My Week In TV

It is a staple in the diet of the unemployed to consume as much terrible television as possible. As an unemployed person with their fate in the hands of the recruitment agency gods, I have abided by the unemployment bible and consumed as much shit TV as I can this week. I am positively plump with awfulness which includes, but is not in any way limited to: Snog Marry Avoid, Benefits Street, The Undateables, Eastenders, and all daytime shows on E4, comprising mostly of some trollop called Revenge where everyone is rich and hiding a big secret and shagging each other, which is very similar to every other E4 drama.

When I decided to write a TV blog post, I thought, “I’m going to WATCH television like it’s my JOB”,and so every day I put on my uniform – pyjama bottoms, a hoodie, no bra and my duvet – and I’d watch TV like a drooling vegetable, making extensive notes like this:

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WHAT HAPPENS IN SUNNY BEACH

Sometimes the TV even made me feel better. It reminded me that no matter how bad things get, it could always be worse. Case in point: What Happens in Sunny Beach…

 

Yeah, ok, so I haven’t had a proper need to brush my hair or wear pants for the past three weeks, but at least my mum won’t have to watch a fermented version of myself stumbling around on a beach, my breast breaking free from my bikini top as I choke on a pair of Cool Whip-slathered testicles for a free fishbowl.

I’m also very grateful that I am not one of the girls that has had sex with either of these total boner pups:

Having obviously skipped their sex ed classes to smoke paper round the back of the bike sheds and throw wet tampons at the bathroom ceiling, it comes as no surprise that these two “can’t do it” when it comes to condom etiquette. Look at the one on the right, he can’t even dress himself properly, poor git.

At one point some girl get completely naked on a bar for a competition. Now, this may be a sign of my age, but if there was anything that would put me off going into a bar it’s a girl slut dropping completely naked just inches away from my Woo Woo.

But to anyone that now feels infinitely depressed about our generation, I say: never fear, Gloria Steinem Y2K is here:

 

CELEBRITY BIG BROTHER

AKA Dr Drew’s Sex Rehab without Dr Drew or any effort to maintain abstinence.

Not content on Lee Ryan getting all the attention for being the biggest Fidiot (fucking idiot) in the Big Brother twatisphere are fellow BB bumholes, sex addict Luisa Zissman, and hat novice Dappy, who wears his creepy moustache like some kind of terrible lip-liner.

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Dappy Constavavalanostos; musical skidmark and drug-dealing son of Disney’s Jafar, was arguing with Zissman mere hours before. But as if by some Big Brother MIRACLE they’re now getting along like a house of fire; licking each other’s nipples, shoving their crotches into each other’s faces and talking about sex and banging and blowjobs or something. I don’t know. The sexual frivolity all blurs into one big licentious blob in the end. Where’s Lionel Blair’s shower tossjob? That’s my question.

Lee Ryan’s stint in the big brother house has not been bad for everyone involved, it would seem. Fellow boyband derp Duncan James – also known as the only man to occupy every grade of the Kinsey scale depending on how much media coverage he’s receiving – has been back allowed into several Z-lister clubs with Lee’s omelette-whisking companion, Masterchef Jasmine Waltz.

Duncan has described the accusations that he and Lee had some sort of romantic tryst during their time in Blue as “laughable”. I wouldn’t quite say that they were laughable myself, considering that Lee has admitted to experimenting with men and Duncan has the ability to switch to Kinsey Six when needs be.

THE VOICE

The Voice was another show I enjoyed this week, but not because of all this singing and life-changing bollocks. My favourite part of The Voice is watching new co-host Marvyn Humes’ utterly insincere begs for a chair spin to the judges whilst standing awkwardly with the families of the musical hopefuls. He seems wholly uncomfortable and unnatural in his role as a male cheerleader. Watch this:

Or, if you can’t be bothered to watch my badly put together Marvyn Montage, watch this Marvyn vine, which is just as poorly done but much shorter.

I also watched the news. The news is rarely quite so comedic, but when THIS story came to light…

….it was hard not to laugh, but in a disbelieving and frustrated way; the kind I do when trying to help my mum send an email.  

This old todger believes that the UK storms and floods were caused by gay people being happy and marrying each other. Apparently the letter containing David Silvester’s pious plop and monochromatic view of the world was delivered to David Cameron in April 2012, probably by carrier pigeon or telegram. Mr Silvester said that he predicted severe weather conditions were due to occur when same-sex marriage was to be legalised. I wonder if he predicted the massive shit storm caused by such a homophobic forecast, too.

Also Justin Bieber was arrested for drink-drag racing but no one gives a shit.

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Game of Thrones is Very Misleading.

When I heard that season four of Game of Thrones was coming to our telly-boxes real soon, I was all like Jeeeesus, how much of this shit can people take? Surely even Celebrity Big Brother is better than GOT (as seasoned Throner Boners call it), and that’s just a bunch of big-titted idiots bumping uglies with the UK’s most braindead boyband has-been. That’s until I found out that I’d got it completely wrong, and Game Of Thrones was not in fact an extremely elaborate and expensive game of musical chairs in which participants dance to medieval music, and the one who doesn’t get a throne when the music stops must remove all their clothes and wait for Peter Dinklage. It’s a real TV drama*.

 

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*I have not watched Game of Thrones.

Suck It, Starbucks.

