Which leads us to Deadliest Warrior, an astonishing American ‘theoretical combat simulation’ show that hits our screens this week. Unless you live beside an insane overweight divorcee who regularly shags stray cats to death on his front lawn – and the chances of that are fairly slim – it’s easily the least tasteful thing you’ll see all year.
At heart, it’s a blokey ‘who’s the hardest’ pub debate made flesh. Each week, they take two legendary fighters from history – an Apache and a gladiator in the opening episode – and attempt to work out which is the most effectively violent. Not by, say, interviewing scholars and military historians at punishing length, but by assembling a terrifying arsenal of ancient weapons and getting some ‘combat experts’ to try them out one by one. What this boils down to is almost an hour of footage of unbelievably angry men performing hideous assaults on worryingly realistic human torsos, wired up to a computer that can work out how loudly a real person would shout ‘ow’ as its jaw flew off.
Throughout the series, everything gets tested, from terrifying slicing weapons that resemble bits of arcane farming machinery, to present-day funnies such as grenades and assault rifles. Ever wanted to find out precisely how much damage a spiked club could do to a man’s face? Here’s your chance. Remember that Martin Scorsese cameo in Taxi Driver where he invites Travis Bickle to contemplate the horrors a Magnum (the gun, not the ice cream) could inflict upon ‘a woman’s pussy’? Deadliest Warrior could imagine the results and give him a print-out.
But the real fun begins once the arsenal’s been assessed. The Top Trumps data is fed into a computer (running ‘custom-made software’ apparently – Abject Guesswork 4.0, I reckon) and we’re treated to a preposterous live-action ‘reconstruction’ of a theoretical fight between the tough guys; a sort of When Hypotheses Attack. Cue hilariously gory sequences in which Ninjas stab Pirates, William Wallace skewers a Zulu, the Yakuza and the Mafia shoot each other in the knees, and the Taliban take on the IRA.
Yes: the Taliban take on the IRA. In the season finale. Which is better – an Islamic extremist or an Irish republican revolutionary? There’s only one way to find out. Fight!
You’ll have to wait weeks for that, but if you’re a fan of astronomical bad taste, you’ll enjoy it. Especially the bit where they watch footage of real IRA operations and go ‘woah, that’s HARDCORE’. And the bit where they test landmines and nailbombs and flamethrowers. And the bit where the IRA and the Taliban go head-to-head in an American car park for NO REASON WHATSOEVER. It’s one of those pieces of television that defies logic, taste, and decency to such an immense degree, it actually ceases to be offensive and teeters on the brink of inadvertent artistic genius instead. Who’d have thought the spectacle of Western civilisation actively collapsing into madness would be this funny? Ha ha! HA HA HA!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In which MPs provoke fury, potato crisps appear in appalling new flavours, and the British National Party offends anyone with a basic grasp of human decency and/or graphic design.
The New Media Dictionary [2 February 2009]
This week, in a break from my traditional self-centred misanthropic festival of whining, here’s an abridged version of the New Media Dictionary: a useful compendium of terms and definitions for the exciting world of modern mass communication.
abbaration (abba-rayshun) n. Inexplicably successful West End musical based on the back catalogue of any once-popular pop act in the vein of Mamma Mia; e.g. ‘I see Dancing On the Ceiling’s opened at the Lyceum. Think it’s some sort of Lionel Richie abbaration.’
auntiepathy (auntee-pathee) n. Ingrained tabloid hostility towards the BBC.
broverkill (bro-verr-kill) n. To be almost, but not quite, as bored of listening to people talk about how they don’t watch Big Brother as by the continued existence of the programme itself.
carolemalone (carol-mal-own) vb. To viciously pontificate about a celebrity’s perceived character flaws and imagined motivations while grinning like the dung-fed offspring of Peter Cushing and Zelda from Terrahawks channelling Kajagoogoo in your nightmarish byline photo; e.g. ‘For God’s sake, Jennifer, take off that fright wig and stop carolemaloning about John Cleese’s divorce, will you? You’re making my soul weep.’
chudge (chudj) n. An underqualified judge on an underwhelming TV talent contest.
