If you did not see the gayest thing on TV this year so far (and that includes the moment "H" from Steps tried to teach "The Face" from the A-Team to perform a dance routine to "I Don't Feel Like Dancing" by the Scissor Sisters) then Fredordead is here to help.
Turn your sound up, press play and behold what is surely the epitomy of GAY.
Take That - the opening to a live broadcast called Dancing on Ice on Saturday night on BBC1 complete with Torville and Dean skating round them and endless skating be-hooped dancers dressed up in giant condoms.
I love the moment Gary Barlow abandons his piano (presumably it plays itself from that point) to do a bit of dancing - surely a simple enough routine - he still manages to look like your dad at a wedding after a few glasses of asti spumanti.
It's brilliance for me was the fact that we had all these icons of yesterday like Take That, Philip Schofield and Toville and Deane being wheeled back onto prime time TV all at the same time making the point to everyone that talent doesn't age and that our generation has still plenty to offer.
What a Furore!! Grace Dent sums it up for us. Thank god for her...
So another Celebrity Big Brother is over. Shilpa Shetty is crowned queen. Jermaine Jackson and Dirk Benedict are second and third.
What a relief it's finally over. I was compelled by Big Brother as I've always been, but feel-good telly this was definitely not.
Big Brother feels like escapism less and less these days. It's not like the daily double edition of Friends on E4, which, after a hard day at work, is the televisual equivalent of a warm bath, half a valium and snuggling up on the fluffy tummy of Sesame Street's Mr Snuffleupagus.
No, Big Brother isn't happy telly. It's not satisfying. It doesn't send us off feeling like we've achieved anything. It chucks up hundreds of questions but no answers, makes us revisit childhood traumas and relationship woes and makes us confront our own prejudices and hypocrises.
It has us drumming our fists with fury, calling Ofcom, despairing the fabric of British society and arguing with our friends. It leaves us swivel-eyed and knackered in a lump on our sofas shouting, "I hate you! You're rubbish these days! Mmm…errr, when does BB8 begin? I need to set my Sky+…" Let's face it, we're all hooked.
That aside, the fact that Shilpa, Jermaine and Dirk, the non-British contingent took the top places pleases me greatly. OK, pleases and amuses. Here we are, good old Blighty, the land where every woman is free to pole-dance, binge-drink and reverberate our own bare bum cheeks merrily on CCTV in Basildon Cocoloco Niteclub (just as Emiline Pankhurst dreamed). Hurray - girl power! Then along comes Shilpa Shetty: a teetotal Hindu girl who lives with her mum, likes cooking, early nights and praying and we give her first prize for possessing the characteristics we Brits admire.
Next along, Britain's second most-adored housemate is Jermaine Jackson, an African-American Muslim bloke admired for keeping the house unified with his softly spoken lessons in peace and tolerance.
"Kindness is a strength," Jermaine would whisper, "Use this to build a strong foundation." Having used up his 14-word quota for the day, Jermaine would tootle off back to the bedroom, unfurl his blue matt and begin praying.
"Hee! Hee! You should put all your little mantras into a book!" squeaks Davina. Erm, Davina, Jermaine doesn't need to. It's called the Koran, it's available in bookshops already.
In fact, stop press: the attributes of Jermaine, who Britain has warmed to so greatly, could be summed up neatly as "peacefully following Islam". Crikey, could someone tip off Sky News? I think this might warrant one of their big crash, bang, wallop red alerts and Kay Burley pulling a face like Chicken Licken waiting for the sky to fall in.
To add to the melee, third place in popularity goes to Dirk Benedict, an American bear-hunting conservative who thinks women should stay at home and look after their own babies, do the cooking and cover up their middle-aged cleavages.
How Dirk's views fit in with ten years of New Labour rule I can't quite figure, but I do know that Britain seems to have found a place in its heart for someone who likes blasting critters then turning them into fancy hats.
Damn you, Big Brother, for making me think about all of this socio-political nonsense. Thank heavens I can go back to watching Friends again. The one where Phoebe changes her name to Princess Consuela Banana-Hammock makes me feel nothing but fluffy numbness.
