoke, manky teeth and grey skies.

  Quaint period location aside, the other thing that makes Strike feel so exotic is the startling level of rage it contains. The footage from Orgreave, where flying pickets and policemen clashed in huge numbers, plays like a contemporary bulletin from a civil war in an eastern European state that can’t afford basic weaponry, let alone modern clothing: a civil war fought with fists, sticks and plastic shields, but a full-blown war nonetheless, complete with all the savagery and passion that accompanies it.

  I’d quite forgotten just how divisive the miners’ strike actually was. In fact, to a 13-year-old middle-class southerner, the biggest news story of 1984 was the release of ‘Jet Set Willy’ on the ZX Spectrum. It’s quite shocking to watch crowds of miners and policemen going at it like the opposing forces in Return of the King, and contemplate just how oblivious I was at the time. Thankfully today I can combine my need for video-game escapism with a basic grounding in current affairs simply by playing ‘Osama bin Laden’s Top-Up-Fee Snowboarding’ on the Xbox. Now that’s progress. Anyway, back to 1984 – and specifically, the neat way Margaret Thatcher handed a gift to populist historical documentary-makers everywhere by compelling the police force to dress and behave like a gang of futuristic oppressors in a neo-fascist state, in the very same year that loads of adverts, TV shows and films were playing riffs on Orwell’s 1984. She even had the decency to personally survive a bomb blast, thereby appearing indestructible – just like The Terminator (also released in 1984). As such, although they don’t actually use any clips of The Terminator for Thatcher-intercutting purposes (the cowards), this is one of the most visually arresting way-back-when nostalgia shows you could wish for. Admittedly, the opening sequence, in which talking-head interviews are juxtaposed with clips of Torvill and Dean, might initially panic you into thinking you’ve stumbled into the seventeenth repeat of I Love 1984 (although ‘I Love Powderkeg Britain’ would be a more fitting title), but stick with it, since the meat of the programme consists of fascinating anecdotes from active participants, the best of which – and given the nature of civil war, the most paradoxical – concern groups of strangers brought together by the strike (an unlikely alliance between Welsh miners and Sikh community leaders being a case in point).

  Today, most pits are closed, of course. Shame. If we held the miners’ strike now, it’d be far slicker. It’s easier to organise mass demonstrations now that everyone’s got a mobile – and you can simply text the word ‘SCAB’ to passing strike-breakers, instead of shouting it at them. If only they’d held off until the technology was available.

  Speaking of things that should be closed down, avoid Luvvies: The Awards the Stars Don’t Want to Win (ITV1), the ‘wacky awards’ show with hilarious categories like Worst Dressed Star, which last year tried to make Les Dennis look like a bad sport for refusing a Loser of the Year prize for having a failed marriage. In other words, it was indefensibly bad TV, constructed by scum for the entertainment of idiots. As in last year’s show, ‘some of the winners have taken it on the chin and will be in the studio’ (thus disproving the show’s title), while ‘others have been tracked down and forced to accept their awards’. What, at gunpoint?

  Perhaps they’ll dish one out to injured Daniel Bedingfield’s parents (another Loser of the Year, or perhaps an Avid Merrion Lookalike Award for his ginger mop and neck brace) at his hospital bedside. Or maybe they’ll find someone whose partner’s just died, and give them a Loneliest Star Award. Either way, hilarious.

  ‘This is a slam-dunk’ [31 January]

  Say what you like about the misery of human suffering, but it’s a barrel of laughs when you’re not directly involved.

  The proof? Crisis Command – Could You Run the Country? (BBC2), a fun little game show about massive loss of life, in which three civilians are handed (hypothetical) control of the emergency services and the military during a (hypothetical) disaster. I think it’s meant to be serious, but naaaah. This is a black-comic masterpiece if ever I saw one. If the producers had taken the light-hearted route – called it ‘Never Mind the Body Count’and asked Avid Merrion to present – it wouldn’t have turned out half as funny.

  Our host for this hour-long chucklefest is BBC news correspondent Gavin Hewitt, who reported on 9/11 and the Bali bombing, and recently made a guest appearance in the Hutton enquiry. Gavin isn’t exactly a bundle of laughs – in fact he’s incredibly, unbelievably serious; throughout childhood, all the ice-cream vans in his home town played the theme from Panorama. Physically, he looks a bit like a New Labour version of the Grim Reaper, nicely complementing the show’s tone.

  Following an opening sequence in which phrases like ‘terrorist attack’ and ‘massive outbreak’ float gaily around the screen, Gavin steps from the shadows and immediately starts shouting at us.

  ‘Each day our papers and news bulletins are full of stories of catastrophes that one day could hit Britain,’ he booms. ‘If only one of them were to occur, the results could be catastrophic.’ Call me a doomed pedant, Gav, but isn’t that what you’d expect from a catastrophe? Gav? Gav?

