Did we like it?
A few weeks ago, Jamie Oliver gassed to death male chicks there were worthless to the egg industry; this show contained at least three celebrities who make a negative contribution to the entertainment industry. Does anyone have Jamie’s number?
What was good about it?
• Alan Carr. Now shorn of the rotund, flapping albatross of Justin Lee Collins from around his neck (who is probably spending his time impeding pedestrians on Bristol streets while jabbering into his mobile phone in the hope someone will recognise him), this was perhaps a chance to show off his indelible comic talent.
• As it turned out the show was so dreadful, Carr’s reputation was enhanced by default because even though he wasn’t that funny every single utterance was a slightly polluted drop of acid rain sitting atop a festering slurry pit.
What was bad about it?
• The word ‘Celebrities’ on the panel that the slightly-more-famous-than-The-Cheeky-Girls people stand was lashed frantically in place, and strains every sinew in a bid to escape its unjust condemnation like Prometheus bidding to be liberated from his rock while the vulture is plucking at his liver.
• The shooting range of simpering faces curdled by their stay in fame purgatory were yet another bunch of ‘celebrity’ renegades who aren’t good enough in their chosen field any more and so crawl into something they’re even worse at but nobody else will do because of the shame.
• Duncan From Blue has a tic that makes him applaud like a perennial loser at an awards ceremony, where the finrotted hands start clapping automatically with no regard for if he is feeling happy, sad or feeling anything at all through that synthetically-woven boyband carapace. At one point he applauded even though there was nothing to cheer other than silence.
• Tara Palmer-Tomkinson is a one-woman TV wrecking ball, already responsible for the demise of the half-decent Bognor Or Bust, she twitters and fritters about like a blood-stained medieval spear left buried in a peasant’s groin that’s been infested with the spirit of a neurotic car alarm.
• Chris Moyles. At the Big Bang when all matter was created, just imagine somewhere in that cataclysmic maelstrom a bunch of atoms set out on their adventure through all of time with such high hopes – maybe to burn forever in the churning heart of a star, perhaps to hurtle through galaxies as a comet – but some of them were assigned to form the furred tongue of this rubbery globule of unfettered rot.
• Zoe Ball scrambles away with her dignity intact after making a less insignificant contribution than the US made to the first few years of World War Two.
• Jamelia just kept laughing and laughing and laughing.
• The ‘Civilians’ team. Brought out on stage like a pile of urchins’ rags ready to be rinsed dismissively in a bucketful of muddied water. Each wrenched from obscurity to act as spittle-tissue for Carr, where they were each regarded as little more than a shiny Scottish stereotype.
• One of Carr’s running gags with the Civilians was that he couldn’t understand their thick accents, and pretended everything they said adhered to the prescribed national stereotype – only four years after Marjorie Dawes.
• The new technique to cynically instil a sense of ‘danger’ into a show is for someone to say something outrageous, and then to plead that it gets cut out in the edit – instructing the audience as to its dangerously deviant nature. Tomkinson said that “poor people can’t afford cocaine”, followed by one such plea.
• The awful games – guess which has the most carats/carrots, Paris Hilton’s ring or a tin of soup; Kiss And Tell, in which a woman who looks as if she comes free with every double bed ordered from Whores R Us teases and tantalises that she had sex with a celebrity who later turned out to be Donny Tourette, a Celebrity Mayfly who fluttered about for a day trying to get laid before being buried in a tomb of his own obscurity; Brat Chat – a direct rip off of Children Say The Funniest Things.
• Alan Carr to Chris Moyles: “How many times have you won the DJ of the Year Award?” Moyles: “About eight!” The audience then applauded like a lingering, tropical disease in a baseless ovation to a man so showered with mediocrity he could be given away free with a Sunday newspaper supplement.