Bunch of cooks

Strange things are happening at Masterchef Towers. For a start, why is it being filmed in an aircraft hanger? Does Greg Wallace make that much mess whilst splashing about in trifle? Secondly, who watched ‘The X Factor’ and decided that the same auditioning formula would work when grafted onto a cookery show? Did they think viewers would have tears in their collective eye if a prospective contestant blubbed their way through telling John Torode and Greg Wallace that their quiche was dedicated to their dead Gran who always supported them and, more importantly, made them realise the importance of frying off the bacon first? As it happens, yes.

The new concept is actually brilliant in its silliness and I’m sad that the audition process has finished. Hopeful chefs would scurry into the main hall (where John and Greg sat waiting on their respective thrones) clutching half cooked food, and then have twenty minutes to finish it off whilst trying to avoid the shocked/appalled/disgusted/concerned/dribbly faces the presenters kept pulling. Once their time was up, the Masterchef Gods descend from Mount Olympus to pass judgement. If successful the hopeful is handed a Masterchef apron and told that they are allowed to enter round one. Round one! They haven’t even started yet and they have been made to prostrate themselves before the plump faced foodies. Trailers for the next episode (the first stage) have been shown and it looks like the silliness is going to get even more over the top. Primarily because it’s been filmed in such a huge studio that in order to get the aerial shots the cameraman may as well have been on the moon.

My favourite hopeful thus far was an ex-army fellow who served some hard-boiled quail eggs on a mushroom pastry thing. So far so standard, however his stroke of genius was serving it with (literally) a pint of hollandaise sauce. It was ridiculous, he just kept ladling the stuff on until the bowl was full of it and the eggs looked like tiny fat men on a life-raft, adrift in an ocean of custard. Needless to say he didn’t get through to the next round. Greg “quite liked ‘is flavours” but John Torode dismissed this, amusingly pointing out that Greg simply “likes soft food”. The juxtaposition of these two is amazing, with John Torode saying things like “complex flavours, well balanced seasoning, delicious” and Greg saying “it’s too fucking small, fuck off”.

One programme to take the cookery show format and turn it into something properly fun is ‘Come Dine with Me’, although admittedly that is starting to get a little stale. Same old contestants; same sarky voiceover; same squabbles; same same. It is a brilliant ‘same’ of course even if the formula is getting so obvious it lazily slaps you in the face every time you watch it. Entertaining though he is, I’m not sure that even the great Dave Lamb could save a cookery show I happened across the other day, since it was so deathly dull I fell asleep. Twice. It was called ‘Daily Cooks Challenge’ and was presented by Wozza Thompson. It featured Peter Purvis as the (ahem) ‘star’ guest and two bored looking chefs as the challenged cooks. I say ‘challenge’, but it’s hardly ‘The Krypton Factor’. All the programme involves is the chefs each cooking something and the guest saying which one he likes best. That’s it. In this episode they each cooked a piece of meat and we learned that Purvis’ favourite was the less well-done bit. Wozza then showed him how to make a terrine, which I imagine he proceeded to squish into his ears while Purvis droned on about dogs. I can’t say for certain, I was asleep.

Just (for the) Love (of God, please) Stop

What is your opinion of JLS? Or to give them their full name, ‘Jack the Lad Swing’. No, really, that’s what they are called. When they were naming the group they whittled it down to two names, this one and ‘Coins Under Nigel’s Tan Sofa’, and the small one was out voted on that one. Partly because the hairless teenypops that form their core fanbase don’t care where Nigel’s coins are (nor do they care about the colour of his sofa), and partly because, whilst accurate, the acronym would have proved controversial. Small One from JLS was upset that his suggestion was discarded but took solace in the knowledge that his backflip was more convincing than Tall One’s; Not-quite-so-tall One’s and Not-quite-so-small One’s combined. In fact, Not-quite-so-small One from JLS’s backflip is really quite laughable.

It’s Small One from JLS that prompts these words to appear in front of you. You see, it appears that despite being able to do a good backflip, someone doesn’t like him as much as…someone who likes him. I can’t think of anyone off hand, but they are possibly somewhere. We know they are possibly out there because of the huge success that JLS are possibly having, evidenced by the massive range of JLS branded merchandise that people are possibly buying – such as the selection of JLS condoms that people are possibly sliding onto their embarrased genitals. These of course are available in large; not quite so large; not quite small and small sizes.

