TV Casualty's Christmas Crackers

Christmas was designed for TV. The combination of debilitating meals, cold weather, time off work and a high family member per square metre ratio conspire to make silently vegging out in front of the box an extremely attractive option. And just as normal concepts of time go out the window (can you truthfully see anything but a hungover black smudge when you think of the 1st January?) so too does normal scheduling. For these two or three days of the year we are a captive audience and the listings positively twinkle with festive delights – if you know when and where to look. All too often however the pressure of buying presents, talking to people and the omni present box set mean that some of the best shows are neglected, only coming to light days or weeks later with a passing glance at the TV guide as the Duchess tosses it into the recycling.

Therefore to avoid tears before New Year’s TVC, being the essentially philanthropic enterprise it is, has assembled the very best of viewing in one tragically under visited website. This means that all you have to worry about it whether to drag the TV into the kitchen or bring the mountain to Mohammed.

Surrender your senses to TV Casualty good citizen as we play spot the pun and fly – snowman style – through the wild and varied digiscape of Christmas TV land.

Kicking off Christmas Eve Gordon Ramsay sticks one to the yanks in Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares USA (C4, 9PM) where we presumably get to see Gordon hawk his highly sellable mix of humiliation and inspiration to our American cousins. As we all know by now, Gordon doesn’t mince his words and demands his subjects eat a large slice of humble pie so it will be interesting to see how this plays out across the pond. Completing his monopoly of prime time Channel 4 we are also being given The Best of The F Word (C4, 10pm) followed, bizarrely, by Ramsay’s “favourite film” Sexy Beast. (C4, 11:10pm)

If you couldn’t give a stuffing about Gordon or think his favourite flick is a turkey (It isn't, though I can’t imagine him sitting still long enough to watch one film, never mind enough to justify a favourite film) then ITV 2 is the place to be as they run a double bill of petrol headed thrillers The Fast and the Furious (ITV2, 9pm) and 2 Fast 2 Furious (ITV2, 11pm.) It may surprise you to learn this but behind the rapier wit and sophisticated veneer of TVC beats the heart of a moron, so this potent mix of cars, girls and guns will make its presents felt...

If none of that does it for you then back to back episodes of Father Ted (More 4, 9pm) should ensure a warm rosy glow in the living room before you hightail it up the stairs so Santa can fill your stocking in peace. If that doesn’t satisfy, your dead and I can’t help you.

Moving into the big day EastEnders (BBC1, 6:20pm & 8pm) stands out as a deal breaker. Bradders and Stacey have been grinning out of the cover of every TV guide worth its salt for the last few weeks now to maximise the effect as Max and Stacey’s affair is exposed to a stunned Brannan Family Christmas via the under-rated medium of video. Aside from that it will snow, Good King Wenceles will be played by a brass band and everyone will end up in paper hats in the Vic – a traditional East End Christmas.

As EastEnders begins its second showing of the day Harry Hill’s Christmas TV Burp (ITV, 8pm) gets underway on ITV. I probably should leave this out considering it is “an irreverent look at the Christmas TV schedules” and will no doubt expose TVC for the imitative, third rate sloppy mess it is, but that would be unprofessional. The man is a genius and as soon as I loose my hair and get a few shirts with outsized collars I’m moving into TV. Watch this.

Film-wise The African Queen (C4, 6:10pm) ticks the “they don’t make ‘em like they used too” box as Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn star as the drunken sailor and prim missionary taking lumps out of each other in the Congo, and The Motorcycle Diaries (C4, 10:35pm) biopics a youthful Che Guevara as a trip around South America sows the seeds of revolution in his soul.

If you’re still left groping in the dark despite this, you can turkey fart your way through back to back Peep Show (E4 from 9pm) while The Sopranos (More 4, 12:40am) continues to storm its way through the back catalogue heedless of man or religion.

Break out the box sets on Boxing Day as the schedule looks pretty bereft, I’ll be working my way through Arrested Development. Highlights for the next five days of Christmas include the last ever series of Extras (Thursday 27th December BBC1, 9pm) which includes cameos from David Tenant, George Michael, Gordon Ramsay and Clive Owen (?,) the first episode of the new series of Shameless (New Years Day C4, 10:10pm) and Meet the Fokkers (Friday 28th December BBC 1, 8:30pm.)

Ignore this advice at your peril, and have a good Christmas.

Brannan vs Mitchell

My devotion to Eastenders has recently been on an upward trend as events in the soap begin to take a promising turn for the wretched.

Not since the Krays Chinese Smiled their way round the ol’ East End in the 50’s and 60’s has London seen the likes of what is about to kick off in the otherwise quiet leafy suburb of Watford. Mark my words, it’s going to be a red Christmas in the square as the cobbles get an overdue taste of Mitchell blood.

All the evidence points to a full scale war; Jim has gone into hiding, most likely to direct operations from a heavily fortified compound safe from Mitchell bullets. Bradders, masking an icy intellect behind his ruddy faced hang-dog optimism has taken control of the Market, weeks after suspiciously quitting a high powered city job to “assist” the Market Inspector (whereabouts currently unknown.) Jack, the Brannans’ “man on the inside” has duped his way into a controlling share in a Mitchell enterprise, while the loose coalition between the Brannans and the Beales looks set to become official as Lauren and Peter prepare to enjoin the families in blood.

In contrast the Mitchell Family has never looked weaker. Having failed to produce an heir of any substance in Ben, Phil has taken it upon himself to provide the sole muscle of the operation. Attempts to recruit a Soldier in Jason have so far failed, and while Peggy, Ronnie and Roxy managed to face down the bailiffs as an impressive trio of no-nonsense broads, recent in-fighting is causing divisions that will take more than a few vodka shots to heal.

The gloves are off, and despite loose cannon Steven Beale threatening the entire plan with a premature blazing of Mitchell’s Motors (note Stacey earning her stripes,) things are falling into place that could see the historic seat of the Mitchells change hands before the New Year rings in…

While one world disintegrated, another was saved as Heroes reached its foregone, if no less dramatic finale last Thursday, opting to end things in the time honoured tradition of a double-bill.

Although we never really expected the creators to inflict September the 11^th times a thousand on New York, the finale to this highly watchable if a little trashy American export lived up to the hype, and avoided the misty eyed American patriotism that I always suspected lurked at its core.

I wont give too much away, as I know for many this show is a hang-over box set waiting to happen, but its suffice to say its worth sticking around, if only for the Evil Dead –like leader into season two which is no doubt mere months away.

Crapford

The first few days after a dispatch are usually spent in blogger post coitus. I drift from Eastenders to the news then back, perk up for the Sopranos then float into bed for thirty minutes or so with Mario Puzo’s grinning Godfather and friends. I then slip into a deep slumber for a restful night dreaming of garrotings, two-tone wingtips and cannelloni.

Towards the end of the week however things begin to change. I get the itch, and realise I better watch something new soon or risk my reputation with dead air. This week however, the Greater Manchester Bender Weekender got in the way, and I arrived back on Sunday evening an emaciated, dehydrated, and very worried blogger indeed.

Despite the ticking clock however and in a move the great Don would have been proud of, I made a few key decisions and managed to consolidate my media consumption into a manageable 24 hour morsel, and in doing so stoked the fires once more for the informed, witty and ever reverential phenomena that you have come to love and hate as TV Casualty.

On Sunday night Mothers and Grans everywhere were no doubt boiling the kettle in anticipation of Cranford, the latest period drama to satiate the seemingly endless appetite among the British public for bonnets, bodices and bootstraps. Sunday night’s transmission was my second episode, and showed no change of pace as events lumbered on almost imperceptibly.

Set in a rural village in England, the storyline largely revolves around the goings-on and jolly hi-jinks associated with the arrival of a new young doctor in the town. When not giggling about the new doctor, the six or so women who make up the citizenship routinely go into fits about a new railway line and the Irish, who comprise an as yet unseen malevolent presence ready and waiting to corrupt everything they hold dear.

This episode saw Dame Judy Dench, (cast against type as strong, dignified and English) lose her sister then narrowly miss out on her last chance of happiness without shedding a single tear. Meanwhile, a rapscallion Scot with a twinkle in his eye causes good natured havoc, and the Lady of the Manor steps down from her perch to intervene in the wrongfully arrest of vagabond Jambo from Hollyoaks, in doing so saving him and his one hundred snivelling brat kids.

As you might of guessed, Cranford didn’t overly impress, and in a bid to redress the balance I opted to spend my day off in a dark room with strangers in search of something far more up my street.