The evictions of Jo, Cleo, Danielle, Ian and Jack all flew by for me in a blur. Jo clearly wasn't that bothered by the accusations against her. In her heart, Jo doesn't believe she is a racist and she truly didn't seem to think that she'd been nasty to Shilpa. She simply refused to feel the requisite amount of pain we all wanted her to, no matter how much Davina did her Mrs Doubtfire face and flapped her cards.
To be quite honest, the more Davina showed the contestants the footage of what had been going on in the outside world and pulled a face like she was on a War Crimes tribunal, the more it all looked like a huge, stupid storm in a teacup and the more vindicated Jo and Danielle became.
Especially when one housemate after another queued up to say, "Yes, there was an incident last week, but no, it wasn't racist and everyone had moved on from there and they'd been getting on fine this week and erm, that's it."
"But why didn't you step in?!" Davina quacked at Cleo, Dirk and Ian. No, Davina, more importantly why didn't you step in? The housemates are sensory-deprived, brain-addled people in a vacuum, making mountains out of molehills down to sheer boredom. The TV crew in charge were the people with the power to step in and stop anything.
But with Jade and Jo now long gone into hiding, Danielle took the full flack of Davina's annoyance. Spat out of the house through jeers and howls, down a catwalk, into a chair, called a racist, showed footage of the world calling her a racist, grumped at by Davina, hissed at by the audience. If this was justice, then why didn't it feel more satisfying?
"It's only a game show!" Davina quipped at the start of the finale, which felt like a two-finger salute to everyone who complained.
Because that's all it is after all, isn't it? It's only a game show: only a few careers and livelihoods ruined. Only a few relationships shattered, a few contestants' families heartbroken, only a few safehouses booked and kids living without mum while she's in hiding, and only a few psychologists on standby and contestants said to be near-suicidal.
This is totally normal on game shows, isn't it? You should see the drama on Countdown when they run low on pens. Carnage, emotional fall-out, safehouses being booked everywhere.
Thank you so much for all of your emails during the Celebrity Big Brother blog. I read every single one and they're continually hilarious, thoughtful and outraged (usually all at once). Thanks so much for writing. It's good to know it's not just me going quietly berserk.
I hope you all come back on Friday for my regular TV OD column, where I'll be discussing Skins, Dancing on Ice and all sorts of other stuff.
I asked you last week what they should do to make BB8 better. You mailed me lots of good suggestions, but one was very popular:
"Bring back the chickens. And make them all do the gardening. Give them something to love and look after."
For some reason I like the idea of the BB8 going back to basics. Feeding chickens. Mowing lawns. Clipping topiary. Maybe the odd minor argument in a house meeting due to one housemate sneaking in a contraband pencil.
It wouldn't be that exciting but I'd still be there on my sofa. Day in, day out, sighing, saying this is crap, not as good as it was, moaning about the state of Britain today and saying I'm going to stop watching soon. But I'd still keep on watching. I always will.
I have a theory about celebrities. Let's see if I am right.
Some day in the not too distant future we will sit up suddenly from our media instilled hypnotic state and cry "Oh my holy good god!! We've been duped. We are responsible for creating the bourgeoisie of our age. We've watched this self propogating shit, which has paid the TV companies and networks, which has in turn paid the individuals ridiculous amounts of money to simply "be famous"?
Is it their intention to sell us the sight of a young "rock god" jumping into a pool a mic and flicking his ash over a kitchen and expect us to pay for it?
Or are we as a nation paying perhaps for the career advancement of a young lady who "nearly" won the tile "Miss UK" and who finds the idea of a well respected aging film director bending over to put on his pyjamas absolutely hilarious?
I know, let's dig deep into our pockets and have a "whip round" so that we can get to see a 58 year old Leo Sayer sitting in a large chair facing a camera all night because he doesn't want to get into a double bed with a naked drunk "rock god"
On that day of reckoning, we will march upon the TV stations like they marched on the Bastille, demanding an end to this "ancien régime" and proclaim "vive la TV Nation!!"
On that day "Celebrities" will fall victim to the executioners axe and home grown genuine talent will re-emerge. (and when I say talent I do not mean TV talent like Ray Quinn or some twat from Dancing on Ice)
On that day our screens will again be filled with wholesome drama, enjoyable comedy and interesting documentaries and we will banish Celebrity 99% content free, stick thin, meatless, boneless bilge forever.
Vive la revolution mes amis.... Liberté, égalité, fraternité, ou la mort!