So how do we know that someone doesn’t like Small One from JLS? Well last evening I was walking (sadly a Jack the Lad Swing still eludes me) home and I saw a number of small packets littering the pavement. These weren’t just any packets though, these were JLS’s ‘Just Love Safe’ condoms, each emblazoned with a small image of Small One from JLS’s small face. Who would do this? What has Small One from JLS done to deserve ritual prophylactic scattering? We can only assume that Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber was going about his business opening musicals when he heard the JLS classic ‘The Club is Alive’ and was enraged that it sounded a bit like a song from ‘Phantom of the Opera’. Naturally his only recourse was to immediately purchase some JLS branded willy raincoats bearing the cheery visage not of Tall One from JLS; nor of Not-quite-so-tall One from JLS, but of Small One from JLS and immediately throw them on the ground! Yes, that would show them. Stamping on Small One from JLS’s small foil face he shouted their alternative bandname at the top of his voice, ignoring the small splats of spermicide that were appearing on his loafers.

It should probably be noted that Not-quite-so-small One from JLS was always going to escape Sir Webber’s wrath. You see, due to the quality of his backflip he is his least favourite One from JLS. In fact it is said that he dislikes him so much he offered him a role in ‘Love Never Dies’. Now there’s evil.

But why would Small One from JLS be the sole focus of his anger? Maybe it is because he is the true brains of the JLS operation and Sir Andrew is secretly envious of the power he wields not only over the two (sorry, three) other sizes of One from JLS, but over the world of pop – indeed, art – in general. We all know that Small One from JLS straddles the musical landscape like Mecha-backflippy-Godzilla. Perhaps Sir Lloyd simply snapped? We can never know for certain, we can only guess. And I am not given to conjecture.
 

The kindness of strangers

There is an episode of Panorama on this evening that deals with the issue of stalking. Apparently it affects over two million Britons. I don't know if that's one million people and one million stalkers or two million people that are being stalked. Maybe it's one very popular person with one million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine stalkers. This, however, is unlikely. It's probably two people.

For the stalked it can be terrifying, the shadow of Jill Dando's case hangs heavy. Dando you may recall was killed in 1999 and for years it was believed that the murderer was a celebrity obsessed stalker. The 'stalker' was acquitted a few years ago though as the case against him was too thin (though not too thin to find him guilty the first time around). He's currently living a quiet life in Carol Vorderman's back garden. I can't understand why he's chosen her, I think she's a bit strange. I mean you should see the state of her curtains.

Whether Dando was killed by a stalker or not, the fact that it was a real possibility means that to be stalked is surely a very scary situation to find yourself in. It just makes you wish that stalkers found each other as fascinating as their celebrity idols, then they could stalk each other and leave the non-obsessed alone. They could have special parks away from town centres in which they merrily sit in bushes and stare at each other without being disturbed. Apart from in their heads of course.

It's certainly worth thinking about, however we probably need a few more celebrities lined up with pennies on their eyes before it's given serious consideration in council budgets. I'm not about to suggest anyone for fear of tempting fate and my suggestions coming true, causing me to be thrown in jail or burned as a witch. You could though. Try it. Just throw a few darts in a copy of 'Heat' magazine. It won't actually help raise any money to set up a stalker park of course, but try it anyway. 'sfun.

Anyway, I've got to go as I think Julia Bradbury's back and I need to stop this cat from scratching the wardrobe door.

"Here Tiddles...who's a good girl, yes you are, come on sweetie....".

*snap*

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President visits a resident President

President Obama has held a dinner in honour of the visiting Chinese President; attendees included everyone who is great and good in the world of being Chinese, looking Chinese or in Barbara Streisand’s case, once met a Chinese person and wasn’t sick down her blouse. I’m not sure why she was there, and neither it seems was she. When asked she said “I worked in a Chinese restaurant”. I like to think the person asking her then replied, flatly:

“How interesting. Why are you here?” then, upon her repetition of this comment, shoving her in a manner to ensure she stumbles backwards over her mobility scooter muttering something about her name not being on the list. I realise this didn’t happen but it doesn’t prevent me wanting it to. I know it didn’t happen because she goes everywhere with James Brolin these days, and he always looks like the only reason he isn’t punching you in the face is because he’s too far away. A fact that frustrates him intensely. So intensely he’s liable to punch you in the face.

Anyway, the reason I bring up the subject of this dinner is that it was obviously intended to improve relations between America and the Chinese people. Or perhaps to cement the brilliant relations they already have. I hope they are brilliant, after all racism is so mind boggling stupid I find it amazing that it still exists (however I am told that I live in a naïve bubble with relation to this and various other prejudices). So President Obama holds a dinner to say “we know the old stereotypes are essentially nonsense” (without stating it quite so baldly since he is so distressingly erudite this would invite suggestions of his being swapped for a double by the rascally Republicans). This is good to hear, since in our hearts we know that the Chinese are as unlikely (or indeed as likely depending upon how you choose to think of it) to be, say, wandering around with cameras taking photos of everything as Americans (or [insert nationality here]) would be.

