Farmer Favourite Effs Off

Tonight we are promised a favourite will quit the farm. Snore. This happens every season. Through the magic of television we are lulled into believing a farmer has found ‘the one’ only to find it’s actually someone behind the scenes pulling strings (shock horror) to satisfy some sick desire for controlling other people’s lives dictator-style. Dictator wants a wife. Now that would be something worth watching.

Thus far, the series has been as bland as a sachet of instant porridge, meaning nicknames for our farmers have been hard to come by. I will do my best to remedy this by satisfying my own desire to make shit up for the purposes of entertainment. I could totally be a producer of this television show.

First up is Farmer Frank, and while Nat is prone to describing him as ‘red hot’, I prefer to think of him as ‘the male Samantha Stosur’. Frank Stosur gets his ladies to sort cattle, and with his monotone drone he is getting the ladies excited. He rides a quad bike and the girls are getting even hotter. Settle girls, real men ride two-wheelers. Amazingly, the girls aren’t bored to death on the farm, and as Farmer Stosur hoses one of his girls down the other horses look on with jealousy, and say there is no connection between the big F and the one he is hosing down. He takes another one of his girls to his favourite spot on the farm – I’m assuming it’s at the end of that long driveway he is rumoured to have. She gives him a harmonica and he attempts to play it but you know he wants to blow something else. They share an uncomfortably long kiss and by the time it is over we’ve had time to run down to the end of that long driveway, meet the mailman and run back again.

Poetry Tim is banging on in verse again, and thinks his girls might have something in common. Yeah, they’re all blonde and want their 15 minutes by visiting a farmer for a week and having the experience filmed. He takes them to meet his dad Gus, who wants a girl to give the Poet some responsibility and some debt. Good man, Gus. Angela is asked to describe PT and she manages to come up with ‘great’ and ‘awesome’. That dictionary she got for Christmas has come in handy, then. She says it is really easy to chat to PT one on one. Well if he is ‘great’ and ‘awesome’, why wouldn’t it be? The Polish girl is the one the Poet fancies the most, and at this news she says she is excited, but to look at her you would think she’d just learned someone had killed her grandma.

Farmer Trent – nickname to be determined – takes someone blonde to catch some chickens, a task made all the easier by the fact that they are already locked inside the chook shed. It’s a bit like trying to find a Port Power supporter with an entire set of teeth. Pointless. He then takes a nurse on a picnic, and she grills him as if he’s the leader of the free world and Osama bin Laden has just been assassinated. Does he want kids? Will he ever move or does he want to stay on the farm? Did he wet the bed as a child? What’s the hardest part about being a triplet? Getting a bit of peace and quiet I’d say, you’re not helping Nursey. She wants to be with someone who can make her laugh. Good luck finding someone who can get a word in I say.

Farmer Kev is a dead ringer for Jason Bateman and will now be referred to as Farmer Bluth. (For those of you playing along at home, google Arrested Development and Jason Bateman.) He goes fishing with Fiona who doesn’t like Farmer Bluth’s beanie but wears ridiculous head gear herself. They like each other which is nice and kind of the point of the show. Meanwhile Jaundice is feeling left out and doesn’t feel like FB is really ‘seeing’ her. But wait until night falls, she’ll be glowing in the dark and he will be drawn to her like a moth to a flame. FB digs a hole and Jaundice asks if they can talk after Fishy Fiona gave her a pep talk. They go for a roll in the hay and Jaundice asks him if there is any money in this farming business? Not so much, FB says, but there’s always money in the banana stand!

Big Bad Boring Will plays rugby and his girls watch him. Funbags brown noses with his mum again, but she likes Gum Boots better anyway. Meanwhile, the tiny blonde one starts crying because she forgot to take her medication. And because she knows that one wrong move in the sack with Will and she’ll be a goner. It is alleged this farmer was a professional rugby player. It is alleged that I am Kim Clijsters on the tennis court. You be the judge.

That brings us to Old Cheddar, who takes his dogs for a walk. His kelpies go too. They separate calves and this is a chance for his girls to shine. That Bitch Belinda is his favourite, therefore we know she is going to pull the pin. But not until she meets his sons who look almost as old as he is, and they give her the seal of approval. There is also a rather dodgy looking cheesecake doing the rounds. As Old Ched is about to saddle up and go for a romantic ride with Belinda, she tells him she misses her daughters and has decided to leave the farm. As if the man hasn’t had his heart ripped out enough after the death of his beloved, now this tart has up and left because she has been on the farm for two days and can’t cut the umbilical cord. But good on her too, because the chicks Old Ched is left with seem real nice. As long as they stop making cheesecakes.

Next time: someone rides a motorbike and someone is described as a bush bachelor as the sun rises for another day on the land.

Down On The Farm: A Reprise

Channel 9 is rushing through the latest series of the Farmer Wants A Shag faster than they axed Ben Elton Live From Planet Earth. It’s being shown two nights a week, and in the second episode there is already kissing and groping and butterflies in tummies. Usually they break us in gently to this kind of shit, but already we’ve had a staged mud fight, one of the girls has met one of the guys’ mother, and there has been a ‘date’ on a haystack. Why the rush? My only thought is that they’ve run out of adjectives and alliteration to describe the farmers, aka ‘bush bachelors’ and need to get things over with quick smart.

This season’s farmers are an attractive bunch, but personalities are taking a while to muster any inspiration from this audience. Nat tells us that in this game “there can only be one winner, and that’s love.” Good to see they’ve updated the script. Carefree farmer Tim from Murrayville has chosen three blondes to visit his farm. That’s what I like about this show, originality. He cooks his girls a meal the colour of calf shit, which is so spicy the girls are forced to only eat rice.  FWAW – teaching life skills like how to survive in a third world country. He and one of his bland blondes go for a roll in the hay and talk about how interesting they aren’t. From this, he is able to deduct that Jaclyn might be attracted to him. Stop the presses.

