Channel 3, or ITV as it is known, is a major commercial public service TV Network.
Launched in 1955 under the auspices of the Independent Television Authority to provide competition to the BBC, it is also the oldest commercial network in the UK. Since the passing of the Broadcasting Act 1990, its legal name has been Channel 3, the number 3 having no real meaning other than to distinguish it from BBC One, BBC Two and Channel 4.
The only thing that really distinguishes it from the other major terrestrial TV channels is its output.
This once great TV channel now churns out more guff than a flatulant Whoopee Cushion.
When the clocked ticked down to 12 am on New Years Day 2000 and the millenium bug came and went quicker than a dose of Swine Flu, it seems the only people it infected were all the bored executives at ITV.
As they all got together round an oversized corporate table like to devise new programmes that would showcase the best of what its corporation had to offer, their senses all deserted them and they unanimously decided that they would spunk their programming budget for the forseeable future on:
literally working as little as possible,
and then spend what’s left on as few quality programmes as they could and basically scrape the D – list of the showbiz world to present them.
To view the weekly TV listings on ITV is like reading a roll call of everything that is cheap, nasty, and lowest common denominator television. No money goes into creating quality television, it is basically a showcase for bad panel shows, reality TV, cheap US imports that Channel 4, BBC, Sky and Channel 5 all turned down, and shite irrelevant showbiz updates that ruin your 46th viewing of Batman Begins.
…….Celebrity Juice, The Jeremy Kyle Show, Peter Andre: My life, , I’m a Celebrity Get me Out of Here, Take Me Out, The Only Way is Essex, The Vampire Diaries, Next Top Dog Model, Fearne Meets…….and All Star Family Fortunes…..
……Finally if you really want to dodge all the reality guff that ITV2 manufactures itself, you will be pleased to know that there is a plentiful supply of films on show during weekdays, these range from Batman Begins and The Bourne Supremacy.
As fantastic as these films are. I really do think I know the stories off by heart seeing’s as they have been screened at least 67 times during the last two years.
Why not mix it up and show something like…….I don’t know…..Hot Fuzz?
Here is just a selection of the cheap dross that litters this channel like a vagrant tramp on a daily basis……
Celebrity Juice should be sued under the trades description act as every week you would be forgiven for actually knowing who any of the “celebrity panel” are. Offcuts from JLS, Peter Andre, David Van Day and Dave Berry are just a few of its recent “celebrity panel”….who? I hear you ask indeed.
Regular team contributors include Fearne Cotton, a TV presenter with an annoying voice and classless tattoo’s and Holly Willoughby whose only contribution seems to be possessing a massive pair of tits for Keith Lemon to laugh at.
Aah Keith Lemon another pseudonym of “comedian” Leigh Francis, from Bo Selecta fame. Here is a guy who really has stretched his comedic talent with an elastic band from here to the moon. All his “comedy” comes from sexual references a teenage boy would invent and spouting them through a stupid made up voice to garner comedy effect. I am yet to laugh at anything he has said or done on this vacant bed and breakfast of a game show. In fact the only time I did laugh at all during one screening, was because actual comedy gold Ant and Dec were on there, and leaving Francis trailing in their wake.
Don’t even get me started on Rufus Hound. He is supposed to be a comedian also due to the fact he has a stupid moustache, makes references to Willoughby’s Tits, and laughs at Francis’s jokes. But I, nor anyone else have actually ever witnessed him doing any comedy. This is not a rare thing on ITV granted but when the format of a show is supposed to be a “Comedy” the least the viewer should expect is something to laugh at.
Other than Fearne Cottons attempts at comedy.
“The Only Way is Essex”
We then have the Cubic Zircona in ITV 2’s sterling silver crown. The Only Way is Essex, or “TOWIE” as those with an IQ of – 4, or shall we say their viewers, like to shorten it.
The Only Way Essex is a supposed reality TV show that follows a group of smug little Essex rich kids who don’t seem to do much work but live in big houses paid for by their families and whose only real talent seems to be to totally bludgeon the language to death and be professionally thick for a living.
All the girls seem to be ex hostess’s and glamour models and all the guys seem to be club promoters. Although being a club promoter seems to be stretching the title a little far, as all they seem to do is walk up to women and constantly ask them “are you alright though?” and “are you having a good night?” in the same monosyllabic tones.