8:15 Wake up to hugs and kisses 8:30 Weigh-in 2 kgs lighter than yesterday 8:45 Breakfast in bed—freshly squeezed orange juice and croissants; open presents- expensive jewellery chosen by thoughtful partner 9:15 Soothing hot bath with frangipani bath oil 10:00 Light work-out at club with sexy, funny personal trainer 10:30 Facial, manicure, makeup application, shampoo, condition, blow wave 12:00 Lunch with best friend at fashionable outdoor café 12:45 Catch sight of partner’s ex and notice that she has gained 17 kgs 1:00 Shopping with friends: unlimited credit 3:00 Nap 4:00 Three dozen roses delivered by florist; card is from secret admirer 4:15 Massage from strong but gentle hunk—says he rarely gets to work on such a perfect body 5:30 Choose outfit from expensive designer wardrobe 7:30 Candlelit dinner for two followed by dancing, with compliments received from other diners/ dancers 10:00 Hot shower- alone 10:50 Carried to bed… freshly ironed, crisp, white linen 11:00 Pillow talk, light touching and cuddling 11:15 Fall asleep in his big, strong arms
THE PERFECT DAY FOR HIM…
6:00 Alarm 6:15 Blow job 6:30 Massive, satisfying shit while reading the sports section 7:00 Breakfast—steak and eggs, coffee and toast—all cooked by naked, buxom wench who bends over a lot 7:30 Limo arrives 7:45 Several beers en route to the airport 9:15 Flight in personal Lear jet 9:30 Limo to Mirage Resort Golf Club (blow job en-route) 9:45 Play front nine (2 under par) 11:45 Lunch—steak and lobster, 3 beers and bottle of Dom Perignon 12:15 Blow job 12:30 Play back nine (4 under) 2:15 Limo back to airport (several bourbons) 2:30 Fly to Bahamas 3:30 Late afternoon fishing expedition with all-female crew, all nude who also bend over a lot 4:30 Land world record Marlin (1234lbs)—on light tackle 5:00 Fly home, massage and hand job by naked Elle MacPherson (bending over, naturally) 6:45 Shit, shower and shave 7:00 Watch news—Michael Jackson assassinated 7:30 Dinner—lobster appetisers, Dom Perignon (1953), big juicy fillet steak followed by ice cream served on a big pair of tits 9:00 Napoleon Brandy and Habanos cigars in front of wall-sized TV as you watch football game 9:30 Sex with three women, all with lesbian tendencies 11:00 Massage and Jacuzzi with tasty pizza snacks and a cleansing beer 11:30 Night-cap blow job 11:45 In bed alone 11:50 A 22-second fart which changes note 4 times and forces the dog to leave the room 11:51 Laugh yourself to sleep
Has it really been 12 years since the last Kate Bush album? Apparently. Going further back, it's hard to believe that Hounds of Love appeared in 1985. I remember listening to this track on a Now that's what I call Music album and thinking it was fantastic. The reminder of older age notwitstanding (recently hearing a cover version of this song by a grungy british band called The Futureheads) I love this song.
With it, and with hits from it such as Running Up That Hill the queen of bohemia stamped her name on the sound of a decade. And now we're in 2005 and Kate Bush has released Aerial, a double CD. The first disc, A Sea Of Honey, is a personal and public collection of songs. The second disc, A Sky of Honey, is an attempt to capture the beauty of a summer day in music. The sun rises, a painter appears, Kate Bush sings in tune with the birds. Pitch perfect.
The opening song, King of the Mountain, is a loving tribute to Elvis:
Another Hollywood waitress Is telling us she's having your baby And there's a rumour that you're on ice And you will rise again someday And that there's a photograph Where you're dancing on your grave
Best of all is Joanni, a very un-PC tribute to a fighting saint
Joanni, Joanni wears a golden cross And she looks so beautiful in her armour Joanni, Joanni blows a kiss to God And she never wears a ring on her finger
All the cannon are firing And the swords are clashing And the horses are charging And the flags are flying And the battle is raging And the bells, the bells are ringing
Kate Bush. People either love her or they don't. There's no middle ground. Pretentious in places, sagely wise in others, she's older, wiser and better than ever. Buy this album and listen to it.. For years and years. You'll never get tired of it and you will still listen to it in 20 years - guaranteed.