Big farmer Will, who likes to dance and get advice from his mum about everything from which girl to date to wiping his backside, is shown preparing his (mum’s) house for the arrival of his girls. He puts out fruit and thinks about putting out carrot sticks. He’s either expecting a stampede of equines or Santa Claus. Consequently, the horsey looking one with the fun bags turns up early to get a jump-start on securing Big Will’s affections. The other two eventually turn up and are dark that Fun Bags is playing by her own rules. Never mind, because the one wearing gum boots gets to go on a date with him to sort cattle. Big Will thinks they have chemistry, but unless it’s of the brotherly/sisterly love variety I beg to differ.

Old Cheddar John is only getting better with age, and since his wife died he hasn’t participated in the game of love. Because finding love should be done with the intrusion of cameras and the nation watching your every move, he feels comfortable that now is the right time to get back in the game. His women arrive to a flooded river, which they must cross one by one with Old Cheddar on his tractor. “Nothing but the force of nature can keep them apart,” Nat muses. Thank god for nature I say. Cheddar cuts his finger while slicing carrots to a thickness that would be perfect if you’re wanting to choke to death, and then gets his ladies to brush his horses’ tails, which is as wrong as it sounds. He takes his favourite Botox Belinda for a horse ride and they bond and kiss, although I think that’s only so he can try and find her top lip. Botox Bel says she is looking for someone who can give her what she gives them. Didn’t know ear aches were so popular.

We don’t see much of Farmer Frank, he of the bright green shirt and slow drawl. But what we do see is a tyre changing competition, with the winner securing a dinner date with the Big F. A brunette wins, and the blondes cook them dinner while secretly wanting to poison their competition by undercooking the chicken. Salmonella is so sexy right now. One of the blondes sits in a paddock with the Big F as she cries about how everyone she knows always ends up dead. Watch out Frank! You’re next! He hugs her to console her then they pash without him realizing her saliva is potentially fatal to mankind.

Farmer Trent is supposedly ‘adorable’, and he has made each of his girls (all blonde and all wearing black jeans and a grey top – does this farmer have a type?) a gift box for when they arrive. Inside are candles, a teddy bear, nail polish and a card, which reads, “Surprise! I’m this season’s Farmer Charles!” Each of the girls has brought with her a substantial suitcase of belongings, but they can’t put anything away because Trent is already in the closet. The four of them go to fix a leaking trough that doesn’t leak, but that is surrounded by mud. Everyone gets involved and the Kiwi loves it. Trent then hoses them down like the cattle they are. He goes on a date with Fush ‘n’ Chups who tells him she is looking for love. Well cut my legs off and call me shorty! Imagine someone going on a show called the Farmer Wants A Wife and being so arrogant as to be looking for love. Lucky Trent has plenty of sheep.

That leaves us with Farmer Kev who is excited to be shacking up with three women for a week. He is impressed with what one of his women has cooked for dinner, but as she looks jaundiced I’d be approaching that meal with caution. He puts out hay with the Kate Middleton wannabe and they talk about liking each other etc. It’s all rather bland. Kev says he always dreamed of marrying a brunette so Kate Middleton Lite could be his gal. There is something to be said for someone who sets an achievable goal. Forget world peace and ending wars and famine, if Kev was a contestant in a beauty pageant his simple ideal would surely win hearts the world over.

Next time: someone is shocked and someone might have found love and someone will hang out with someone who is blonde.

Come To Dinner

As a reward for making it through another episode of Winners & Losers without fatally harming myself, I decided to give Dinner Date, with token pieces to camera from everybody’s favourite French dancing chef Manu Feildel, a crack. As it turns out, I wish I hadn’t made it through W&L.

We are introduced to AJ, an extremely talented individual who can drive a truck, talk on the radio, coach junior football, bet on horses at the track and dress himself. Amazingly, AJ hasn’t found anyone to love who also loves him back and has decided going to three complete strangers’ houses for dinner is the answer to finding true love, or as he calls it ‘a chicky babe’. AJ is looking for a ‘fine filly’ to put under his arm, and given his short stature this is a challenge that will be insurmountable unless the girl in question is 12 years old or suffering from dwarfism.

From five random menus he narrows his suitors to three. Unfortunately for us he does not choose correctly and we will never get to see him entertained by a fire twirler who was quite possibly his soul mate. First he goes to Nicki’s house, she is an ‘entertainer’ who has promised him an exotic surprise after their three-course dinner.

She welcomes him into her ‘pillow palace’, which is accentuated by her leopard print frock, and tells him to sit on the gold cushion on the floor. As she cooks haloumi hearts, Nicki, a Kardashian-gone-wrong, confides she used to be a cheerleader for the Roosters. “I don’t tell many people that,” she says. Except for everyone she meets and everyone currently watching the show. What a massive secret, glad she keeps that one in the vault. “Massive TV,” AJ says, wondering when they will get to the aforementioned exotic surprise. Not before eating cous cous and strawberries soaking in balsamic vinegar. From the look on AJ’s face, it tasted as bad as it sounds. He lights up when Nicki comes out and does a belly dance for him. He’s so excited he mimes doing the motorboat in her ‘pillow palace’. The verdict is no spark, and as she is a heightist AJ is too short to cater to her lofty ideals anyway.

Before the next date, Manu describes AJ as a ‘rough diamond’. If by ‘rough’ he means ‘uncouth bogan’ and by ‘diamond’ he means a ‘seven-mil screening’ Manu is on the money. Next on the menu is country girl Michelle who goes back to her farm to collect produce and slaughter the lamb she is about to cook. “If it’s not perfect, I’m not going to worry,” she says about the dinner. Having seen AJ in action, I’d say that is a wise move. She gets tarted up and there is a good vibe happening until she says, “He’s a bit short.” Two from two. Entrée is garlic prawns, which I’m sure she procured from her farm too, prawns are big business on the land. They discover they both hate nightclubs and all I can say is BOOK THE WEDDING VENUE! AJ then licks his knife and scrapes the plate with his filthy index finger and Michelle is still charmed. Although clearly too good for him, lock her down AJ! Finding someone who still finds you attractive although you are displaying traits of our prehistoric monkey ancestors is a massive coup.