Following the entwined fortunes of African-American Gangster Frank Lucas (Denzel Washington) and the honest New York detective tasked with busting his smack ring (Russell Crowe) American Gangster puts a black perspective on the mafia power struggles that gripped New York in the 60’s and 70’s.

The action joins Lucas after his boss and mentor Bumpy Johnson dies, setting him out on the ambitious goal of flooding the streets of Harlem with cheap, good quality heroin from Vietnam. As his operation grows in size, so too do the difficulties involved with keeping the business safe from corrupt cops, rival gangsters and the investigation of Russell Crowe’s drug trafficking task force.

The film is a brave attempt to breathe new life into the genre at a point where my old friend the Soprano’s seems to have said all there is to say on the matter, which at times it succeeds in doing. However, a fatal flaw lies in the film’s apparent inability to adequately balance feelings of admiration and revulsion for the central character, the dichotomy on which all good gangster films make their bones. We never really get under the skin of Lucas, and he never gets under ours, with the end result that his fate becomes largely unimportant.

In addition, It is impossible not to draw comparisons between American Gangster and other mob movies. The poster, set in the black and white hues redolent of Scarface, practically begs it, while the title of the movie places it firmly within and up against the genre. This is a brave tactic and not one which always pays off, as the film balances familiar themes of fraternal betrayal (The Godfather,) police corruption (Serpico,) the dark side of the American dream (Scarface,) and the Irish (Cranford) with the business of telling the story at hand. One good thing to come out of the film however is the city itself, which takes centre stage as New York emerges as decaying and lawless city of bleached beauty and decrepit magnificence.

For fans of the gangster movies, American Gangster is a watchable if flawed addition to the genre, though less than avid viewers probably shouldn’t bother. Although the movie offers a different take on what has previously been dominated by Italian, and to a lesser extent Irish characters, it doesn’t say anything new or with enough eloquence to give it any stand alone appeal.

Ahh!

The MIGHTY Boosch

Somewhere around the third shit of the day it hits you. Something is not quite right.

What had been a curious but not unwelcome opportunity to catch up on your reading starts to take on more sinister and worrying dimensions. Your brain automatically googles “food poisoning” and that last sausage flashes up instantly. This is a bad time for you boy, and its not about to get any better.

Unfortunately, the same can often be said for the world of film and television. Take the Godfather trilogy. After two masterpieces of epic importance and pop cultural gravitas, part three bombed like New Coke and to this day casts an icy shadow over its predecessors. Likewise, Peep Show began to loose a little of its edge on its third run and I won’t even get started on the third Sting album.

Others however, rightly recognise the simple beauty of the couplet. Spaced did, prudently calling it quits before money or ego stretched the formula. Similarly, Fawlty Towers earned its place in Sitcom royalty on the back of a mere 12 episodes. These shows recognised the old showbiz adage that you should always leave the crowd wanting more, instead of subjecting us to a dragged out and undignified death the wrong side of primetime. It would seem therefore, that as with many other things in life, when it comes to TV (especially good TV) three is often a crowd, and gooseberries can be real shits.

These were the fears with which I nervously awaited the third series of The Mighty Boosh. Having found little to fault and much to love in the first and second series, the cautious and essentially pessimistic side of my hexago-nature warned me not to hold my breath for more of the same. However, as Machiavelli so consistently points out, you don’t get anywhere in life without taking a few risks, and Victory was definitely on the side of Barrett and Fielding last week as The Mighty Boosh stormed back for another crack of the funny bones.

Set in a shop in Shoreditch, the first episode finds Vince and Howard home alone as Naboo and Bollo go on a stag weekend. As the episode progresses we soon find we are on familiar ground as the trademark creepy characters, inventive sets and kitsch elements combine with an increased budget to conjure a kaleidoscope of offbeat and irregular comedy. The songs are still in there, as are the moon cut-aways, while the chemistry of the two main characters maintains the balance and equality that marks and elevates all good double acts.

Although this isn’t simply a rehashing of the earlier efforts; In this series, for the first time as far as I can tell, TMB is starting to turn its considerable strength outward against elements outside its world. “Eels” veers into Nathan Barley territory as the show takes a few pops at the Shoreditch elite and Nu-Rave in equal measure, suggesting perhaps a reflex to the increasing popularity of the programme as it drifts to the mainstream. However, with appearances by Razorlight and The Horrors scheduled for later in the series, the satire is unlikely to hack all the way to the bone. No bad thing in my opinion, as going too far down this path would risk sacrificing some of the fun of the show.

As such, those suspicious belly rumblings must have just been nerves, as TMB looks set to score a hat trick with the third series. For now at least, I can take solace in the fact that greater men than I have dared and won once more.

Also, dont worry if you miss it on thursdays, as its repeated eight times during the week

Round up

Eagle eyed readers will have noticed a distinct lack of new content over the last few weeks.

This is not, as my recent forays into the world of food writing might suggest, because I have sent my glowing friend in the corner to the naughty step. Rather, ever since I purchased my spanking new DVD Recorder, all traces of viewing diversity have all but gone out the window as the Soprano’s consolidates its vice-like grip on my life.

With all 86 episodes now being shown in a row by More 4 every weeknight after 12, prudence dictates I record each one, while compulsion makes damn sure I watch them. This all adds up to over 5 hours viewing per week, and with all the time it takes to hold down a job, eat, read (the Godfather, tackily,) watch the news and brush my teeth, there is very little room for anything else.

As such, after a brief flourish, democracy has once again yielded to autocracy, diversity overwhelmed by homogony, and freedom of choice brutally crushed by the all pervading influence and authority of Divine Right.

A few rogue elements have slipped through the net in recent days however, and it is with great personal risk and likely censure, that I bring you this week’s resumen de televisión, live from behind the ion curtain.

I’ve never been a huge fan of Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall. It’s not that I don’t like him, I’ve just never been particularly inspired by his pig-rearing, free-ranging grow your own or die approach to cookery, finding it a tad beyond my means. However, with River Cottage: Gone Fishing, we’ve made our peace. In the latest River Cottage offering Hugh takes his welly boots and straggly locks around Britain’s coastline in search of the best self caught seafood he can find. He then cooks it simply, and usually outdoors, before serving it up to old sea dogs and salt of the earth types who receive with all the gratitude they can muster for a double-barrelled land luber who just cost them a morning’s work. It’s a pretty simple formula, but proves interesting and educational, incidentally stomping all over The Wild Gourmets who tried a similar thing but failed miserably.

Also evading capture in service of the truth this week was Channel 4’s “contemporary re-telling of the story of the story of Exodus,” aptly titled of course, Exodus.

After being abandoned by his immigrant mother on a beach, Moses is adopted by evil right-wing leader Pharoah Mann, who brings him up in a world of wealth and privilege, albeit failing to impress any of his beliefs on his young son. After killing a soldier with one punch, Moses is exiled to dreamland, an old fairground complex turned internment camp that is home to criminals, refugees, and the dispossessed. There he quickly and quietly finds his old family, becomes a great leader, and leads his followers to the land of Milk and Honey.

At least I think this was the story, as I became increasingly less interested the more I watched Exodus, and infinitely more happy to amuse myself with facetious little musings on the inconsistencies of the premise.

I am usually a big fan of dystopian visions of the future, particularly when they involve some sort of authoritarian element, but Exodus unfortunately failed to float my boat. I admittedly should have sat through it until the end, if only to see how much the programme would deviate from the original story, but in a world of infinite media choices and unprecedented access to information, if you haven’t got me in the first 15 minutes, I’m not likely to stick around.

Also this week I tuned in excitedly to Kitchen Nightmares, which after a smashing first two episodes has dissolved into cynical rehashing of old stories, by way of Gordon “re-visiting” restaurants from previous series, and as such only needing to show about 25% new footage. I also went to see Planet Terror in the cinema, which proved gratuitous, vile, and thoroughly enjoyable.

Thali Night Fever

All new experience lays slave to TV Casualty, and never more so on bonfire night as I buttoned up the flak jacket and made the short mission to Stravaigin on Gibson Street for their monthly Thali night.

The occasion being a friend’s birthday, the Establishment was playing host to a dinner of Last Supper proportions, albeit a damn sight tastier and free from all those nasty recriminations that made the original one a real downer.

Thali, for those who weren’t there, is a selection of regional Indian dishes served in tapas sized portions on a steel plate, and in this case with rice, a naan-like flat bread called missi roti and a shredded carrot salad called kosambri. There is a set menu, dispensing with all that choosing nonsense and Stravaigin also laid on a free bottle of Cobra for those wise souls who booked ahead.

Soon the large steel plates began to arrive at the table in waves, and after a quick lesson on the origins of each dish, the serious business of eating began.