commentally ill (com-mental-ly-ill) adj. To believe that airing one’s views in either a newspaper column or the Have Your Say section accompanying the online version of said newspaper column is a meaningful activity when compared to, say, spending eternity masturbating alone in a soundproofed cupboard.
craptitude test (krap-ti-chewed tessed) n. A televised talent contest with a panel of chudges (qv).
crotchdog (krotch-dog) n. Dismal paparazzo whose career consists of lying in the gutter desperately pointing his camera up the skirts of celebrities exiting limousines.
dwindlethink (dwin-dull-think) vb. The process by which a member of the public forms an opinion on a subject of national importance after viewing a plebbledashed (qv) news report, then finds themselves passing it on to the nation when stopped in the street for another plebbledashed (qv) report the following day.
funography (phun-oh-grafee) n. Television programme which gleefully revels in its own hideousness. Also funographic (adj); e.g. ‘Last night’s I’m a Celebrity was so funographic I chortled all the shame cells out of my body.’
i-witness (eyewitness) n. Any internet messageboard user quoted in a newspaper article in a bid to pad out a weak story; eg: ‘Leona Lewis fans were furious last night after the star pulled out of a charity gig at the last minute. An i-witness raged: “We’d queued in the rain for hours … Now when I look at my copy of Spirit it makes me want to puke.”’
inspector Google (inspector googol) n. Allegedly ‘investigative’ reporter who relies solely on the internet.
life-affirminge (life-affer-minge) adj. Descriptive of any TV ‘makeover’ show that purports to boost a participant’s confidence in a positive and inspirational manner by encouraging them to weep and strip completely naked on camera, preferably simultaneously.
mock examination (mokk-eggs-ammy-na-shun) n. Close-up zoom-lens photograph of vaguely out-of-shape holidaying celebrity accompanied by disdainful copy pouring unwarranted scorn on their physical failings.
mousemob (mows-mob) n. Gathering of indignant reality TV viewers on an internet messageboard hellbent on petitioning Ofcom over some illusory injustice perpetrated by their favourite programme; e.g. ‘Within minutes of Jeremy Edwards being kicked off Dancing on Ice there was a 500-strong mousemob screaming “Fix!” on Digital Spy.’
nowtrage (nowt-rage) n. Lame and unconvincing tabloid outrage designed to create a self-perpetuating storm of controversy. Also, nowtrageous (adj); e.g. ‘This Jonathan Ross pensioner sex-joke story in the News of the World is embarrassingly nowtrageous.’
phwoared escort (fword-ess-court) n. Down-on-her-luck vice girl unwittingly captured topless on a hidden camera by an undercover tabloid reporter in order to illustrate a prurient article gleefully belittling her desperately unhappy circumstances.
piersonality (peers-on-allitee) n. Self-consciously odious celebrity who trades on their own widely accepted repugnance to infuriatingly lucrative effect, thereby creating an unassailable feedback loop of violent loathing in absolutely everyone other than themselves; e.g. Piers Morgan.
plebbledash (plebbul-dash) n. To bulk up a television news report with needless vox-pop soundbites from ill-informed members of the public.
PR-reviewed phindings (peeyarr-rev-yood-fyne-dings) n. Light-hearted newspaper article based around any risible ‘scientific survey’ produced by a marketing agency to promote a product or service; eg: ‘It’s the BREAST news men have heard in years – Britain’s women are set to evolve BIGGER BOOBS in future, according to scientists at Cardiff’s Wonderbra Institute of Titology.’
printernot (pryn-ter-knot) n. Any example of a newspaper’s feeble attempt to appeal t
o a younger demographic by likening some aspect of itself to the internet, such as re-christening its letters page the ‘Messageboard’.
scoffee break (scoff-ee-brake) n. Office lunchtime spent sneering pathetically at unflattering snaps of cellulite-peppered thighs in a Heat magazine mock examination (qv).
twittle-cattle (twittul-cattul) n. Hordes of people patiently queuing up to moo aimlessly at each other in the latest online social networking craze.
zerotoleriddance (zero-toller-riddantz) n. The moment the public mood finally and irrevocably turns against a hitherto-justabout-tolerable minor celebrity; eg, ‘We put Danielle Lloyd on the cover and sales nosedived; looks like she’s hit zerotoleriddance.’