It’s on to Erin the florist who is decorating a Hills Hoist in an effort to be hard-core Aussie. They proceed to sit inside for the entire evening, mainly hanging out in the kitchen where the microwave clock tells us it’s past 11pm when they start eating their entrée. This might have a little to do with the fact that Erin had her food cooking in the oven for an hour before realising the oven wasn’t actually turned on. Call me what you will, but COOKING ONE-OH-ONE: TURN APPLIANCES ON. Her dessert is lamingtons, as we are told ‘nothing says romance like lamingtons’. AJ is not satisfied with drinking wine as he waits for his meal, and when Erin leaves the room he devises a cunning plot to get her to offer him a beer. Having checked her fridge without her knowledge, he sees she has beer in there and wants to get his hands on one. He drops subtle hints such as ‘I really like beer’ and ‘Can I have a beer’ to finally have his wish fulfilled and a cold one in his hand. They eat oysters and there is talk of aphrodisiacs. To want to sleep with AJ, I’m guessing most women would need a truck load of oysters, copious amounts of alcohol and perhaps even a roofie* to make it bearable. Onto the main which is kangaroo. “It tastes like poo” AJ says. He has such a way with words, doesn’t he? The blonde florist then does a creepy Russian accent and serves up her lamingtons, which turn out to be an overcooked cake covered with chocolate icing in a bowl. She forgot to buy coconut for the lammos, and again I say COOKING ONE-OH-ONE: READ THE RECIPE AND BUY ALL INGREDIENTS NECESSARY. She then attempts to redeem herself by giving him a bunch of flowers and suggests he put them in a nice vase. If AJ owns a nice vase I will eat my hat. Erin thinks he’s a nice, down-to-earth guy. Yes, because he’s a midget.

As a reward for suffering through an evening with AJ, one of the girls will be chosen to try it a second time. They all pack and pretend they hope it will be them. He chooses the worst cook, Erin, and whisks her away to the Daintree. Maybe she can cook him some more dishes that taste like poo and have ingredients missing. They pretend to have a nice time for the cameras, before we are told Erin is still looking for love but has sworn off blind dates. AJ is yet to find a girlfriend. Knock me over with a feather.

*Do not try this at home.

Losing.

I have tried my best to like Winners & Losers. I watch it every week unless I have something else scheduled, like a family dinner or a knee reconstruction, both of which, coincidentally, are about as painful and entertaining as if I was watching the show itself. I keep thinking it will miraculously get better, that one week I will be watching and rather than cringing at the terrible dialogue and terrible acting, I will find myself so immersed in the stories I will forget I once wanted to gouge my eyes out to transfer the pain for a few moments saving grace.

Let’s discuss the title of the program. Winners & Losers implies there will be a) winners and b) losers in the program. So far as I can tell, the only winning happened in episode one where four girls who were allegedly losers at school (Who am I kidding? There’s no allegedly about it.) reunited and won the lottery. A shakier premise for a television show I am yet to encounter*. There has been, however, no shortage of losing. For season two I am suggesting a re-launch, with the new title Bogans & Posers, to give viewers a correct insight to what they are about to watch.

What follows is correspondence with my close friend and fellow W&L watcher, Winifred Wolsley**, as we dissect (read: hang shit on) the show each Tuesday evening.

The above exchange relates to the episode where Frances is dating her business partner’s dad, and is a pitiful attempt at the concept of a ‘sugar daddy’. It was also the rather disturbing episode in which Jenny had sex with a gay man. Disturbing not because he was gay, but rather because we had to see them cuddling after the deed. There are some things that cannot be unseen and this image has been burned to my retinas. I tried to wash my eyes out but the soap just made them red and itchy.

Jenny finds out her boyfriend also likes boys and I correctly predict, long before it happens, Bec and Doug will get together. Hate for Matt was strong early on, and hasn’t much changed.

Winifred acknowledges my psychic abilities, and while we thought Matt was out of the show for good, he and his bug eyes have continued to pop up and harass one of the principal members of the cast.

With insights like this, I cannot believe I am not being paid to be a television critic. Luckily in this episode Win and I were distracted from VG’s small mouth by the appearance of ex-Australian Idol contestant Millsy. You know your show’s kicking goals when it employs a former Big Brother contestant and a washed up Aus Idol eliminee. Straight through the big white posts. Jenny and Millsy (can’t remember his characters name) proceeded to get blind drunk and slobber all over each other in public. As you can tell by the final message in this image, it wasn’t attractive. I stand by the observation Jenny is as ‘perceptive as a slab of concrete’. This became even more evident after it took her several hangovers and hundreds, if not thousands of dollars for her to realise Millsy and co were only hanging out with her for her money. Cringe.

Every week, Win says she is done with this show and will not watch. But like a fat kid with ice-cream, she keeps coming back for more.

Here, the main characters become so boring I become more interested in the peripheral action, looking for a reason to stay tuned in. Win makes a valid point re the age of the girls, and echoes my opinion re Jenny being as perceptive as a brick.

Jenny’s mum worries if she doesn’t get the roast on in time, people will think something is suss. Thanks to W&L, if my Mum invites me around to have a roast and it isn’t on the table at 6pm on the dot I’ll know she has breast cancer. Ironing not done? Breast cancer. Floors not mopped, dishes not done? ALL SIGNS POINT TO BREAST CANCER! Such is the picture they have painted of her being a good suburban housewife and mother, should she slip up the shit will hit the fan. Win points this out, while I point out the lameness of the show. I then realise how lame I am by continuing to watch it hoping it will get better. I need to accept it for what it is, and enjoy the joke every week. But I will continue being lame for the time being.

Ordinarily I would welcome a bit of action on the silver screen. But when the action is about as sexy as a colonoscopy, I can take it or leave it. Also, whatever happened to simply announcing, “I’m pregnant!”? If I ever run in to my family with my husband holding a pregnancy test that I have just peed on, please track me down and slap some sense into me (but be careful not to harm the baby).

The thing is, this show has potential. It’s just backed these characters into a corner so far they have become such stereotypes it is nauseating, mainly because it appears to be taking itself so seriously. If it was meant to be a big fat joke and the stereotyping was part of it ala Arrested Development or Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace, I would be on board in a big way. Set them free and let them grow, that would be a winning move.