The Rohu Kalia matched a light, slightly doughy batter with delicate pearly white fish that disintegrated after the gentlest inquiry. The rich and tangy gravy that accompanied teetered on the edge of being too sharp, but was brought back down with a low rounded heat from the chillis.

Also prominent was a Keralan goat bhuna which suffered a little from being mostly bone. While the shreds of meat that could be salvaged were undeniably tender, the goat lacked that unmistakable muskiness that sets it apart from lamb. Once again, however, the flavours in the sauce were so deep I almost got lost in them, redeeming the dish to no end.

Elsewhere on the plate wonderfully textured Rajasthani red lentils devoured my missi roti, and three deep fried banana and potato balls added a welcome sweetness despite being a touch heavy.

Stravaigin undeniably does a good Thali, and despite some sniffiness regarding numbers and deposits ill fitting for a half-empty Monday night, the service was welcoming and efficient. The portions were of good size and at £15 per head the meal was a good price and made splitting the bill a relatively bloodless affair.

Don't Stop Believing

Less time spent fucking around in restaurants and more time in front of the goggle box this week as I said good bye to an old friend and welcomed home another.

The Soprano’s reached its bone shattering conclusion on Sunday night and while most of my friends were out partying at espookio, I was firmly planted indoors so as not to miss the most important television event of the decade. Having stuck my fingers in my ears, shouted gibberish and physically threatened anyone who brought up the subject of the finale in the proceeding weeks, I had effectively shielded myself from the ending and went into the programme as much a plaything of fate as Tony Soprano himself. If you value your faith in television and didn’t tune in on Sunday, I suggest you do the same and close this page immediately.

This series has been something of a slow, steady burner, with the drama cranked up by increment over the nine episodes. Tony’s daily struggles with work and family continue, but this time against a background of seething tension with Phil Leotardo’s New York crew, threatening the Soprano Family’s very survival. By the time we reach the last episode, a few key members of the crew have been killed or seriously injured, and we’re basically tuning in to see if Tony’s going to get whacked.

While usually unflinching in its graphic portrayal of murder and violence (the superb scene in the model train shop where Bobby is felled by a hail of gunfire comes to mind) the last scene of the Soprano’s avoids a similar blood lust pay out for Tony, and leaves things altogether a lot more complicated.

With Leotardo dispensed with, a measure of stability has returned to Tony’s life. AJ seems to be improving and been dissuaded from joining the army, and a tentative reconciliation with a senile Uncle Junior has been reached. Carlo Gervasi has turned informant, so possible jail time lies ahead for Tony, while the imminent threat of death seems to have subsided. However, this is last scene of the last episode of the last series, so we know better than to expect such a simple conclusion. In a stomach twisting sequence of shots, our suspicion and paranoia become fused with Tony’s as a number of shadowy potential assassins emerge amongst the diner’s clientele. Tony selects Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing on the jukebox and just as the tension becomes almost unbearable the action abruptly cuts to black, holding a few seconds before the credits roll silently.

I won’t get into the “was Tony shot” debate too much here, as the internet is already brimming with analysis and counter-analysis as fans split into rival factions. This debate is likely to go on indefinitely, but it’s suffice to say that as finales go, this was a ripper, with even the Duch peeking up from behind her facebook to check it out. For what it’s worth, I side with those who believe Tony was shot, with the cut to black reflecting the closing of the window we had into Tony’s world, the abruptness of death having been discussed in an earlier episode by Bobby and Tony. Others amass evidence to contrary, but I think the creators’ wanted us to fill in our own ending, so unless they start up again or make a film, I’ll stick with that one.

In reality TV, often the simplest premise works best. Big Brother was good the first couple of series, but starting going downhill as soon as the producers starting fucking with it too much, but with Kitchen Nightmares Gordon Ramsey knows why people tune in and stays pretty close to the formula.

In the first episode of the fourth series, the infamous browbeater was in Brighton, home of seafood restaurant Ruby Tates as well as lots of gay people, as Gordon keeps reminding us.

It’s a familiar story; Ex-actor restauranteur Allan is losing £1500 a week and the chefs are lazy and incompetent, serving up dead mussels and warm fruit de mer. In comes Gordon, and with a unique mix of ritual humiliation and inspirational leadership, sets about turning a damp squid into the catch of day. This is done by changing pretty much every aspect of the restaurant down to the name, so by the end of the episode it is basically an expensive fish and chip shop, though with a profit of over £3000 a week and climbing.

Despite the fact that you can see the formula a mile off, Kitchen Nightmares remains pretty good telly. The F-word can seem like its trying to be everything to everyone all at once, which can get a bit tiresome but this programme fortunately knows what it’s doing and does it. The put downs and “bollockings” were a little toned down in this episode, but it remains to be seen if that will remain the same throughout the series.

With my favourite anti-hero now sleeping with the fishes, I need another show to indulge my passive aggression.

Pintxo

Oddly enough, I didn’t do a lot of TV watching this week, and the programmes I did watch were by in large old favourites so not much new to report there. I did go out to dinner however, so for the second time in its short life, TV Casualty goes foodie.

On paper Pintxo had me. Having perused the online menu and read a number of gushing reviews, my taste buds positively tingled all day Thursday as I dreamed about the upcoming Iberian feast. Letting my imagination run riot, I indulged in ramekins filled with new and exotic dishes, knowing smiles as I ordered the house speciality, then praise and admiration of companions for my choice as I sat back in my seat, satiated and looking ahead to when prudence might allow me to return.

Such was the anticipation that I advised everyone I met of my dinner plans at length, and had all but booked my birthday meal there before even setting foot in the door, so it was with childlike excitement that I got off the tube at Partick and made the short walk up Dumbarton Road.

Pintxo, (pronounced pin-cho) is the latest addition to Glasgow’s increasingly varied tapas scene, taking its name from the small £1 tapas that were purportedly for sale at the bar. Occupying a compact, understated space opposite the medical centre, the restaurant is heavily influenced by cooking from Spain’s Basque region, with the regions dishes featuring prominently on the expansive and tantalizing menu.

I had made an informed choice of Scallops with chorizo and the crisp baby squid with saffron and green apple alioli earlier in the day, leaving a space open for a wild card choice which I filled, wonderfully spontaneously I thought, with a “trio of gazpacho: andaluz, ajo blanco and pimiento.”

The scallops were the first to arrive, sat on top of wafer thin slices of chorizo and looking lonely on the plate with only a slice of lemon for company, and at a hefty £5.99, a touch underwhelming. Sweet and lightly seared just past the stage of gooeyness, the scallops were wonderfully fresh, although the flavour of the chorizo never really pushed through to give the dish the mild smoky heat the combination suggested.

Shortly after the crisp baby squid arrived, the small tentacles delicately fried and served in a bowl with an apple aloli dip on the side. Again, the freshness of the produce shone through giving the squid a deep, oceanic quality. The saffron and green apple alioli however, was little more than glorified mayonnaise, with little evidence of either apple or saffron.

A good 5 minutes after I had finished my other dishes the trio of gazpacho arrived, rather disconcertingly, in three plastic shot glasses on a crescent shaped plate. Mid way through the second shot I flaked, foregoing the last to a companion who then had similar difficulties.

Elsewhere on the table courgette stuffed with goat’s cheese proved greasy, bitter and inedible (actually) while coriander, red peppers and rioja did little to enrich a spongy slow cooked lamb dish. Redemption came, however, in the form of a chunky, perfectly cooked traditional Spanish tortilla, and encouraging noises were being made about some King Prawns with olive oil, garlic and chilli up table.

Overall, I left Pintxo in a mood closer to optimistic realism than brutal disappointment. While failing to live up to my frankly delusional expectations, the restaurant boasts some interesting variations on the standard tapas fare and comes as close to an authentic taste of the Basque country you’re likely to get in deepest darkest Partick. The three tapas for £8.95 lunch and early dinner option looks inviting, and I get the sense Pintxo might work better if approached in the Spanish style of tapas as an accompaniment as opposed to an end in itself.

I also learned to take restaurant reviews in future with a pintx of salt.

The Droogs of Society

Every dog has its day and this week it was the turn of the TV bottom feeders to bark. Bolstered by morbid curiosity and a peculiarly bereft schedule, I’ve recently been trying to score in some of the less salubrious corners of digi-land and this is what i turned up.

Excess all areas: Rock Stars was a remarkable Sky Three docu-druggy-drama that retold the final highs and lows of rock stars Kurt Cobain and Jimi Hendrix with a unique mix of reconstruction, personal testimony and computer animation.