TOWIE is introduced to us in Denise Van Outen’s Essex drawl, as being real life played out for our own entertainment. These are not actors we are informed, but real people, and Larry Olivier should rest easy in his grave for that, as what unfolds in front of us is as worse a display than you would find at any amateur dramatic production. The set ups and situations are so blindingly obvious to all concerned that believing the characters don’t see any of it coming is like being asked to believe that Keith Harris didn’t have his hand up Orville’s arse for twenty five years.
This show is the very reason you hear so many stupid little bints shouting “shuuuuuut uuuuup” in ludicrously ridiculously high pitch shouty voices everytime they exclamate something in a bar, workplace or the high street.
It’s quite sad and disappointing to see so many of today’s youth copying and recreating something so infantile and banal. To have the professional brain drain as your role model’s is to further see the celebration of dumbing down and being stupid as being something to aspire to and be proud of in this country.
To see club promoter Joey Essex, a guy seemingly thicker than a malt loaf, who thinks Essex has its own Prime Minister and that Guy Fawkes died on the cross in a bonfire, as a role model is like aspiring to be Benny from CrossRoads.
We also have professional victim Lucy MecklenBurgh, a woman whose IQ cannot seem to compute that if you drop your knickers and spent the night with another man behind your boyfriend’s back quicker than the time it takes to say “Reem”, then you will be accused of being a slut.
We then have James Argent. A man who desperately wants to lose weight by eating as many Pizza’s, Mars Bars, and Hamburgers that Essex can throw at him.
We did have Amy Childs, a professional airhead who plays on it like a drum, with Michael Jacksons nose and Elizabeth Dukes Vagina, who thanks to Kerry Katona’s ex management has since risen to the dizzy heights of Channel 5’s Celebrity Big Brother with that lexicon of class Kerry Katona herself and Jedward.
The set up of this show is called “Dramality” (A mix of drama and reality if any explanation was needed) and its lack of originality is evident in representing everything that is cheap, vacant, and devoid of any creativity, that is genuinely lacking in modern day television these days. Cheap TV, exploiting the thick, glamorising the thick, and made for the thick. It says so much for today’s society that the stars of this so called “show” are now role models for the nations youth.
Who wants to grow up and be an actress, a writer, or a musician when that requires hard work constant rejection and dedication to your craft. Just get yourself a spray tan, bleach your hair, arm yourself with a book of bad chat up lines and an annoying voice and just head down to Sugar Hut where the survival of the thickest gets the ultimate prize, the holy grail for all aspiring BAFTA winners…….
…….Getting paid £50 a day to be leered at by Mark Wright and Kirk Norcross.
“Peter Andre: My Life”
Peter Andre. He loves his kids does Peter. How do I know this? He tells us about seven hundred million times throughout every episode of his own “Reality” TV show.
I use the word reality in its loosest possible term as the show is not about his real life, its a slickly run, one hour PR stunt designed to show Mr Andre in all his saintly light.
Since his divorce from someone called Katie ended in 2009, Mr Andre has become more famous for being a professional father than a singer. Not hard you may think, as his one and only hit single Mysterious Girl Topped the charts sixteen years ago and he has never seriously troubled the music buying British public much since.
But since his marriage ended, Mr Andre realised that his “Celebrity” clock was ticking once again and without a Wedding, Christening or Bah Mitzvah to sell to Hello Magazine, the only way Peter Andre was going to keep himself in the public eye was to have his own reality TV show, following him about during his everyday life as a doting dad during the day, and not selling out University College Norwich’s student union at night.
How the producers manage to make up an hours entertainment into this sycophantic drivel-fest is beyond me as all it shows is “our Pete” getting his hair cut at least two or three times a week, a lot of driving backwards and forwards, a lot of Pete taking his top off, and a lot of him talking absolute bollo
He is seen going on holiday to expensive and glamorous destinations, and of course taking any opportunity to tell us he used to be married to someone called “Katie” (Whoever could that be?”), and that they have two kids together whom he loves and misses dearly, but would never use for the shameless self promotion of his own career.
