The Hell of it All

by Charlie Brooker

  Everything in the arena is either red or blue or a 20,000-watt lightbulb – apart from the Gladiators, whose costumes are monochrome and more individually ‘pimped’ than before. Spartan, for instance, has some vaguely Ancient Roman-style strappy bits hanging down round his balls, leaving him looking like a cross between a promotional poster for the film 300 and a collector’s edition of Boyz magazine.

  Incredibly, he’s not the gayest-looking male Gladiator. That honour goes to Atlas, who has a body made of raw, bulging muscle, but the head and face of a woman. In his introductory ident, he appears to shake his flowing locks and wink coquettishly at the viewer. They should’ve called him Dorothy and had done with it.

  Keeping with the homoerotic theme, you may have noticed that all the male Gladiators have names that sound like gay nightclubs. Oblivion, for instance, sounds like a steaming 4 a.m. sinbox filled with strobe lights and shaved heads. But it isn’t. It’s a 6ft 3in bell-end in black trunks. The producers have given Oblivion a complex personality: he’s angry and he complains a lot. This makes him different to Predator, who brags and looks hard. The level of characterisation pisses all over The Wire.

  The lady Gladiators are slightly less absurd, apart from Inferno, who looks like a pornographic Manga sketch of Geri Halliwell circa 1998, and Battleaxe – a champion hammer-thrower, and the least ladylike of the bunch. She may look beefy and stern, but calling her Battleaxe seems a tad harsh. Perhaps next year they’ll bring in one called Dog. Or Moose. Or Boiler.

  Actually, in this interactive age, they should throw the naming of the Gladiators open to the public. How about one called Bastard? Or Perineum? Any other suggestions? Send them to charlie. brooker @guardian. co.uk and we’ll make it a contest.

  The names pour in [24 May 2008]

  Good on you, reader. Last week, while musing on the preposterous monikers chosen for the Gladiators, I invited you to send in suggestions of your own. I expected nine or 10 entries. I got hundreds – many of which I’m reproducing here.

  Just to recap: the following are all proposed names for new Gladiators, should Sky One’s pointless revival of the long-unmissed ITV series bother returning for a second series. To draw full value from each name, you have to imagine an excitable commentator bandying it about during an intense Gladiator-vs-pleb battle. In your mind’s ear, hear him saying something like ‘Roy’s running for the finish … but oh! [GLADIATOR NAME] is determined to shut him down! A nasty blow from [GLADIATOR NAME] there! And so on.

  Without further ado, here are your suggestions. Contestant ready? Gladiator ready? Good. Here we go.

  First, the men. You suggest: Paxman, Pigeon, Badger, Schlong, Asbo, Baghead (who ‘carries a syringe’), Pornographer, Blunderbuss, Columbine, Blister, Hessian, Menthol, Tractor, Fist, Embryo (a ‘lad with the brain of an amoeba and the reflexes of a pot of Colman’s mustard’), Burden (‘obese bloke that can’t move too fast’), Kraken, Pollution, Opprobrium, Battlebus, Boswelox, Guff, Sodom, Wetwipe, Surcharge, Meatpole, Thrutch, Breezeblock, Pasquale, Kemp, Climax, Radion, Thermostat, Dalek, Infidel, Prolapse, Vas Deferens, Void, Spasm, Jaw, Enema, Pussyole, Prepuce, Alan, Mongol, Travesty, Hibernator, Mustang, Fellatio, Bickle, Bareback, Pummel, Hurtyman, Sheath, Bananaman, Dunce, BluRay, Guantánamo, Pedalo, Caramac, The Hesitator, Astroglide (‘it’s a sexual lubricant’), Pamphlet, Bukkake, Loner, Simpleton, Shitclown, Santorum, ZX-H8-U, Narcissus, Nibbles (an ‘Uncle Monty-shaped gastronaut who rolls after people’), Girth, Spork, Mondeo, Thrombosis, Tepid, Fighty, Shipman, Kilimanjaro, Stryker (‘a nod to Jeff’), Skytrot, Phrenum (who ‘could have a creepy helmet bowlcut like Javier Bardem’), Fuhrer, or – my favourite – Fritzl.

  In between the male and female categories, we have Mirrorball (‘the first transgender Gladiator’).