Interviews with close friends were cut with reconstructions of the errant rock stars eating out of bins, smashing up hotel rooms and generally making a nuisance of themselves before injecting, snorting or dropping their way into oblivion. At this point the graphics took over as the image dissolved into a representation of the stars insides, replete with heroin molecules attaching themselves to receptors inside their glowing exo-skeletans.

Terry Christian narrated in a cynical attempt to inject some cult cool into the travesty with the result that both Christian and the programme dropped a few notches more in my esteem. Towards the end I couldn’t even laugh at how shite it was, and had to turn off the TV before they showed Sid Vicious stabbing Nancy Spungen and telling people to fuck off a lot (although this might have been cool in retrospect.)

Over on More4, I’ve spent the last few weeks dipping into Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip to see whether it was something I could dig. As far as I can see this is little more than a shit programme about an even shiter programme.

Based around the lives and loves of a bunch of smart arse American media types as they quip their way through the production of what looks like one of the most boring programmes ever fictionally created, Studio (I’m doing that irritating thing people do when they try to make something sound better than it is by shortening the title) suffers a lot from its association with political cheeser The West Wing. Much of the programme is given over to proving that the actors can walk, talk and crack jokes at the same time, as well as demonstrating the quirkier sides of the characters’ personalities (which it becomes quickly clear is incidentally the only side of the characters’ personalities.)

I think there was a plot in there somewhere, and definitely something about snakes, but other than that the hour or so I spent watching this mush has pretty much been erased from my memory, heroes style, and that’s probably for the best.

As such Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip does provide something of a therapeutic function. In much the same way as high-powered executives like to submit to a dominatrix, watching this programme allows your brain to take a holiday from worrying about all your personality defects and making decisions such as whether to buy one of those new i-pods after all.

The rest of the week News 24 and BBC Parliament was pretty much the default option, as at least with it something exciting could happen. Sundays on the latter are taken over by C-Span, the American political channel and in my view, lengthy footage of the Senate’s ratification of the presidents Attorney General nominee trumps the Hollyoaks omnibus any day.

BBC Heaven

I’ve been all over BBC this week like some sort of computer rash. First up was Charlie Brooker’s Screen Wipe (BBC 4) where I dully had the extent of my plagiarism chopped up into little pieces and laid out on a plate for me.

Non-stop media came under fire this week as Brooker dismantled rolling news coverage and shone a floodlight through each component, calmly exposing the absurdity at the centre of most “breaking news” coverage and round-the-clock reporting.

Packed with sharply observed witticisms and pointed analysis, Brooker’s Guardian Screen Burn Column translates well onto TV. Having only recently started watching this, I was a little concerned that the column wouldn’t flesh out well to a half hour TV programme, but Brooker succeeds admirably as the show becomes a whole different beast altogether. Emphasis is very much placed on the processes behind TV, as Brooker exposes the trickery and manipulation “behind the story” and coolly lacerates the genre.

While unfailing in its sardonic humour, Screen Wipe also manages to be educational and informative, aided no doubt by Brooker’s clear, matter-of-fact presenting style. Any criticism I make of this would likely be out of bitterness, as it feels like there is literally nothing I can ever think or say about TV again that this man won’t already have expressed, in an infinitely more humorous way, ten years previously.

Next up against the wall was this week’s surprise gem Please Vote for Me, (BBC4) a documentary charting the tears and tantrums of the first ever class elections in a primary school in the city of Wuhan, China.

Screened as part of the BBC Why Democracy? season, the film captured China’s first baby steps into the unfamiliar as the class was introduced to the new and volatile concept of democracy, creating a hotbed of political intrigue and rendering a race as hard and closely fought as the toughest General Election campaign.

On the ballot was the incumbent, Luo Lei, challenger Cheng Cheng and Xu Xiaofei, the only girl in the race and its first casualty as the boys increasingly dominated the debate. Bribery, trickery and backstabbing became par for course as the three battled it out, egged on by over-ambitious parents and determined to keep their eye on the main prize that offered respect, power and privilege.

The subsequent election campaign alternated between the hilarious and downright dirty. During Xu Xiaofei’s crucial election speech, Cheng Cheng orchestrated his classmates to shout her down, reducing her to tears and adding a sinister twist to the contest. It wasn’t long before the whole class was in the throes of anguish and despair as the effect of their ill treatment of Xu Xiaofei became apparent. The next day, Cheng Cheng told her it had all been arranged by Luo Lei, and then once again led the class in a round of intensive heckling as Luo Lei tried to set out his own vision for the class.

This being China, however, Luo Lei managed to fight his way back with some good old-fashioned corruption, taking the whole class for a trip on the city monorail (managed by his fathers police department) and giving out gifts in a bid to secure their votes.

In the end, the incumbent’s advantage proved too great to unseat Luo Lei, as the class cast their votes by secret ballot and chose him to remain their class prefect, to the bitter disappointment of his rivals.

Please Vote for Me was a rare and interesting piece of filmmaking from a country notorious for its suppression of artistic licence and freedom of speech. As the drama unfolded, local director Weijun Chun had captured what he described as a reflection of the “tough yet hopeful democratisation process in China” and created a snapshot of a rapidly changing country that is facing new challenges and threats in the increasingly globalised world.

As the action cut between the classroom antics and the behind-the-scenes political management of the candidates parents, events unfolded seamlessly and without the need voiceover as Chun stitched together a story of power, politics and intrigue while keeping his eye on the wider social implications.

If this does indeed reflect the first steps in the long and arduous process of democratisation in China, it promises to be one that will have its fair share of corruption, mishaps - and Machiavellian eight year olds.

Proof that advertising isn't always evil

This recent cadburys ad featuring a Gorilla drumming to Phil Collin's "In the air tonight" almost makes me want to quit my job, ditch my friends and go over to the dark side (almost)

Plus i also really like Diary Milk.

TV-linking, smart thinking

Who ever said familiarity breeds contempt obviously wasn't a fan of tv links.

This week I joined the TV revolution with a glut of TV links-facilitated binge viewing. The entire Nathan Barley back catalogue was devoured greedily, a few Sopranos were knocked back and a couple of dabs of the Twin Peaks series sneaked guiltily before I emerged out the other side bleary, confused and satiated.

Desperate to fill the Duchess-shaped gap left in my life while bird brain was on her revenge trip to London, I had turned to the internet and the on demand magic of TV Links for digital solace. It wasn’t long before I was consumed by the heady whirl of infinite viewing possibilities and power and before I knew it my four days off work had been pissed down the drain as a sea of junk and detritus lapped at the bottom of the couch, threatening to reclaim my prostate corpse at any moment.

Such was the intoxicating effect of TV Links that social interaction largely went out the window once again, and I managed instead to spend some serious me-time with some of the contemporary giants of the small screen. Now, let me dispense with self-indulgent rhetoric and get on with showing you my vision for the country – sorry I mean let me get on with this weeks TV round up.

When Nathan Barley was first on TV I was either too stupid to get it properly or too distracted to focus long enough to realise that this was possibly one of the most flawless and biting comedies to come out of Britain in the last few years. Penned by Charlie Brooker and Chris Morris, Nathan Barley takes few prisoners as it tears a hole in contemporary twenty-something culture and leaves little sacred in its wake. While I thought it was funny at first, I tellingly didn’t make it my absolute number 1 priority to watch every episode until my eyes bled and my brain started cooking in its thick skull with all the extra radiation.

Repent I did however and it was with great joy that I was able to enjoy a good couple of episodes of virgin territory. What makes this series so good, is the recognition of my own life in both the shambolic Dan Ashcroft as well as in parts of the title character and his idiotic mates. I defy anyone who has ever picked up a copy of Vice to claim they are completely spotless with regards to some of the behaviour Brooker and Morris satirise so unrelentingly, and this, perhaps above anything else, is what makes it so bleeding good.

Or maybe I’m just a moron.

Still on TV Links The Soprano’s, as ever, hit the mark (I’ve gushed enough about this programme in recent weeks so will leave it at that) and Twin Peaks was as delightfully unnerving as always, but i don't think i'll give up on the more traditional methods of viewing just yet...

TV links has an annoying tendency to stall and for the audio and vision to go out of sync is not uncommon. Whats more, unless you are in possesion of some top notch computer equipment such as Apple's front row package, watching TV on a laptop is compromised by your position in relation to the screen, making watching with a group unreasonable (unless you know them all very well and don't mind bunching up.) Additionally, if you are watching on your computer it means you can't go on the internet at the same time, a real crux to the media multi-tasking we've become accustomed to.

The old girl is safe yet.