Voice of the people [9 February 2009]
What’s that? You think it’s easy filling a page each week with this gibberish? Well, it is. But some weeks aren’t as easy as others. For one thing, pretty much all I’ve been aware of all week is snow tumbling from the sky, and everyone else has already written about that – and I mean everyone, from Melanie Phillips to the late Roy Kinnear. The only other thing I’ve noticed is some kind of acute muscular spasm in my neck and left shoulder, and that’s hardly entertaining, except maybe for the bit where the doctor rather brilliantly prescribed me diazepam so I necked some and walked very slowly around the Westfield shopping centre listening to Henry Mancini’s Pink Panther theme on repeat on an MP3 player, smiling eerily at shoppers.
Anyway, being stumped, I decided to ask the people following me on Twitter for some one-word suggestions as to what to write about. For the two or three of you who don’t already know, Twitter – which has garnered almost as much coverage as the snow in recent weeks – is a monumentally pointless ‘social networking ‘thingamajig that lets you type 140-word ponderings or questions to an audience of other time-wasters.
The high point in Twittering history appears to be an incident last week in which Stephen Fry got stuck in a lift and passed the time by ‘tweeting’ about it in real time. Since Fry has about 100,000 followers on Twitter (other users who sign up so they can read about your every move – like benevolent stalkers, basically), this made his ordeal both more entertaining for him and a harmless diversion for everyone else. Like most meaningless indulgences, it sounds fairly nauseating to anyone who hasn’t given it a go, but once you’ve ‘got it’, there’s something strangely compelling about it. It’s the online equivalent of popping bubble wrap.
Anyway, the people of Twitter had helped me out once before by explaining how to cook a haggis, which I needed to know in a hurry for reasons too dull to explain. This time I asked them to suggest subjects for this column – and limited them to one word, thinking that might make the selection process easier. In reality, it was like sticking your head out of the window of a moving car and finding the atmosphere was made of words instead of air. Still, having asked for suggestions, it would be churlish not to use some of them. So here’s a selection of micro-columns on the most popular suggestions, in order of frequency:
Snow: Every other suggestion, predictably, was ‘snow’ – thereby giving me an excuse to write about it after all. I’m not a snow fan. It’s cold, white mould and nothing more. Still, the worst thing about the snow is all the TV news reports filled with ‘Your Pictures’ of tittering cretins building snowmen. One after the other, all of them rubbish. Having wasted airtime displaying 10,000 dull family snaps, the anchors still weren’t satiated – ‘Do keep sending your snow photos to our email address,’ they repeatedly pleaded. Jesus Christ, why not abuse your position and ask the audience to send in something genuinely interesting, like close-ups of intimate body parts?
Bale: Another popular suggestion: Christian Bale’s shoutburst. It wasn’t actually that unreasonable: a director of photography adjusting lights in an actor’s eyeline during a take is a huge no-no, especially if they do it repeatedly. Also, if the makers of the film are canny, they’ll leave his tantrum in the finished cut and work round it. Might break the fourth wall for a bit, but it’s guaranteed box office.
Golliwogs: Should Carol Thatcher have been sacked from The One Show on the basis of a private, unaired conversation? No, but then she didn’t apologise or clarify what she meant afterwards, so yes. That’s that cleared up.
Sex/ Felching/ Nipples etc: A fair proportion of the requests were for ‘naughty’ subjects, either body parts or unconventional sexual practices, which suggests a public thirst for unnecessary smut which the Guardian is spectacularly failing to address. The editors don’t like me writing about this sort of thing, but the people have spoken, goddamit – so, for the record, my favourite unconventional sexual practice (to read about, not actually partake in, you understand) is ‘docking’, which refers to two men facing each other with their penises out; one extends his foreskin and tucks it over the head of the other one’s member, thereby ‘docking’ them together. There. You’ll never see that mentioned in the Daily Telegraph, which is why this is the greatest newspaper in the world.