Compare the lack of difference between Jackie Chan and Mr and Mrs Streisand.

Nice to see Jackie Chan doing his bit to resist these clichés, isn’t it. Silly Jackie. It could be worse of course, he could have turned up dressed as Mr Yunioshi, so every cloud.

Happy no ear

“So what were you thinking I would do for you today?”

It was Bank Holiday Monday and so I was watching these words plop steadily from the mouth of an out-of-hours GP. Whilst my own doctor was parked at home counting the festive gravy stains on his shirt, the man in front of me had drawn a short straw. Maybe that’s why he didn’t seem very interested in my reason for sitting before him (why wait?). A lack of interest so overwhelming he had forgotten his role in the transaction. An hour earlier I had drifted into the surgery in a fog of pain and confusion. Pain because…well…I hurt, and confusion because I didn’t know why. All I had done was go to sleep and had woken up with my ear blocked and a pain so intense that I was unable to have any thought other than “oww”. I consoled myself with the knowledge that although I was only able to think about one thing, at least that thing was relevant.

I described my symptom to the doctor and having had his verdict (sounds like a perforated eardrum) waited to hear what he planned to do about it. I was quite surprised that this was a decision I was to make myself. Not least for the fact that my description had not only involved an in depth discussion of the pain (“I have a really intense pain”) but also a helpful indication of where the pain was located (“here” [points to ear]). I was confident that my efforts would be rewarded with more than a declaration that there was something wrong with my ear that was resulting in pain. At least it was now official though. I had a hurty ear.

“So what were you thinking I would do for you today?”
“Nothing, I just don’t get out much and wanted to share. Bye!” I didn’t say.
“Well, I had hoped for something for the pain” I said.
“Ok” said the doctor, and handed me a paper permission slip to buy some painkillers.

Over the next day or so I decided I needed to see my regular GP. This was for two reasons:

1- I wasn’t satisfied that the other chap had shown sufficient interest in my hurty ear, and my regular doctor has a long history of tilting his head sympathetically and generally letting you feel it’s ok to feel sorry for yourself. He may call you a c**t when you leave but I that doesn’t bother me, I assume that of most people.

2- In the preceding 24 hours my ear had started leaking. A lot. Leaking to such a degree that I could have extinguished a small fire simply by shaking my head in disagreement nearby.

Sitting by his desk I described my symptoms (I was now ill in plural) and my doctor tilted his head sympathetically. I was reminded why he is a good doctor and promptly let myself feel sorry for myself.

“Let’s have a look at the ear” he said, and produced one of the small illuminating funnels that doctors keep for such activities. It didn’t help.

“There’s really too much stuff there to see the eardrum, so it’s obviously infected” he said.
“Right” I said, sponging gloop from my shoulder.

And so, clutching a prescription for anitbiotics I departed, feeling sorry for those people whose GP I had seen on Monday, but not sorry enough to trade places with them. I was soon to be fixed, and that knowledge was enough to make me ignore the faint ‘c**t’ I heard as I pulled the surgery door closed.


So, a belated happy new year to you.

Cheers.

[pop].

Christmas all over again

Well done for making it through another year fellow viewers, may I wish you heartfelt well wishes for Baby Jesus day and beyond.

I apologise for posting about half as much this year. It turns out that maintaining a blog is much easier when you have internet access. New for 2011 however is a brand new internet that I have constructed from rubber bands and bits of string. If that doesn't work I hope to buy a box of internet in the January sales. It's quite common after all for people to return internet they have received for Christmas on the basis that it makes their bum look big.

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There's an app(rentice) for that

Ever since that chap did an impression of a pterodactyl a couple of years ago, the interview episode of  'The Apprentice' has always been the best. Margaret was an inspired choice to have interview them last night as this series has missed her withering eyebrow raising. Poor Thebrand though, I think felt that he was somehow part of some inner circle after having explored the lower reaches of the Sugar colon last week, as Margaret said, “greeting me like a long lost friend”, so when she unleashed the brows of peril he seemed suddenly deflated, like someone had taken a pin to a toad's throat mid-ribbit.

So now it’s down to death stare Stella and charisma vacuum Chris, a man so dull he sucks the life out of you through the cathode tube (I have an old telly). My money’s on Stella, but only because Chris would cause every one of Lord Suralan’s employees to turn into narcoleptics.
 
Who wins? YOU decide. Oh, sorry, no you don't. But you can watch someone else decide, and that's just as much fun.

Especially if Stuart makes one final appearance and puffs up like a toad once again.