The Mild Gourmets

Once again work and Internet access conspired to throw a spanner in the creative works last week, meaning a delay in that rarest of creatures – a timely Sunday dispatch. However, as nothing is ever my fault, and no-one but me cares anyway, I’ve won’t bang on about this time, instead getting straight down to the nitty gritty.

Last week The Wild Gourmet’s flopped onto the screen like a used condom tossed casually aside in a grotty bedsit. Taking the current unfathomable foraging and freeganism craze to the nth degree, The Wild Gourmet’s saw well-heeled London-types Male Gourmet and Female Gourmet start their epic mission around Britain to “find it, kill it, cook it and eat it.” Not a bad premise, for a show, but when these two got going they made Indian Food Made Easy look like Escoffier.

Driving around Britain in their vegetable oil powered car, the duo hit Cornwall first, much to the bemusement of the local peasants. Male gourmet took us through his inventory of weapons first, telling us he always carried three kinds of knives, a shotgun, and at least two axes, before stalking off to engage in the supremely manly task of spearing a motionless flatfish in a stream.

Meanwhile back at camp, female gourmet endeared viewers with her squeamishness when putting a snail on a hook, protesting “I’ve never killed anything before!” Although she failed to catch anything, her killing confidence certainly got a boost, as we see her negotiating the slaughter of fourteen rabbits in exchange for a basket of fruit from a farmer later in the episode.

Having also failed the fishing expedition, male gourmet (with a severely dented ego) and female gourmet skipped off into the woods to forage their supper. Coming across some big mushrooms by a tree, the pair over-compensated their earlier losses and acted like they just hit the jackpot. Male gourmet seized on the opportunity to rebuild his bruised masculinity by referring to the mushrooms in meat-like terms, enthusing that they were “just like steaks” and that he was a man after all because picking a mushroom is much like killing an animal. Female gourmet used her bargaining skills to trade the mushrooms for some eggs and milk at a farm shop so that they could eat that night. There is no doubt in my mind whatsoever that if the cameras weren’t there, they would have been told to fuck off.

There was one redeemable feature in this episode however: When hunting wood pigeon a farmer produced an innovative and macabre device for attracting birds, which involved sliding two dead birds onto poles protruding from a wheel. By dint of human ingenuity and some Frankenstein man against nature themes, when the wheel turned the two corpses flapped their wings.

I am sure there is a metaphor in their somewhere…

Last week I also returned to Heroes, consuming a three-episode value meal in one sitting. Having practically bummed (I’ve been watching Nathan Barley) this series in an earlier entry, I was a little worried that I would return to find it a bit of a let down, and therefore loose all my TV credibility.

Fortunately I was not disappointed, as Heroes proved to be the crack-cocaine TV I thought it was. David Byrne look-alike bad dad is still confusing us with his bad/good dynamic, “The cheerleader” is still managing to attend practice at least once a day, (and never get changed afterwards) and the professional romantic sap is still irritating his political candidate brother with his “saving the world” speil.

Armed with a faster internet connection and www.tv-links.co.uk, it’s never been easier to score, and I’m in danger of developing a serious habit.

Fortnight foul up

A few particularly nasty hangovers and long working hours conspired last week to knock my writing out of sync, so this will be my first TV round-up in a fortnight. I feel bad for letting it slip and i would like to take this opportunity to apologise to both of the people who read this blog.

While incapacitiated i did manage to fix at least one bloodshot eye on the dream screen at various points over the two weeks however, and with my mind never far away from the mealstrom of faux indignition and excessive italics that is TV Casualty, I made some quick-deposits in the memory banks and wrote a few post-dated critical cheques.

Nigella Express hit the screen last week as the food seductress clambered in and out of taxi's, entertained friends and did some important looking work, all while planning what to have for supper that evening (a generic term which seemed to mean anything from a full blown meal with family to pudding in bed, the nuances of which presumably only the seriously well heeled can discern.)

Week One's menu included crispy calimari and some sort of pudding, all made with mountains of butter, sugar, fat, and the decadent abandon Nigella has traded on throughout her career. In this series we have been invited into her swank London pad, (metaphorically of course) to see how lazily and easily we too can whip up spectacular food while labouring under the demands of Modern Life.

While i admire Nigella's "I'm not prepared to sacrifice one meal" philosophy and her aversion to the Cook yourself thin mob, I thought the show didn't really measure up in the cooking, where it mattered the most. The food looked inviting, but in the process Nigella doesn't really impart any transferable knowledge, rather demonstrating a sort of Cook by Numbers approach and focusing more on the inordinate pleasure she seems to take from sampling her own creations. This programme made me hungry, but it didn't particularly make me want to cook.

Another new arrival to TV land last week was the return of Kath & Kim, the Aussie fem-fest chick-com so beloved of my own dear Duchess. Focusing on the bogan-ey antics of the mother and daughter of the title, the fifth (?) series features a new addition to the cast as baby Eppony-Ray enters the fray.

The first episode cranks up the comedy potential as Kim's no-good dad returns onto the scene and ends up conning his guileless daughter out of several thousand dollars, causing her and put upon husband Brett to move into the Day-Knight love nest, making for overcrowding and ensuing hilarity.

Opinions on this show are divided (usually along gender lines) but i generally find Kath & Kim to be watchable, if a bit hit and miss. The posh shop assistants at Fountaingate are about as funny as cancer, and you get the sense that some of the jokes are a bit too laboured when a more subtle approach would have done the job better. Despite this, Kath & Kim boasts some good characters, and the Australian Suburban Limbo in which it is set provides a good backdrop with plenty of comic mileage.

Considering i live with an obsessive, Kath & Kim is going to be an unavoidable part of my life for some time, and thats not a bad thing at all.

Will he or won't he?

Despite mainstream press speculation being uncharacteristically low key regarding the prospect of an October election, The Iron Fist has yet to rule one out, and there have been some interesting movements that suggest that Old Gordy isn't quite ready to show all his cards yet.

His appearence on the front page of the Guardian alongside Lady Thather on Thursday, days after telling the TUC to go fuck itself with regards to pay rises for the public sector, for example, suggests a serious play for the those vulnerable voters on the rebound from Cameron and craving stability. Add to this his "British jobs for British workers" speil and you have someone who is making all the right noises to capitalise on a still fragmented Tory party.

Similarily, his slight to the TUC speaks volumes in terms of timing. It would be a foolish move to start alienating the Union's so early on in his premiership if it didn't mean some immediate political capital. As it stands, he has appealed to the right while managing not to offend the Union's too much, or at least too repeatedly, so he can still claim to be one of the old boys when it comes to election time and make up the ground after he secures his mandate.

The other parties are also making some serious preperations, with the hiring of millionaire brat and PR dreamboat Zac Goldsmith as environment tsar (why is it always rich people who want to save the planet so much?) by the Tories and the release of some eye-catching policies by the Lib Dems suggesting no-one has dismissed the possibility of an Autumn fight just yet.

In the coming weeks, Brown will no doubt have one cunning eye on the Polls and the other on the Party Conferences, and most likely even he won't know for sure until the moment arrives.

DNA OK?

I’m still buzzing from my glorious result on political compass and thought it was time to exercise some liberal outrage.

This week, my sights are set on Lord Judge Sedley, the noted “upholder of civil liberties on the bench” who caused a bit of a stir recently after claiming that the current DNA database was “indefensible” as it listed a higher proportion of ethnic minorities than whites. To remedy the situation, Sedley proposed, everyones DNA should go on file, which would not only redress the balance but would also mean there were less criminals on the street.

While Downing Street was quick to distance itself from Sedley’s comments, what has emerged is the extent to which current DNA collection procedures violate civil liberties, as well as Home Office plans to extend DNA collection to low-level offences such as speeding or littering. As the current database holds some 24,000 records of 10 – 17 year olds who have never been convicted of an offence, under the plans proposed it's not difficult to see the database, which currently holds around 5% of the UK population, expanding rapidly. What's more, it probably wouldn't be long until police started takind DNA samples at random checkpoints and from arbitrary searches, (no doubt under the guise of counterterrorism) none of which they would be obliged to destroy.

DNA identification is still very much in its infancy, but an enlarged database and more sophisticated methods of gathering samples could potentially be used to devasting effect, providing a unique profile of a persons movements and associations.

Combine this with ID Cards and CCTV Cameras and you have in place the apparatus of control Stalin would be envious of.

TV round up

My ability to come up with snappy TV-related titles for my weekly round up has apparently burnt out after a depressingly short period of time, meaning I have had to put my creative switch on standby, retune my rapier wit and generally fuck about with the aerial. However, there is apparently more to life than cheap puns on cheap punk songs, so without further delay, I’ll get going on this week’s TV round up.