*Probably not true.

**Name has been changed so WW is not shamed in public for openly admitting watching W&L. I have not been spared the same courtesy.

Sadvertising

We are currently being bombarded with one of the worst television commercials to have ever been created. If I say, “Down, down”, I know you instantly know what I’m talking about. As if the first round of Coles ads with giant red hands pointing at the nether-regions of its staff wasn’t bad enough, now they’ve gone and bastardised Petula Clark’s Downtown to the point it’s a badly-sung, cliché-ridden jingle that is splashed across our screens every five minutes in between programming as sacred as Wimbledon and Home & Away.

My main issues with this advertisement are as follows:

• It’s shit.
• No one in it can actually sing.
• It’s shit.
• If I wanted my attention drawn to the crotches of Coles employees I would go back and work there. They are perverted enough to be able to point this out themselves without the help of a big red hand.
• It’s shit.
• Despite the main claim of the ad being ‘prices are down and staying down’, I am yet to see a real difference at the checkout, unless you count not having to enter a pin or sign when paying with credit on a purchase under $35.
• It’s shit.
• No customer ever reacted by throwing their hands in the air and exclaiming with joy when I handed them a receipt. The ad is so far removed from reality it might as well have claimed to see a UFO.
• Did I mention I think it is shit?

Then, just when you thought is wasn’t bad enough, Woolies enters the race with a sing-a-long ad too, making everyday people who supposedly shop with them stop and say “That’s my Woolies” as someone sings the same phrase in the background.

When will this madness stop? Do the bigwigs of these corporations sit around and think we will be impressed by this propaganda? Do they believe we are simple enough to be captivated by second-rate singing and dancing, and will therefore be simple enough to believe they actually care some of us are living paycheck to paycheck and are relying on their prices staying down? And if it really is ‘My Woolies’, why is it when I enter a store I am confronted by a creepy cutout of Margaret Fulton purporting the same sentiment? If something is mine, I want it to be mine and mine only. Is that too much to ask?

Picture, if you will, an episode of Mad Men, in which Don Draper and his band of merry advertising men land the Coles account. Through the haze of smoke and the scent of hard liquor emerges an idea for an ad campaign. Instead of innuendo and double entendres, it is all class. Grocery shopping is the new black. It’s a must-have experience, focused on excellent customer service and impeccably presented fresh produce departments and grocery aisles. It is a pleasure to be in the store, so much so that it doesn’t matter if the prices are down or not, you’re just happy to have the opportunity to access fresh, quality food to nourish your family.

But then Draper has another idea. Based on the ever-present theme of his manhood and conquests, they will run a campaign in which a giant red hand points to genitals and insinuates oral sex. They go with the second idea, which surely people will find funny because humour is an effective way to communicate while also distracting from your shortcomings. Pun intended. I don’t know about you but now I am ready to unload my hard-earned cash without a second thought. Take me to where it all goes down.

“Look for the big red hand Australia”, the lead ‘singer’ implores us as the sun sets on the Coles advertisement. Maybe I will lady. And when I find it, I’ll be using it to give you one big slap across the face.

I'll Walk With You

I shall now review every episode of Touched By An Angel, ever.

Touched By An Angel begins with opening credits that include sweeping shots of the Grand Canyon and soaring vocals from Della Reese aka Angel Tess as she sings “Walk With You” with her booming bluesy tones. You might see one or two white doves* here, but wait for them later in the show.

In walks Irish Angel Monica (IAM), who is told by Boss Angel Tess (BAT – infer from this acronym what you will) that she has been assigned to straighten out a wayward human being and show them the right path which inevitably means finding God. She’s like a caseworker, only with an Irish accent and a built-in glow-on-command feature.

These waywards often include: those on their death bed with unresolved family conflict, drunks, drug addicts, men and women unlucky in love, children with no father figures who have resorted to living a life of crime on the streets while their mothers work shift after shift just to keep their ingrate children fed and clothed, strippers/prostitutes, couples having trouble conceiving a child and then when they finally do the baby has Down Syndrome, women being blackmailed by men who have a copy of their sex tape, women who have given their child up for adoption and sex offenders**.

As a rookie caseworker, IAM often has no idea what to do to help these people. She asks BAT what to do and all she says is, “Baby, has God ever let you down before?” It’s that sort of direction I’m lacking in my life. So IAM prays and ends up infiltrating these people’s lives without them asking her any questions whatsoever, other than her name I presume, as she’s always on a first name basis with just about everyone in whatever town she ends up in each episode. It seems to be veritably easy for an angel to get a job, no questions asked. My personal favourite was when IAM got a job as a member of the secret service as casually as if she was changing her underwear. No CV required!

IAM then has to coax the story out of the person she is helping, although she might already know part or all of it. Sometimes she does it with relative ease, and sometimes she doesn’t figure it out at all. It’s all part of the suspense that is built to keep the viewer hooked. And to drag out the message of Redemption via Christianity™ for as long as humanly possible.

You know that shit is about to get real when Death Angel Andrew (DAA) appears, with his long golden locks flowing in the breeze. This means IAM needs to get a wriggle on and convey the message of the big man upstairs because time is about to run out for the person she is trying to help or someone associated closely with them. DAA turns up to help said person to the other side, and also to glance knowingly at BAT whenever IAM asks a stupid question. You see, DAA and BAT have been in the biz for centuries, there ain’t nothing they ain’t seen and there ain’t nothin’ that fazes ‘em. Except if you ask BAT to borrow her shiny red convertible. Then she’ll give you a withering look that will make you want to curl up in the fetal position and suck your thumb all the while thinking of lollipops and rainbows until the storm blows over.

We are getting to my favourite part of the show – the moment IAM (or BAT or DAA for that matter) reveals her true identity, which is always far enough into the episode to have established a story, but long enough before the end of the episode for the person to turn their life around. (It is a shame fonts don’t come with built in accents eg. FullyEarnestica Heavy Northern Irish. But just imagine this one does and activate it now.)

