Is it just me that feels standards in television have sunk to an all time low? That actual entertainment is something consigned to the dustbin of media history? I suspect not…
I suppose it all started with Big Brother, a show so monumentally cheap, shoddy and boring that even the Channel 4 dumped it – but that didn’t stop Channel 5 picking it up and keeping it going. It’s now on 5*, a channel that most people don’t even bother to watch at all!
And that spawned another load of old bollocks – “I’m a non-entity, get the fuck outta here!” or something like that. Personally I just wish they’d leave them all in the jungle to starve to death, preferably ending up by eating those two failed childrens’ telly presenters, Act and Dec. That at least I would like to watch!
But it’s not new, of course. We had Opportunity Knocks and Thank Your Lucky Stars before the destroyer of modern music, Simon Cowell, came along with Pop Idol and X-Factor. And don’t get me started on Britain’s Got Talent because, frankly, it just hasn’t…
So here we go again. Masterchef rolls to a close and the two pretentious, irritating supercillious twats that present it get put back in the closet to be rolled out again in the next inevitable incarnation. Wow, it was so exciting! Whatever will we watch now?
Well, fear not because here comes another load of old cobblers to fill up the TV schedules : The Great British Bake Off. FFS! Cunts cooking cakes! Who gives a toss? No, really. Who gives a toss?
Well, Mary Berry for a start. The woman looks like Fanny Craddock has been dug up from the grave and brought back to life by Doctor Frankenstein. And then there’s that poncy self-opinionated Igor, Paul Hollow-wood. I mean, where do they find these people?
Which brings me round to property shows. Mrs D is addicted to shows like ‘Escape for the Incontinent’ and ‘A Place with the Scum’. We watch these dick heads buggering around trying to buy a five bedroom house in Spain with ten acres of land, an Olympic sized swimming pool, and wonderful views over the ocean on a budget of £50,000 and I wonder “Where the fuck do they find these people?”
The answer, of course, is quite simple. As Mrs D often explains : “They write in.”
Fucking says it all really…