  Now the ladies. Fewer entries here, but a spirited showing nonetheless (if somewhat anatomically-obsessed). You propose: Gash, Cameltoe, Butch, Labia, Frown, Growler, Rub-n-Tug, Dworkin, Estrogen, Thyroid, Ringtone, Meringue, Windolene, Aneurysm, Angina, Chlamydia, Mrs Hitler, Mudguard, Testosterod, Plankton, Femsil, Slattern, Armourdildo, Grindstone, Turpentine, Pumice, Killwhore, Binlids, Chemical Sally, Botox, Spinster, Tampon, Fallopian, Lactator, Seapig, Yeastro, Tearjerker, Gomorrah, Dingleberry, Glans, Harridan, Crevice, Menstrualator, Jizzelle, Widdecombe, Handshank (‘blue-collar everywoman who belts herself in the face with a spanner to show how good she is’), Schadenfreude, Hernia, Clitorisk or – my lady favourite – Mauve.

  Special mention to ‘Mark C’ who came up with some of the more elaborate entries above. The winner, though, is ‘Sophocles’ – suggested by Alex Maple – because it’s a timely reference to Michael Sophocles from The Apprentice, the most furious man on TV (although not, perhaps, quite as angry as the average viewer following Sir Alan’s current record of unfair dismissals). Despite the boyish face and drippy wet eyes, ol’ pressure-cooker Sophocles appears driven by barely suppressed rage. He resembles a small boy, tired out during a shopping trip, simmering on the verge of a tantrum. Each time I see him in the boardroom I think he’s about to seethe ‘s’not fair, s’not fair’ in a peevish mantra, then wig out and start huffing and kicking the table. Or one of his fellow contestants. Preferably Alex. Or Claire. Or Helene. I can’t stand any of them. Lee’s okay – albeit dumb as a cupboard – but really, with Raef gone, Lucinda’s the only deserving victor. Even though she’s a bit too ‘aromatherapy’ for my liking.

  Pity the kidfuckers [31 May 2008]

  When a TV show makes you feel sorry for potential child rapists, you know it’s doing something wrong. To Catch a Predator is that show. It hails from America, where it’s not some wacky bit of far-out cable madness but a mainstream network broadcast; a staple feature of Dateline NBC (a sort of Tonight with Sir Trevor McDonald minus Sir Trevor).

  Here’s the set-up for this week’s episode: fearless, crusading adult volunteers for an anti-paedo watchdog group called Perverted Justice go on the internet and pretend to be 13-year-old girls. They wait until contacted by grown men, play along with the conversation when the subject turns to sex, then invite them over for an illegal fumble. When the men turn up, they’re greeted by an attractive young actress (who could just about pass for 13) who leads them into the garden and asks them to wait by the hot tub while she changes into something sexier.

  The men pace excitedly, awaiting Lolita’s return. But oh! Out pops Dateline’s Chris Hansen instead! He’s male, pushing 50, and doesn’t look like he wants to play. Their faces fall like the Twin Towers. They mistake him for a cop. ‘Did you come to have sex with a 13-year-old?’ he asks. ‘Oh no, sir,’ they splutter, ‘nothing could be further from my mind.’

  Then he brings out a transcript of their original web chat and asks them a bunch of questions about it – not to titillate, no God no – but in order that we viewers might forge a better understanding of the twisted mindset of the child sex predator. And because it’ll make us guffaw like cartoon donkeys when they desperately try to explain away all the references to blowjobs and penis size in their chatroom chinwag. It’s the back-pedalling Olympics.

  After making them sweat for several minutes, Chris reveals his camera crew and tells them they’re on national television. Ta da! You’re on Paedle’s About! At this point their faces tend to fall still further. They start crying and begging. Some of them probably poo themselves, although they don’t show that. But the worst is yet to come: at this point, Chris unexpectedly waves them goodbye, and they walk out, sighing with relief … only to walk face-first into a bunch of armed police who hurl them to the ground and arrest them. Then we get to see them being interviewed AGAIN, this time by the police, who aren’t quite as debonair and charming as Chris (and are markedly less keen on poring over all the online sex talk than him).

  And then it’s over. Justice prevails – provided you overlook the several billion troubling aspects to the show. The overpowering whiff of entrapment, for one thing. The collusion between reporters, vigilante groups and police for another. And tha
t ‘attractive young actress’ who greets them by the door: make no mistake, she’s hot. And at 18, she’s US legal. Presumably someone at To Catch a Predator HQ sat down with a bunch of audition tapes and spooled through it, trying to find a sexy 18-year-old who could pass for 13. They’ll have stared at girl after girl, umming and ahhing over their chest sizes, until they found just the right one. And like I say, she’s hot. But if you fancy her, you’re a paedophile.