Except Mr Andre does not really have a career. He is now among one of the new breed of D List celebrities like Kerry Katona, Amy Childs, Jedward and his ex wife, who have long since given up working hard to sustain an original career in either Music, Acting, Radio, Theatre or Drama, and are more interested in selling out to the highest bidder just to keep their profile high enough to be invited to the right parties and to be rent a quote’s in the shoddy “Celebrity” magazines which simply rehash the same old stories over and over again to try and keep themselves interesting to the public domain.
The nettle poor old Pete hasn’t quite grasped yet though, is that while he is appearing on his own reality TV show, he is actually sending himself up more and more as a caricature celebrity than David Brent ever could in The Office.
Peter Andre seems to genuinely believes his own hype. Watching him go through his very own stunted and robotically limited dance routines like Neil from The Inbetweeners, in a bid to be perceived as a low rent Justin Timberlake are toe curling.
Or when he did a gig wearing wrap around sunglasses. At Night.
Or watching him check himself out in the mirror at every given opportunity when he thinks the camera’s aren’t rolling just to show what an ultra sensitive, self aware, un-vain modern man he really isn’t.
The best bit has to be though his bleeding Vagina interview on Piers Morgan’s Life Stories. Not where he bored us all for twenty minutes about his terrible panic attacks, or when he alluded to, but said nothing whatsoever about why him and Katie Price really split up (for the sake of his kids. Again).
The best bit however was when he stated with a straight face and no hint of self delusion whatsoever that
“I’m gonna say something that will make me sound silly here…..but….in two years time I will definitely do Wembley Stadium. On my Own”
Quite what he plans to do at Wembley Stadium on his own were never truly clarified, but exaggerated reports that Wembley Stadium has stopped accepting applications for programme sellers for its 2013 recruitment drive, have been strenuously denied by his management.
Besides which Pete is far to busy in 2012 to commit to anything in 2013 just yet. On November 16th he has hundreds of Tickets sold for his gig at The Plymouth Pavilions. Then the following day, November 17th,, he is playing Butlins in Minehead.
“The Jeremy Kyle show”
An hour of shouting, patronising, and despairing of the inhabitants of this world as a judgemental little man, tries to solve the nations dead wood dilemma by shouting and abusing people too thick to argue back.
If you happen to be either be unemployed or off sick on a weekday, then you have the severe misfortune of being able to tune into ITV1 at 9.30am, and over a bowl of SugarPuffs, get to witness Jeremy “shouty” Kyle patronise and berate the single mums and drug addicts of this mortal coil every morning.
The Jeremy Kyle Show is not, despite its hosts protestations, a show which solves family problems and mends broken relationships, It is a bear pit that attracts the lazy, bone idle, pathetic dregs of society to air their dirty laundry of promiscuity, drug abuse and illegitimate children for all and sundry to see in the form of entertainment.
And for what? So they can take the day off from dole bludging just to get a free bunk up in a travel tavern, a DNA test to discover that their child isn’t theirs, and then a moral lecture about promiscuity from Mr Kyle himself in front of millions.
Kyle of course likes to use the moral high ground as the stick with which to beat his uneducated unfortunate guests, preaching about fidelity, contraception, and family values.
This of course from a man who, in his own personal life was accused by his ex wife of stealing money from her bank account to fund his own gambling addiction and then lying to her by feigning that he had an incurable illness and, according to her, declaring he only had weeks to live. *
He is so behind family values than in 1999 as part of his own BRMB radio show, he encouraged two total strangers to get married as a publicity stunt, then went on to marry the bride himself after her original sham of a marriage, surprisingly enough, ended in divorce after only three long months.
No thanks Jeremy. If I really want to listen to someone preach from high on above about how to be a better man, I’ll sign up for life coaching with Robert Mugabe or Pol Pot.
“The X Factor”
An over hyped commercial TV Talent show that purports to discover ground breaking musical talent, but instead delivers murdered cover versions of usually the same song.
The whole country is obsessed with The X Factor.
It is a talent show that supposedly finds new talent (debatable) But so did Opportunity Knocks and that was a show that wasn’t cynical and it didn’t make Bob Monkhouse a multi millionaire media mogul. (shame)
The X Factor masquerades itself as a Saturday night entertainment show set up doing good for the whole of Mankind. It will pluck a wanton, starving, Oliver Twist type waif with no future out of the gutter and by want of him having an excellent soprano singing voice and dying grandmother, will give him a trendy haircut, wrap him up in Topman and plonk him on a stage singing Westlife covered, cover versions for eight weeks, until he has reached the Christmas number one. From there on in he will disappear from view, much like a puppy at Christmas, never to be seen again, apart from panto season the following Christmas.