This week, a fellow aficionado turned me on to Tribe, (Tuesday, BB2: 9pm) which involves “explorer” Bruce Parry travelling to some of the remotest parts of the planet to spend time with and learn about some of its most isolated people and their customs.

From the blurb this seemed like another boys-own adventure in the style of Donal MacIntyre’s recent Edge of Existence or BBC Macho-fest Last Man Standing, as Parry travels to Siberia to spend time with the Nenets, a tribe of Reindeer herders that follow the animals’ massive migration movements throughout the year, yet as the episode progressed it was clear that Parry offered a little more to what is otherwise often an ethically questionable genre.

Suited and booted in his winter gear, the episode began with Parry being helicoptered into the Nenet’s camp to meet his adoptive family and spend his first night inside his host’s reindeer-skin chum. Over tea that night the head of the family expressed his misgivings about Parry’s ability to adapt to their difficult way of life, a fear than was borne out over the course of the program as he immersed himself in their annual migration south.

Playing like a sort of “Cowboys of the Tundra,” Tribe offered a fascinating insight into the Nenet’s way of life, accompanied by some stunning Arctic photography and lightened by the presence of likable goof Parry (at one point he instigates a fashion parade as he shows off his new Nenet clothing to his companions.) The programme gave an idea of the harshness of the tribesmen’s life, but also of its uniqueness and the fundamental freedom it gave the Nenet’s, all of whom had houses in town and many who had left their professions to return to this way of life. The tribes apparent warmth and respect for Parry also cushioned what might otherwise have seemed like an an exploitative “call of the wild” adventure holiday, as did Parry’s willingness to chip into the workload whenever possible and frustration when he felt he was holding them back.

Most of the rest of the week cruised through without anything significant to report, the usual diet of News, Eastenders and repeats of Hells Kitchen featuring prominently, not to mention a two day TV sojurn caused by my own wilderness adventure. Until, that is, I was knocked sideways with little warning by the return of The Sopranos, with the first episode of the final nine on Sunday night.

My relationship with the Sopranos has been consistent in its respect and admiration but rockier in its diligence. Having shared in the family obsession with the series while at school, we grew distant when I went to Australia and the relationship floundered when I went to university, exacerbated by the move to E4. Chance encounters and the occasional attempt at reunion have dominated the years since making for a patchy knowledge with gaping holes, the last series being the first in a while that I watched with any sort of consistency.

Now however, with the final nine in a good reliable time slot (Sunday, 10pm) and with access to E4, I am in a perfect position to follow the monumental series to the last, and I’m looking forward to the next eight Sundays.

The first episode of the last series opened with a police raid on the Soprano family home, followed by trip to Tony’s sister and husband Bobby Bacala’s lakeside cabin to relieve the tension. As Bobby and Tony floated in a boat in the lake in a scene reminiscent of the murder of Freddo in Godfather II, the tension starts to ratchet up culminating in a drunken brawl over a game of monopoly gone awry, with Bobby as the unhappy victor.

Tony’s revenge is swift, calculated and total, setting the tone for the series and reminding the viewer that The Sopranos constantly challenges by simultaneously inspiring feelings of identification, warmth and revulsion in its characters, never allowing for complacency or one-dimensional analysis.

As the various threads of the last series come together, this promises to be an explosive coup de grace for possibly the greatest drama to series to come out of America for a generation. I know I’ll be watching.

Power to the Papal

As the lives of millions become increasingly dominated by the heavyweight fundamentalists, religious or otherwise, it looks like the Catholic Church is going to join the fracas and once again start throwing its weight around.

Having exercised a degree of damage control by largely staying clear of public life during the child abuse scandals of the last 20 years, the willingness of the church to influence public policy is in the resurgent, and in voting terms this means the awakening of a sleeping giant.

The influence of this new power base is being felt most keenly in the abortion debate. The church has always been steadfast in its pro-life stance but recent months have seen a sharpening of the rhetoric followed by the action to back it up. In June of this year Pope Benedict called on Catholics to sop donating money to Amnesty International after it made a change to its constitution to support abortion in cases where a woman’s health is in danger, or their Human Rights have been violated as in the case of incest or rape.

Closer to home Cardinal Keith O’Brien, head of the Catholic church in Scotland resigned his membership of Amnesty on Wednesday, and earlier this year likened abortion to “two Dunblane Massacres a day” urging voters not to support politicians who defend the “social evil” and just stopping short of advocating excommunication.

It is difficult to judge the outcome of the church’s renewed vigour on this issue. The church represents a sizable, and more importantly, organised bloc, and will certainly make its presence felt, yet the recent hard line stance does run the risk of alienating more liberal Catholics, not to mention the public at large. Additionally, recent threats to close its adoption agencies in Scotland if they are compelled to consider homosexual foster parents could have a similar effect, undoing the ecumenical and concilatory work of JP by plunging the church back into the dark ages.

It wil be interesting to see how Cameron reacts to this as his party drags him to the right by the scruff of the neck , but i wouldn't be surprised if this becomes a conservative issue at the next election.

Check me out!

I take the political compass test every year or so and look what it turned up this time. I need to tone things down a bit! If you're unfamilar with the concept you answer 40 or so multiple choice questions ranging from abortion to the free market, and the computer plots you on the above graph where you can compare your position to the likes of Hitler, Milton Freidman and Ghandi. The makers recently plotted all of the US presidential hopefuls and they all seemed to cluster just above middle right. Take the test at www.politicalcompass.org. I'm off to throw bricks at CCTV Cameras...

Back behind the box where i belong

Newly paupered from my stint in the Big Smoke, I found it surprisingly easy to slide back into the old work – food – TV – bed continuum last week, as I refocused by retina’s and jumped aboard H.M.S Blinky to sail through to the weekend abyss.

First port of call was Jamie at Home (Tuesdays C4, 8pm) to watch the naked chef go feral in the back garden of his Essex mansion. Looking like he had had a few too many turkey twizzlers, a slighty rotund Jamie Oliver once again tore, mushed, dolloped and lovely jublied his way through a series of recipes designed to get the best out of “Mother Nature.”

On the menu this week was Barbeque, and Jamie demonstrated some interesting variations on the craft smoking Langoustines and Razor Clams in an upturned Pirex bowl over a grill, and testing out an antique spit roast with a large hunk of dripping, blistering, mouth-watering pig.

This was no Lidl-burgers-on-a-disposable-in-the-park affair, and as wave after wave of sizzling, blackened meat came off the barbie and straight into Jamie’s jabbering mouth, I couldn’t help but feel like the little git was taunting me, the Glasgow anti-summer having all but extinguished any hopes of having even a primitive variation on this classic feast this year

Annoying as he often is however, Jamie Oliver does offer some practical advice and he has a way of making cooking seem like a less precise and more everyman affair than some of his contemporaries, and this series isn’t a bad stab at demonstrating this ethos. Gone is the crusading character of some of his earlier efforts, with a greater focus on the food than whatever social ill he is attempting to cook away on that particular week. Gone too, curiously, are people. Save from the occasional appearance of a bemused gardener, Jamie is largely alone, delivering his cooking tips to an unseen presence just off camera, (an irritating habit) devoid of the family party feel of some of his earlier shows.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing (I feel like I know Gordon Ramsey’s kids better than my cousins) but it does lend a slightly melancholic air to the cheeky chappy at times.

Later in the week BBC 2 proved a suitable place to drop anchor with the return of Saxondale, (Thursday BBC, 9:30pm) Steve Coogan’s character driven sitcom about an aging pest-control rocker coming to terms with suburban domestication. Reluctant as I am to give advice, I would like to offer a quick tip: Never attempt to watch the first episode of series two of Saxondale with three girls who have been drinking cider in the sun for a good part of the day. Lacerating my viewing pleasure with shrieks of “That’s _ out of _” every time a new character came on the screen, it was at times difficult to hear through the din and adequately assess Coogan’s latest offering to a degree which you, Dear Reader, should have come to expect by now.

As such, I’ll keep the champagne on ice and hold back the dogs for another week. A closing line did suggest that this could be a grower however; when a downcast Saxondale is roused from his misery by an invitation to party with the guys, his wife asks him what she should do with his dinner. “Put it by the microwave – I’ll heat it up lay-ter” he drawls as the van screeches away, holding a beer in one hand, and making a horn sign with the other. Amazing (possibly.)

The week ended ship shape with the announcement by Channel 4 that it would be freeing up around 29 hours of schedule in January by cancelling Celebrity Big Brother as well as cutting adrift some its more mindless pap to instigate a “creative renewal.”