  It’s a pity robot technology isn’t more advanced than it is, because the ultimate To Catch a Predator show could do away with the actress altogether. Instead, the men would be greeted by a convincing 17-year-old android, who’d instantly start having sex with them. But oh! Just before they reached climax, a hatch would open in the top of her head, and a robotic version of Chris Hansen’s face would emerge on a big bendy metal neck, barking accusations at them, and then the android’s vagina would snap shut, trapping the pervert in position, and the robot body would transform into a steel cage from which they couldn’t escape, and start delivering near-fatal electric shocks every five minutes to the delight of a self-righteous, audience, chanting Justice Prevails, Justice Prevails. Justice Prevails. Forever.

  The job interview from heck [7 June 2008]

  Just before The Apprentice shimmies to a conclusion, let’s go back – way back – all the way to last Wednesday, and the penultimate ‘job interview’ special. By now an Apprentice tradition, this is the episode that routinely sorts the wheat from the chaff. It’s also the point at which the show’s narrative gears start audibly crunching. Squint closely, and the notion that the series represents a genuine test of business skill is exposed as the preposterous gobbet of cockflob it is.

  We know the drill for this episode by now. The candidates are grilled by some of Sir Alan’s business buddies, including Bordon Staryface and a stubbly Johnny Vegas type who looks like he’s just chucked a chip wrapper in the bottom drawer seconds before calling you into the room. Their job is to sit opposite the contestants pulling unimpressed faces. Having spent the previous 10 episodes making each candidate look like a twat tied to an arsehole, the programme suddenly performs an about-face. No one wants a bastard to win, so it must persuade the viewer that – hey! – there ain’t no bastards here. All sorts of previously hidden positive qualities are brought to the fore.

  Take human cat puppet Helene. Since week one she’s been shown rolling her whopping great fist-sized eyes and lazily bullying Lucinda. But within minutes of the job interview starting, she’s asked about her hitherto-unmentioned troubled background and is instantly transformed into the plucky outsider who triumphs over adversity. She’s been in the background throughout each task; now it’s impossible not to root for her on some level. This is the Michelle Dewberry manoeuvre and – just to be clear – it’s the programme being devious, not Helene herself appealing for sympathy at the last minute. Each candidate will have been thoroughly vetted beforehand. The producers knew her heart-rending back story. They just hid it until now, because it makes for a good twist.

  Ditto the white lies on Lee’s CV. His fibs about attending university for two years instead of four months could have been (and almost certainly were) detected at some point during the audition stage. If Sir Alan was genuinely solely interested in selecting the best candidate, it’d make sense to comb through each candidate’s CV in the first 10 minutes of the very first episode, quizzing them over any inconsistencies. But that’d make boring television. Far better to introduce a note of jeopardy for Lee at the 11th hour.

  While we’re on the subject of Lee, there was a glaring example of the show unfairly setting him up to look like a prick the moment his interview kicked off, when Johnny Vegas asked him to impersonate a pterodactyl, then sneered at him for not taking the interview seriously as soon as he did so. What is this, Guantánamo Bay? Why not really dick with his mind by asking him to take a seat, then kicking it out from under him and calling him a subservient seat-taking imbecile? Still, making Lee look a bit dumb is easy. Making the sour, defensive, prickly Alex seem likable is a trickier prospect, one even the magic of the edit suite couldn’t quite pull it off. Instead it banged on about how young and handsome he is, like it’s an audition for a daytime soap.

  They have to accentuate the positive in Alex’s case because, like Helene, he’s a weaker candidate. Presumably they go positive on the weak ones and negative on the strong ones to make the final feel like less of a foregone conclusion. Claire, for instance, has been an obviously strong contender for weeks, and appeared to sail through her interviews. But that’s dull, so Sir Alan had to loudly voice doubts about whether she’s too gobby for him.

  Anyway. The mechanism may be visible, but the machine itself works. It’s entertainment. I won’t be missing the climax, although I’m worried about the way the teams are split, because it raises the hideous prospect of either Alex or Helene winning – in which case they might as well have picked the winner at random by flipping a coin.

