Monday, 21 December 2009

Snow fun over here

The icy tundra is upon us. So is this it? Finaly, the only time in (my) living memory that there is a  real possiblility of a white Christmas. Thanks, global warming.

Surely Bing Crosby will be turning in his grave, after all his song was ironic. Wasn't it?

Faced with the prospect of seasonal weather rather than grey drizzle has, of course, sent the British infra-structure hurtling into its own 3 ring of hell. You know, the one where you get buggered by red hot traffic cones and you are perpetually three cars away from the service station layby and you really need to pee.

It has even sent the Continent into a flurry (snarksnark) as Eurostar recieves a massive fail. Bizarre indeed considering the Continent is usually some three or four degrees colder in winter. Not the best publicity for their 15th anniversary.

Of course I would take the Danteist buggery any day of the week if I had to choose between that and the very really prospect of getting snowed in with my mother's family. Hailing from Feltham, their distrust of anyone who can pronounce a 't' at the end of a word is superceeded only by their desire to remind you that you're fat. Depressing enough, but, being family any form of retort is verboten. Irony indeed that such criticisms come from individualu who look like the Right Said Fred member kicked out because his floral blouse, sorry shirts, ('Paul Smith, yeh, well pricy') make him look 'too much like a girl'. But now it's on the web, so HA.


Equally depressing is the level of conversation the public can start up when faced with the prospect of slightly different weather to discuss.

Entire British marriages could be based on the this one meterological event, for years to come, extremely long lungs in conversation can be pepped up simply by remarking: "Do you remember that snow darling?)

Of course the general nationwide discussion appears to go along the lines of...

Day one "EEEEEE snow"
Day Two "Could you get to work? I couldn't"
Day Three "Eeeeeee its still snowing"
Day Four "Could you get to work? I couldn't"
repeat ad nauseum
Until - "fucking snow"

The whole beautiful range of human intellect . Brought on by crystalised water.

Simple folk really, aren't we?

Monday, 14 December 2009

Why Big Top is a big flop

The golden age of circus performance is dead. According to the script writers of the BBC's newest prime time show, Big Top. Unfortunately for both them and the public, so is the golden age of mediocre sitcoms.

The 'Circus Maestro' is run by sexy modern woman Lizzie (Amanda Holden) who fell into her family business of running a shambolic and squabbling troupe of unfunny clowns, 'zany' (read foreign) acrobats and cynical stagehands.

Picking character actors from various successful comedies - notably John Thompson (The Fast Show), Tony Robinson (Blackadder) and Ruth Maddock (Hi-De-Hi) - smacks of a lazy attempt to fill the void of Last Of The Summer Wine re-runs. Unfortunately throwing seasoned actors against the wall with only facepaint simply doesn't make the show stick. The casting of the perpetually frozen-faced Amanda Holden should really be called placing as 'casting' implies some level of acting. The only benefit for Holden herself will be to re-assure fans of Britain's Got Talent that her tears of joy while watching dance performing dogs must be heartfelt, for she has admirably demonstrated that she has not an acting bone in her body.

Billed as a "warm hearted family comedy" the show lumbers through an archaic and done-to-death premise that clowns are inherently sad and bitter, and that speaking in an Eastern European accent makes people funny. Attempting to add to the credibility of the show by using a live studio audience only serves to underline the flat one-liners as canned hysteria fills the gaps between talent and writing.

In these bleak times it is true that a little escapism could be the perfect panacea as Holden argues: "colour, escapism, eccentricity and clowns. What more could you want?" Well, comedy wouldn't go amiss.

Free at last

Standing on a train platform on my way home I have time to reflect on my week’s journey from Sussex Girl to the Middle East (a poor Jordan joke, but let me have it).

I am freezing in bare legs in the middle of winter - I’m not sure public transport is something that Katie has ever needed to consider - and I feel tarty as hell.

The reactions that I have received for my complete overhaul have been varied. I was concerned that most women seemed to like my look; the fake tan, hair and nails seem to be entrenched as part of a modern culture that I am clearly not part of. For a woman who made her name marketing herself to men I was surprised at how the female population has embraced the plastic fantastic look.

Surely the women of the UK could spend the hours upon hours of time it takes to stop looking like themselves to more constructive use. Cure for cancer maybe?

I’m relieved that only comparatively few men found my look appealing. Perhaps the lads’ culture of the nineties has caused a backlash which makes the pumped-up, puffed-out look undesirable. Then again, the men who did enjoy my appearance seemed to be the kind who looked like they consider heavy reading a copy of ‘Nuts’.

So, will I take any gems of knowledge away with me on my as I retire my tanning mitt and hairpiece?

The answer to that is a defiant ‘yes’. I am now of the complete conviction that Katy with a ‘y’ is much better off than my counterpart. I don’t hide between a mask of makeup and fakery, I have time to think rather than buffing, polishing and de-fuzzing constantly, and I know the impact I make on people is down to my personality, not the copious amounts of cleavage I’m showing.

Thank you Katie Price, your guide to life has shown me that I’m much better off with my own.