Monica: “I’m an angel Johnny, and God has sent me to tell you that he loves you, and that he’ll always love you, and that he always has loved you. You’ve just forgotten his love and resorted to a life of crime instead of studying to be a doctor like you always wanted to.”

Johnny: “Yeah, right, you’re an angel. And I haven’t shot up heroin for 48 hours.”

Monica: “I’m here to tell you that it’s not too late to change. Put your faith in God and he will repay that faith by curing your drug addiction in the next five minutes.”

Johnny: “Okay, no worries. Nice angelic glow you’ve got going on there too. Very realistic. Okay I’ve found god and I’m cured.”

After the realisation that Monica is in fact an angel (helped along by magnificent lighting above her head) and not a mental case with multiple personality disorder, these people ultimately get their lives back on track (unless DAA is hanging around) and a few white doves fly off into the sunset happy to have diverted another soul to the keeping of the lord.

It never fails to astound me the ease with which these social deviants accept the fact that they are special enough to have received their own angel. That they have been SINGLED OUT BY GOD and are worthy of the presence of all that is good and pure in the world. But hey, maybe it’s just all the crack they’ve been smoking. All along it turns out the Angel Brigade was the figment of a druggie’s imagination the night everyone got just a bit too fucked up. That’s plausible, isn’t it?   

Monica: “I’m an angel, Belinda, and God has sent me here to tell you to stop using bandwidth for such pointless slander. He knows you have wronged and loves you anyway, you just need to put your trust in him and turn off your broadband connection.”

Me: “I’d think I’d rather Andrew be my angel, thanks.”

*There must be a lot of white doves on unemployment benefits since this program stopped filming.

**This last one may or may not have ever been the basis for an episode of Christian Hour, but if anyone needed to find God and get back on the straight and narrow, it be a SO.

Australia's Got Problems

What better way is there to spend part of a Tuesday evening than watching the last ten minutes of a freak show masquerading as a talent show on one of our commercial television networks? I hear you saying, ‘Surely there could be nothing better?’ But friends and foes let me assure you there is. Watching the final ten minutes (which turns out to be more like 15 minutes, as the program runs overtime because of hosts and judges blathering on about themselves as if they had any sort of career* and comparing it to what the contestants will themselves one day be experiencing.**) of Australia’s Got Talent on mute.

I chose to watch only the final ten minutes as anyone who is able to watch the entire program, with sound and without the assistance of hallucinogenic drugs, is clearly made of stronger mettle than I. What follows is what I saw, matched with dialogue I imagined.

First there is the overproduced introduction package for an act that appears to be two dickheads setting themselves on fire. The host introduces them with too much enthusiasm and large hand gestures to make up for size he lacks elsewhere. The act follows, and it is two dickheads setting themselves on fire in between jumping into wheelie bins and climbing ladders. Throughout the performance Kyle looks less unimpressed by Jackass Lite™, but it could be that too much plastic surgery has rendered his face expressionless. He says, “You guys are mental, but can I hire you for the next freaky party I throw with elephants and shit?” Wait, that was his wedding.

The Leprechaun judge holds his head in his hands while The Other Minogue giggles like a schoolgirl and you can tell she has a thing for the bad boys. Meanwhile, Jackass Lite™, are chewing gum in sync and with such vigour perhaps that should have been their act. It certainly takes more talent than sticking your hand in a mousetrap. Which, I might add, ANYONE could do, but rather than it being seen as a talent, most people, if seen willingly proffering a mitt to be attacked by a mousetrap, would promptly be labeled insane and carted off to the asylum. 

There’s an ad break, and the titles of AGT has more sparks going off than a Guy Fawkes celebration. Grant says, “Welcome back to AGT, where we dispel any notion that Australia does in fact have talent.” Up next is a young man who resembles the Paddle Pop Lion (PPL). His intro package shows baby photos and I imagine there’s a hard luck story to go with it. You can tell who the producers want to go further in the competition. Has this guy also been on Australian Idol? He looks familiar, but that’s part of the beauty of the mute button, it keeps the intrigue alive. The most interesting part of this performance is the Oz Lotto numbers popping up. The PPL does that crouchy-riff-jam thing with one of the other guitarists to prove that he is for real, y’all.

I can see this guy’s luxurious mane being pimped by Clairol Herbal Essences in the near future. The PPL does his best to look earnest throughout his performance and the judges appear to be buying what he’s selling.

The Other Minogue: “Who is your hairdresser? I must get her number…”

Kyle: “Not if I beat you to it, I want long, gorgeous locks too!”

Leprechaun: “Something, something, shamrock, potatoes.”

Then, after a few more minutes dissecting the evenings proceedings voting numbers are shown and the little host gives a big wave goodbye. It was only 15 minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. And from what I saw, the only thing I think this country has got is a lot of issues. And not in a good way.

*If the judges did have any sort of authentic career, I doubt they would be appearing on AGT.

**Lord help us if the world comes full circle and in 20 years time contestants from a television talent show become judges on a television talent show.***

***Wait a minute, it’s already happened! Guy Sebastian was a judge on X Factor, and he only won Australian Idol 10 years ago. I am surprised the world hasn’t yet imploded.

Disclaimer: If someone asked me to be a judge on AGT, I would probably do it. But only because I would need the money having spent my life’s savings on a rehab program to kick my addiction to watching questionable reality television.

Conversations with the front desk

Take One

The phone rings for a colleague who isn’t sitting at their desk. Someone else in the office answers to stop the intrusive, shrieking ring tone.

“Hello, Sarah’s phone.”

Receptionist: “Sarah’s not there?”

What I say: “No, she’s not.”

What I’d really like to say: “No shit, Sherlock.” 

Or: “Congratulations! You’ve won the competition for stating the bleeding obvious!”

Or: “Yes she is, but we currently have her suspended from her ankles while we cover everything on her desk in post it notes so when we let her down she has a huge mess to clean up. Can you take a message?”

Take Two

The phone rings, interrupting the flow of work and the equilibrium of the room. How dare someone call our office and expect to speak to us?

Once again, Sarah is not at her desk.

“Hello, Sarah’s phone.”

Receptionist: “Sarah’s not there?”