  Ah, Gav isn’t listening: instead he’s w
elcoming three contestants to his command bunker, one of whom is Simon Woodroffe, founder of Yo Sushi and the sort of man who can use macho-suit phrases like ‘This is a slam-dunk’ with no trace of irony. With him running the country, disaster seems assured.

  And sure enough, it is: within the first two minutes Waterloo station puts 1,000 commuters out of their misery by suddenly exploding, and things only get grimmer from thereon in, as rogue airliners approach the capital, mysterious power cuts hamper rescue attempts, and thousands of terrified Londoners trapped in the Underground start wondering whether they’ll ever get a mobile signal again.

  Just to make it all as chillingly convincing as possible, the scenario unfolds via mock news bulletins from the BBC, Sky and ITN – with real newsreaders reading them out and everything! Yes! This is your chance to see Peter Sissons describing a disaster in which you and your loved ones may soon perish!

  The three contestants quibble and argue over what to do – with military advisors and spin doctors on hand to offer advice and grim statistics – as things go from bad to worse. Still, it’s not all doom and gloom: at one point Simon makes a decision that causes thousands of people to die, and his face is an absolute picture.

  Fun, fun, fun – and it should make a change from the compulsory spectacle of I’m a Celebrity … (ITV1), the reality show you love to hate to love. For all the pre-talk about John Lydon having knifed his own credibility in the throat by agreeing to appear, I can’t help thinking it’s the best thing he’s done in years. I prefer the new Johnny: acting the arse in the jungle, as opposed to sneering condescendingly on chat shows, like Kenneth Williams without the jokes.

  Peter André with an erection [7 February]

  Peter André with an erection. That’ll be my overriding memory from this year’s I’m a Celebrity – Get Me Out of Here (ITV1) – the Sixpack Midget climbing from Jordan’s bed with a visible salute in his pants, right there on the telly. Like all horrifying spectacles, it’s now permanently imprinted on my subconscious, and I feel somehow violated. Changed. Not that the preening twonk should be allowed to achieve full arousal in the first place. He might breed. The government should step in; clap his sac between two breeze blocks and end the André lineage here and now. We owe it to future generations. Besides, it’d make a great Bushtucker Trial.

  And there are enough Z-grade ding-dongs in the world already. For proof, tune into I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here: Live (ITV2): a live stream of outback coverage and much, much less. Viewers are encouraged to share their opinions via text message, and their subsequent witterings are superimposed over the live footage in a seemingly endless spool. As a snapshot of the mental condition of twenty-first-century Britain, the results ain’t encouraging. The average texter has the IQ of a small puddle. They can’t even spell the contestants’ names properly, even when they’re printed right there onscreen. ‘I LIKE JORDEN SHE IS FIT.’ ‘KERRY U R SOOO BRAVE!!!’ ‘BROKKET DONE A GUFF.’

  Seriously, who sends this stuff? Reading the endless dribble, it’s hard not to picture a nation of hairless, boneless, Matrix-style pod-people soaking in Petri dishes, jabbing outsized thumbs at their phone keypads, barking like seals each time their messages done go get on the telly box. Then there are the creepily poignant messages: ‘RAZOR 2 WIN!!! ALSO LUCY WILL U MARRY ME? SIMON.’ ‘PETER IS ACE FROM JULIE. PS SCOTT I MISS U.’ Swear to God, it’s an unforgiving glimpse into one barren existence after another. This isn’t a TV programme, more a coin-operated sounding board for the nation’s vegetables. In fact it’s easy to forget the celebrities pootling about in the background; without John Lydon, there’d be nothing worth watching.

  Away from the jungle now, and the BBC’s woes continue, as a new series of 24 starts on Sky One. First Dyke quits: now Jack Bauer’s jumped ship. Fortunately for the BBC, on the evidence of the first few episodes it ain’t much cop third time round. Such is the pile-up of unlikely developments, it might as well open with an animated sequence in which Kiefer Sutherland literally jumps over a shark to piss in the viewer’s face.

  For starters, Kim is now working at CTU. Not only is this unlikely (in the last series she was an au pair; now she’s a fully qualified computer-security expert?), it’s also asking for trouble. Give it two weeks and she’ll be helplessly entangled in Ethernet cables while the office goes up in flames. Next, they’ve given her a love interest: he’s called Chase and he chases terrorists for a living. He’s also Jack’s sidekick. Naturally, Jack doesn’t know Chase is dicking his daughter. Wonder if he’ll find out? Jack, meanwhile, has problems of his own – and here comes a minor spoiler so look away if you’re sensitive – he’s addicted to heroin.

  Yes, heroin. He’s become Smack Bauer. It seems he went undercover and had to impress some drug dealers by going all Train-spotting.