The programmer plausibly cited the so-called Jade Goody race row and a reluctance of celebrities to appear on its show as a few of its reasons, and it will be interesting to see what they come up with to fill the gap. With most remotely intelligent programmes now farmed out to More 4 however, I wouldn’t be surprised if How clean is your Brat Camp topped the bill.

Die-Nasty: Keeping it in the family

With the unopposed coronation of yet another Labour leader, family ties in the Brown cabal have never looked stronger. As Wendy Alexander takes her place alongside her brother Douglas in the inner circle, Labour’s upper reaches are starting to look a little incestuous.

Add this latest appointment to a cabinet which already includes the brothers Milliband and husband and wife team Yvette Cooper and Ed Balls, it could be argued that Brown is employing family ties to strengthen the unity of a Cabinet that is already packed with his former advisers and treasury stooges.

This isn’t a surprising move for a centralising control freak such as Brown, but if family relations are to become a lasting factor in the Governments of the future, does this have implications for the democratic process?

America has had its fair share of political dynasties, with the Kennedy’s and Bush’s (and now the Clinton’s) divvying up parts of the country along bloodlines at various points in its history. It is possible that sections of the electorate look to these families as the embodiment of certain values which become more than the sum of the individual candidate, perhaps displaying a tendency towards feudalism that hasn’t yet been completely erased from the human psyche. In a country like America where the President is also head of state, this can become even more pronounced.

This side of the Atlantic the phenomenon is less severe, perhaps because we have the royal family to benignly satisfy a repressed and irrational desire for subordination? Whatever the reason, as respect for the Royals wanes, and Prime Ministerial power becomes more Presidential, we may see a few more “Douglas’s” rising to prominence.

This in itself is not anti-democratic as such, but combined with an increasing reliance on cash to get anywhere near elected, we should keep our sceptics hats on regarding this one.

Foodie Casualty – Eating Casually – Greasy Cutlery

I couldn’t think of a good pun on the title of this blog to describe my week long adventure into the world of food criticism so instead I’ve provided three bad ones, and I think it pretty much evens out.

Yes, last week I swapped my remote control for a set of chopsticks, a knife and fork, and an irrepressible appetite as I embarked on a food tour of London, gobbling anything reasonably priced enough to get in my way, and a few things more besides.

In the following report I’ve trimmed off the gristle, separated the wheat from the chaff (not because I’m intolerant mind, I find that whole thing bullshit) and glossed over the banal to give you the highs and lows of my big munching adventure. Observer Food Monthly, stick this in your bradley smoker and – uh - smoke it!

The week started off well with a Sunday night Vietnamese in one of the scores of such restaurants just beyond the City. After sinking a few overpriced ones in the trendy environs of Brick Lane, the brother and I set off on the short walk to the restaurant, one of his personal favourites and promising start to my food adventure.

A quick look at the monumental menu was made more confusing by the arrival of another, longer menu held together by paper clips and a few more less-overpriced ones, so I wisely threw caution to the dogs and let the waiter and my brother negotiate the order between them.

To start, we shared a large plate of crispy duck pancakes, followed quickly by my still sizzling order of curried goat with chilli and lemongrass with a side order of fried rice. The brother opted for the pork belly with noodles and before long we were no more than a blur of chopsticks, flying rice and soiled napkins. The enthusiasm with which the food was attacked was matched by the quality of what was on offer. The pancakes, as our waiter demonstrated, were to be wrapped up in crisp, fresh, perfectly shaped leaves of what I assumed to be a small Asian lettuce and dipped in an addictive chilli oil, making for a good starter that immediately dispensed with ceremony and set a good communal tone for the rest of the meal.

Delving into my Goat before it burned a hole through the plate, I found a tender aromatic meat that reminded me, not unpleasantly, of the smell of wet dog that worked well with the chilli and lemongrass. A practical query into what was happening on the other side of the table found a plate of similar quality, and we rolled out of the restaurant so contented I forgot the copy of Slip It In I had only that afternoon purchased for the Duchess.

Lunch and breakfast for the next few days came in the form of subsidised bacon rolls and main meals courtesy of H.M Government (I wasn’t in prison) as I spent my mornings musing over the weekly updated menus on the intranet at my temporary place of work, coming to the sound decisions of a herb marinated pork foccacia and parsley and parmesan crusted hake with a side of cabbage.

After a few post work drinks on Tuesday with a colleague, I headed back east to meet my brother again for a trip to the renowned Tas Firin. This place is legendary among my brother and his flatmates, and it didn’t disappoint. Going straight to main we both opted for the mixed kebabs. Large, tender chunks of chicken, lamb shish and lamb kofta cooked to perfection, nestled next to generous portions of rice and flat bread complimented by a fresh salad and red onion–type vinegarette to share. The meat almost melted in my mouth, and the large portions ensured another contented, if wet, journey home.

The next morning, inspired by website London Review of Breakfasts, I set off to start the day with a hearty full English. As my top two choices (Nicos and Fellici’s in Bethnal Green) were closed, I had to go freestyle and choose from the litany of greasy spoons on Bethnal Green road. While what I finally settled on didn’t exactly blow my morning apart, it was cheap, voluminous and greasy, perfect for setting me up for a day of pounding the streets and culture vulturey, carrying me straight through lunch and into Jamaican eaterie Banners in Crouch End to meet ex-Glasgow friends for dinner.

Jerk Swordfish with rice and peas was the clear choice, with the tangy, fruity jerk sauce going well with the white meaty swordfish. My only complaint was quantity-related, exasperated as I saw the piled high plates of the half jerk chicken with rice and peas at a neighbouring tables. However, by occasionally pausing between mouthfuls and grazing off ollys sweet potato chips I managed to (not?) make a meal out of it and pace myself through a leisurely course.

Next day was market day, and bright as a button mushroom I skipped breakfast and made the journey to borough market to harass market sellers into setting up their food stalls. First stop was a saliva inducing “three scallops with crispy bacon and stir-fry” stall. Served in a plastic tray with a slice of lemon and hunk of bread,

While the novelty of scallops on the street in central London was in itself worth the £4, the scallops themselves unfortunately didn’t really measure up. Smaller than I expected, they lacked the fresh sea-taste of those I’d bought only the week before in the Partick Farmers Market, but served with the bacon and a generous squeeze of lemon juice they made a good mid morning snack.

Next I hit the charcuterie stall, and considering the scallops a starter, decided to have a main course. Having never tried Casoulet before, the rich French stew particularly stood out, and I was soon digging into a tray of duck confit, sliced Toulouse sausage, white beans and a thick boullion. It was tasty, but unfortunately stone cold, and instead of taking it back I continued to eat. Which I will most likely regret for the rest of my life. I left the market feeling a little disheartened that my experience didn’t live up to my expectations, and half wishing I’d got up early to go to Billingham Fish Market instead.

The rest of the trip consisted of a few so-so fry ups, some disheartening Chinese in Camden, and a truly awful kebab, but I left London after the week nevertheless satisfied with my culinary trip.

Back to the box next week.

No posting this week due to the fact that i'm eating my way round London and don't expect to watch much tv or think of things such as politics etc.

Will be posting a dispatch on my gastronomic adventures as soon as everything has digested.

Move over Raynor there's a new kid in town...

TV Party!

bbSome monumental lifestyle changes were afoot this week as i commandeered my first working digibox, in one fell swoop expanding my channel range tenfold and consolidating my power. I won't forget in a hurry that first golden night when, giddy with excitement i left the side of a slumbering Duchess and after a quick and suprisingly uncomplicated set-up, devoured a Father Ted and double Curb, basking in the digital light that had entered my life.

By fated coincidence, however, i had spent earlier that night in the company of one of the old guard, BBC 2, and the ominously titled TV Junkie, the video diaries of American journalist Rick Kirkham chronicalling a decade or so of crack addiction and family disintegration.

Compiled from thousands of hours of footage, the programme presented a seamless and self shot account of Kirkham's battle with drugs and alcohol. Aside from a few background titles at the beginning and end, the video speaks for itself, allowing the viewer to piece together the story and draw their own conclusions.

At times, Kirkham uses the camera as if he's making a special report, leading to bizarre "I am now using a makeshift pipe to smoke the cocaine" type pieces-to-camera, and at other times he uses it as a confessional. At other moments it becomes clear that the camera is another addiction, as he keeps it rolling through some excrutiating moments.

I genuinely did not know where this was heading, and was somewhat surprised when it finished with him making an emotional speech to a group of whooping graduating students after six clean years. A cheeseball to the very end, his boys and ex-wife joined him on stage for a group hug.

TV Junkie was good, and at times harrowing tv, and although Kirkham never really inspires feelings of like or sympathy, you had to admire his courage for sharing his lowest points.