What I say: “Haven’t we just been through this?!” Then: “No, she’s fucking not, can you take a message?”

Receptionist: “Well I’ll just put the call through to you so you can take a message.”

What I say: “But they don’t want to speak to me, they want to speak to Sarah, so why don’t you just take a message and cut out the middle man?”

Receptionist: “But they really want to speak to someone.”

What I say: “They have already spoken to someone, you, so just pick up the line again and say Sarah will call them back once you’ve taken the message.”

Receptionist: “I’ll just put it through to you so you can take a message for her.”

What I say: “Then they will have to explain themselves all over again, after already explaining to you why they are calling, so this seems like a huge waste of time and it’s involving more people than is really necessary. Also, you’re a receptionist, you are employed to answer the phone and take messages so DO YOUR FUCKING JOB!”

Receptionist: “Okay I’ll put him through.”

Take three

The phone rings again, this time it’s my phone and thankfully I am at my desk to answer it thus eliminating the round-and-round conversation about whether the person answering the phone is actually the person they at the front desk intended to ring. Phew.

“Hello?”

Receptionist: “Hi, Warren has just called, he’s seen a whale and would like to know if we’re interested?”

What I would like to say: “Interested in the fact that he is capable of seeing and identifying one of the largest living mammals on earth off the shores of a seaside town where whales are known to migrate each winter? Because that really is a unique and unmatchable gift. I wish my eyesight was that good.”

What I really say: “Tell Warren thanks, but as it’s currently WHALE SEASON we are well aware that several of the majestic creatures are floating in our waters and drawing crowds. In fact, we’ve written several stories about it in previous weeks. Perhaps you could kindly suggest he read the newspaper before calling us with story ideas?”

Receptionist: “So we’re not interested?”

I'm in heaven

Thanks to digital channels, we now get to relive the magic that was 90s television. Today on 7th Heaven, Reverend Camden is having an existential crisis. His jeans don’t fit and he thinks he’s fat. First world problem, but haven’t we all been there? 


His wife Annie says she is the same weight now she was 20 years ago since ‘the wedding’. I presume they are talking about their wedding. The podgy Rev has put on 12 pounds at the most, but Annie still loves him and suggests they start going for walks together which would be romantic and healthy. 


Mary wants Matt, whose hair is currently at a respectable length,  to be her wing man and ask out a guy she likes. The guy, Brian, says Mary is not his type, as she appears to be the kind of girl who’d give a guy a hard time. Matt agrees (what a brother), but begs Brian to take her out for pizza, giving him $20 to do so because it would be easier for him to do that than explain to Mary why Brian didn’t want to go out with her. 


Lucy, the misunderstood middle child gets invited to a sleepover and it’s like she’s won the lottery. Can’t wait until that blows up in her face when the middle school skanks act out whatever they have planned for the poor, unsuspecting do-gooder. 


Simon and Ruthie are on the beat playing family detectives, wondering how their uncool sister got invited to the cool group’s sleepover. Then Ruthie gets told she is going to have swimming lessons, something she is less than thrilled about. So Simon offers to teach her to swim in the bath. 


Matt asks Simon to borrow $20, who laughs in his face and says ‘You’re paying a guy to take Mary out!’. Simon eventually agrees but with conditions - interest and a no disclosure policy. This kid is smart. 


The Rev goes for a run. Annie tries to stick her nose into her kids’ business with little to no success. Don’t worry love, it always comes out in the end. 


Brian turns up for his date with Mary, and is a major sad sack. What are they going to talk about for two hours? He says he will have her home early and the Rev is immediately suspicious. Annie is onto the game, and she tells Matt it’s going to blow up in his face big time. There’s a lot of things that blow up in people’s faces in this show. Guess they don’t have five kids for nothing. 


The Rev asks Matt to get him some cheeseburgers because being healthy is really not working for him. Matt offers to get ice-cream for the rest of the family so they don’t figure out he is an enabler. Ruthie says no thanks, we don’t want to be fat too. 


At the sleepover, Lucy is told to hide under the bed as the girls set up a sting for the last girl to get there and hear what she really thinks about her without her knowing she’s there. Elaborate, pathetic, childish, but effective. It has the desired effect, Lucy is upset and so is the unsuspecting girl they got to talk about what she really thinks about Lucy. The head bitch of the group high-fives everyone and laughs like the evil dictator she is. As an aside, Mila Kunis plays one of the cool girls who is now going out with Jimmy Moon, Lucy’s ex-boyfriend.


The game is up with Mary and Matt, she finds out he paid Brian to take her out. It’s a shame because they actually had a good time and Brian was going to reimburse Matt because he actually ended up liking Mary and they shared a front porch pash like any good middle-class American teenage couple. 


The cheeseburger ruse is also up, as Annie and the Rev go and pick up Lucy from the terrible sleepover, she runs over the cheeseburgers Matt had hidden behind a rear wheel. They come home as Mary is looking at a picture of her ex-boyfriend, wondering when her life got so hard and how could her brother do that to her? Then we find out Mary had told the head bitch to invite Lucy to the sleepover… pot (cough, cough), kettle (cough, cough). Shit is about to get real. 


The Rev eats a grapefruit while Matt eats pancakes and laughs at his diet. Lucy is going for a walk with her dad, and Simon and Ruthie are still swim training in the bath tub. Until their mum walks in on them. While she thinks it fabulous Ruthie is learning to swim, she doesn’t let her off the hook. She’ll still be taking swimming lessons. Annie also tells Simon he is responsible for breaking her teeny tiny little heart. Own your actions people. 


The walk turns out to be the Rev and Lucy eating junk food and drinking milkshakes. That’s my kind of diet. Of course, Annie can read them like a book and is in fact an evil puppet master pulling strings here and there to manipulate her significant other and offspring into doing whatever she wants them to do. 


Mary and Brian make up after he tells her he actually likes her giving him a hard time, and she tells him that’s pathetic. Oh, and see you tonight for our date. Annie tells the Rev she’s missed him the last few nights while he’s been out ‘running’. ‘Every pound of me,’ he asks? Oh Rev, you’re really having a hard time of it. Now LAY OFF THE HOT DOGS! 


