Reality TV: And Other Misnomers

Simon Cowell even looks smug when he isn't trying to be

 ***THIS IS AN OLD BLOG POST, IT HAS BEEN MIGRATED HERE FOR POSTERITY***

Sunday Evening. That kind of Purgatory state between life (the weekend) and death (the working week).

As I contemplated the end of another weekend I found myself at home in the living room, sitting adjacent to my sister, who made it clear in the no uncertain terms that the TV remote would have to be prised from her cold, dead hands for her to miss the latest round of ‘reality television’, as if the next couple of hours had any semblance of reality to them whatsoever.

It began with the annual toe-twirling and hot-stepping of the has-beens and never-was’s on Strictly Come Dancing, apparently the more ‘respectable’ of the reality shows. Or so they’d have you believe. Having witnessed Ann Widdecombe being manoeuvred around by her dance partner, who genuinely looked like he was trying to carry a wardrobe down a flight of stairs, was television at its most cringeworthy.

Frozen Pensioners and Dead-Eyed Robots

All of this is presided over by Bruce Forsythe, thoroughly defrosted following a year spent in his cryogenic chamber, and glassy-eyed Tess Daly, a cyborg sent back from the future with the mission of comprehensively sucking the fun out of absolutely everything. With such a safe pairing at the helm, how could we fail to be entertained?

As Peter Andre came out to ‘perform’ his new single, looking like a grizzled ape who has grown tired of flinging his own faecal matter into the eyes and ears of Joe Public, I took the opportunity to persuade the remote control bearer to flick over to ITV, the country’s other so-called flagship commercial channel. Where I was treated to the sight of a man attempting to throw a ball into a cup for £10,000...

Yes, this was of course The Cube, where quite simple tasks are made more daunting by entering a Perspex square in a disused air-hanger somewhere in Hertfordshire. Perhaps the most alarming part of the show is Philip Schofield, who shrieks, groans and yells as if he’s witnessing Gordon the Gopher being set upon by a pack of rabid Staffordshire Bull Terriers. Which would, of course, be infinitely more entertaining.

"Looks Like They've Televised Belmarsh Prison's Talent Show'

And then here it was, the main event: The X Factor. A singing contest in which some people who can sing quite well are judged by some people who can’t. One of the contestants was moved to tears by Danni Minogue’s praise of her performance, which is surely akin to being told by Dr Harold Shipman that you have great potential as a serial killer.

Looking like a Thunderbird dipped in varnish, Simon Cowell declared one of the acts to be “one of the most exciting pop bands in the country”. Which was presumably what he told Mr Blobby and the Power Rangers as they signed their record contracts.

At the end, some people were voted off. And then the credits started, and I realised that a part of my soul had died. And then I made my sandwiches for work and went to bed.

Had life changed? Had I learned anything that has reshaped how I think about the universe? Had my perceptions been challenged? No, no and thrice no. Louis Walsh will continue to be a bum bag and sock-sandal wearing sex tourist, Danni will continue to be someone’s sister and Cheryl Cole will still leave people scratching their hands as to how someone so beautiful can be so ugly at the same time.

So what’s my point? Well, society is decaying before our very eyes, and none of US are doing anything about it. YOU are facilitating these programmes, by voting for the contestants and lining the pockets of the broadcasters. I have neither the energy nor the motivation to stick it to the man, but come on...WAKE UP!!!