As my mum has decided to return to the Dark Ages and get rid of her internet for a while I have no choice but to find public places to do my blogs/look at Facebook. You may be thinking that I don’t need the internet to write these blogs, but you would be wrong – how else am I supposed to procrastinate and be late posting every week?

It’s hard to choose which place is the least cliché to work in. The answer is: there is nowhere that is the least cliché. Wherever you go, you are sat with your laptop in public, looking like a massive attention seeker. And writing a blog doesn’t make it any easier – the only way my public life could take more of a hipster turn is if I took a selfie whilst wearing my ultra-fashionable glasses and GEEK tee, my laptop and maybe a healthy salad lurking somewhere in the background; uploaded it to Instagram with the following caption: NEW BLOG POST, YO #salad #yolo #creative #lifeofablogger. However this would never happen because I could never afford a Mac; instead possessing the crumbiest HP mini on which the keys don’t work properly and the battery falls off if not supported correctly.

Today I have gone with Starbucks. I have outstayed my welcome in Costa the past couple of days. Now the only other place I can take shelter is the library, which smells like moth balls and unwashed charity shop clothes; or a pub which, at this time of day (2.15pm) is full of lonely alcoholics who either threaten to take you on a date or threaten to take you outside and stab you in the vagina as they flop, inebriated, onto your tabletop.

Sometimes these blogs take me a while to write. Mostly because half of the time is spent watching episodes of Breaking Bad on Netflix. So in order to be in a coffee shop without getting asked to leave I need a constant stream of beverages that aren’t just my usual tap water. So since becoming a key member of the LOOK-AT-ME-I-WRITE-IN-STARBUCKS club, I’ve been expanding my coffee horizons. The downside of trying lots of different coffees is that I usually end up walking a very fine line of having very intense writing sessions and a hyperactive personality disorder.

The worst time of day to be caught in Starbucks is around 3.30pm. You know school’s out when it stops smelling like coffee and the room becomes overwhelmed with the scent of about twenty different impulse body sprays. A typical GSCE “study sesh” by students from the local grammar schools consists of a five minute debate on Lord of the Flies, then two hours eagerly discussing last night’s Made In Chelsea, awkward boners, blowies, boob-grabs and the “Diet Coke Diet” (a can o’ coke morning noon and night, coffee as a treat, and a Babybel after P.E if one is feeling a little woozy – probably to help replace all those calories lost from standing around and TALKING during netball practice (burn!)).  When I was their age, I was still getting stuck in the baby swing at my local park, drinking copious amounts Sunny D and reluctantly making the transition from vest to bras (late bloomer). Now kids buy coffee and chai tea and shop at Victoria’s Secret and give blowies? What the eff! Mixing sex talk with a social commentary of “William Golding’s, like, total masterpiece, basically”? It’s like being in a room full of slutty Matildas.

However, when I’m on my seventh hour and millionth caramel latte, and the dark roast smell begins to mingle and react with the hairspray and Lynx Africa in the air, it begins to cloud my brain and my other personality comes out; hyper and manic. It suddenly becomes very hard to resist flicking all my hair over to one side and bounding over to them like an awkward bull in the most pretentious china shop, squealing “Oh my GOD you guys I love Lord of the Flies when I was in school I didn’t even know what a conch was I didn’t do well in my GSCE’s HEY GUYS do you like One Direction? You know the popular boy band? Do you like their songs because I like all of them especially the one about being beautiful or the one about being so fat you can’t fit in your jeans – you guys like Harry? Yeah you like Harry! Do you have Instagram? I’ll add you! Yeah I’ve had sex before” but I don’t know what stops me more: looking like Starbucks’ resident paedophile or shitting my pants from all the excitement.

Instead I do not take my eyes off my laptop – not because I’m too busy writing, but because I don’t want to make eye contact with anyone else in there. I just can’t accept that acknowledging nod from the guy in the thick-rimmed glasses with the Airbook that says “K’aw, look at us writers, hey! NO LOOK AT US. WE’RE BOTH WRITERS. LOOK AT ME – I’M WRITING MY NOVEL DEBUT”, because it means I will have to admit the dire position I’m in right now. Of course we’re not both writers. We don’t get paid for this! I’m paying for a muffin in coppers for Christ’s sake! We’re just unemployed dreamers who like to pretend that we gonna make it real big one day. And the only thing worse that admitting I’m writing a novel in Starbucks is admitting that I’m writing a blog, which requires much less commitment. I have no qualms in raising my voice to him over the hum of Starbucks’ Jazz Café CD to let him know: “WE’RE NOT THE SAME! I’M ONLY HERE BECAUSE I STILL LIVE WITH MY MOTHER AT 23 AND SHE WON’T BUY ME ANY MORE INTERNETS!” Because I would feel less ashamed to do that. See, I like to do my writin’ and my dreamin’ from the comfort of my darkened bedroom. At least there I don’t have this bitch prizing the last five pounds out of my barren purse for a fucking jaffa cake:

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 Go suck a dick, siren.

Paranoid Activity: THE PITCH

What if Paranormal Activity wasn’t called Paranormal Activity but Paranoid Activity, and Katie and Micah’s house wasn’t really haunted they just think it’s haunted because they’re all edgy from smoking too much dope, and Katie is all like “OH MY CHRIST WHO OPENED ALL THESE CUPBOARDS IN THE KITCHEN?!?!?” but it was just her because she got the midnight munchies and decided to make a ketchup sandwich.

paranoid