Ruthie jumps into the pool and can swim, her family cheer and cry like she is the first person ever to have figured out how to propel themselves through a body of water. I love a happy ending, and it would appear, the Camdens do too. The fatty boombahs break the bed as their children run to see what the fuss is about. Now that is one fucked up image.  

William & Kate: A Modern Day Cringe Inducing Work Of Fiction

This week I threw caution to the wind and wasted two hours of my life watching the drivel that purported to be based on ‘real life’ events, William & Kate: A Modern Day Fairy Tale. The title alone is insulting to fairy tales, as is the disclaimer the movie is based on real life events. It took no longer than 30 seconds before the pain began. From the stilted, simplistic dialogue coming from the mouths of the worst look-alikes in cinematic (I use that world loosely) history, to the point where Wills’ attempted a serenade to win Kate’s heart, I did at one point consider slitting my wrists and calling an ambulance. But then I would have missed cameos by Jessica Simpson and Charles Shaughnessy aka Mr Sheffield from The Nanny.

If any of the events in this movie actually happened, I will eat my hat, which will be a) difficult to digest, and b) difficult to explain. And if you’re going to make a biopic, try to find some cast members even slightly resembling the real life humans they are portraying. So as we all know, William goes to university with a full head of hair and a gumby looking face. An Australian actor applies to be his wingman and gets the job. Just like that.

“Why do I need a wingman,” William asks?

How about because you’re the future King of fucking England? You can’t be letting just any slapper in to carry on up your Buckingham. And who better to help sort the wheat from the chaff than a former Neighbours actor with an intermittent English accent?

William sees Kate Middleton running at 6am and then joins her running group and they run together trying to evade his bodyguards, who can run too. Squares. They become friends but she is going out with a rat-faced snark named Trevor and Wills pashes on with some hot blonde. But, after seeing Kate in her underwear, their fate is sealed and he realises she is ‘hot’ and tries to kiss her. She pulls away and their dance continues. Will is faced with a hard decision – should he stay where he is or transfer to a university closer to home? He talks about it with Prince Charles and Prince Harry, both of whom look like they belong in a Little Britain sketch rather than the royal family.

Turns out, Will stayed at the same uni, moved in with a bunch of flat mates (including Kate), tried to cook lasagne, had a party, finally hooked up with Kate, they move in together for their final year and have deep conversations about expectations and red socks in a load of white laundry. At some point he met the Middletons, who are so normal they eat breakfast in their pyjamas, and she met Prince Charles, and everything goes along alright until something happens, like he ignores her or has to perform a state visit and she has a howl and they break up. Then they get back together when she is training for a rowing charity event by standing in the back of the boat and giving directions. She dives into the murky waters of the river and swims to her prince. So true to life.

Oh, that’s right, because the tabloids have dubbed her ‘Waitie Katie’ she goes out and gets photographed having a good time at a friend’s birthday and dancing with an old creep. The fake tabloids mocked up in this movie are god-awful. It ain’t that hard to knock up a brochure in Publisher people, heck, even Paint would do a better job.

If there was a highlight to this piece of trash, it was when William went to ‘Africa’ to help the poor suffering black children. I counted three. And Africa looked like an idyllic paradise, with a tent and a lake. Where can I buy a ticket?! Throughout the entire thing you knew where it was leading – the proposal. Now, as this is a piece of fiction (there’s no point pretending otherwise) the makers of this film could have had an absolute field day. Let your imaginations run wild! But instead, they took the actors on location to ‘Kenya in a studio’, where the faux sunset provided the perfect opportunity for Wills to drop to one knee and pull out Diana’s ring. This scene was filmed completely without words. WITHOUT WORDS! Which I suppose should have come as a welcome relief, but in actual fact, this is what we had all been waiting to hear… how does the second in line to the throne ask his beloved to marry him? We still don’t know! Fade to black.

I woke up this morning thinking it had all been a bad dream, and it had, but it hadn’t. It is disturbing to think what a waste of resources this telemovie is. There are people suffering all over the world, from poverty, malnutrition, AIDS, Nickelback listeners. For the Modern Day Fairy Tale to inflict even more pain on those already carrying an unbearably heavy load is a right royal shame.

No, My Kitchen Rules.

As I may have mentioned previously, my aversion to cooking shows is almost as great as Altiyan Childs’ apparent aversion to using shampoo. Happening to catch the last five minutes of My Kitchen Rules on Tuesday this week did little to change my feelings. Having watched no more than five minutes of this program throughout what has seemed to be a never-ending season, I cannot pertain to be an authority on the series in any capacity whatsoever. But, I will use it as a platform to outline my disdain for, and disbelief of the fact, that for some reason people enjoy watching other people cook on television.

It appears this is not a new idea. There are so many hours dedicated to cooking programs, it is amazingTwo And A Half Men and The Big Bang Theory ever get any airtime. But what motivates a person to get into the kitchen with the only reward being a supposed ‘first class chef’ giving you a number out of ten at the end of it? And what does that number really mean? “I give you a five out of ten,” Manu will say in his French accent, as women across the country swoon at the combination of his swarthiness and phonetics, regardless of whether they can understand him or not. What he is really saying is, “Your food was okay, but you’re a massive wanker so I’m giving you a five. If you want anything more than that, stop pretending you are Elvis and get back behind the fry pan.”

I am like anyone else, I enjoy going out for a meal every now and again and I also enjoy eating. But I don’t need to know how the food came to be stacked on my plate, nor how many times it was dropped, prodded or spat on before arriving at the table. I also don’t need this process to be televised. I have seen first hand how much swearing goes down in a dairy when trying to get cattle to cooperate, I imagine an industrial kitchen with its many staff is much the same.

The worst is Ready Steady Cook, if only for the lack of punctuation in the title (but that’s a whole other issue). This show challenges its guests to throw the chefs a curve ball, by presenting them with a combination of obscure ingredients and asking them to fashion something edible out of it. Which is very realistic when you think about it, because how often have you gone to the fridge and pantry, only to realise the last things left are some prosciutto, bread crumbs and a carton of off milk? Then you don’t panic, it’s all good, because RSC has taught you the life skills to be able to deal with such situations! But because crumbed prosciutto in a sour milk jus is as unappealing as it sounds, you end up going out to buy takeaway. Then, as if being judged with a number wasn’t bad enough, on RSC, the audience holds up a picture of a tomato or a capsicum, and whichever team has more, wins. “I’ve got more tomatoes than you, na, na, na na na!” Welcome back to primary school.