Then the whole process starts all over again, repackaged for another year but no less cynical.
Lets get this right from the beginning, The X Factor is not about finding stars. it is an entertainment show whose purpose is about increasing Simon Cowell’s bank balance from advertising costs and premium line Vote phone ins. It is also to boost the profile of the so called “experts” who sit in judgement of these poor deluded souls much like Caesar and his cohorts did at the coliseum back in the Roman times.
Lets face it would Cheryl Cole be as famous as she is today if she hadn’t been judging on X Factor? No.
She would still be the fifth most talented singer in Girls Aloud and the scorned woman of Mr white pant man himself Ashley Cole.
The show is more about promoting these C list celebrities into the A list category purely by association to Cowell and the proper artists that appear on the show every Sunday night.
Would Louis Walsh be a household name (of sorts) or would he merely be just another nauseating, faceless music mogul who inflicted Jedward, Boyzone and Westlife onto the world?
Would Sharon Osborne be famous for anything other than having the best plastic surgery since Jackie Stallone, and being married to the worlds worst quad biker since Rik Mayall?
Of course we all know the answers to these questions but what is clear is that this programme is hugely responsible for promoting the current celebrity chasing, fame hungry generation who see fame as the only worthwhile and attainable career choice, the quick road to success.
Many seek it without having any discernible talent to back it up with, and these deluded individuals seek their fifteen minutes of fame by any means possible, tumbling out of nightclubs, murdering Rod Stewart Numbers, dressed in tin foil, surrounded by backing dancers, singing in a tone deaf manner that only a sheepdog can decipher (but probably wouldn’t want to)
Despite all this I’m not actually having a go at Cowell. The guy is to music what Steve Jobs is to the gadget world, the best salesman and marketer in the music business and he can polish a turd like no other.
He is the Willy Wonka of the modern age, handing out golden tickets to kids gullible and greedy enough to believe the hype and become desperate enough to jump through as many hoops in front of the camera to make him money.
But that is exactly my point Simon Cowell is a businessman and a hit-maker. He is not in the music industry to promote any kind of longevity to an artists career As much as he preaches about finding the next Elton John, Robbie Williams or The Beatles he won’t because artists like these will shun The X Factor for what it its and try and make it the old fashioned way as is still possible.
Simon Cowell’s track record also doesn’t back up his own argument, yes he may have discovered Leona Lewis through X Factor, but for every Leona he has also inflicted the likes of Zig and Zag, Robson and Jerome and The Teletubbies onto the pop charts simply to make a quick buck.
This isn’t a guy who is happy to sit around and wait to develop an artist, just ask, Steve Brookstein, Leon Jackson or Joe McElldery all heralded on X Factor as the next big thing. All now available for summer weddings, birthdays and Bah Mitzvahs.
As the 2011 series was losing viewers at the rate it takes Greece to lose Euro’s, everyone was debating as to why the brand new, squeaky clean, surgically enhanced all singing all dancing 2011 series 8 turned into a big dull dud.
Was it because Cowell is not on the judging panel? Not Really Gary Barlow has been as equally nasty in his put downs as the high waistbanded one ever was?
Was it the calibre of contestants? Could be, they can all sing to a passable talent show standard (Frankie Cocozza accepted) but none of them have the personalities or real star quality.
Misha B can bash out a tune like Chaka Khan but has the personality and warmth of her older brother Genghis.
Was it the fake and staged judges clashes that seem to have been choreographed not by resident ligger Brian Friedman but by the guy who writes the plot lines for TOWIE?
Or could it just simply be we, the British voting public, who part with our hard earned pound to vote every week for No Direction or Two shits, have simply had enough of a show that, three years ago was entertaining, but is now looking a little bit like Louis Walsh. Tired, desperate, and a little bit needy.
You can only feed people so much bullshit until they start to choke on it. That pound you wasted on Mary Byrne to live her dream could have been better wasted on a scratch card.