I like to see awkward looking people with funny faces do well. I’m partial to the odd reality show but gone are the days of the Jerry Springer hustle when I would sit all night long losing precious sleep just for the thrill of watching people try and batter one another with chairs. Watching Oprah or Ricki the following afternoon was never going to be enough to redeem me from this voyeuristic sin. With the modern day reality style shows we all know it’s the appeal of the underdog; Britain’s Got Talent, Pop idol, X Factor, even the stage show variety quest for the new Maria, Oliver or Nancy with the gnomish Andrew Lloyd Webber grimacing on his throne. It’s all the same premise and jazz hands to it all. I have been known to cry. I don’t need to reel off a long list of wannabes who I’ve been momentarily pleased to see do well before later sneering at the inconvenience of having them clutter the multi-media bargain bin of my local supermarket.
The world is full of Clark Kents and Bruce Waynes. We all want to explore the dichotomy of our characters and be hailed as heros with a standing ovation so let Sharon from me local supermarket ‘ave a go and Brian from t’ pub juggle away. I don’t care if someone’s got bad teeth and a mullet. And it’s the one occasion where I don’t even care if they’ve got shifty eyes and fidget like a songstress on crack. If they truly have got talent and enough guts to get up on stage in front of a bunch of strangers then good luck to them. There’s a lot of folk with guts but no talent and a lot with talent but no guts, if you’ve got both go on my son!
In a world where social mobility has died a tragic death there’s a space for these kinds of shows. Give people a chance. That’s all ordinary people ask. Leave the sob stories out though, it cheapens the whole lot. I don’t want the emotive music. I don’t wanna know how you’ve got a scar on your left buttock from when you had the chicken pox or how your third cousin twice removed had the flu last year; just sing, dance, juggle cats, do whatever it is the fuck you do. I just want to be entertained. The very fact that I’m sat in on a Saturday night is reason enough for misery alone. All that said, I am myself giving serious consideration to posting on this site my yearly catalogue of crap along with a picture of my first born son sat dolefully next to the visiting crackheads in the hallway.
I must dedicate the final word to the ultimate in reality show voyeurism. So begins Big Brother season again and I don’t think I am ready for it because that bloody Chanelle from last year has not gone away yet. It’s like being infected with another bout of cholera while you’ve still got the shits from the last infection. I could take a good dose of that Kathreya with my cereal in the morning time though. Her gold platform boots and pink jumpsuit alone were enough to throw me into a clapping frenzy… and she comes bearing cookies, what could be better?
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