Monday, 7 January 2013
Why is it TV executive have to push a good idea until it stinks. "Strictly.." ok, in small doses. "Dancing on Ice", reminds me of the Ice Shows we used to have to suffer in Brighton in the winter. There was nothing else on, if you discount Ice Hockey, Greyhound Racing and Speed Way. No, "DoI" has the smell of cod liver oil and camphor and the 1950's.
"Splash", where did that idea germinate? Celebs (third rate) have to compete in diving into a swimming pool. The judges, except for Jo Brand, were complete unknowns, with personalities as colourful as water. Jo Brand looked like she'd realised far too late in the day that her career had been set back at least 10 years by appearing on the show. What with Vernon Kay (how has he done so well) Bolton's own answer to nothing, trying to find something of interest in a near belly flop or Helen Lederer's excuses for being totally useless, this show has it all to do..not being killed off before next weekend.
Anyway, it set me up for Paddy McGuinness and "No Likey, No Lighty" and another series of just post pubescent lads being given the once, twice, three times, over by thirty young girls who ordinariness was a credit to the programme's talent scouts.
Don't get me wrong. I love the programme. Don't know why, although it does remind me of "Blind Date", and the happy thought that we don't have to put up with "Our Cilla" ever again. And that's it - Saturday on the TV - at least on the popular channels.
Which is no bad things since such dross means you might do something useful instead - like cutting your toe-nails or bleaching your over lip moustache.
I have to say Saturday evening was a bit of come down for me, having spent a lovely matinee watching Simon Russell Beale over camp like nobody's business in "Privates on Parade".
There is nothing like the massed laughter of an audience to make you feel at one with your fellow man. The theatre was packed - another joy - and the moment Simon minced on you felt the audience relax assured that they were in for a good time. I wasn't too concerned by the "serious" bits in the play; I just lapped up the coarse humour, camp jokes aplenty, drag and some nifty song and dance numbers. More of that please.
I rounded off my sojourn in London's gay heart with a ramble thro' Covent Garden. Frankly it's just like any High Street with all the usual suspects. A trip to Paul Smith is as good as a warning letter from the bank manager. How he has the nerve to charge his prices, I'll never know. But he's not the only one. Loads of designer brands have shops in the area - charging an arm and a leg for little more than a faint whiff of exclusivity and glamour.
Mind you that didn't stop me buying three ready meals from Marks along with a £11 bottle of plonk. Well, we are now only drinking at weekends.
You have to have something to raise the tone of Saturday nights.