Wotsits/ Dirigibles/ Teacakes/ Songsmith etc: See, the problem with asking thousands of people for one-word suggestions is that you’re quickly swamped with so many disparate and random entries the exercise becomes less useful than flipping through a dictionary at random. This tallies with my how-to-cook-a-haggis query experience, incidentally: I got so many contradictory responses I was left unsure whether to steam it for 45 minutes or bake it in foil for an hour and a half – which wouldn’t matter really, except I was also warned that to cook it incorrectly would result in terrible food poisoning.
To glance back through this list, it would seem that asking Twitter for advice on what to write about isn’t a great gambit, full stop. The top three suggestions were either too obvious or have been covered at length elsewhere, and the rest were either too dirty to go into in detail (a shame, in my view), or blended into white noise by dint of sheer volume.
In summary, I’ve learned nothing and neither have you. But it’s passed some time. And that’s Twitter all over. Anyway, next week: Israel v Palestine – who’s right?
On flavoured potato crisps [16 February 2009]
In these health-conscious times, potato crisps have a bad reputation. Gone are the days when you could walk down the street cheerfully snuffling through a pack of Smoky Bacon. Try that now and people will stare at you like you’re shooting heroin directly into a genital vein.
The standard tuckshop brands of crisps are shameful things, to be eaten in secret on a car journey. Of course, the fey ‘gourmet’ varieties – thicker, hand-cooked ‘artisan’ crisps with flavours such as Aged Stilton and Ambassador’s Port – are still considered acceptable by the food Nazis, provided they’re served in a bowl at a cocktail party, surrounded by organic vol-au-vents and snobs. That’s because our food neurosis is actually snootiness in disguise.
Consequently, the cheap end of the crisp market has to pull stunts to distract you from the crushing social disgrace involved in actually purchasing a bag. Walkers’ latest wheeze is a fun competition. Stage one: they ran adverts inviting the public to suggest exotic new taste sensations. Stage two: they chose six finalists, released them into the wild, and asked the public to vote for their favourite. Stage three: the votes are counted and the top flavour becomes a permanent member of the Walkers line-up. We’re currently in stage two.
To lend the enterprise some gravitas, on the Walkers website you can watch kitchen surrealist Heston Blumenthal discussing the new flavours as though he genuinely believes they’re edible. But are they? As the nation’s foremost investigative journalist, I decided to find out, by buying a packet of each and sampling them. It was a mission that would take me to the very heart of a newsagent’s and back. Here are my capsule reviews of the six competing varieties:
Builder’s Breakfast: There’s some confusion over the exact contents of the Builder’s Breakfast. On the website, Heston claims they taste of ‘sausages, bacon, eggs and beans’, whereas the packet itself lists ‘bacon, buttered toast, eggs and tom
ato sauce’. This would imply that even Walkers don’t know what they’ve got on their hands, possibly because the crisps themselves taste of stale fried egg and little else. It captures the feeling of sitting in a greasy spoon, being dumped via text while your food repeats on you. Depressing.
Crispy Duck and Hoisin: A fairly accurate rendition, although if you close your eyes they taste like the standard Roast Chicken flavour might if the ‘chicken’ in them had been killed with a hammer made of compacted sugar. This is probably something Heston actually does in his restaurant.
Fish and Chips: Sounds like a good idea, but think about it: FISH CRISPS. Consequently they smell vaguely infected. Actually eat one and it’s like kissing someone who’s just eaten a plateful of scampi. Halfway through they belch in your mouth.
Onion Bhaji: The most convincing flavour, but they taste watered-down; as though Heston boiled one tiny bhaji in a swimming pool full of Evian, and then dipped some potatoes in it. It’s like a lame TV movie about onion bhajis, starring Adam Woodyatt, with a soundtrack consisting entirely of library music, broadcast directly on to your tastebuds.
Cajun Squirrel: Self-consciously ‘wacky’ and attention-grabbing entry. Walkers are keen to point out that ‘no squirrels were harmed in the making of this crisp’, which is a pity because I had chuckle-some visions of thousands of live, screaming squirrels being bull-dozered into an immense bubbling cauldron in front of a party of horrified schoolchildren. The flavour itself is truly vile: if they’d called it Squirrel’s Blood, everyone would’ve believed them. They taste precisely like a tiny cat piping hot farts through a pot-pourri pouch into your mouth.
The Hell of it All Page 34