  And guess what? On the very same day he decides to kick the habit – cold-turkey style – yet another terrorist plot threatens LA. This time it’s a bag of cocaine containing a virus that could kill millions … within just 24 hours! Fancy! Oh, and President Palmer, last seen dying following a bioterrorist assassination attempt? Total recovery. But guess what. It’s re-election time and he’s got an important vote to get through today and blah blah blah. 24 was always implausible; now it’s just a dumb cartoon. Having a new leading bad guy who looks like Rowland Rivron doesn’t help either. Come in Jack Bauer … your time is up. Shame.

  Watching Tron through a Kaleidoscope [14 February]

  What in God’s name has happened to the revamped ITV News (ITV1)? Have you seen this mess? The phrase ‘graphical overkill’ doesn’t come close. It’s like watching Tron through a kaleidoscope.

  Really, you’ve got to pity Trevor McDonald. A life of tireless dedication to broadcast news, and what’s he got to show for it? A nightly gig barking tabloid-style headlines from within Stakker’s 1988 ‘Humanoid’ video. Because surely this daft relaunch is aimed at thirty-something ex-ravers with a soft spot for dated cyberdelia … and almost no one else. Get Altern 8 to remix the theme tune, hand Sir Trevor a pair of Orbital-style torchlight specs and bingo: the illusion’s complete.

  Perhaps I’m wrong, but there’s something odd going on here. Witness the way Trevor sometimes swivels round to introduce a previously unseen sports reporter standing on a far-off gangway, swatting graphics around like she’s Tom Cruise in Minority Report. Trev turns back to camera for a second and poof! The lady vanishes. Why do the background graphics seem to speed up throughout the second half of the programme? Why are the shorter stories interspersed with computer-generated stings showing a glass planet exploding? Why are there no doors and windows for Trevor to leave through? Is he really there? Is any of this news actually happening? I can’t tell any more.

  And what’s with the mysterious runic symbol covering the floor of the set? Go on, have a good look at it this Monday … Is it some kind of sign, like a crop circle? Or maybe an ancient Egyptian ankh? Or perhaps it’s a first taste of the emblem we’ll all have tattooed on our foreheads when the new world order finally seizes control? Only time will tell – but don’t be surprised if this time next year a policeman turns up at your front door sporting the symbol on his uniform, shortly before ushering you and your neighbours into a fleet of silent, windowless vans.

  On Wednesdays, Director’s Commentary, a comedy series often described as ‘original’ and ‘hilarious’, usually follows the news, which is annoying for two reasons. Firstly, a videotape containing precisely the same idea, but performed by Adam Buxton, was bootlegged and circulated over a year ago. Secondly, while Buxton’s tape focused on a more deserving (and, at the time, contemporary) target – The Priory, starring Jamie Theakston and Zoë Ball – Director’s Commentary consists largely of a torrent of screen-kickingly predictable dribble spoiling footage of antiquated programmes no one remembers.

  The solitary joke seems to be ‘Ha ha – listen to this man taking these shit old shows seriously’, but since we can’t judge the programmes in question on their own
merit (hardly any dialogue is audible), and since the majority of ITV’s present output is easily 20,000 times worse than any number of cheap 1970s drama serials, the whole thing is redundant. It’s a sad state of affairs when one-joke series like this and Monkey Dust get hailed as ‘comic genius’ simply on account of feeling vaguely ‘new’ (as opposed to, y’know, ‘funny’).

  Still, don’t despair. A genuinely interesting comedy series starts this very week: Vic and Bob in Catterick (BBC3), the new comedy drama from Reeves and Mortimer – a sort of manic cross between 24 and Christ knows what. After a slightly shaky start in which it seems in danger of turning into League of Gentlemen meets Little Britain (it shares cast members with both), Catterick settles into an agreeably malformed groove, and contains some of the funniest lines I’ve heard in ages. Being more ‘daft’ than ‘dark’ (good news for anyone who enjoys laughing at jokes), containing admirably stupid performances and hilariously baffling visual asides, Catterick is the most promising new series so far this year. And it’s less surreal than the ITV news. Fancy.

  ‘You think you’re hard? You ain’t hard’ [21 February]

  A group of tattooed thugs are kicking and punching their way through a series of panelled doors while Steve McFadden commentates on the action in a voice so gruff it makes your ears itch: ‘Michael, the ex-Para, is storming into first place. His legs are going like hydraulic battering rams, turning the doors into matchsticks.’

  Yes! It can only be Britain’s Hardest (Sky One), a modern, sociopathic take on It’s a Knockout that has to be seen – and seen at least twice – to be believed. The format is simple. Each week, five self-styled ‘hard men’ take part in a string of bleak and disturbing activities. One man is eliminated after each round; the winner goes on to the semi-finals. At the end of the series, someone gets crowned Britain’s Hardest Man – and hopefully tear-gassed, bound and slung in a cell situated at least 10,000 miles away from me.