Maybe the only cooking show I ever enjoyed was Surprise Chef, mainly because Aristos appeared to be slightly unhinged which added an element of danger to an already shady premise. The poor, unsuspecting shoppers who had a camera shoved in their faces and a home visit from a chef, who the proceeded to rummage through their belongings, always made for entertaining viewing. I wonder what Aristos is doing now? Perhaps we’ll see him audition for the next series of Masterchef.

Farmer Wants A Finale, March 30

As I was eagerly anticipating the finale of the Farmer Wants A Wife, I found myself also overcome with sadness at the thought it would be some months before I again get to hear of how the love drought and the game of love is progressing.
This program is an important study of human nature, and during the season I have learnt a lot about love and also about life. 


For example, did you know ducks mate for life?  And that a farmer can be friends with a vegetarian in spite of ingrained prejudices? So many social barriers have crashed to the ground this season, it is simply astounding. My weeks just shan’t be the same without the love stricken farmers gracing my screen, and while my life may in fact improve because of this, I will miss the set up dates and opportunities for topless farmers nonetheless. 


Nat once again drones on about the love game and fairytale endings and diet coke and how she is jealous of the girls who get to hook up with the farmers and why can’t it be her finding love on the land? WHY? “Waaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh, my life is so crap I only get to host a show on television and be flown around to cool places to talk to hot farmers. But it all means nothing because I can’t have deep conversations with them about my favourite hair treatment and eyeliner because it would be unprofessional for me to put the ‘ho’ in host.”


Then she introduces the farmers going on their ‘city break’ to visit their chosen one. 


Predictably, Buck Melanoma goes to visit his sister aka Emily, and to show the depths of his love for her, he gives her a watch. She looks at it and counts the time until she can escape his evil clutches. They talk about the distance between the tropical fruit farm and Melbourne. Good thing I say. If he snaps and goes mental it will be at least a day before he turns up on your doorstop with a machete wanting blood, giving her enough time to go into witness protection. 


Then this chick farmer goes to visit someone… who is she again? She’s been given about five minutes of airtime all season. One thing I must say she’s got going for her, is that Missing A has the looking puzzled/wistful down pat. She’s shown with this expression about fifteen times before she rocks up at the emo comedian’s house. His arm is still in a sling. I’m in so much shock I faint, and awake to Farmer Kieran mopping my brow and fanning my face. 


Then I wake up back in the real world and Missing A is nursing a baby in front of emo comedian and his family. This decision is not surprising in the least, the other guys didn’t get their mugs on telly at all, and the Scot has missed out on a visa. Sad face. 


Throughout the entire series FahmahBen has been referred to as being ‘cheeky’. Despite this, I cannot recall more than one instance in which he has in fact been cheeky. Perhaps a better adjective would have been ‘indecisive’, because that he was. He turns up on the doorstep of Beige 2 having finally made a decision, and if a reaction could be any less understated, I’d like to see it. This girl should be a member of ASIO, or at the very least an undercover cop. Bitch gives NOTHING away. Thankfully, we have the piece to camera in which she tells us she is so excited to see FahmahBen and can’t believe he chose her she’s so happy yada, yada, yada. COULD HAVE FOOLED ME.


Mr Potato Head chose to visit the Carnivore on the city break, they ride a bicycle built for two and it is a lesson for everyone: do not ride a bike with Mr PH next to a river as you’ll likely fall in. Had they fallen in, it would have made for GREAT viewing. I found myself at one point willing the bike to fall over, but my powers of telepathy failed. Not least because the event happened three months ago. 


Prince Charles of course, chooses to visit Donna who appears to be the love of his life. Good on him I say, if you can find someone who will do your washing and still be impressed when you cry and recite poetry, LOCK HER DOWN! They go on a boat and drink champagne it’s all very civilised really. 


The Hot Horseman visits Eyes, surprising her at work. He likes a girl in uniform. If ever there were a reason to become a nurse, this might be it. They go to the beach and not much happens because her heart isn’t fully in it and she will never move to the ranch to be with her cowboy. 


Return to the Hunter Valley if you will, where the farmers all catch up in a wine cellar, talking about their experiences and joking with one another. “So, did ya find love, mate?” is really code for, “So, did ya get a root?”. One by one they go and sit with Nat on the white couch as she grills them about their journeys, asking questions she (and we) clearly knows the answers to, having watched the series from go to woe, and narrated it. Perhaps all the love analogies have rotted her brain. She’s on the attack from the get go, why did you do this, why did you feel that, did you bring anyone with you? 


Yes. Buck brings his sister, Missing A brings the emo comedian, FahmahBen brings Beige 2, Prince Charles brings Princess Donna. As I predicted he would, Mr Potato Head brought the vegetarian, although an article I read yesterday said the relationship lasted only two days after that. Solid. Kieran decided to go stag, a wise decision. Nat wants to jump him, but will have to wait until the cameras stop rolling. 


As they all filter back to everyone with their respective partners there is awkward laughter and a few ‘well done mate’ comments, and Prince Charles tells Princess Donna he loves her. Charming. Then they all dance and, at last, it’s over.


I will leave you with a proposal for a spin off series, entitled, A Farmer’s Woman Scorned. This program would see Nat travel the country to catch up with all of the rejected women, who then plot revenge against the farmer of their affections and his chosen one. Game on, molls! 


Of all these so-called relationships, the only one that has a chance of lasting would be Prince Charles and Princess Donna. And even that is a stretch. I guess time will tell, and should the relationships fail, the love game will go on. Take cover, ladies. 


Some light reading for you: 
http://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/entertainment/tv/romance-talk-a-tough-ask-for-stars-of-farmer-wants-a-wife/story-e6frexlr-1226030924763