Still running high on my Monday night fix, i spent the next few days content with a Mighty Boosch DVD and a rare mid week trip to the cinema. I'd watched a few Mighty Boosch episodes when they were on TV but the DVD really helped fill in the gaps. Having been beseiged with references and quoted out of more than a few conversations, some vital viewing was necessary - if only to wind people up by finding (and loudly declaring) it to be shit.

Fortunately this wasn't to be as i found the Mighty Boosch to largely hit the mark with its fantastically original plots, characters and sets. The bits with the moon let it down slightly, but other parts, such as old gregs "Do ya love meh?" have entered into the dailylexicon of my existence.

Dragging myself away from DVD and digital delights, I actually left the house to see The Simpsons movie on Wednesday night, adding another medium to my seemingly endless capacity to stare quietly at a screen with my mouth open. Reports from the front line had been that the movie was ok, suprisingly funny but nothing amazing, and i found this to generally hold true.

The movie comes in at a higher level than the latest from the TV series, which having been dismal for some time is starting to improve slightly, but is lacking in alot of the intellectual weight of the earlier episodes.

In saying that, there are still alot of good jokes in there, and it explores some darker territory when dealing with Homers familial neglect and poor parenting. All in all, it is a good way to spend a few hours (though i did fade a little in the middle) and i would watch it again quite willingly.

$peculate to A££umulate…

“In this country, you gotta make the money first. Then when you get the money, you get the power. Then when you get the power, then you get the women”

- Tony Montana

In the news in the last few months have been a number of stories regarding party funding and its relation to the democratic process. This issue is only likely to get even more exposure as the next General Election looms.

While the most recent item has involved the pulling of funds from David Cameron’s Tories by Sir William Cowie in protest to his “arrogant, Old Etonian” style of leadership, the most damaging event in recent months has undoubtedly been the cash for honours scandal, which saw the apparently coincidential awarding of peerages to every single labour donor/lender of over £1 million. While the trading of money for influence is as old as the hills, trends home an abroad seem to be suggesting that the money equals power relationship is continually being honed within the democratic process.

In the past, political parties could rely on party membership (and in the case of Labour the Trade Unions) for a sizable chunk of their kitty. However, in the face of declining party membership and voter identification (likely to be exacerbated as the major parties battle for the centre ground) party chiefs have been understandably scoping around for alternative forms of revenue. Whether this is in the form of the £4800 a-head dinner (£5000 is the declaration threshold) that caught out Tony Litt seemingly hedging his bets before the Ealing Southall by-election, or in the undignified Tory grapple for a sizable cut of millionaire eccentric Branislaw Kostic’s estate, winning and keeping power too often relies on the actions of a wealthy minority – and they’re going to want a return on their hard spent lolly at some stage.

If the experiences of our American cousins are anything to go by, the personal finances of candidates are also likely to come into play more and more in the future. Stateside, the general consensus is don’t even bother trying to make an even half-serious run at the Presidency unless you’ve got several million George Washington’s tucked away somewhere. What’s more, with the the costs of running a campaign rising steeply (the 2000 Bush campaign cost $95.5m, rising to a whopping $269.6m in 2004 – Kerry trailed at a modest $234.6m) candidate wealth is likely to become an even bigger factor. Already, Hilary Clinton’s war chest totals $177.2m, and no fewer than 10 of the 17 candidates are millionaires.

Back at home, a disproportionate number of MP’s have either hit the million mark, or have substantial assets to their name (Boris Johnson, Mohammed Sarwar and Lynne Featherstone spring to mind.) With no cap on personal expenditure in UK campaigns up until the last three weeks and the increasing cost and sophistication of election techniques, the common man might be priced out of politics sooner that we think.

Is this inevitable?

A recent inquiry into party funding and election expenditure in the UK by Sir Hayden Phillips proposed that apart from the small administration fee opposition parties currently receive, there should also be a substantial state subsidy, with parties getting 50p for every vote they received at the last election (a similar scheme already operates in Germany.) Along with spending limits and a cap on private donations, this might go some way to help sap the influence of the super rich. In reality, however, it would be hard to see the main parties pass laws that might curb their ability to raise money and extend their influence, so whether such proposals become a reality remains to be seen.

Until then it seems that the old Scar Face adage might just hold true

TV Party?

Despite tuning the TV and normalizing the situation in the new flat, viewing was AGAIN unacceptably weak this week. I could blame this on books, the game cube and friends (the real kind – not the TV programme) but I know that the responsibility ultimately lies on my own shoulders and for this I apologise, dear reader.

While I never really built up any sort of consistency or pace, the week was punctuated by stolen moments and fleeting glances at the humming idiot in the corner, and I managed to snatch the following from its gaping jaws.

For some reason BBC thought it would be a good idea to screen a Dragon’s Den catch up on Wednesday and Thursday night. These episodes involved catching up with the winners and losers of last season and documenting their various (mis)fortunes, run along side interviews with the “Dragon’s.”

When Dragon’s Den started a few years back I enjoyed it. It was interesting to see the workings of entrepreneurship and gain an insight into the world of investment, marketing and business. However, in the last few years the show seems to have denigrated somewhat to become an uncomfortable exercise in ritual humiliation of the desperate by the powerful. This is owing in no small part to the success of The Apprentice and the bankable Sir Alan Sugar’s onslaught of put downs, jibes and ultimate dismissals painting a not altogether pleasant image of the viewing public as a jeering, bloodthirsty hoard.

What the producers of Dragon’s Den miss however, is that The Apprentice steadily builds up and exposes the contestants considerable personality defects, showing them up as greedy, ambitious and generally unprincipled shits who have bought into idea of the supremacy of wealth and power, making the viewer unsympathetic when that wealth and power turns against them full force in the wrath of Sir Alan. With Dragon’s Den, however, we aren’t given the chance to like or despise the contestant, making it unpleasant when they are rejected, and dull when they are not.

Moving briskly on, visual diversion later in the week came in the form of David Lynch’s prequel to Twin Peaks, the chilling Fire Walk With Me. (DVD) As with so many things in life, I was something of a Johnny-come-lately to the whole Twin Peaks franchise, so this was the first time I saw this movie, and I can say it has whetted my appetite for more.

For anyone familiar with the original film, Fire Walk With Me follows the series of events leading up to Laura Palmer’s death, ending with the discovery of her cellophane wrapped body at the lake shore (the first shot in Twin Peaks.) Lynch himself takes a role in this, as a cryptic hard of hearing FBI chief, with Kiefer Sutherland and Kyle MacLachan also making appearances.
Watching this film suprised me a little with its brutality. While Twin Peaks ambles along quite steadily, slowing drawing the viewer into the darker side of this quiet mountain town, Fire Walk With Me jars and jolts the viewer with scenes of prostitution, drug–use, rape and violent death almost from the beginning. It quickly becomes clear that Laura Palmer is no angel, and a cast of potential killers lines up to sharpen their knives amid the mysterious disappearance of the investigating agent in a previous murder. As with the first film Fire Walk With Me is visually mesmerising, exuding the Lynchian sepia-like style crossed with sexualised ultra-violence it shares with Blue Velvet.

Expect to read ramblings from the box set in the very near future.

Rounding the week off, Skateboarding documentary Dog Town and Z boys made adequate viewing for a sober Saturday night. The documentary follows the history of the infamous “Z-boy” skateboarding team from poverty-stricken southern Santa Monica as they swapped surf boards for skate boards, drained pools to skate in, then variously found their own paths to fame and fortune or otherwise. Played out as a sort of “punk-rock on four wheels” (emphasised by the unnecessary presence of Henry Rollins of Black Flag and Ian McKaye of Minor Threat and Fugazi in some of the interviews) Dog Town and Z-Boys nevertheless provided a good background to the former sub-culture turned international money spinner that is modern skateboarding.

Sensually, the film was enjoyable as old skating footage was spliced with present day interviews and a snarling Iggy pop soundtrack, set in the backdrop of a decaying California beach resort. However, while the Z-Boy team was undoubtedly talented, pioneering many of the sport’s moves and clearly blowing every other team out of the water with its trade mark slouched surfer style, the documentary did drag on a little as it descended into a round of back slapping and self-mythologizing.

Most of all, a lot of these guys reminded me of some of the skateboarders who used to hang around St Anne’s in Belfast before the council bulldozed it, with their aggressive localism, hierarchy’s and super-sized egos. One particular scene where a guy reminisces about throwing breeze blocks at outsiders especially springs to mind.

However, by and large the skating speaks for itself, and as one interviewee rightly points out, you have to be at least a bit of an asshole to be that good at something.

Later Losers.