  – Lee won, in the end. You know. Lee. LEE.

  CHAPTER NINE

  In which the idiots start winning, Boris runs for mayor, and the sexual habits of various animals are contemplated

  The idiots are winning [7 April 2008]

  Man the lifeboats. The idiots are winning. Last week I watched, open-mouthed, a Newsnight piece on the spread of ‘Brain Gym’ in British schools. I’d read about Brain Gym before – a few years back, in Ben Goldacre’s excellent Bad Science column for this newspaper – but seeing it in action really twisted my rage dial.

  Brain Gym, y’see, is an ‘educational kinesiology’ programme designed to improve kiddywink performance. It’s essentially a series of simple exercises lumbered with names that make you want to steer a barbed-wire bus into its creator’s face. One manoeuvre, in which you massage the muscles round the jaw, is called the ‘energy yawn’. Another involves activating your ‘brain buttons’ by forming a ‘C’ shape with one hand and pressing it either side of the collarbone while simultaneously touching your stomach with the other hand.

  Throughout the report I was grinding my teeth and shaking my head – a movement I call a ‘dismay churn’. Not because of the sickening cutesy-poo language, nor because I’m opposed to the nation’s kids being forced to exercise (make them box at gunpoint if you want) but because I care about the difference between fantasy and reality, both of which are great in isolation, but, like chalk and cheese or church and state, are best kept separate.

  Confuse fantasy with reality and you might find yourself doing crazy things, like trying to wave hello to Ian Beale each time you see him on the telly, or buying homeopathic remedies – both of which are equally boneheaded pursuits. (Incidentally, if anyone disagrees with this assessment and wants to write in defending homeopathy, please address your letters to myself c/o the Kingdom of Narnia.)

  Perhaps the Department for Children, Schools and Families confused fantasy with reality the day it endorsed Brain Gym. Because while Brain Gym’s coochy-coo exercises may well be fun or relaxing, what they’re definitely good at is increasing the flow of bullshit into children’s heads.

  For instance, according to the Brain Gym teacher’s manual, performing the ‘brain button’ exercise increases the flow of ‘electromagnetic energy’ and helps the brain send messages from the right hemisphere to the left. Brain Gym can also ‘connect the circuits of the brain’, ‘clear blockages’ and activate ‘emotional centering’. Other Brain Gym material contains the startling claim that ‘all liquids [other than water] are processed in the body as food, and do not serve the body’s water needs … processed foods do not contain water.’

  All of which sounds like hooey to me. And also to the British Neuroscience Association, the Physiological Society and the charity Sense about Science, who have written to every local education authority in the land to complain about Brain Gym’s misrepresentation of, um, reality.

  Wander round Brain Gym’s UK website for a few minutes. It’s a festival of pseudoscientific chuc
kles where impressive phrases such as ‘educational kinesiology’ and ‘sensorimotor program’ rub shoulders with bald admissions that ‘we are not yet at the stage where we have any scientific evidence for what happens in the brain through the use of Brain Gym’.

  Look at the accredited practitioners of the art: top of their list of qualified Brain Gym ‘instructor/consultants’ is a woman who is apparently also a ‘chiropractor for humans and animals’. That’s nothing: I read tarot cards for fish.

  And check out the linked bookshop, Body Balance Books. Alongside Brain Gym guides and wallcharts, it stocks titles such as Awakening the Child Heart and Resonance Kinesiology, which, apparently, ‘holds information on how to move forward with truth, without the overlays of people’s beliefs and ideas about what is best for themselves and others’. Huh?

  If we mistrust the real world so much that we’re prepared to fill the next generation’s heads with a load of gibbering crap about ‘brain buttons’, why stop there? Why not spice up maths by telling kids the number five was born in Greece and invented biscuits? Replace history lessons with screenings of the Star Wars trilogy? Teach them how to whistle in French? Let’s just issue the kids with blinkers.

  Because we, the adults, don’t just gleefully pull the wool over our own eyes – we knit permanent blindfolds. We’ve decided we hate facts. Hate, hate, hate them. Everywhere you look, we’re down on our knees, gleefully lapping up neckful after neckful of steaming, cloddish bullshit in all its forms. From crackpot conspiracy theories to fairytale nutritional advice, from alternative medicine to energy yawns – we just can’t get enough of that musky, mudlike taste. Brain Gym is just one small tile in an immense and frightening mosaic of fantasy.